The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [117]
“Good,” Mirryn said.
“Now look, you’re a good man with your sword, but I’ll warn you somewhat. In battle things happen a cursed lot faster than they do on the tourney ground. Don’t overreach yourself, foster brother. Make sure you stay with your men. Plenty of fighting will come your way. Don’t worry about that.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it!”
“You look troubled.”
“I’m not. I was just thinking that tonight my life is going to be completely different—one way or the other. It’s an odd thought to have with your breakfast.”
When the army rode out, the Westfolk archers rode at the head of the line of march with their curved hunting bows at the ready and a full quiver of arrows at each man’s hip. Once they spotted the enemy, they would peel off and attack the Horsekin from the flanks. Prince Voran’s men rode behind them and the Dun Cengarn men after them, with the Red Wolf bringing up the rear guard.
“Ye gods,” Mirryn said, “the dust!”
With seventy horsemen on a dirt road, the dust rose up in a high plume, a clear signal to any enemies ahead of them.
“True spoken,” Gerran said. “We can blasted well forget about catching the bastards by surprise. Here, Mirro, I’ve got to ride forward and take charge of my archers. If there’s a scrap, good luck.”
“And the same to you.” Mirryn gave him a grin. “Lots of it.”
Gerran trotted his horse up the line and pulled in next to Vantalaber, the leader of the archers’ squad. As a sign of his position, Van wore a bird’s wing sewn to one side of his helm, which was mostly leather though reinforced with brass strips over the crown and around the base. Van grinned at him with the exact same expression as Mirryn and patted the bow laid across his cantle.
“We’ll aim for the horses first,” Van said.
“Good. If you can bring down a few in front, they’ll have to make a messy charge.”
About a mile on, the road entered a forest, a thick stand of old growth maple, larch, and scattered pine. Here and there branches overhung the road and scattered the dust cloud, but in a couple of miles more the road broke free of the cover. Dust rose again as the warbands followed the road into a wide meadow.
To either side stretched open farmland. A mile or so off to the left a plume of smoke rose, the sign of a burning farmstead, no doubt. Ahead of the oncoming Deverry force, armed and ready Horsekin sat on their heavy horses in two-deep ranks, formed into a rough crescent. Thirty raiders, maybe forty—Gerran had no time to count. He reached down and pulled a javelin from the sheath under his right leg. With a silver horn in hand, Prince Voran urged his horse up to the front rank.
“Now!” Voran shouted at the top of his lungs, then raised the horn and blew.
The archers peeled off, five on each side. The prince’s men threw their javelins in a hail of deadly steel, then drew swords on the follow through. The Horsekin shouted and flung up shields to deflect them. One javelin found its mark; a Horsekin in the second rank slumped in the saddle, then fell over his mount’s neck, but the raiders in the front rank held their position until the arrows began flying. With a whistle and hiss, death struck from the side. Horses screamed and reared; two fell to their knees, dying. The Horsekin in the rear rank screamed war cries and pressed forward; those in the front had no choice but to charge. In an answering roar of war cries, Voran’s men charged to meet them.
Gerran found himself caught in the front rank of the charge. Through the choking dust he spotted a Horsekin toward the edge of the enemy formation who was wearing the red tabard of the Keepers of Discipline. In dead silence, Gerran rode straight for him. A Westfolk arrow hissed by him and grazed the Keeper’s bay horse. A red stripe opened on the horse’s flank as it neighed and reared, pawing the air. When it came down, Gerran was there to meet its rider.
The Keeper swung down with his falcata. Gerran twisted away, ended up low in the saddle, then struck up from below. He caught the Keeper full in the face, just under