The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [170]
Caught between two attacks, the spearmen lost the discipline that their lives depended upon. They’d been trained to hold ranks to defend against an equally well-drilled enemy. Now from one side they faced men with long axes that could sweep up from below and cut through their greaves. From the other side, swordsmen, both human and elven, charged in with their own shields held ready to turn aside—or to trap—their spears. The entire contingent of spearmen broke ranks, a fatal mistake.
Some swung round to face the dwarves, only to be engaged from the side by swordsmen. Others tried to make a stand against the Deverry charge only to have their legs slashed out from under them by the dwarves. Another silver horn—Gwivyr and his squad slammed into the battle. All around the edge the Westfolk archers prowled, loosing shaft after shaft whenever they had a clear target.
At first Gerran found himself shut out from the real fighting. With the archers he prowled like winter wolves around a stone-walled sheep fold, desperate to get in, unable to find a breach. At last an unhorsed cavalryman came running his way, his shield gone, his cap-like helmet and breastplate intact, both of them heavy leather studded with bronze. Gerran stepped into his path, feinted, then dodged to one side.
His enemy’s clumsy swing showed Gerran that he’d learned to use his falcata on horseback, not on the ground, but he still stood a good head taller. Gerran dodged to the enemy’s left; the Horsekin turned and swung again, his blade parallel to the ground. The weighted tip of the falcata pulled him a little farther than he should have gone. Gerran flung up his shield to catch the blow and sliced in from behind to hit him hard just beside the breast plate. His sword cut into the leather below. The leather split. So did the flesh under it, and blood ran.
With a yelp the Horsekin spun back towards Gerran and swung his falcata up from below. On its trailing edge the falcata was as dull as a club, but if it had hit its mark, Gerran would have fallen with a crushed jaw. He sprang back barely in time. Bleeding, out of balance, the Horsekin stumbled, flailing his arms like a dancer. His head for a brief moment bobbed to the level of Gerran’s chest. Gerran swung up from below and slashed him across his eyes. With a scream the Horsekin fell to his knees and grabbed at his face with both hands.
Gerran stabbed him in the throat, then jumped back, on guard, searching for enemies, but by then Horsekin horns were screeching commands that could only mean one thing: retreat. Unhorsed cavalrymen were already running for the lives, easy victims for Westfolk arrows. The spearmen threw their shields and ran with them, heading downriver.
Half of the elven archers pulled back to turn and run for the horses the Deverry army had left behind them. Others held their ground and sent flights of arrows racing after the retreat. Men screamed and fell. Some rolled wounded into the river and drowned. Others bled to death where they lay. The Deverry men and the Mountain Folk followed, killing the wounded enemies as they passed, facing off with the few men who turned to make a stand with their backs set against one another—two or three spears against a mob of swords and axes.
When Gwivyr’s mounted squad galloped forward to harry the retreating men, the remaining Westfolk pulled back. Gerran heard Calonderiel yelling orders in both Elvish and Deverrian. ‘Leave the bastards to the others! The horses are coming!’ Prince Voran appeared on horseback, screaming more orders as he rode among his men and the Mountain Folk.
‘Pull back, pull back! To me! To me!’
The unmounted swordsmen slowed, stopped, began milling around the prince. Gwivyr