The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [84]
The sheer press of bodies, horse and human both, around them became frightening. In this mob an enemy could slip in from the rear and attack the prince’s horse without much warning. Since he carried his sword in one hand and his shield in the other, Branoic guided his horse mostly with his knees, and turning completely around for a good look was impossible. He could only curse and pray and swear while he swung his body back and forth in the saddle like a dancer. The sweat soaked through his shirt immediately, and not long after through the padding under his mail.
On and on it went. Although he never had a moment to look at the sky and see how the day fared, he felt the sun growing hotter still on his back. His horse began to foam, but he could do nothing for the poor beast. In all that time, they had travelled perhaps a hundred yards across the field, borne along by the fighting as the regent’s army fell back and the Red Wyvern pressed forward. The center of the regent’s line suddenly gave way. Branoic had just time to think “trap” when he heard the shouting behind him that confirmed it.
“They’re here!” he shrieked.
As he struggled to turn his horse in the mob, he saw the silver dagger behind him go down over his horse’s neck. The mount reared in panic, giving Branoic just the time he needed. He managed to lower his shield, grab his reins, and yank his horse’s head around just as the first Boarsman broke through the prince’s men to the rear. Someone killed him for his trouble, but more men with the slavering grey boar on their shields took his place.
Screaming orders at the top of his lungs, Caradoc was turning the squad to face this thrust. Branoic parried more than swung to kill and held the Boarsmen up, trapped behind their own front men, until Owaen pushed through the mob and joined him. As always in a fight, Owaen stayed dead-silent, barely breathing hard, it seemed, as he slashed into the Boar riders. Warcries sounded behind them from familiar voices as a living wall formed around the prince. Branoic killed one man, catching him off-guard and smacking him so hard across the face that the nasal on his own helmet drew blood; another smack, and down he went into the maelstrom of ironclad hooves.
As fast as they had appeared, the squad of Boarsmen pulled off and retreated, fighting past the clot of silver daggers. Suddenly the field began thinning; Branoic swung his horse around easily and realized that he could see a good ways ahead.
“The bastards are retreating!” Caradoc howled out. “But steady on, lads! Stay with the prince!”
Branoic glanced at the sky and saw that the sun had just reached its zenith.
“Huh,” Owaen grunted. “Not much of a fight.”
“They were just testing our strength, maybe.”
“Oh, now you’ve turned into a cadvridoc, have you? Reading the minds of the enemy like old Nevyn, are you?”
Owaen doubtless didn’t realize how close he came to dying in that moment. Branoic felt his sword swing up as if some demon had grabbed the hilt and guided it.
“Hold!” Caradoc forced his way in between them. “Owaen, get to the front of the squad!”
With an oath Owaen followed orders. Branoic lowered his sword and felt himself panting for breath.
“My thanks, Captain,” he said. “And a thousand apologies.”
“For a change it’s Owaen that owes the apologies, but cursed if I want him dead. Understand me?”
“I do, Captain.”
“Good.” Caradoc rose in the stirrups to look out over the battlefield. “Ah horseshit! They’re retreating in good order. And here I had hopes of a rout.”
“Let’s not give ourselves airs,” Maryn said. “We won that battle because nobody knew