of hundred yards.
The riders coming up from behind had slowed to a walk. They
were rough-looking men wrapped in furs and armed for the
most part with bronze-tipped spears. The one in the lead wore
a vast, bristling beard and an archaic-looking helmet surmounted
with a set of deer-antlers.
‘That’s it,’ Sparhawk said shortly. ‘They’re definitely following
us. Let’s get the others and deal with this.’
They rode on back to where their friends had taken some
small shelter on the lee-side of a pine grove. ‘We stayed in jorsan
too long,’ Sparhawk told them. “It gave Rebal time to call in
help. The men behind us are bronze-age warriors.’
‘Like the Lamorks who attacked us outside Demos?’ Ulath
asked.
‘Right,’ Sparhawk said. ‘These are most likely followers of
Incetes rather than Drychtnath, but it all amounts to the same
thing.’
‘Could you pick out the leader?’ Ulath asked.
‘He’s right up front,’ Vanion replied.
‘That makes it easier, then.’
Vanion gave him a questioning look.
‘This has happened before,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘We don’t
know exactly why, but when the leader falls, the rest of them
vanish. ‘
‘Couldn’t we just hide back among these trees?’ Sephrenia
asked.
“I wouldn’t want to chance that,’ Vanion told her. ‘We know
where they are now. If we let them get out of sight, they could
circle back and ambush us. Let’s deal with this here and now.’
‘We’re wasting time,’ Kalten said abruptly. ‘Let’s get on with
it. ‘
‘Khalad,’ Sparhawk said to his squire, ‘take Sephrenia and the
children back into the trees a ways. Try to stay out of sight.’
‘Children?’ Talen objected.
“Just do as you’re told,’ Khalad told him, ‘and don’t get any
ideas about trying out that rapier just yet.’
The knights turned and rode back along the muddy track to
face their pursuers.
‘Are they alone?’ Bevier asked. “I mean, can anybody make
out the one who might have raised them?’
‘We can sort that out after we kill the fellow with the antlers,”
Kalten growled. ‘Once all the rest vanish, whoever’s responsible
for this is going to be left standing out in the rain all by himself.’
‘There’s no point in waiting,’ Vanion told them, his voice
bleak. ‘Let’s get at it. I’m starting to get wet.’
They all pushed their cloaks out of the way to clear their sword
arms, pulled on the plain steel helmets that had been hanging
from their saddle-bows, and buckled on their shields.
‘i’ll do it,’ Kalten told Sparhawk, forcing his mount against
Faran’s shoulder. There was a kind of suppressed fury in
Kalten’s voice and a reckless set to his shoulders. ‘Let’s go!’ he
bellowed, drawing his sword.
They charged. The warriors from the ninth century recoiled momentarily as
the mail-skirted Church Knights thundered toward them with the
hooves of their war-horses hurling great clots of mud out behind
them.
Bronze-age weaponry and ancient tactics were no match for
steel mail-shirts and contemporary swords and axes, and the
small, scrubby horses of the dark ages were scarcely more than
ponies. Kalten crashed into the forefront of the pursuers with
his companions fanned out behind him in a kind of wedge formation.
The blond Pandion stood up in his stirrups, swinging
his sword in vast, powerful strokes. Kalten was normally a
highly skilled and cool-headed warrior, but he seemed enraged
today, taking chances he should not have taken, over-extending
his strokes and swinging his sword much harder than was prudent.
The round bronze shields of the men who faced him barely
slowed his strokes as he chopped his way through the press
toward the bearded man in the antlered helmet. Sparhawk and
the others, startled by his reckless charge, followed him, cutting
down any who tried to attack him from the rear.
The bearded man bellowed an archaic war cry and spurred
his horse forward, swinging a huge, bronze-headed war axe.
Almost disdainfully, Kalten brushed the axe-stroke aside with
his shield and delivered a vast overhand stroke with his sword,
swinging the weapon with all his strength. His sword sheared
down through the hastily raised bronze shield, and half of the
gleaming oval spun away, carrying the bearded man’s forearm
with it. Kalten swung again, and his sword struck the top of
the antler-adorned helmet, gashing down into the enemy’s head followed by a
sudden spray of blood and brains. The dead man was hurled
from his saddle by the force of the blow, and his followers
wavered like mirages and vanished.
One mounted man, however, remained. The black-cloaked
figure of Rebal was suddenly quite alone as the ancient warriors
who had been drawn up protectively around him were abruptly
no longer there.
Kalten advanced on him, his bloody sword half raised and
death in his ice-blue eyes.
Rebal shrieked, wheeled his horse, and fled back into the
storm, desperately flogging at his mount.
‘Kalten.’ Vanion roared as the knight spurred his horse to pursue
the fleeing man. ‘Stop..’
‘But… ‘
‘Stay where you are.’
Still caught in the grip of that reckless fury, Kalten started to
object.
‘That’s an order, Sir Knight, put up your sword!’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Kalten replied sullenly, sliding his bloodsmeared
blade back into its sheath.
‘Take that weapon back out!’ Vanion bellowed at him. ‘Wipe
it off before you sheathe it!’
‘Sorry, Lord Vanion. I forgot.
‘Forgot? What do you mean, “forgot”? Are you some halfgrown
Puppy? clean that sword, Sir Knight! I want to see it
shining before you put it away.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Kalten mumbled.
‘What did you say.?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Kalten shouted it this time.
‘That’s a little better.’
‘Thanks, Vanion,’ Sparhawk murmured.
‘i’ll deal with you later, sparhawk!’ Vanion barked. ‘Making
him see to his equipment was your responsibility. You’re supposed
to be a leader of men, ‘not a goatherd.’ The Preceptor
looked around. ‘All right,’ he said crisply, ‘let’s form up and go
back. Smartly, gentlemen, smartly. We’re soldiers of God. Let’s
try to at least look as if we knew what we’re doing!’
There was some slight shelter from the wind back in among
the trees. Vanion led the knights through the grove to rejoin
Sephrenia, Khalad and the ‘children.’
Is everyone all right?’ Sephrenia asked quickly.
‘We don’t have any visible wounds, little mother,’ Sparhawk
replied.
She gave him a questioning look.
‘Lord Vanion was in fine voice,’ Ulath grinned. ‘He was a
little dissatisfied with a couple of us, and he spoke to us about
it – firmly.’
‘That will do, Sir Knight,’ Vanion said.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Were you able to identify whoever it was who raised that
party?’ Khalad asked Sparhawk.
‘No. Rebal was there, but we didn’t see anybody else.’
‘How was the fight?’
‘You should have seen it, Khalad,’ Berit said enthusiastically.
‘Sir Kalten was absolutely stupendous!’
Kalten glared at him.
Sephrenia gave the two of them a shrewd look. ‘We can talk
about all this after we get clear of the storm,’ she told them.
‘Are you ready, Sparhawk?’
‘in a moment,’ he replied. He reached inside his tunic, took
out the box, and commanded it to open. He put on Ehlana’s
ring and lifted the Bhelliom out.
‘Here,’ Sephrenia said. She lifted Flute, and Sparhawk took
the little girl into his arms.
‘How do we go about this?’ he asked her.
‘Once we get started, I’ll be speaking through your lips,’ she
replied. ‘You won’t understand what I’m saying because the
language will be strange to you.’
“Some obscure Styric dialect?’
‘No, Sparhawk, not Styric. It’s quite a bit older than that.
just relax. I’ll guide you through this. Give me the box. When
Bhelliom moves from one place to another, everything sort of
shivers. I don’t think our friend out there will be able to locate
Bhelliom again immediately, so if you put it – and your wife’s
ring – back in the box immediately and snap the cover down on
your own ring, he won’t have any idea of where we’ve gone.
Now, hold Bhelliom in both hands and let it know who you
are.
“It should know already.’
‘Remind it, Sparhawk, and speak to it in Trollish. Let’s observe
the formalities.’ She nestled back into the protective circle of his
mailed arms.
Sparhawk lifted Bhelliom, making sure that the bands of both
rings were firmly in contact with it. ‘Blue Rose,’ he said to it in
Trollish, “I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia. Do you know me?’
The azure glow which had bathed his hands hardened,
became like fresh-forged steel. Sparhawk’s relationship with the
Bhelliom was ambiguous, and the flower-gem had no real reason
to be fond of him.
‘Tell it who you really are, Sparhawk,’ Flute suggested. ‘Make
certain that it knows you.’
‘Blue Rose,’ Sparhawk said again, once more in the hideous
language of the Trolls, “I am Anakha, and I wear the rings. Do
you know me?’
The Bhelliom gave a little lurch as he spoke the fatal name,
and some of the steel went out of its petals.