Had Geros been able to let go his hold on the saddle, he would have pinched himself. He was certain that he must be dreaming. Such accolade for Geros-the-coward, from so great and famous a noble warrior, must surely be a dream. He opened his mouth, tried hard to speak, but his still-constricted and brickdry throat emitted only a croak.
“No, no, comrade,” Komees Djeen gently patted his shoulder. “Don’t try to talk ’til you’ve had of your tipple.”
As soon as he had recovered from the coughing fit engendered by the strong, hastily gulped brandy, Geros gasped out his message, and the courtyard began to buzz like an overturned beehive. Already saddled horses were led out and the girths tightened, bows strung, weapons hefted, and last-minute adjustments made to belts, stirrups, and armor.
Shortly, Komees Djeen’s small command galloped out of the gate. Intensive search had failed to find any of Komees Hari’s servants, so there were but nineteen riders in the column-the four noblemen, the orderlies of Djeen and Vaskos, Drehkos’s bodyservant, and his big, mountain-barbarian bodyguard, ten scaleshirted Freefighters … and Geros.
“We’ll surely need every fighter, comrade,” Komees Djeen had declared, while two troopers buckled Geros’s cuirass, draped a baldric over his shoulder, and handed him a fresh spear. “Especially a gutsy man like you. Were you a soldier, I’d see you wear a Cat for this night’s work!”
CHAPTER VI
Bili mindspoke Mahvros, “Faster, brother! Be ready to fight.”
The huge, black horse quickened his gait and beamed his approval, one of his principal joys being the stamping of the life from anything that got in his way. Raising his head, he voiced a shrill, equine challenge, then bore down on his promised victims.
One man and horse went down in a squealing, screaming, hoof-flailing tangle, while Bili took a ringing swordcut on the side of his helm in passing. Still shrilling his challenge, Mahvros came to a rearing halt, pivoted, and returned to savage the downed horse and rider, while Bili axed the other man out of the saddle with a single, businesslike stroke. The stallion was able to experience the brief elation of feeling manribs splinter under his hooves, before Bili urged him back toward the bridge.
Scores of hooves were pounding close behind him, when he cleared the last of the trees to see Ahndee and Klairuhnz, their blades gleaming, sitting their mounts knee-to-knee, a few paces onto the span. Three yards behind them, the trooper had uncased and strung his short bow, nocked an arrow, and calmly awaited the appearance of a target.
“Bili!” shouted Ahndee exuberantly. “Sun and Wind be thanked! We’d thought you slain.” He started to back his gelding, that Bili might have his place.
But Bili signed him to stay, positioning Mahvros a little ahead of the others. “This will be better,” he stated shortly, not seeing the smile they exchanged at his automatic assumption of command.
The trooper proved himself an expert archer, putting his shaft cleanly into the eye of the first pursuer to gallop out of the forest. His second arrow pinned an unarmored thigh to a saddletree. He nocked a third, drew . . . and his bowstring snapped! Cursing sulfurously in several languages, he cast away the now useless hornbow, drew his saber, and ranged up close behind Ahndee.
The next four attackers took a brief moment to form up, then launched a charge, apparently expecting their prey to remain in place and wait their pleasure. They did not live long enough to recover from the countercharge!
The leading attacker held up his shield to fend off Bili’s axe, while he aimed a hacking cut at Mahvros’s thick neck. The stout target crumpled like wet paper and the axeblade bit completely through, deep into the arm beneath, the force of the buffet hurling the man down to a singularly messy death, amid the stamping hooves.
Mahvros roughly shouldered the riderless horse aside, while Bili glanced around, seeking another opponent. At that very moment Ahndee was thrusting the watered-steel blade of his broadsword deep into the vitals of his adversary and Klairuhnz was obviously more than a match for his shaggy opponent. But the Freefighter had troubles aplenty. First his bowstring, and now his saber had broken, leaving him but a bare foot of pointless blade. With this stub, he was fighting a desperate defensive action.