Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [142]
Some hundred yards in front of the Horsekin line, a lone rider sat on his horse and held up a staff, wound with ribands. A herald. Drwmyc sent a herald of his own out to meet him, but he kept his men moving. They swept downhill and poured out onto the plain to the south and west, forming up in a rough semicircle of their own, elven archers at the left, the northwest point, dwarven axmen at the southeast, the right. Both sides had laid claim to a position now. When the battle came, and Yraen had no doubt that parley would fail, each side would try to force the other back, either into their camp or into a full rout.
In the midst of the two lines, the heralds met. In the bright and gusty noon, they parleyed for a long time, far longer than heralds usually did, or so it seemed. The Deverry army at last got a clear sight of what they were facing—massive men, heavily armored with solid breastplates worked into their chain mail; massive horses, caparisoned in studded leather. Long arms, long slashing sabers—they’d have the reach, all right, when the fighting started.
Yraen soothed his nervous horse and looked up at the town. From his position, near the middle of the crescent but well back, he could see the dun crowning the cliff, and a tiny pennant, defiant in the wind. The entire town would know their relief had arrived by now. Carra would be at a window up in the broch, he supposed, praying for her alien husband’s safety. He looked up and down the line, found Prince Daralanteriel, riding with the gwerbret. The archers, then, would have Calonderiel in command while the prince, like the gwerbret, kept himself safe for as long as possible. Yraen only wished he could hate Dar; he tried, but the hatred was a thing of words only, running in his mind: Carra’s husband.
At last, the two heralds bowed to each other and turned their horses, kicking them to a fast trot as they rode back to their respective commanders. All up and down the allies’ line, men gathered themselves, loosening swords, pulling javelins, waiting for the signal to charge. The Horsekin drew their sabers with a flash of silver light, but they, too, waited, watching for the heralds in case they should ride out again. The silence lay as deep as water over the plain. Yraen could guess that the Horsekin had delivered the same demand as before: turn over Princess Carra’s dead body. His guess was confirmed by a sudden howl of rage that came from someone near the gwerbret. Yraen turned to look and saw Prince Daralanteriel swinging his horse toward the enemy as if he would charge them alone. A lord grabbed his highness’s reins just in time and hauled him back.
The moment hung a moment more, the silence, the waiting in the hot bright sun. Drwmyc raised his hand and signaled; his captain raised a horn and blew. With a howl, the Deverry line sprang forward. Javelins flew and winked in an arching shower of death as the Horsekin line charged to meet them, a slower charge of burdened horses, kicked to a fast trot. Caught toward the rear on high ground, Yraen had a chance to see the battle develop.
Off to the left, the Westfolk loosed a level flight of hunting arrows. Pierced through their caparisons, the first rank of horses reared and screamed, stumbling and falling. The second rank of the Horsekin charge tried to pull up and failed. More horses went down, kicking and rolling upon their riders as the arrows hissed forward again. The Horsekin cavalry was forced to pull to the southeast and tighten their line, allowing the Deverry men to surround what became a sloppy wedge. Yet as he jogged his horse downhill, searching for a way into the actual fighting, Yraen could see men falling as the heavy cavalry slammed into the Deverry line. Longer reach, longer weapons, heavy horses, armored themselves—they told badly when the charges became, as they always did, a thing of single combats,