Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [73]
Wide-eyed in the rising dawn, Alban nodded.
“What you do is this,” Ricyn went on. “Crouch down behind this pile of rubble and hide until you see a Cantrae man fall where you can grab his shield. Once the action sweeps past you, you slip out, pretend you’re wounded, and mingle with the enemy. Then steal a horse if you live that long and ride like the hells were opening under you.”
“I will, and if they catch me out, then I’ll dine with the rest of you in the Otherlands.”
As he walked away, Ricyn begged the Goddess to let this clumsy ruse work.
When he rejoined Gweniver at the gates, he found the squad that would fight behind them already in position.
“There’s over a hundred,” Gweniver remarked. “They’re just drawing up for their charge now. On foot, at least.”
“Why waste horses killing rats in a hole?”
As he took his place beside her, they exchanged a smile. Beyond the breach he saw men climbing slowly uphill, then fanning out to the breaches. Inside, it was dead silent except for the occasional clink of a sword or shield. As the eastern sky brightened, Ricyn felt his heart pounding, but it wasn’t truly a fear, more a wondering what the Otherlands would be like. I’ll see Dagwyn again, he reminded himself, and tell him about his daughter. The dawn light brightened on metal, sword and mail, helm and shield boss. From far back in the Cantrae line, a silver horn cried out. With a yell, the Wyvern shields surged forward.
It had started.
Cerrmor held the breaches far longer than any of them had a right to expect. Gweniver and Ricyn themselves, fighting side by side, could have held off a large force alone in that size of a breach—if only there had been no gaps behind them. As it was, they fought grimly, barely aware of how high the sun was climbing. Screaming, the mob swirled for them, but Ricyn kept swinging, thrusting forward and falling back in perfect rhythm with the perfect partner. The dead began to pile up, hampering the Cantrae charges. Ricyn felt sweat streaming down his back and wished for a drink of water as he fought on and on. Next to him a Cerrmor man fell; another stepped forward to kill the Cantrae man who’d dropped him. Suddenly Ricyn heard screams from behind him—warning, despair.
“Fall back!” Gweniver yelled. “They’ve broken through behind.”
One cautious step at a time, the line retreated, swinging, parrying, trying to fan out as the Cantrae men poured through the gates. The ward became a madhouse of running men as the other Cerrmor squads tried to re-form their lines. Ricyn began cursing, a steady stream under his breath, but he heard Gweniver laughing and howling in her berserker’s fit. Suddenly the sun dimmed. As Ricyn made a quick thrust at an enemy, he smelled smoke, a thick, billowing cloud of it. Back and back toward the roundhouse, stumbling over the bodies of dead friends and enemies, choking from the smoke and swinging thrusting slashing—still Ricyn had time to look her way and hear her laughing as the mob grew round them. They reached the house and held the door while, one by one, what was left of the Cerrmor warband hobbled, crawled, and ran inside, all eight of them.
“Get in, Ricco!” Gweniver yelled.
He stepped in, dodging to make room for her to follow, then helped Camlwn swing the door shut and bar it. The roundhouse was sweltering hot from the burning upper story. The horses reared and screamed in panic as the men grabbed their reins and pulled them forward. Outside, Cantrae men were yelling for axes and pounding on the wooden shutters at the windows. At last the horses were gathered in a hysterical mob at the door. Ricyn and Camlwn flung it open as the men behind screamed at the herd and slapped them with the flat of their swords. Trampling and kicking, the horses tore out and plunged into the Cantrae men like living bludgeons.
Ricyn swung around and started to yell an order. Then he saw Gweniver, and his voice cracked in his throat.
She’d staggered back out of the way to die in the curve of the wall. In his battle fever he’d never seen