The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [88]
Branoic broke out laughing and stopped just as suddenly when he saw that the regent was rallying his men. Branoic saw the Green Wyvern banner and then the Boar, flapping in the wind. Riders were gathering round them as the center of the line suddenly steadied itself. Worse yet: Branoic glanced around and realized that the prince and a handful of silver daggers had ridden free of their own charging army.
“Halt!” he screamed. “Caradoc, get back!”
Branoic kicked his horse and caught up with them just as the Ram’s men came charging up to join the prince’s guard. He could hear Tieryn Peddyc screaming orders as the Boarsmen galloped across the flat of the ridge. Branoic had just enough time to maneuver his horse up to guard the prince’s flank when they hit. Horses kicked out and bit; men swore; the two groups locked together on the field with no room to ride.
Impossible to count numbers, impossible to care—Branoic bent his will to the enemies in front of him, Boarsmen all. He ducked, parried, dodged more than swung. What counted now was staying alive long enough to keep himself between the prince and the enemies pressing in. Over the general screaming and battle noise he could pick out Caradoc’s voice, yelling, “To the prince!” over and over. The Boarsman directly in front of him leaned in too far; Branoic whacked his sword arm hard with a swing from underneath. Cursing, the Boarsman dropped his sword and had to try to back his horse out of the melee. With a wrench of his body and a hard nudge from one knee, Branoic got his own horse to dance a few steps to one side, so that he could use the trapped Boarsman’s horse as something of an extra shield.
Yet another wedge of riders pressed in from the rear. Branoic swung both sword and shield while he swore in a steady mutter under his breath. Keep them off. He could allow himself no other thought but this. Keep them off the prince. All at once he heard a warcry he didn’t know from directly behind him. No time to turn and look, but he fully expected to die until the rider at last managed to fall in next to him. Branoic risked a glance and saw a Ram shield, one trimmed with silver.
“I’ll guard your right!” Lord Anasyn called out. “Owaen’s directly behind the prince.”
“Splendid!” Branoic called back. “You bastard!”
This last was for the trapped Boarsman, who in desperation had grabbed a javelin, his last weapon, and was trying to couch it in one arm like a spear. Branoic slapped the point hard and flipped it away from him, then leaned in and stabbed. Just in time the Boarsman flung up his shield, but Branoic’s blow cracked the wood. Branoic slashed back at him and caught the shield again. Half of it fell away. When the Boarsman wrenched his horse’s head around, Branoic’s next blow caught him across the back. With a grunt he slumped forward, but his horse kept moving, shoving itself toward safety as other Boarsmen opened their line and engulfed him. Branoic had to let him go.
Once again the Boars’ line surged forward. Branoic returned to the hard rhythm of defense. Keep them off, keep them back—no room to maneuver, no glory for him—just the endless parry and dodge, duck and strike to drive away, not kill. As long as he lived, they’d never reach the prince. Horns were sounding, but whose he neither knew nor cared. The Boarsmen fell back a little and were gathering for another surge when a squad with the blue shields of Glasloc slammed into them from the side. Cackling with laughter, Gwerbret Daeryc was slashing as he rode, and his men were screaming warcries as they struck. The Boars’ line fell back, but only briefly. When Branoic risked a glance around,