The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [118]
So thick, in fact, that he found himself unable to face off with another Horsekin rider—the prince’s force outnumbered them at least two to one. The Westfolk archers had done their work to broaden the odds further. The remaining Horsekin were trying to turn and flee; the arrows kept coming, and Deverry riders were pushing hard into the center of what had been the Horsekin formation. Over the melee a brass horn sang out as somewhere a Horsekin officer signaled retreat.
Gerran pulled free of the hopeless mob and turned his horse. The Red Wolf men, trapped as they had been in the rear rank, were just joining the fighting, or trying to. Gerran allowed himself a grin at the thought of how frustrated Mirryn must be, then rose in the stirrups and looked for his archers, spread dangerously around the edge of the field. He began riding after them, yelling for them to join ranks and return to safety. A few heard him and turned their horses just as a Horsekin squad broke free of the mob and headed straight for Gerran, caught isolated on the edge of the battle.
You rash dolt! Gerran had just time to think it before the squad mobbed him, four riders, swinging hard with falcatas, pressing in two at a time. No time to think of attack—Gerran had shield and sword and parried with both. He swayed and ducked as his horse danced and kicked, but one of the Horsekin had managed to edge round to the rear. A hard blow caught Gerran on the back of his left shoulder. He nearly dropped the shield but clutched the handhold with all his arm’s failing strength and saved it.
All at once a Horsekin yelled, another screamed; the horse directly in front of his went down, an arrow in its throat. Gerran heard shouting, “Red Wolf! Red Wolf!” Swinging a blooded blade, Mirryn burst into the scrap from the side. A Horsekin went down. Daumyr spitted another in the back. The last raider tried to turn his horse and run, but a Westfolk arrow struck his horse full in the chest. Mirryn finished off the rider as the Horsekin fought to jump free of his falling mount.
Panting for breath, Gerran lowered his shield and saw only Deverry riders and Westfolk archers on the field. Prince Voran’s silver horn was singing the order to hold and stand. Mirryn pulled his horse up beside Gerran.
“My thanks,” Gerran gasped it out.
“You had the luck,” Mirryn said. “Daumyr spotted you off on the edge.”
With his drawn sword Gerran saluted Daumyr, who shoved his helm back and grinned with sweat running down his face. Vantalaber guided his horse up to join them with his bow slung over one shoulder.
“I’ve collected all our men, Gerro,” Van said. “All accounted for. It gladdens my heart to see you alive.”
“I got careless,” Gerran said. “I nearly paid for it, too.”
“It happens.” Van shrugged the comment away. “The prince’s captain tells me that a couple of Horsekin got clean away. He says it’s too dangerous to go after them, because they’re probably going to rejoin a larger force somewhere.”
“Most likely,” Gerran said. “This lot didn’t have a baggage train, not so much as a pack mule with them. They can’t be riding on their own.”
Prince Voran had reached the same conclusion. By then, the sun had climbed to zenith. The prince and Gerran discussed the situation while Mirryn and the two captains, Voran’s and Ridvar’s, sat on their horses with them and listened. With the immediate danger past, Gerran could allow himself to feel the pain in his shoulder, burning like fire from the falcata blow. Still, since no one had mentioned seeing any blood seeping through his mail, he forced his mind away from it.
“Good thing you thought of those scouts,” Voran said in an oddly mild tone of voice. “Now, we’ve got two men dead and a couple of wounded.” He turned in the saddle and spoke to his captain. “Caenvyr, make sure that any wounded Horsekin are disposed of. Then pick ten