Roland Green: The Wayward Knights

Except that there were no unfriendly decks. Word was that the minotaurs would take humans aboard, and humans minotaurs. They could sort out who belonged to which ship when they were all safely afloat.

Torvik approved. He also approved of the next word that came down. He and Chuina didn't understand it at first, but Mirraleen, with her acute Dimernesti hearing, heard at once.

"Spread out, Darin says. We are to search for anyone who fell out from heat or wounds as we return to the shore."

Torvik looked dubiously at the landscape. It was less overgrown than it had been, before human and minotaur-wielded blades had taken their toll of it. Also, Wilthur's magic no longer turned thornbushes into monsters.

But the time-

"I'm not lagging to look for minotaurs," someone growled.

"Fair's fair," someone else replied. "They're letting us aboard their ships. We can look for their fallen."

"All right," the first speaker said. "But if the Giant Knight orders it, he can cursed well come down and help us. He's the only one big enough to be hauling minotaurs about in this sort of country!"

Another rumble made Torvik halt until the ground was steady. The march resumed, with the fighters spreading out into a search line, and an unmistakable odor of sulphur in the air.

Lady Eskaia reined in and watched the two Solamnic Knights arguing.

"Are you sure those folk were from Tirabot, and trustworthy?" the tall, fair knight was saying to his chief.

"Unless they misled us worse than I dare believe possible, we'll soon hear any fighting," the short, dark-bearded one said. "Which means we keep moving, and keep quiet."

Eskaia breathed a sigh of relief. After this fourth argument, she had been ready to lead her Vuinlodders onward by herself. They would have obeyed, too, even knowing that if they did not come back their town would hardly be able to keep watch against common thieves, let alone defend itself.

At least, that would be so until the fleet returned. When they returned. The news from the north had not been so dire that Eskaia feared disaster there. It had been a trifle of news and a great many rumors of affairs in Istar that had sent her out of town, riding hard and fast at the head of the fifty best fighters left in Vuinlod.

They had met up with the Solamnics, the promised two knights and forty men-at-arms, on the road two days ago. The knights were silent about why they had not been across the border long since, but Eskaia knew that two could play at the game of invoking laws to suit their convenience. Doubtless the Istarans had made convincing arguments, for those bound to listen to anything Istarans had to say, even in defense of murder.

It had been her threat to ride on alone, without even her Vuinlodders, that had moved the two knights. Sir Shufiran of Geel, the dark-bearded senior, had not needed moving so much as he had needed an excuse. But the reluctance of the younger knight, Sir Rignar, had been as plain as his fine looks.

"Sir Shufiran," Eskaia called. "Do we advance, or await our friends here?"

The knight tugged at his beard. He had an uncommon share of such nervous gestures, but none seemed to keep him from reaching sound decisions swiftly.

"We had best divide," he said. "Two trails eases the risk of ambush."

"Very well," Eskaia said. "Which of us takes which trail?"

"We could divide each band-" Sir Rignar began, but Shufiran coughed. The younger knight fell silent. Eskaia shot a grateful look at the senior.

It was as well not to have to say that she did not trust Sir Rignar out of her sight, nor would she trust him in her sight if he commanded as many men as she did and Shufiran was elsewhere.

In moments, they agreed that Vuinlodders and Solamnics would each send ten fighters to the other's column, to act as messengers, and that they would advance at once, at the trot.

To Eskaia, it seemed that perhaps Sir Rignar might yet learn war. For now, it would be enough if he learned what he might face if any deed or omission of his killed the daughter of Josclyn Encuintras, the widow of Jemar the Fair, and the wife of Gildas Aurhinius-with or without any of her Vuinlod riders.

Gerik rode at the head of his band, vowing lifelong gratitude to those who had taken care of the horses even when fodder ran short at Tirabot. The mounts seemed to have wings on their feet, and cantered along as light-pacing as pegasi.

It was still as well that they had time to breathe, when Gerik finally led his band up to the rear of the enemy. None of the horrors he had feared greeted him, nor did he see any sort of battle going on. Indeed, the enemy seemed to be milling about in front of a rough barricade, and some of them were arguing with their rear guard.

They were arguing so loudly, indeed, that Bertsa Wylum took off her helmet and Tirabot badges and rode close enough to eavesdrop. When she rode back, she was once more smiling.

"Those dozen fellows with lances and crossbows are trying to keep the rest from deserting," she said. "It looks as if they pushed one attack, but our folk fought it off, and they lost heart for another. If we can unplug that rear guard of lackwits-"

"You want the work?" Gerik joked.

"I could do it. I could also lead a few of our fighters to help our friends, in case there's another attack. I can shout insults to wavering sell-swords from either place."

"Then the gods hold you in their hands."

"As long as they just hold, and don't squeeze," Wylum said. "Don't worry, Rubina will have her doll before sunset."

The gods' grip must have been uncertain. As Wylum led eight riders down into the ravine to the right of the trail, a crossbow spung ed from the enemy rear guard.

Bertsa Wylum flew out of her saddle and landed thrashing. The riders with her turned as one, all thoughts but vengeance driven from their heads. They charged the enemy rear guard without waiting for Gerik to put his riders in motion.

Gerik lost no time in doing so. But it was too late for half of Wylum's people. Facing lances and bows on unfavorable ground, they were slow-moving targets, and only three of them closed with the enemy still mounted. Then two more of these went down-and Gerik stood in his stirrups and screamed more than shouted: "Follow me!"

His first fear was that the enemy would take heart from Wylum's defeat. His second was that the uncertain ground would dismount him before he came to grips with the enemy.

He was up with the enemy before he had time to form a third fear. Then he had no time for anything except swordplay. That, and trying to keep his horse from stepping on Wylum's fallen.

Wylum's people had bought Gerik the advantage, even though with their blood. Crossbows were slow to recock, and lances had the advantage over swords in reach, but once inside that reach the swordsman regained the edge. Gerik led a solid mass of six or seven riders into the disordered ranks of the enemy's rear guard, lost only one man, then was in too close for archery or lancework.

He was also at just the right distance to deliver a berserker's attack.

Nothing more than a horse's length from him affected him. Nothing that had happened more than a few minutes ago remained in his mind. The world had shrunk down to the enemy in front of him and the friends on his flanks.

Slash at a sword arm, and watch it draw back, limp and spouting blood. Thrust-clumsily, with this sword-at an unarmored leg, and see the opponent turn away, to have his head loll on his shoulders as another Tirabot fighter struck with a battle-axe. Ride straight against a third opponent, and the two grappled barehanded, until Gerik drew a knife and stabbed wildly five, six, seven times, and then was stabbing the air above an empty saddle.

A horse screaming. His horse. Gerik felt his mount's hooves slow and stumble. Blood sprayed over him from the poor creature's slashed throat. The horse was falling sideways. Gerik tried to fling himself clear of the fall.