Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [111]
He thirsted for more of the enemy’s hot blood. Even around the rush of pleasure, Laric could sense his strength failing. The loss of so many of his Riders had exacted a toll that could only be paid in blood.
Steeds snorting angrily, the Bloodriders turned in pursuit of the sisters, even as the elven knights turned to strike again. Watching the charge form, Laric vowed that this time, they would prevail.
*****
Gavin’s bellow of command electrified the reserve. With screeching war cries, the Ffolk rushed forward. The great smith led them all, his huge hammer swinging easily above his head. Northmen poured through the breach in the line before him, raising war cries of their own. The momentary lull that had fallen over the field when the riders clashed vanished as suddenly as it had occurred.
“Miserable scum!”snarled the smith, splattering the brains of a raider with a vicious, curving blow.
“Die, northman!” The word was a curse.
Another dropped like a felled tree as the smith recovered instantly from his swing, reversing the momentum of the hammer to tap this one on the forehead, that one on the shoulder. The Ffolk of the reserve struck the charging northmen to either side of their leader, and the line ebbed and flowed as the two forces vied for the ground.
And slowly, inspired by the strength and heroism of the smith, the Ffolk drove the northmen back through the breach. Scores of fighters on each side lay dead or dying, but the press of Gavin’s reserve finally sealed the line.
The smith looked up to see the prince, upon Avalon, wiping the bloodstained sword of Cymrych Hugh. Tristan had ridden to the breach and helped to close it.
“Splendid charge!” the prince cried.
The praise brought the first trace of a smile to Gavin’s face since he discovered the massacre at Cantrev Myrrdale, and that thought stood out in Tristan’s mind amid the death and pain surrounding him.
The prince looked around and saw Robyn kneeling beside a wounded young man. Keren still stirred the force with his harp, while the Ffolk stood firm all along the line. Daryth and Pawldo paused, amid the bodies of dead raiders, and the halfling waved at the prince.
“Send more northmen!” he cried, brandishing his bloodstained blade.
The prince smiled, and then saw the Firbolgs lumber onto the hill. He prayed fervently that the next part of his defensive plan would work. He looked toward the field, beyond the lines, and saw the Bloodriders and the Sisters of Synnoria again ride together. This time, the black horses swerved form the path of the frontal assault, and the knights struck only a few from the saddle. Many of the sisters had lost their lances by now, and the battle quickly turned to a close melee, sword against sword.
And here the odds would work against the sisters, as each knight faced four or five Bloodriders. Tristan realized, suddenly, that the battle was nearly won, and the sisters could be dying needlessly. He must call them back!
As soon as he made this decision, he nudged Avalon’s flanks, and the great stallion sprang through the line at the ditch, easily leaping the muddy obstacle. Canthus accompanied his master, streaking like an arrow along the ground.
Before him, the swirling mass of horses, swords, fur capes, and silver armor spread chaotically. He heard the screams of wounded horses, and the sharp orders of Brigit that still seemed to float like music through the horror that was battle.
And then he was a part of the melee.
*****
Groth led the firbolgs in a heavy charge toward the bare hilltop. Let the humans fight the dirty battle in the ditch, thought the Firbolg king to himself. His giants would seize the high ground and then take the enemy in the rear!
For the first time since the destruction of his stronghold, Groth felt happiness again swell within his monstrous heart. Today he would get the chance to exact revenge for that defeat. He caressed the knobby head of his club, imagining it covered with his enemy’s gore.
Suddenly his