It was obvious that the noblemen were the principal targets of the shrewdly effected ambush, for most of the leading troop had been allowed to pass between the hillsides unscathed and now were milling on the narrow roadway in an attempt to wheel about. Nor was the Freefighters’ broil improved when the enemy archers, who now dared not loose at the center for fear of striking down their own, commenced to range the Red Eagle Troop. The seemingly sentient shafts sought out every bared head, sunk into vitals ill protected by loosened jazerans, pricked horses into a rearing, bucking, screaming chaos. Then the rain of feathered agonies slackened as the bowmen turned their weapons toward the second troop, now rounding the hill at the gallop, steel out, the rampant Golden Blackfoot Banner snapping above the heads of the first files.
With no time to uncase his famous axe, Bili had drawn his broadsword and snapped down his visor in one practiced movement, dropping his riding reins over the knob atop his saddle’s flaring pommel. His stallion, Mahvros, screamed with the joy of challenge and his fine head darted snake-quick to sink big yellow teeth into the neck of the first Vawn steed to come within range. The bitten horse had had no war training and, sidling, bucked its rider off just in time for the man to be ridden down by the second line of attackers.
Roaring from force of long habit, “Up! Up Harzburk!” and, belatedly, “Morguhn! A Morguhn!” Bili rose to stand in his stirrups, gripping the long hilt of his sword in both hands so that its heavy blade cut the head from a lance and then removed the head of its wielder in one figure-eight stroke. For a brief moment he wondered how so large a force had remained undiscovered by both van and flank guards, then his every thought was of dealing and avoiding death and all the world for him became the familiar tumult and kaleidoscope of battle-the earsplitting clash of steel on steel, shock of blows struck and received, blinking cascades of stinging sweat from eyes, trading hacks and parries with briefly appearing and quickly disappearing opponents, screams and shrieks and shouted war cries and the stink of spilled blood combining with those of horse and man sweat, of instinctively shifting his weight to help Mahvros retain his balance on the body-littered road.
Sergeant Geros and Captain Raikuh, closely followed by the standard-bearer and Geros’ squad-not a man of whom was even wounded, thanks to their fastened jazerans and tight-buckled helms-had forced a path to the tail of the chaotic jumble their troop had become, collecting more troopers along the way. Pawl Raikuh, seasoned veteran that he was, took the time to form his survivors up into road-spanning files of six behind him, with Krahndahl, Geros and the big Lainzburker standard-bearer before. Then waving his sword and shouting “Morguhn! Up Morguhn! he led a crashing charge into the melee broiling ahead.
Twenty yards out, the standard-bearer uttered a single sharp cry and reeled back against his cantle, the thick shaft of a war dart wobbling out of an eyesocket. Both Geros and Krahndahl snatched at the dipping banner, but it was Geros’ hand which closed on the ashwood shaft and jerked H free of the dead man’s grasp. And then they were upon the enemy, and Geros could never after recall more than bits and pieces of that gory mosaic. But when someone commenced to furiously shake his left arm and pound a mailed fist on his jazeran, he was shocked to see that his. carefully honed sword-edge was now hacked and dulled and running fresh blood, which had splashed his entire right side and even his horse housing.
“. . . and rally!” That voice, Captain Raikuh’s it was, shouting in his ear. “Damn you, man, raise the banner! Raise the fornicating thing and shout, ‘Up Morguhn!’ and ‘Rally to the Red Eagle!’ Do it, you sonofabitch or I’ll put steel in you!”
Shaking his ringing head, Geros dropped his gory sword to dangle by the knot and, gripping the shaft in both hands, stuck it up above his head, his high tenor piercing through the din.