His horse was charging directly toward the fearsome warrior.
He’ll cut my mount’s belly open when it tries to leap the fence, Waggit thought. That’s what he’s after.
But Waggit had a lance in his hand, a cold wet lance that was growing slippery in the rain. He gripped it tightly, tried to steady his aim as he squatted low.
Suddenly Waggit became aware of a dozen riders thundering at his side and behind him. The riders on the left held their shields in the left hands, while those to the right shielded the right. Thus they rode in a shield wall to meet their destiny.
And suddenly Waggit’s horse was leaping in the air to clear the gate, and his own lance was aimed at the warlord’s head.
The warlord grinned, bloody teeth flashing, and tried to duck and swing his ax all in one swift motion, aiming to disembowel Waggit’s leaping mount.
But Waggit quickly dropped the point of the lance, taking the warlord in the face.
As the metal point of his lance bit into flesh, snicked through bone, and clove through the warlord’s skull, Waggit shouted, “Chew on this!”
Then the weight of the carcass dragged the lance from Waggit’s hand and he was over the wall. His horse hit the muddy road and went down, sliding.
Arrows whipped overhead and one snapped into Waggit’s helm.
The other horsemen were coming, and Waggit realized that their mounts would trample him to death if he didn’t get out of the way.
Waggit tried to leap from his own saddle and pull out his saber as the horse skidded.
He hit the ground and went down, skidding as he fell, realizing too late that the enemy troops had trampled this part of the road and peed on it, turning it into a muddy brew, all in an effort to slow just such a charge.
He heard other horses falling behind him, and he had the good sense to try to get out of their way.
Keeping his shield high, Waggit tried to leap up, but found himself scrambling and crawling through the mud toward the safety of a beech tree. Another horse fell behind Waggit, clipped his leg, and sent him sprawling backward.
A swordsman of Ahshoven, in battle armor as gray as the rain, raced up toward Waggit, intent on dealing a death blow, his breath fogging the air around his black beard, and all that Waggit could do was to raise his sword and parry feebly.
But suddenly a horseman came thundering down the road, and a lance struck the swordsman in the gut, lifting him from his feet.
So powerful was the grip of the lancer that the man was borne away, his face a mask of shock and regret, until the lancer deigned to hurl him and his lance aside.
Waggit whirled and searched for more attackers.
But Waggit was a scholar more than a warrior, and better fighters with grand endowments of brawn and metabolism were already ahead of him, masters of the slaughter. Asgaroth’s troops were no match.
Waggit saw that there had only been a hundred men or so at the gates, hardly enough to slow his troops, much less stop them. And now they were running along the hedgerow, heading toward the wooded hills, hoping to escape.
Waggit suddenly became aware of a sharp pain in his leg, a pinching sensation.
Reaching down near his crotch, Waggit felt the broken shaft of the arrow that had pierced his thigh. In the heat of battle, he’d forgotten about it.
He pulled, felt a sharp pain as the bodkin came clear. The arrowhead was not a broad tip, thankfully. Such a blade would have been likely to sever an artery. Instead it was long and sharp, like a nail, meant to pierce armor.
He peered down at his wound. Blood wasn’t pumping out. The shaft had missed the artery. He licked the tip of the arrowhead, in mockery of the enemy warriors that were dying on the battlefield, and tasted the salt of his own hot blood. He hurled the broken arrow to his feet, where he crushed it in the mud.
Then he pulled out his kerchief and tied it around his leg. The best thing that he could do now was to apply some steady pressure. And what better way to apply pressure than to sit on the back of a horse? he wondered.
His mind clouded by the haze of battle, he decided to ride on, to let the wound close even as he tracked down and slaughtered Asgaroth’s scouts.
11
In a good battle, every man is a hunter and every man is hunted.
Iome listened for sounds of pursuit, but the burble and rush of the river as it flowed among stones and hanging branches masked everything. She relied upon her several endowments of hearing as she listened for pursuit, but the only sounds that came to her were the wind hissing through trees, the occasional water rat rustling among the reeds at the water’s edge, the cries of burrow owls hunting on the wing, and, at last, the soft snoring of the children in their little shelter.
The miles flowed past, and with each mile traveled, Iome rested a little easier.
Overhead, a storm brewed, heavy clouds scudding in from the west, blotting out the stars. The air was heavy, but not with the familiar taste of fog. Instead when Iome breathed, it came in sickly and smothering, so that she found herself gasping for breath like a fish out of water.
A wind suddenly rushed up the canyon, and the boughs of pine trees bobbed and swayed while dried cattail reeds along the bank gave a death rattle.
Myrrima glanced back at Iome, worry on her brow.
There are other Powers at work here, Iome realized. Perhaps Asgaroth is sending the wind to blow the mist off the river. Or perhaps he has other purposes in mind.
For a long while, the storm built, layer after layer adding to the clouds, and the night grew bleaker. Then lightning began to sizzle across the sky, green as an old bruise, and a drear rain simmered over the water and pooled in the hull of the boat.
As Iome poled at the rudder, her robes turning into a sopping weight, she heard the first of the warhorns blow, soft and distant, like the braying of a donkey. They were too deep of timbre to be horns of Mystarria.
Asgaroth.
Upstream behind them.
Someone had found the dead strengi-saats in the shallows, and now they called to other hunters.
For the next long hour, the horns continued to draw nearer. Ten miles back. Six miles. Three.
The steep banks and thick growth along the river seemed not to slow their pursuers. The hunters had to be on foot, but they were men with endowments of brawn and metabolism and stamina, so that they could run faster than a normal man, faster even than the swift current that bore the little boat along at perhaps eight miles per hour here in the hills.
But the longboat would soon be heading into deep valleys where the water grew sluggish and the pursuers’ path would grow easy.
Iome looked down to Myrrima and Hadissa. Both of them had endowments of hearing. They too had heard the pursuers and thus held worry on their brows.
“Pull close to shore,” Hadissa whispered at last as he reached into a rucksack and drew out his weapons. He held a strange assortment-throwing darts like small daggers, their blades green with poison from the malefactor bush; a garrote woven of golden threads; a curved steel club; a horn bow that would quickly lose its strength in the
