Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [108]
“Then they’re not bandits, sure enough. What’s Loddlaen trying to do, kill the witnesses to his murder before they reach the court?”
“So I thought at first. But here, I’m the chief witness against him, and it’s hard to trap a man who can fly away.” The old man allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
The rest of the men were already running out of the broch. Hurriedly Cullyn disposed the pitiful force he had on hand—two decent swordsmen, counting himself, three men skilled with a quarterstaff, and five who knew the right way to hold the staff and little more. Because of the rubble, the gate was only big enough for two men to fight side by side. He and Albaral would have to hold it as long as they could, with Dregydd and the other skilled stavemen right behind to step in when they fell. Up on the wall, the archers stood ready with full quivers at their hips. Aderyn climbed up to join them.
“Now, listen, lads,” Cullyn said. “No heroics like in the bard songs. Just fight to hold your place.”
It was some time before Cullyn saw the pack of thirty-four men in mail ride out of the east at a steady trot. About three hundred yards away, they drew up and clustered around a leader for a hasty conference, then came on again at a walk. Cullyn could see men loosening shields and getting ready to dismount for the final charge on the gates, but like most Eldidd men, they were going to stay in the saddle for as long as possible, a habit that was to prove fatal. At a hundred yards they pulled up, well out of javelin range.
Arrow sang out from the wall, then again, and again. The lead horses reared, screaming in agony, and went down hard, rolling on their riders, as the arrows came again, and again, and again. Horses behind them bucked and kicked in panic; men yelled and swore. The arrows flew again, a noiseless rain of death. The warband broke into a riot of men on foot and panicked horses, and still the arrows flew down. Shouting, screaming, the warband turned tail and fled, leaving behind twelve dead men and more horses. Far down the meadow they regrouped. When the muleteers broke into howls of laughter, Cullyn turned and yelled them into silence.
“It isn’t over yet,” Cullyn said. “We don’t have all the arrows in the world with us, and if even ten of those bastards reach the gate, you’ll need your wits about you—if you dogs even have any.”
Then came more waiting, while the sun inched itself another notch lower in the sky, their enemies argued, and somewhere—or so Cullyn devoutly hoped—Lord Rhodry and his men were riding nearer. Finally Cullyn saw the enemy dismounting. They spread out into two squads, each circling out of bowshot range around a different side of the dun, then splitting up again. Jennantar muttered something in his own tongue that had to be a vile oath from its tone.
“They’ve learned somewhat,” Albaral remarked.
“So they have,” Cullyn said. “The only thing they can do. Rush us from all sides and circle under the shelter of the walls.”
“We can’t stop them with only two archers.”
They exchanged a grim smile. At the moment, Cullyn wondered how he could have hated the Westfolk—he and Albaral understood each other perfectly well. Most of the enemy were moving around to the back of the dun. Jennantar began sidling along the wall to meet them, but Calonderiel held his post over the gates until the other squad began moving to the side. Cursing under his breath, Calonderiel moved to face them. For a moment, everything was preternaturally quiet; then a silver horn rang out.
Distantly from the far side of the broch, war cries exploded as the charge began. Closer and closer—a few screams as arrows hit their mark—then the jingle and clink of men in mail running—the first enemies rounded the wall and raced for the gates. Three, four, too many to count, they mobbed in, but the gate was too narrow for mobs. The fight was a shoving match as much as it was swordwork. Cullyn parried more