Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [131]
Seconds after the charge began, Daryth faced a yellow-bearded berserker who leaped from the ground to the top of the four-foot wall, then dived onto the defenders. The Calishite’s scimitar disemboweled the attacker, but another took his place. This time the strike of Daryth’s blade sent him falling backward into the mass of his fellows.
All along the length of the wall, steel clashed against steel, and flesh strove against flesh. Many northmen fell during the initial charge, but once they reached the wall, the toll of dead came quickly from both attacker and defender.
A man fell beside Daryth, and several northmen poured over the wall. He turned to face them, his silver scimitar flickering like lightning into the group, cutting off an arm on a fore-swing, and slicing a neck on the recovery.
“Look out!” the bard called from behind Daryth. The Calishite turned to see a spear-carrying northman poised upon the wall, ready to drive his spear into Daryth’s back. Before he could throw the weapon, however, he gasped and toppled back over the wall, one of Keren’s arrows jutting from his throat.
But the attackers’ numbers were just too high. More and more defenders fell, mortally wounded, or simply turned and ran from the onslaught. Hundreds of raiders poured through the breaches in the walls.
“I think we’d better retreat,” grunted Daryth, holding off three northmen with his flashing blade.
Keren, now wielding his sword, backed against the Calishite as he fought two more northmen. Already, the two of them stood virtually alone among the sea of enemy fighters.
“Now!” cried Keren, finishing his opponent with a lightning thrust. “This way!”
Daryth lunged once, throwing his opponents off balance, and then turned to race after the longlegged bard. They darted through the mass of the enemy, dodging attacks, or slaying those who stood in their way.
“I didn’t know we got left so far behind,” panted Daryth, as a dozen northmen suddenly appeared to block their path.
“Behind!” cried Keren, turning back to face an equal number.
Their bloodstained weapons upraised, the northmen closed upon the two defenders, caught far from their own troops. None of them heard the clatter of approaching hooves.
Suddenly a silver blade dropped between Daryth and the enemy, and he looked up to see the Prince of Corwell ride into the fray. The heavy hooves of the white stallion Avalon, and the slashing cuts made by the Sword of Cymrych Hugh, killed three northmen in the first rush, and warned the others off.
“Over here! Run!” Tristan gestured to Daryth and Keren with his sword. The pair saw the Sisters of Synnoria advancing behind the prince and quickly ducked between the nervous white horses.
They saw that their respite was a brief one, for the few knights – brave as the elven women were – could not hold back the press of raiders for long. As soon as the fighters were safe, the knights fell back, holding the fanatical attackers at bay with the tips of their lances. The crush of the onslaught slowly forced them back through the town square, and the defenders were cornered in the northern end of the town.
And still, the enemy kept pushing.
*****
Canthus watched the great wolf race toward him without fear. He ignored the ruined cantrev and the thousand wolves watching him with yellow-eyed stares. Never before had the moorhound hesitated to face danger, nor did he do so now.
The wolves of the Pack felt neither hope nor dismay for the outcome of the fight – they would always follow the mightiest of their number.
As the wolf and the dog came together, Erian hurled his body through the air in an effort to knock his opponent to the ground. Any other dog would have been flattened by the leap, but Canthus managed to swerve to the side a split second before collision. Drooling fangs lashed at each other