Again, if it had been anyone else, she’d have hesitated, thinking it through, not knowing what was on his mind, what his intentions might be. But because it was Percival, she knew instantly. He would save her or die trying. She didn’t want him dead. So she stuck her hand up in the air.
Percival’s steel-clad arm came swooping from the sky like a bright-winged falcon, whirling in an underhand movement; his gauntlet slammed Cnan’s upraised arm between elbow and shoulder and clenched it in an excruciating grip. A sharp bolt of pain—her arm was being jerked out of its socket—compelled her to grab for a fistful of bunched mail, swing her other hand up, and hook her fingertips over the edge of the steel cop that covered his elbow. For a time, she held on with all the strength she had left, seeing in bumping, spinning glimpses Percival’s thigh, the saddle, the horse’s pumping flank, the sky above, and the reeling ground beneath. Clods and grass flew up to strike her in the face.
She pulled her knees in just before Percival heaved her up like a bag of grain and slung her sideways across the front of his saddle. Had she been expecting a longer ride, she’d have slung her leg over and struggled upright, but this position felt more secure even though she was being punched in the stomach and ribs by the saddle. So she held on to whatever bits of tack her flailing hands could discover and tried as best she could to review their situation.
The horse was definitely turning—making that wheeling maneuver into the open mouth of the long field.
Something streaked past the horse’s left flank and embedded itself in the ground ahead. Even more impressive thunking noises startled her—arrows hitting Percival in his back, which was at least partly protected by his slung shield. But his mount had no such protection.
The horse gave out an awful scream and lost its gait, staggered for a couple of paces, tried to return to the gallop, but staggered again and fell into an off-rhythm, off-balance diagonal stride that felt like a slow descent. The saddle stopped pounding her belly. Rubble flashed beneath her, a plunging hoof cracked down on a big rock, and then the ground came up fast.
Sky and rubble and rye vied for her attention as she and Percival skidded and tumbled over each other. Ending up on top, she rolled to unsteady feet, sucked back the wind that had been knocked out of her, and turned to face the enemy, wondering how many more times she would fall off a dying horse today.
Four Mongols abreast rode toward them, with many more negotiating the turn behind. One archer had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow. He pushed the bow forward, loosed the arrow. Another was in the act. Both arrows found their target.
With the apparent strength of a Hercules, Percival hefted body, mail, and armor from a crouch and swung his shield off his shoulder. Three arrows stuck out of it. Another shaft flew his way—no, for Cnan—and he extended the shield just in time to catch that one as well. Another
The knight staggered sideways, turned, crouched, and hurled the bristling shield into the pounding legs of the nearest Mongol horse. It fell in a heap, its shriek cut off as its muzzle plowed into green grass and dirt. The rider somersaulted out of control and slid across the grass like a child on a sled. Percival abruptly halted the Mongol’s glide with a downward, double-handed thrust of his sword, pinning him to the ground.
The other three Mongols hurtled past. Cnan knew that their next move would be to pivot in their saddles and loose Parthian shots. So she turned to face them just in time to see them go down—one, two, three—as arrows from sides and front pierced their leather armor.
Istvan was the only archer she could actually see; the other shots had come out of concealment. The Hungarian now galloped to the fore, leaning in his saddle, and shot a second arrow through the neck guard of a wounded Mongol lurching to his feet. The Mongol dropped again to his knees, hands reaching, unable to cry out— the arrow had pierced his wind-pipe and come out the other side, almost clean through.
“Run, my lady,” said Percival as calmly as if he were inviting her to dance—and Cnan ran. He was right behind her. Naked, he might have outpaced her; in full armor, even he lagged.
They were being chased up into the field, and as Cnan’s lightly shod feet pounded through rye and weeds, from the corners of her eyes, she became aware of men lying flat in shallow trenches under piles of uprooted grass. She also saw more long cords beneath her feet—cords run out over the ground and left there, straight, but slack.
Istvan rode past going the other way. She turned to watch as the Hungarian shot an arrow into the foremost of the next wave of riders. He wheeled his destrier and returned the other way, twisting in his saddle to shoot his own Parthian shot. As he passed, the cords jerked off the ground—three ranks of them, pulled taut by knights working in pairs, one at each end, levering them around hefty sticks jammed into the earth.
Percival burst forward and in a few strides caught up with Cnan, grabbed her already aching arm, steered her toward the hedge, and tossed her into it. Vines and thistles welcomed her. Rocks bruised her face and shoulder— light wounds and a fair trade. More arrows buried themselves in the ground just a couple of yards away.
Cnan nestled into the hedge, delicately plucking thistles and draping tendrils to hide herself. But curiosity won out over caution. Parting the vines, she saw that disaster was about to fall upon the Mongol horsemen. Two
All but two of the riders and their ponies tripped over the stretched cords and tumbled headlong, kicking and squealing, in a cloud of dust. The two that made it through were brought down by arrows from R?dwulf and another reverse shot from Istvan. The Hungarian grinned like a demon, his huge bristling mustache still caked with black blood from the massacre at the farmstead.
In a patter of heavy, thumping footsteps, a man ran right by her hiding place in the hedge, panting with exertion and trailing a long, stretched-out cloud of smoke. It was the alchemist, Yasper—and he seemed to be on fire. Every couple of paces, he stopped to hurl a smoking object plucked from a satchel slung over his shoulder. He tossed them in the direction of the entrance to the abandoned field, where the two squadrons of Mongols were staggering to their feet, drawing swords, or still trying to drag themselves from under thrashing horses.
The burning objects tumbled along the ground and jetted smoke—not the translucent white smoke that came from fires, but a yellow-brown vapor, thick as river mud. And it kept coming. One fell from Yasper’s bag and lay on the ground not far from Cnan. It was a gourd, about the size of a fist, with a vent hole cut into one side. She was fascinated by the sheer volume of smoke hissing and belching from the tiny object; it was like watching a hundred men leap out of a single wine barrel.
In a few moments, the jets and clouds of smoke combined to form a dense wall around the fallen riders, like a low storm cloud. The day was calm, the field was sheltered by woods, and the pungent yellow vapor was in no hurry to blow away.
From the shallow trenches sprang Taran and Feronantus, then Roger and Illarion, drawing swords with a strange, ululating, hooting cry:
“
The war cry, she guessed, of the
Running straight down the center of the field came Eleazar, drawing and poising the colossal sword that he had used to such effect yesterday evening. Trotting after him came Raphael, bow out, arrow nocked, scanning for more distant foes.
But the blinding power of Yasper’s smoke cloud was absolute, and so the remainder of the Mongol force, still finding its way around and through the hedge, dared not use their bows for fear of striking comrades.
The cloud expanded. Terrible sounds came out of it now. A Mongol hopped through the billowing yellow wall on one leg, coughing and waving his free hand, smoke trailing from his hair and clothes. A hatchet whirled out of the cloud and split the back of his skull. Eyes suddenly red and bulging, he threw out his arms and sprawled flat on his face.
Roger, arms covered in blood, backed out of the cloud, reached down, and pulled the hatchet loose. Another Mongol charged out after him. Roger backhanded the weapon with a casual flick, making it skim whirling across the ground at knee level. It did not cut the Mongol but destroyed his gait and staggered him. He raised a short sword, not so much to deliver a blow now as to protect himself from what might come next; Roger ran forward, caught the man’s elbow, and with all his might, shoved it back so that it grazed the Mongol’s ear, spinning him round and leaving his neck an easy target for the dagger in Roger’s other hand. The dagger found its mark.
Streaked and dripping all over now with fresh blood, Roger wrenched away the dying Mongol’s sword and stalked back into the cloud, his face contorted with battle rage, crying, “
Raphael turned toward the hedge to look directly at Cnan—no, just above her—and loosed an arrow. There were loud rustling noises and a Mongol fell from the top of the hedge, striking a heavy blow on her shoulder. He and
