Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [158]
“Daryth! You must take command of the force,” he called to the Calishite, who stood nearby. Daryth’s dark skin was streaked with black grime, but his face shone with determination. Smiling, he nodded.
“Brigit! Finellen!” Tristan turned to the two females who had been such staunch allies during the fight. “Can you aid Daryth and the Ffolk in chasing the northmen back to their ships?”
“It’ll be a pleasure!” growled the bearded captain of the dwarves, fingering her bloodstained axe.
“Of course,” added Brigit, quietly.
“Fighters of the Ffolk!” called Tristan, addressing the growing congregation of his people in the ruined courtyard. “The invaders of our land have fled! It only remains to drive them back to their ships and away from here!… with such memories that they shall never want to return!”
“Death to the northmen!”
“Drive them into the sea!”
The cries swelled to a crescendo as the people of Corwell realized that the battle was nearly won. All that remained was the final harvest of retribution.
Keren stood among the crowd, watching the prince with renewed respect in his eyes. Tristan turned to the bard and met his gaze, “Will you come with me?” He did not need to explain his mission.
“Our horses are being saddled even as we speak,” answered the bard. “We’ll have her back or die!” Even the mellifluous bard, gifted speaker though he was, did not radiate conviction.
“I’m going, too!”
The pronouncement, in a high-pitched but very determined voice, came from Pawldo. Tristan turned and saw the halfling, his forehead and one eye masked by a white bandage.
“Thank you, old friend,” answered the prince, kneeling beside the halfling. “But you must stay here and recover your strength. Your wounds -”
“My prince,” said Pawldo, with a rare pleading tone in his voice, “it’s the Lady Robyn…”
“Of course.” Tristan stood, clenching his teeth to hold back his own sudden rush of tears.
“You’ll have to find somebody else to chase the northmen,” said Daryth. “I’m coming with you, too.”
“But…” Tristan began to object, but gratitude toward his friends flowed warmly through his body.
“Very well. The four of us shall ride as soon as we can.” In desperation, he looked about the castle for someone else who might be able to command the situation.
As if in response, the stable doors burst open, and several men-at-arms emerged, leading a large chestnut mare. Seeing the rider, Tristan had to blink in amazement. At the game time, a ragged, lusty cheer arose from the throats of the Ffolk in the courtyard.
King Bryon Kendrick rode his warhorse once more.
Running forward, the prince saw with surprise that his father had been lashed into the saddle. His shattered legs had been tied to the stirrups, and his left arm was hung in a sling. Yet his strong right arm waved vigorously, and in his hand he hoisted a heavy broadsword.
“Ffolk of Corwell! Follow me to battle! Rid our kingdom of this invading scourge!” The king’s words roused his people anew.
King Kendrick looked down at the prince, standing beside his horse. “Good luck, my son. I know you will find her.”
Gripping his sword under his injured arm, he reached out with his good hand and clasped Tristan’s shoulder. Then his silver-black beard jutted forward aggressively. “To arms, my Ffolk.We will drive them into the sea!”
As the fighters in the courtyard milled about, organizing for the pursuit, the prince and his three companions ran to the stables and mounted. Already, stableboys had three white horses of the sister knights saddled, and they were busily stuffing provisions into saddlebags.
Tristan retrieved Robyn’s staff from the doorway to the keep. “She might be wanting this,” he told the others as he mounted Avalon.
Suddenly, a delighted and familiar barking broke through the courtyard, and Tristan turned to see a moorhound bound through the gateway toward him.
“Canthus!” Tristan jumped to the ground as the great moorhound ploughed excitedly into him, knocking him to the flagstones. Canthus’s jaws were stained