Andrew Offutt - The Mists of Doom

Damn the training that spoke against sheathing a blooded blade! Cormac had a spear and knew how to throw it. Surely a good cast would remove one enemy.

Dragging his complaining mount to a pause long yards from the five Cruithne , Cormac committed the reprehensible act of sheathing his blood-smeared sword. He unlimbered his spear and raised it. At the same time as he hurled it, he drummed his heels and grunted “Go!” Dubheitte lurched anew into a gallop. Again the youth was in danger of losing his seat. But with sword in hand and shield on arm he remained mounted-and unloosed another wild yell.

Matters still went less than superbly for the weapon-man turned horse-soldier. The five Cruithne had scattered. One lay grimacing, with his splintered ankle; Cormac had made his cast at the two who stood close together. The cast missed. Nevertheless their dodging insured that neither of them would make a good return throw at once, and Cormac twitched Dubheitte toward two others: a spear wielding Pict stood over his companion of the crushed foot.

The big horse bearing down on him must have looked like a tumbling black boulder. The Pict launched his spear too hastily. The long ashen shaft went so high that Cormac hardly had to duck.

Moments later that savage’s head was rolling on the sand and his downed comrade was blinded by the gouting blood. The headless corpse toppled over him. Again their foe was through. Now four Cruithne lived, and two of those were of considerably reduced menace. At least he’d kept them all from the other Gael.

Man and rider leaned through another turn. This time Cormac lengthened its arc, the while he took time to glance at the enemy. That proved wise: carefully leading the horse with a practiced stare, a silent Pict hurled his spear. His eye was as good as his arm. Cormac only just interposed his shield in time. With a great bam sound, the spearpoint struck his shield, drove into the wood-and stuck.

Dubheitte came about and lengthened his leggy stride into a third charge. His rider’s shield-arm was dragged down by the long pole standing from the buckler’s face. Managing to swerve his mount, Cormac made use of the liability: the spear-haft swept the wounded Pict off his feet. Another jabbed as Cormac plunged past and the youth’s swordblade struck that spear aside. And again he was through them, at the gallop-and frustrated. Too, the impact of spear-butt with Pictish calves had torn the point free of Cormac’s shield with a jerk that would give him an aching arm-later, when he had time to notice.

Though mac Art bent low to lessen the possibility of a spear in the back, none was hurled. He had at least disconcerted his chosen enemies.

Even then he smiled; the man to whose aid he’d come was yanking his sword out of the belly of his standing opponent. The other lay doubled from the kick he’d taken to his stones; the blue-shirted Gael plunged the bloody sword into his side and gave it a vicious twist. Two pair of Pictish legs kicked reflexively.

Dubheitte wanted to return to what he took to be his business. Cormac worked at slowing the animal and keeping him on a steady course of the other Gael. That man grinned and waved a dripping sword, then ran to his own horse. The chestnut-hued animal shied and flared his, nostrils at the scent of blood. His master spoke low rather than cursed, while Cormac, grimly smiling, held Dubheitte in check-semi-check. The other man mounted.

“Forgall mac Aed!” he called, the man whose shield and helmet’s plume were bright with Leinster’s blue.

Cormac did not understand. He shouted “World without Picts!” and grinning, the two men charged.

Peradventure the gods ordain such things, as some have said; perhaps Dubheitte was overexcited and careless; perhaps his master was, in his inexperience and his pride-and assumption that two mounted Gaels were more than match for four Picts, two of whom were wounded. And perhaps a spear-cast was particularly good, or merely lucky. Whatever the cause, a hurled stave went low and buried its flinty head in Dubheitte’s chest.

The horse screamed. Cormac was hurled to the sand as the big black animal fell. Even if he were not dead, he was surely in shock, and thrashed strangely.

His master’s impact was painful and jarring, through mailcoat and padded underjack; worse was the slamming of his right elbow onto hard sand. His fingers sprang open. His sword made little cling-ting sounds as it struck the sand and skittered.

The spear-thrower was on him and he could but scramble, grunting when a stone ax banged off his shoulder. The mail held. Cormac meanwhile flailed head with his left arm. His buckler’s edge caught the Pict in the leg, just beside the knee. He fell. Cormac daggered the dusky warrior before he could so much as turn over.

The youth felt hardly heroic; in four charges he had lost spear and horse and slain only two of the enemy. Better had he dismounted! Now a glance told him that the Leinsterman had somehow missed his intended foe and plunged on past. Well down the beach, he was turning the blaze-faced chestnut. The Pict Cormac had struck with edge of blade and haft of spear was sitting up. Though his back was crimson and one leg was obviously broken, he was awaiting the Leinsterman’s return, weapons ready.

The fifth Pict was now rushing Cormac mac Art.

The youth retrieved his sword. He braced himself, knees bent, left side to the running savage, shield presented, sword out to the side, ready. Dark Pictish eyes glared into grey ones, over the shield’s rim. The sword-steel eyes were just as malevolent, for all their youthfulness.

The Pict was no such fool as to continue rushing a man so prepared; he slowed and got his own shield up and between them. This savage had faced Cormac’s kind aforenow, and learned caution-while gaining a steel-headed ax. His knotted arm swung the Celtic weapon as though it were a stick, looping, looping, watching…

Down the beach, the other Gael bellowed a wild cry. Cormac saw his own opponent’s eyes flicker; the Pict knew he must die. He loosed a terrible swing of his ax. Cormac took the desperation blow on his shield. As he began a rising swordcut, he remembered what he’d seen the Leinsterman do. The Pictish shield whipped up and Cormac essayed the nasty tactic.

Aborting the sword-stroke, he took vengeance for the Gael whose ax the Pict wielded. Cormac crotch-kicked the squat, heavily-muscled man.

Then the off-balanced Cormac fell down.

The Pict’s war-howl rose into a scream of pain and became a choking gurgle. Blazing black eyes bulged. His knees bent. His shield lowered as he obeyed the ancient, inarguable urge to clutch his wounded parts. He dropped to his knees.

That way the swishing, almost-circular stroke of the Leinsterman’s sword took off only a little more than half the squat savage’s head, rather than the entire skull at the neck. The Pict was just as dead. Cormac meanwhile was hurling himself aside; his ally’s big horse was a great dark-brown mass as it plunged past, and the pound of his hooves was as thunder in the youth’s ears.

“HA!” the Leinsterman shouted back. “Robbed ye!”

Cormac gave the man’s back a dirty look as he got to his feet. He hurried to where lay the Pict with the broken foot; he’d not have the Leinsterman claim this one too. The courageous savage stuck up his spear; Cormac cut off its head and, on the backstroke, the Pict’s. He whirled to run the doubly wounded last foeman-and watched the Leinsterman come loping up and urge his willing mount into a very thorough job of trampling the dusky form until it was scarlet.

The gazes of two pair of Gael-grey eyes met.

“Ho, ha, easy there, Taraniseach, easy! Ho there, my greedy friend! Seven Picts attacked me and it’s yourself slew three of them!”