Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [128]
“Here they come!”
All down the line javelin points winked in the sun as the men took on faith what they couldn’t see. One last time, shields were settled, swords loosened in scabbards, as the horses danced, feeling the coming battle in their riders’ moods. The plume of dust came closer, swelled, like smoke from a fire sweeping down the road. Rhodry forgot that he was sure he was going to die. He felt himself smiling as if his face would split from it. As the battle fit took him over, it seemed that his body had turned as light as air.
About five hundred yards away, Corbyn’s army broke from the marching line and swirled around to form a wedge for the charge. Rhodry chuckled as he saw the green-and-tan shields of Corbyn’s warband take the head. Soon he and the man who had rebelled against his rule would face off in single combat. As for the rest, there were over three hundred men out there, a nice fair fight. In anticipation, his own army moved forward a pace or two, but it held its formation. Finally silver horns rang out among the enemy. Howling out war cries, Corbyn’s men charged.
Closer, closer, with the dust pluming around them they came, slapping into the crescent. Rhodry rose in the stirrups, threw his javelin overhand into the mob, then drew his sword on the follow-through. The line of darts arced up, winking as they fell indiscriminately among Corbyn’s men, who answered with a straight fling of their own. Rhodry bounced one off his shield, then kicked his horse to a gallop and charged straight for the rider in the lead. Screaming war cries, his men surged forward, falling from the flanks to close a circle of death.
Rhodry began to laugh, the bubbling, choking battle laugh that he could never control on the field. He heard himself howling like a madman as he closed with the lead rider. He ducked under a clumsy swing, slashed in, getting a nick on his enemy’s arm, and then realized that he was facing an ordinary rider, not Corbyn at all. He threw up his sword in a parry and risked glancing round—no sign of Corbyn, and he was trapped. Men were pouring round him, mobbing for him in a tight circle. Rhodry desperately swung his horse around and felt a grazing blow bounce off the mail on his back as he charged straight for a young rider. The lad gave ground; he was almost out—more men closed the gap. His laugh rose to a howl as he saw how neatly his honor had trapped him; he’d fallen for a false decoy like a waterfowl.
“Rhodry!” It was Cullyn’s voice, close at hand.
Rhodry swung his horse around just as Cullyn cut through the closing circle and fell into place beside him, their horses nose to tail so they could guard each other’s left.
“Parry!” Cullyn screamed at him. “Forget the kills!”
Twisting in the saddle, ducking, parrying with shield and sword both, Rhodry followed orders and fought for his life. He felt a blow graze his shoulder, twisted, and flung up his shield against another. The wood cracked. A blade flashed in toward his face; he caught it on his sword. For a moment the blades hung locked; then someone else struck him from the back, and Rhodry had to pull free. He flung up his shield just in time; it cracked again, splitting down the middle to the boss. Over his own laughter and the battle cries around him, he heard his men screaming “To Rhodry! To