Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [167]
Out on the center of the field, the infantry was making a stand, drawn up in ragged squares, three shields deep on a side. Around these hedges of spears, the Deverry riders milled, half-helpless. Every now and then, a rider would charge in, only to pull off at the last moment from the steel-tipped pikes. Behind the field, the enemy camp burned, but badly, as the fire set in haste by the men sallying smoldered in wet canvas and soaked wood. Black smoke poured out to mingle with dust and hang in flat sheets over the battle.
Shouting broke out on the left. The dwarven axmen were attacking the largest square. In dead silence, they moved forward, axes swinging low, slicing like scythes below the line of shields. Since the spearmen had set their weapons at a high angle for horsemen, they began to lose their wall as they scrabbled to change position. The waiting horsemen could charge, slamming into the break from the side while the dwarves went on cutting from in front. At first, Rhodry couldn’t find the Westfolk archers; then he realized that they’d dismounted and gone to their longbows. Up like deadly rain, the arrows flashed in the murky light and fell among the spearmen. Yelling and cursing, they swung their shields up to catch the shafts. The dwarves kept coming, and the Deverry men charged again. The curses turned to screaming as the shield wall broke.
Rhodry started down, letting the roan pick its way through the dead and dying while he rose in the stirrups, searching for the enemy archer. All round him, little eddies of mounted combat swirled; infantrymen ran for their lives while horsemen charged after, cutting them down with no mercy. Rhodry dodged and swore and kept clear, swinging round the fighting with no shame. He’d risked his life to bring them the dragon, and the dragon had brought them the victory. Now, for reward, he wanted vengeance.
He headed toward the east ridge, looking—always looking—for the archer even as he came to feel the search hopeless. Evandar had told him only a sketch of words; he’d never seen the man himself. What he couldn’t know, of course, was that the archer was looking for him, his futile bow laid aside. For that reason alone, they met. As he rode toward the trampled, smoldering remains of tents below the eastern hills, Rhodry saw a human rider in Deverry gear, mounted on a gray, trotting straight for him. Thinking him an ally, he paused the roan. His shield still hung at the saddle-peak.
“Silver Dagger?” the fellow called out.
“I am, at that. Who’s looking for me?”
For an answer, the rider charged straight for him. Caught off-guard, Rhodry flung up his sword in a clumsy parry that caught the other’s strike by luck alone. The roan danced and swung away barely in time to avoid the gray, who would have otherwise slammed straight into its flank. Swearing, Rhodry twisted in the saddle. A strike from the rear glanced off his mail but left a streak of pain behind. As he pulled his horse’s head round to face the enemy, Rhodry began to laugh. His enemy flinched in the saddle, a gesture that made his horse begin to back. With a curse of his own, the enemy threw his weight forward, halting the horse but leaving him off-balance.
Laughter flowed of its own will as Rhodry risked a lean and a stab at his sword arm. The enemy caught it on his blade and pushed the thrust away, then circled the blade over and slashed. With no shield, Rhodry could only parry, a solid block, this time, that hung their blades together in a lock of brute force. Rhodry saw