The Doomfarers of Coramonde (37 page)

Shields were
soon battered, uselessly crumpled, and thrown aside so the knights could snatch
another weapon to hand in their stead. Helmets crested with badges of the
Hightower and other regions were cloven in two or dashed in, their contents
destroyed. Whole limbs were severed, still encased in sheared-off armor. More
than forty men lay dead or dying from that first impact, many with snapped
lances sprouting from their breastplates like lethal flowers.

Through flying
dust and whirling steel it was apparent that there was little hope for Bulf,
short of relief from the allies.

The defenders
rallied around their Duke, who set to with sword and axe and did fighting man’s
work with good effect. His men formed a ring of death with him at its leading
edge and his standard at its center. He could be seen to peer about anxiously
for his flanking sally. Gil let his own eyes rove the field.

He caught
Springbuck and pointed to the colorful tent on a rise at the opposite end of
the greensward. There, caftan streaming in the wind, hood thrown back to reveal
the lurid mask, Ibn-al-Yed stood with arms folded on his chest, watching the
extermination of his master’s enemies. Over him flew his scorpion banner, black
on crimson.

Then Bonesteel
was back from preparations to turn the battle.

The Prince gave
rapid orders: the bulk of the Horse-blooded to go to Bluff’s aid with Bonesteel
and himself, the rest of the Wild Riders to assault the entrenchments and siege
machinery, while the Wolf-Brother, with the men of Freegate and Kisst-Haa’s
reptile-men, reinforced the flanking body, which must have encountered heavy
resistance. The pikemen would keep the enemy from bringing up reserves and the
dragoons were to harry those reserves or sweep into the foe’s camp as needed.

But before they
did, Gil was to take the squad of prowler-cavalry to capture Ibn-al-Yed before
he knew that events were against him.

Minutes later,
Bulf’s nephew Sordo, Rolph’s son, beleaguered and outnumbered in an ambush to
the southeast in hindrance of his flanking sally, was shocked to see tailed and
scaly monsters throw themselves into the fray on his side, snatching knights
from the saddle, bowling over their horses and chopping men and mounts in two
with titanic broadswords. They also caused damage with their spiked and flanged
caudal armor. In among them darted a small, muscular man impossible to hit,
tearing men from their saddle and silencing them with cestus or clawed glove.

Moments later,
grim-faced men in mail fell on the ambushers from the rear and, singing a low,
rhythmic chant among themselves, began slaying.

More
maneuverable but less protected than the knights, the men of Freegate ran a
risk in going against them. Their swords lifted in time with their chant and
their eyes were as hungry as those of hunting hawks. They caused death all
around, though many of them fell, too. Their wrath wasn’t abated or their
thirst for battle slaked until they’d driven such of the ambushers as survived
from the field.

With them came
Andre deCourteney, proving himself as strong a warrior and difficult to face in
arms as any man there. It was known then that Andre was a man to reckon with
apart from potent wizardry. This was a thing the men of the allied armies could
understand and like him for, as was his intention.

Sordo had
collected his wits and sent a wedge against the archers firing at him in
support of the trap. A four-to-one match that had promised massacre turned to
victory before his eyes.

A few of the
enemy, finding their swords useless against reptilian savagery and not wishing
to face rows of the swords of Freegate, made their way clear by sheer
determination and fear and fled, but these weren’t many, and Sordo found
himself thanking the small man and the plump magician, whom he recognized. Then
they all hurried in the direction of the main engagement.

Bulf, too, was
astounded at the sudden turn of battle, Horseblooded were abruptly weaving
agile horses through the melee, seizing enemy knights with catch-poles and
lariats and dragging them from their mounts. The Wild Riders threw knives,
axes, maces, short javelins and other weapons of distance with small effect on
the men in plate.

They, too, had
to take the risk of closing with the ponderous, powerful knights. Still, they
were in numbers and no newcomers to battle on horseback; their swords were
busy. They also used their bows, firing the arrows they used in war which, by a
trick of carving, whistled and screamed eerily as they flew, but to small
effect.

The officer in
charge of Ibn-al-Yed’s reserve elements, seeing all of this, decided not to
wait to be ordered into combat. He called for a sounding of the war horn and
went to his comrades’ assistance, or at least tried to.

The doughty
infantry of Bonesteel were forming ranks to prevent that. Kneeling and
standing, they established their bristling barrier from one side of the field
to the other, and it took both battalions of pike-men to do it.

Ibn-al-Yed’s
men charged them now, and many foot would have broken at the sight of them in
full career, but these wearing death’s heads on their byrnies were the hardened
core of Bonesteel’s own infantry, tempered by many encounters into veterans
immovable as fire-blackened tree stumps. Their fifteen-foot pikes wavered not a
finger width. This was their profession. And so it was the knights who broke
and drew up short at the points of those waiting polearms, save three foolhardy
younger men who plunged to their deaths.

When these were
slain, the infantry locked ranks as if they’d never been breached, beginning
the risky game of keeping the mounted men at bay with thrusts.

Entrenched
engineers and siege artisans, meanwhile, were horrified as a hoard of galloping
madmen overran their comfortable positions, as wolves fly at the fold.

Waving weapons
and voicing ululating war cries, leaping their mounts over obstacles, the Horseblooded
took a high redoubt in moments. Here, too, they fired their weird, unnerving
arrows, and with several charges put the archers to their heels. The ground was
presently littered with bodies stabbed or hacked by their sharp points and
edges.

Bulf had
recognized the Prince’s stag’s head emblem, as Springbuck and Bonesteel fought
their way toward him through the surging enemy. The son of Surehand wore no
armor, but had a shield with his insignia on it. Even among the gaudy
Horseblooded, his Alebowrenian plumes stood out. Handling Fireheel with his
knees, he engaged two knights, one after the other, and downed them both. Bar’s
edge was a cutting plane that had no trouble negotiating thick plate.

Springbuck
turned from his second adversary after sheering through passegarde, pauldron
and shoulder, just in time to see Bulf go against the commander of the enemy
troops, an accomplished fighter who wore armor of ancient design that he
considered a bringer of good luck in war.

Blow for blow
they hailed on each other, giving no attention to defense. Over and over they
went together until, by dint of belling sword stroke, Hightower pressed his
opponent hard to stay ahorse. Bulf hammered his enemy’s blade aside and turned
his shield with axe blows, ramming his point home where gorget met helmet.

Blood spurted,
and a proud captain became a corpse, his good-luck piece having failed him for
the first and last time.

But as Bulf
made to turn and find a new match, filled with pride in his victory, another
knight came on him from behind and drove his lance into Bulf’s horse with a
will.

Beast and
master went down, the charger rolling over on the helpless man, and the knight
struck the Duke through.

Springbuck
spurred forward and rewarded the knight by sending his head leaping from his
body, helmet and all, with a single sweep; a fitting end for him. In a moment
the Prince had unhorsed and, removing his mask, knelt by Bulf’s side. The
injured man’s breath came in a rattle, but he somehow recognized the face of
the Prince, whom he hadn’t seen in years.

“It’s done for
me, your Grace,” he wheezed. “But how good to fall on a field of triumph when
I’d thought to lie on one of defeat. Your benediction, if you please, worthy
and well-come son of Surehand, and then please save my poor sister-in-law from
Ibn-al-Yed.”

Tears clouded
Springbuck’s vision; he heard life leave Bulf Hightower. He felt undeserving of
the old man’s respect, but removed the helmet of iron and put his lips lightly
to the still-warm brow, a final salute.

A thought came
to him. What had Bulf said? His sister-in-law! Of course; how else could
Ibn-al-Yed have lured Bulf out but to have captured her in some way and used
her as leverage? That was why Bulf had joined this unequal fight and sent
flankers around, to try to save his brother’s widow. Bonesteel, whose sister
Rolph’s widow was, was standing at the Prince’s side, face conformed in anger.

Then they were
both running for their horses, gathering men as they went.

With a dozen
prowlers at their backs, Gil and Dunstan charged from the trees at the rear of
the pavilion of Ibn-al-Yed.

Gil wore a
steel cap and held his reins in his teeth as did his companions. With the
Mauser in one hand and the Browning in the other, he led the band as they
rushed at the unsuspecting bodyguards ringing the sorcerer’s tent. Bey’s
underling seemed to have retreated within.

Since the
sentries were giving their whole attention to the battle in front of them, the
attack from behind surprised them completely. Most were scattered before they could
bring up their halberds.

Their sergeant
made to bring the remainder into some order, making them stand fast with the
flat of his sword and threats of the wrath of Ibn-al-Yed if they failed.

Gil fired twice
into the air over their heads, but still the sergeant made them hold. Gil shot
him in the chest and the others broke and fled.

The American
jumped from his horse with half his men and Dunstan, leaving the balance to
watch the horses.

He hoped that
his quarry hadn’t escaped, warned by gunfire, but needn’t have worried. Racing
forward he saw the well-remembered figure in golden mask and billowing caftan
step toward him, then heard him cry out in an alien voice, a language known to
few.

A weakness of
terror fell on them all, even Dunstan the Berserker. They dropped their weapons
and collapsed to the ground as the horses went insane. Transfixed as they were,
it would have been only moments before they died at the hands of the
counterattacking guards, who were summoning courage to return.

But they didn’t
die. In that desperate instant the blast of a war horn filled their ears,
drowning out the intimidating words of Ibn-al-Yed and permitting Gil to shake
his head and clear it. Webs of confusion and panic were carried away by the
full winding.

He groped at
the braided lanyard secured to his harness and clipped to the butt of the
Mauser. Bringing the weapon up, he fired as quickly as he ever had, before the
startled sorcerer had a chance to resume his litany.

The short range
compensated in some part for haste. A bullet crashed into the cantor’s leg just
below the hip, bursting through bone and changing the incantation to a howl of
pain and anger.

Gil climbed
shakily to his feet, recovering the Browning and ordering his men to control
themselves and their horses. This they did, the prowlers ashamed that they had
to be instructed by an outlander and Dunstan with new respect for the American.

Gil turned to
find the source of the horn blast and didn’t have far to search.

Standing at the
entrance of the tent was a handsome woman of middle years, her disheveled hair
a gentle brown shot with gray. Her eyes were glazed, as if she saw little of
what had happened. Her gown had been partially torn from her, testifying to
rough usage. She was plainly a courageous Lady, who’d found some unconquerable
core of will in herself; in her trembling hands was a curled horn, its long
baldric dragging in the dust at her bare feet.

They all owed
her their lives, Gil knew. She’s done a deed of uncommon valor, refusing to
succumb to the spell of Ibn-al-Yed—an act none of them had been able to
emulate.

As gently as he
could, he took the horn from her hands and seated her on the ground. Her skin
was cold, yet perspiration shone on her face. Gil dashed into the tent to find
a robe or blanket; he’d seen shock many times before.

Ignoring food,
drink and the military maps strewn on low tables, he strode across the deserted
tent to a pile of bedding and cushions, from which he snatched up a fur robe.
He didn’t miss the confusion of the bedding and the bits of torn cloth that
confirmed violation of the woman outside. Has Ibn-al-Yed celebrated victory
before the fact of battle? Gil didn’t stop to wonder.

He went and saw
to his savior’s comfort as best he could, judging it better to keep her outside
than move her into the tent, where she’d evidently suffered so much. He
stationed his men for security and tried to see what was happening on the field
of combat.

The day had
turned, with the help of the expedition from Freegate.

Holstering his
Mauser, Gil drew his sword and stepped over to the staff from which
Ibn-al-Yed’s standard flew. He severed it as if it were an enemy. The menacing
black scorpion wafted gently to earth, never to fly again, for he plunged his
sword through it and left it pinned for its initial and final defeat.

Then he turned
and saw that, incredibly, the sorcerer had somehow made it to his feet and was
attempting to hobble to his tent.

The American
bounded after him in a fit of rage and swung him around. With one hand around
the swarthy neck Gil ripped, off the mask, glad to have someone on whom to vent
his anger.