The armsman remained manifestly unhappy about his baron’s choice of tactics, but he could scarcely argue with Cassan’s motives. Nor could he dispute Cassan’s insistence that even if they were to lose half their men, it would be a bargain price if they got King Markhos back alive.
And if there are any inconvenient little problems, I’m sure I can count on Tarmahk to see to it that Stoneblade isn’t around to become one of them, the baron thought grimly. That, too, would be a bargain price if it came to it.
Even with Stoneblade’s acquiescence, it had taken longer than he liked. Not that it had actually taken as long as it had seemed to, he told himself, and The bugles sounded.
“ For the King! ”
“Here it comes!” Swordshank shouted. “Ready lads!”
Leeana recognized the bugle call, and she shook her head. Much as she respected her father, she’d questioned his sanity when he predicted Cassan would attack mounted. How could any Sothoii be stupid enough to drive horses into something like this?!
But they were doing it, and her jaw tightened as she raised her bow. It was going to be ugly.
Swordshank had put his surviving armsmen to work even before Hathan rode out to his death. They’d dragged every obstacle they could find in the smothering smoke out into the courtyard, littering the area in front of them with blocks of stone levered loose from the veranda’s steps, wheelbarrows from the groundskeeper’s storage shed, picks and shovels, firewood, even blazing roof beams dragged out of the inferno. Leeana’s hair was even more badly singed and scorched from helping them, but Swordshank had harshly ordered her away when they started moving the burning timbers. Unlike the armsmen’s armored gauntlets, she had only riding gloves, and she’d burned her left hand badly before Swordshank realized what she was doing. Fortunately, it was the back of it she’d damaged. Using it hurt, but she could still grip, and she settled herself firmly as the oncoming hooves thundered through the wide-open gate.
The smoke was thinner than it had been, and she and the defenders had the advantage of familiarity with the lodge’s ruins. They didn’t have to look for their enemies-they knew where they had to be, and the first volley of arrows was fired almost before they saw their targets.
Horses screamed as the arrows drove into them.
However wide the gate in that wall might be, putting a cavalry charge through it was like trying to thread a needle with an anchor hawser. The galloping column of horses, all of them already half maddened by the smell of smoke, was squeezed together. Over a score of warhorses peeled away from the column, completely refusing to pass through that narrow opening. Half a dozen more ran into the gate posts, or were crowded into them by their fellows and reeled aside with broken legs…or necks. But others got through, bursting into the courtyard, spreading out again, wheeling as their riders sought their enemies.
And as they wheeled, the arrows found them.
Cassan’s armsmen were armored; their horses were not, and Swordshank’s orders had been cold and brutally pragmatic. His armsmen wasted no arrows on targets protected by breastplates and boiled leather.
They shot at the horses.
Leeana tried to close her ears to the tortured screams of horses riven and torn by arrowfire. They couldn’t understand what was happening, and she wished she couldn’t, either. Wished those screams wouldn’t come back to her in nightmares. Wished she hadn’t been forced to murder innocents rather than the traitors on those horses’ backs.
Yet even through her tears, she picked her targets unflinchingly, and the entire front rank of Baron Cassan’s armsmen crashed down in ruin.
The weight of fire astonished Cassan.
He’d been positive Markhos’ armsmen had to have taken heavy casualties against the mercenaries, and he’d known they no longer had any buildings to use for cover. What kind of lunatics would stand in the open and try to use bow fire to break a cavalry charge?!
Yet that was precisely what they’d done…and it worked.
Less than half the horses who went down were actually hit by arrows. The others crashed into their dead or wounded fellows, falling, spilling their riders, in all too many cases rolling over those riders and crushing them in their own collapse. Here and there, a handful made it through without being hit or falling over another horse-only to encounter the obstacles strewn in their path. Some of them reared, throwing their riders, squealing in panic as they found flames directly in their path. Others broke legs on wheelbarrows or heaps of firewood, invisible to them in the smoke until far too late.
Cassan swore viciously, watching as the attack slithered to a halt. It stalled in a drift of dead or screaming horses, and the column behind them packed itself solid, unable to advance, losing its momentum and wavering in confusion.
“ Your Majesty! ”
Leeana spun as Sir Jerhas Macebearer shouted. The Prime Councilor had claimed a fallen armsman’s bow to thicken the defensive fire, as had most of the surviving courtiers and servants, and positioned himself on one flank of their perilously short line. He stood to Leeana’s left and rear…in the last line before the King.
And too far away to intervene when Sir Benshair Broadaxe, Lord Warden of Golden Hill, dropped his own bow, drew his dagger, and turned on the King.
Macebearer’s shout warned Markhos, but Golden Hill was already inside the reach of the King’s saber. Markhos dropped the sword, reaching for the dagger, then gasped as Golden Hill got past his grappling hand. It wasn’t a clean strike-the King had managed to partially block it, divert it so that it drove into the meaty part of his shoulder instead of his heart-but Golden Hill recovered the blade with a snarl, and no one else could reach him in time. He bored in again, desperate to finish the King and make his escape in the confusion of combat, and A short sword drove into his spine. He twisted, mouth open in a silent scream, dropping the dagger, and Leeana Hanathafressa kicked his body off her blade and turned to face Cassan’s armsmen.
“ Now! ”
Not even choking smoke and crackling flame could overwhelm instincts trained on half a hundred battlefields. Tellian Bowmaster and Dathgar could read the tempo of a battle the way a bard read an epic poem. Neither of them could have explained how, but they knew the exact instant when Cassan’s charge spent itself. When it recoiled, its strength compressing upon itself like a bow stave bent to the very edge of breaking.
And in that moment, they charged.
It was ludicrous, of course. There were only two coursers and a single wind rider, and there were almost a hundred mounted armsmen packed into that courtyard. Huge coursers might be, and powerful, but not even they could face those odds. It was obvious.
But no one had told them that, and even if someone had, they wouldn’t have cared. Not with the deaths of two brothers burning in their hearts and souls. Not with their daughter and wind sister fighting for her own life. Not with their King’s life hanging in the balance.
They slammed into the stalled warhorses like thunderbolts. Tellian’s saber stayed sheathed. Instead, he’d chosen a battle ax, standing in his stirrups, swinging with both hands and all the power of his back and shoulders,
