Alianora’s horse screamed. Hamstrung, it sank to earth. The white swan flew up, swooped down again to peck at eyes. Holger sobbed breath into his lungs. Someone yammered an order. Hurled spears flew thick around him. He forgot he was hurt and exhausted. He charged. His blade went like a scythe. Papillon reared inhumanly big, dashed out brains with his forefeet and overrode war cries with his neighing. Man and horse scattered the band of javelin throwers and returned to the stone.
Hugi rose from a body gone limp, dusted his hands, and joined them. Alianora turned woman again at the same place. A moment afterward Carahue cantered up. Holger put foot in stirrup and mounted Papillon. A savage rushed him. He kicked the fellow’s teeth in. Bending, he got his shield on his arm. His sword hand he extended long enough to help Alianora up behind him. Carahue gave a seat to Hugi. The two knights looked at, each other, nodded, and rode to battle.
For a few minutes it was slash and stab and hew. Then all at once the enemy was gone. Holger and Carahue returned to the menhir and gasped. Their swords ran red. Blood was spattered across clothes and arms and faces. The firelight gleamed off blood puddles on the earth. Bodies lay strewn, some moving and moaning, some altogether still. The hillmen were drawn into a sullen clump on the edge of vision; only their weapons could really be seen. Holger recognized the chief, whose war bonnet was gone and whose scalp was lacerated. The chief picked himself off the ground and hobbled toward his men.
Carahue’s grin flashed out. “Nobly, nobly done!” he panted. “By the hand of the Prophet… the Prophet Jesus, Sir Rupert, I thought only one man in the world could fight as you have done!”
“You’re no slouch yourself,” said Holger. “But I wish you’d been able to finish their boss. He’ll work them up to another attack in a minute.”
“Arrows’ll end us,” declared Hugi. “Had they any sense, they loons would ha’ made pincushions o’ us erenow.”
Holger looked back at Alianora. Blood ran from her left arm. The fear that leaped into him was horrible. “Are you hurt?” he cried, shrill as a woman.
“Nay, ’tis naught.” She smiled with shaking lips. “A dart did but wing me.”
He fumbled at the wound. A bad gash ordinarily, he’d have said; but not much considering the present circumstances. His bones seemed to melt. “I’ll build a chapel… to St. Sebastian… for this,” he whispered.
Her hands closed about his waist. “There’s a better way ye micht show gladness,” she said, low and close to his ear.
Carahue interrupted brusquely, “We’ll be in no state to build anything unless we escape soon. If we rush downhill, Rupert, we may elude pursuit.”
The moltenness in Holger congealed. “No,” he said. “That’s no good. This is the way to St. Grimmin’s. The other passes are beset, even if we had time to seek them out. We have to cross here.”
“Straight through them?” spat the Saracen. “Trying to climb that scree in the dark, with a hundred warriors attacking? Now your wits have boiled away.”
“You can flee if you wish,” said Holger, out of the ice within him. “I have to reach the church this night.”
Hugi stared at him, until he squirmed beneath those beady eyes and snapped. “Well, what ails you? We’ll probably die in the pass. I know it. Run off with Carahue. I’ll go alone.”
“Nay,” said Hugi.
They fell so still that Holger heard the blood beat in his own veins. The dwarf spoke low and harsh: “Sith ye be boon to mak’ a knichtly fool o’ yersel’, I can at least ease yer gowkishness for ye. Well ye know we canna get through yon pass. Yet there’s another way onto the wold, where they uns will ne’er follow. I can snuff our way to the troll’s burrow. ’Tis na far off, says ma nase. Sure ’tis he’ll ha’ more nor ane passage leading above the cliffs; and mayhap he’ll be abroad, or asleep, or far off in his tunnels, and willna grow ’ware of us. ’Tis a horrid chance to take, but methinks oor ainly chance. What say ye? Is ’t that big a rush to reach the haunted kirk?”