Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [105]
“We’re under attack!”
*****
The Prince of Corwell, seated astride the great white stallion Avalon, blocked the Corwell Road with his presence. The long lance, with the Great Bear pennant flickering proudly from its tip, stood next to him. About fifty of the Ffolk, all refugees from the eastern cantrevs, stood about him in the road, or alongside it. More refugees joined them steadily, as those coming down the road hurried to see what the gathering heralded.
“Citizens of Corwell,” Tristan called again, for the benefit of the new arrivals. “Hear me, in the name of our king!” He hoisted the banner high, as the Ffolk watched him impassively.
Immediately in front of him, two ragged little girls, wearing the tattered remains of filthy dresses, held hands and looked up at him with open, trusting smiles. Immediately behind them, a young woman hovered, trying bravely to restrain her tears.
A number of Ffolk had an animal or two – a prized goat, or pair of chickens – tightly leashed and jealously guarded. Some had managed to carry a few possessions, such as tools, pots, or, rarely, a weapon.
Some of them had a numbness in their eyes that told of unspeakable loss. Tristan knew, for this was the look he saw in eyes of Gavin the smith. Others of the Ffolk met his gaze with a stare of determination and courage. Others showed anger, as if he, their prince, were responsible for the terrible events that had befallen them.
As he started to speak, he saw again the searching stares of those who were not abjectly defeated – those who were still willing to stand up to the invaders. All they needed was a spark, and the prince knew that his words must provide that spark.
“I ask you all of able body for help. I also offer an opportunity to any who would strike back at the invaders who have sullied our land and killed our loved ones!” The prince was encouraged to see many listeners straining to hear.
“The enemy comes soon, from there!” He pointed to the low hill, six miles away. “I will meet him there, with a company of knights, and others of seasoned foot!
“Now, I seek any man – or woman,” he added, thinking quickly of Brigit and Finellen, “who will stand with us against the northmen.”
He paused to give the people a chance to confer hastily among themselves. He saw many looks of enthusiasm, but more of fear and shame. The crowd had grown enormously, and dozens more hurried down Corwell Road from the east.
“The army of the northmen stands poised!” cried Tristan, raising the pennant of the wolf. “We must hold them here, until those of us who cannot fight have escaped safely to the west. If you can hold a weapon, join me now! Give those who are weaker a chance to live!”
Lightly, he tapped Avalon’s flanks with his knees. The stallion sprang from the roadway into the field, where the prince reined him in and turned to face the collected masses.
“All of you who will join me, form up here!” He drew the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, and slashed an imaginary line along the ground.
And the Ffolk ran to their prince.
*****
Grunnarch finally reached the scene of the attack that had thrown his entire column into disorganization. There, he found one man dead of a single arrow wound. The Red King could see no sign of attackers, nor reason for disrupting the army.
“Fools! Imbeciles! A single archer has thrown you into panic! Now, move!” The raiders automatically resumed the march. Angrily, Grunnarch rode beside the column until he reached Laric, who was at his customary position at the head.
“Send some outriders into the woods! We can’t have woodsmen taking shots at us every league of the march!”
Laric regarded him passively for several seconds, and the king saw with numbing horror that the Bloodrider’s eyes had lost all semblance of humanity. Dull and cold, they seemed to be deep, and opaque, at the same time. They were no livelier than the empty sockets of a deathshead.
Desperately, Grunnarch struggled for an idea to bend Laric