Roland Green: Knights of the Sword

But her strength was not gone from the magical barriers he was holding against the priests of Zeboim. Indeed, he could begin to see flaws in their spells, and if he worked swiftly, he might twist them about …

The sea wind had died by the time Waydol’s band had broken free of the town levies. The mist and fog, however, kept drifting in, but did not always drift onward. Slowly they swallowed the landscape, until Pirvan began to feel as if he were fighting in a world outside time and space.

It was no warming thought to remember that wizards had thrown friend and foe alike into precisely such places, from which they did not always find their way back.

“At least it will slow pursuit,” Epron told everyone. “Bad soldiers who’ve just had a bloody nose will be cautious about following good ones. Keep your tails up, lads. We’re rounding the last turn on the course.”

The cliff that held the actual entrance to the stronghold was in sight through the trees when a messenger rode back from the mounted scouts to the north.

“Istarians!” was all he said and all he needed to say.

Before anyone could give orders, the gap in the rocks spurted armed men. Pirvan counted twenty fully armed warriors, led by that sea barbarian called Stalker and the kender-Imsaffor Whistletrot?

“Thought you could use some help,” Stalker explained.

Waydol looked north. “We may need more than you can give. Who else is inside?”

The kender began to recite a list; Waydol cut him off. “Time passes, my friend. We do not need eloquence.”

Stalker explained that every man who could be spared from holding the cove if the enemy broke through had come out with him. The ships were loading swiftly, the mouth of the cove was still free of both fog and enemies, Lady Eskaia had been healed-

“I didn’t know she was hurt!” Haimya exclaimed.

Waydol rumbled in his throat, in place of repeating his remark about not wasting time-and boarded Windsword . The midwife, Delia, was helping Sirbones with the healing. Rubina had disappeared, but had not turned traitor as far as anyone could judge.

“How fare things at sea?” Waydol asked.

Stalker shrugged. “We and they are still afloat. That is victory for us, I think.”

If it lasts, it is , Pirvan thought.

Then once again he had no more time for thinking. The Istarians loomed out of the mist, infantry already in battle array in the center, cavalry on each flank. Behind the infantry rode a silver-armored figure, under a high captain’s banner.

“Aurhinius?” Stalker asked.

Pirvan shook his head. “Beliosaran. Trying to snatch the glory of the victory for himself, I think.”

“He shall learn the folly of that, I think,” Waydol said in a voice so low that only those standing next to him heard.

Then he threw his challenge bellow at the Istarians. For a moment they did not even deign to reply. Then the cavalry opened out the distance on each flank, a drum began beating in the rear of the infantry, and they broke into their charge.

They had five times the strength of Waydol’s rear guard, and they were all Istarian regular soldiers. They could lose one man for every one of Waydol’s they slew and still have enough left to break through into the stronghold and slaughter everyone not aboard ship.

The one thing Pirvan could thank any god for at the moment was that, among Istarians, archery had lately been left to the rangers and town levies. It was too much an elven art, or so it was said, for sworn soldiers of the City of Virtue to soil their hands with it.

No, there was a second thing for which anyone here could thank the gods.

This was a good company to die in, if this was the day.

The square was formed now, and a few of the more skilled archers were already shooting. They had to either shoot low or high, to hit legs or loft their arrows into the rear ranks. The Istarians were advancing with their rectangular shields locked into a solid, arrow-proof wall. The cavalry was working out still farther on the flanks, largely out of bowshot.

The Istarians began chanting their battle cry:

“Uur-ha! Uur-ha! Uur-ha!”

It sounded like a chorus of bears in a vile temper with everything, including one another.

Gaps showed in the line now, and for a moment Pirvan saw the high captain’s banner waver. But the banner bearer with the stricken horse passed the banner to another man, and they came on without missing a step.

Then Waydol pushed his way through the square. Pirvan put out an arm to halt him; the Minotaur brushed past as if Pirvan’s sinewy arm had been a stalk of grass. Other men took one look at him and opened the gap wider.

Armed but bare-handed, Waydol stood in the open ground between the square of his men and the advancing Istarians. Pirvan mounted, wheeled his horse, wished he dared tell Haimya not to follow, and glared at Birak Epron when he started toward the gap.

Epron remained within the square, but both Stalker and Whistletrot came out at Pirvan’s heels. Anyone else who might have felt the urge to go and die with the Minotaur mercifully had no time to act on it.

Trumpets and drums hurled signals about within the Istarian ranks. The infantry halted. To the left, the cavalry put their spurs in and their heads down, then rode for the cliff as fast as the trees and rough ground would let them.

To the right, the cavalry did the same-but their goal was clear to Waydol and those around him.

“Hold the entrance!” Waydol thundered. Birak Epron needed no further orders or explanation. The square broke into a trot, about as fast as it could move without losing form. Pirvan also saw archers shifting about within the square.

The stronghold might last long enough for those within to get to sea. Even some of the square might fight again.

Those who had followed Waydol out to provoke the Istarians were fighting their last battle.

At least that settles the matter of any Judgment of Honor over fighting Istarians , Pirvan thought.

The Istarian cavalry on the right was barely twenty strong, but they were all well mounted and armed with lance or sword. Pirvan backed his horse, couched his improvised lance-and saw Waydol step out into the path of the charge.

The third shatang was in his hand.

The lead rider saw only the foolish defiance of an easy target, couched his lance, and charged.

Pirvan bit back a cry as Waydol let the man come at him. Then he saw that the others were breaking their formation, to allow their captain the glory of the kill.

“Forward!” Pirvan yelled.

His horse jumped forward. At the same time, the Minotaur tossed the shatang from his right hand to his left, raised it, and threw. The lance dipped and tore into Waydol’s shoulder as the shatang struck the rider in the neck.

“Struck” was too feeble a word. The shatang drove clear through the man, so that his nearly severed neck actually wobbled on his shoulders for a moment, before he fell from his mount. Two riders behind him fell also, though trying not to step on him.

In this moment of disarray, Pirvan and Haimya rode in among the Istarian ranks, with Whistletrot and Stalker running behind them. The air was suddenly full of war cries, screams, neighing horses, the clash of steel, flying bolas, and the weird roaring of a kender hoopak lustily wielded.

Pirvan nearly lost his mount to his second opponent, but replied by slashing the man’s horse across the rump. The horse reared and threw his rider, and Pirvan put a knife into the man’s throat as he started to rise.

Haimya had worse luck in the matter of opponents; Pirvan saw Stalker use his last bola to bring down the horse of a rider coming around on Haimya’s blind side. The knight waved his thanks.