Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [109]
“Well done,” the prince congratulated Robyn.
“My prince,”she acknowledged, smiling, oddly peaceful in the midst of the chaotic setting.
“Look,” called Tristan, as the line of the Ffolk stretched and cracked in another place. Robyn leaped to Avalon’s back and they galloped toward the threat. By the time they reached it, however, a young cantrev lord had shifted the line to fill the gap and drive the attackers back to the ditch.
They came upon Keren, who paced behind the line. His harp and songs of valor were of more value than his sword.
“Even so,” said the bard grimly, “more than once I’ve had to sling my harp in favor of my blade. The line holds, but barely, my prince.”
“Perhaps ‘barely’ will be enough!”
The bard grinned and started another song. As always, the music and words rang out clearly, impossibly loud, above the din. The prince saw Daryth and Pawldo, standing at the ditch, drive several stumbling raiders back into the mud and blood at the bottom.
Avalon’s flanks heaved with excitement, and the great stallion tossed his head proudly, as Tristan scanned the field for developments.
Suddenly the line of Ffolk vanished in the center, as several northmen struck fatal blows. Trampling the bodies of the defenders, a hundred raiders surged into the breach. The tall farmer who had been the first to strike a blow in the battle stepped into the charging mass and lay about with his pitchfork. He soon went down beneath the press of attackers, but the sacrifice had bought a few precious seconds.
Tristan and Robyn raced for the breach, even as the hole in the line grew broader. The Ffolk began to stream away from either side, panicked by the sudden breakthrough. The prince turned to see Gavin watching him intently, waiting for some sign.
The Lone Wolf banner dipped toward the breach, and with a throaty yell, Gavin led the reserve forward.
Two hundred Ffolk rushed toward the rupture. An even greater number of northmen plunged through the hole, sensing victory.
*****
Grunnarch had remained behind when the bulk of his army charged across the field, although such a rear-echelon role raised a bitter taste in his throat. Still, he could not trust the Firbolgs or the Bloodriders to choose an appropriate moment to attack. Even with his presence, he knew that he could not hold the two bloodthirsty bands out of the fight for long.
Yet he knew that if the infantry could blast a hole through the feeble line, a timely charge by the riders around the open flank of the Ffolk would send the entire force into a chaotic rout.
Then the killing could truly begin.
Even before such an opportunity arose, however, Laric took matters into his own hands. As Grunnarch attempted, through Trahern, to hold back the anxious Firbolgs, the Bloodriders spurred their gaunt steeds and thundered toward the battle. Turning with a fiery oath, the Red King shouted his frustration at the backs of the charging horsemen. Before he could realize his mistake, the Firbolgs had also rushed forward, and Grunnarch was left with no reserve.
The battle would now proceed out of control, and the Red King grimly strode forward to exact a few blows of his own before the carnage ended. At least he saw the Bloodriders rushing toward the bare hill – Laric had obviously seen the same weakness in the enemy position that he had. The Firbolgs lumbered behind the Riders, also making for the hill.
Still annoyed, Grunnarch held no doubts as to the outcome of the battle. He would have preferred the fight to go a little more according to plan, but knew that his army would soon crush the amateur defenders.
The enemy included a few able knights, but the Bloodriders would soon find