The Golden Shield of IBF (52 page)

Head bowed low, Moc’Dar sat on a rock surrounded by drifted snow. Tears streamed from his eyes beneath his mask. In his hands, he held a dagger. With it, he could end his life, obviate the consequences of failure in battle and the continuance of life. Moc’Dar could still see himself, feel himself as the contemptuous, despicable beast into which Eran had once before transformed him. Failure in service to the Queen Sorceress this time promised a fate incomprehensibly wretched, remorselessly certain.

Moc’Dar raised his head, sniffed back his tears, stood. Clearing his throat, he called out to the Ra’U’Ba who stood some distance away, eating something nearly as disgusting looking as the Ra’U’Ba himself. “You! Feed your face if we are victorious! Contact the others of your land with my force. Tell them where we are and that we will execute a strategic withdrawal toward the keep, then stand and fight. I need all with me who can be with me. Any man who fails me will wish that he were dead. Make this known, and do it now!”

Moc’Dar had decided that he would fight to the death and welcome death when it came to free him...

“Tell me more about this person Bu’Cka’Roo Fi’Sh’Man, Champion,” Gar’Ath requested.

Alan Garrison, Gar’Ath and a dozen of Mir’s knights, Mir’s Knight Commander Tre’El among them, had been riding point ahead of Mir’s main column for some time, seeing nothing but rocks and snow instead of enemy troops. Swan would be second-sighting periodically, of course, but it was still prudent to have a scouting party.

“Well, you see, where I come from, and not very long ago really, there were wild and untamed places and they attracted men who were the same. There were some of these men who fought for good, and some who were very evil. Buckaroo Fishman, although little known, was one of the good guys. He was a fast hand with a Colt Single Action—a firespitter—and wickedly effective with a Bowie knife. A Bowie knife is a kind of dagger, Gar’Ath, named after Jim Bowie.”

“I see, Champion. This Bu’Cka’Roo fought bravely then against many adversaries, as did this Bo’Wie?”

“Oh, yeah. Wouldn’t mind having Buckaroo Fishman or Jim Bowie along with us right now, I’ll tell you, Gar’Ath. And, we could throw in Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, too, for good measure. And, since we’re fantasizing, I wouldn’t mind Robin Hood and his Merry Men of Sherwood Forest helping us. Bruce Lee might come in handy, too.”

“Who are these other heroes of whom you speak, Champion?”

Garrison patted the neck of his mount, looked at Gar’Ath and started to answer. But, past Gar’Ath’s shoulder, about a hundred yards distant, he saw the glint of what might have been steel reflecting under the feeble sun.

A hundred yards was a doable but less than ideal shot for an average longbowman, Garrison surmised, at least against a man-sized target. It was less likely still to be made with a crossbow. So, whoever watched them—if, indeed, someone did—had to be scouting for intelligence concerning their movements. “Be ready for trouble. Don’t look, but there may be somebody out there around a lancethrow away.”

“Aye, Champion. I noticed it as well, but it’s a bit further off than a lancethrow, I’d wager.”

Without turning around, Garrison called out to the Knight Commander, “Tre’El?”

“Yes, Champion?”

“We may be under observation from that direction.” And, Garrison inclined his head to indicate the spot toward which he referred.

“I will alert the knights, Champion.”

Garrison nodded.

Gar’Ath, his voice low, presumably so that his utterances would not be overheard by Tre’El, asked, “Did you ever think that dead men could be returned to flesh and blood such as these? It is, I think, quite vexing to consider.”

“Vexing? You’re putting it mildly, Gar’Ath!”

“Tis true. But, verily, the magic of the Enchantress surpasses all understanding, Champion.”

“You’re putting it mildly again,” Garrison agreed. His horse was starting to act oddly skittish. He was no expert horseman, nor certainly able to read the equine mind, but the animal might have smelled something, sensed something, that he could not. “I’ve got a funny feeling,” Garrison remarked, as inconspicuously as possible loosening the lashings which held his shield to his saddle so that he could access it more quickly. Gar’Ath had given him a few quick pointers in the use of the shield—for practical reasons and to kill time—before Swan had summoned Mir and his knights through the vortex. The brief instruction had convinced Garrison that, under the circumstances which he might be about to encounter, the Golden shield of IBF could be a decided asset, however inexperienced he was in its use.

Their small column approached a rise, ridges extending toward them from either side of it, not truly significant geological features but of sufficient height that a clever enemy could keep itself hidden until the very last moment before a trap was sprung.

“I’ve got a funny feeling,” Garrison announced again.

Gar’Ath only nodded, his eyes focused on the horizon.

“I saw this in a Western movie, once,” Garrison remarked. “The Apaches—or maybe it was the Sioux or Cheyenne—they had their ponies lying down on the ground and kept them there by lying down over the horses’ necks. When the Cavalry or wagon train or whatever rode past, every man in the war party sprang onto his mount and they rode up over the ridges they’d been hiding behind, just like they’d popped up out of the ground.”

“Of what do you speak, Champion? When did these events transpire?” Gar’Ath pressed, sounding perplexed.

“Tell you later,” Garrison promised. His eyes flickered from side to side, ridge to ridge. “You think Mitan knows that deal with the second-sight where she can use a spell and see around obstacles?”

“I don’t know, Champion. Why do you ask?”

“I was just kind of sorry Mitan stayed behind with the main column. Wishful thinking, that’s all.”

Garrison stood a little in his stirrups, as if stretching. Still, he could see nothing. The glint of steel he’d spied before was long gone. It couldn’t have been a carelessly discarded aluminum pop can, not on Creath. Garrison made a decision. “Tre’El! Split the column. Have eight of your knights fall off with their weapons ready, and wait until we’re at the top of that rise before they join us.”

“What is it, Champion?” Tre’El asked.

“If it’s a trap, no sense letting the enemy spring it the way they’d planned, is there?” Garrison drew his sword; he hadn’t checked his firespitters to see if Eran’s spell against them still held. He’d thought to ask Swan if she could do something about that, but then the vortex appeared and Mir and his knights rode out and everything happened very rapidly after that.

Gar’Ath unsheathed his blade as well.

Tre’El rode up even with them, settling his sugar-loaf-style helmet over his mail-coifed head. Garrison could barely discern that there was a living being—so to speak—beneath the helmet. Its long, narrow eyeslits were the only true openings. There were, additionally, numerous tiny holes—like the openings in a colander—corresponding to the positions of the wearer’s cheeks, presumably for air intake and ventilation. From within the helmet, Tre’El's voice sounded oddly muffled as he said, “You have a talent for tactics, Champion.”

“Tell me that again if we get out of this alive,” Garrison said.

Tre’El only laughed. “Death isn’t really what you might think.”

“Honestly, it would be fascinating to discuss it with you, Tre’El, and I hope I live through this in order to have that opportunity, among other things.”

Gar’Ath announced, “The moment approaches, my friends.”

“Let’s really surprise the crap out of them,” Garrison said. Extending his sword before him and drawing up his shield to protect the left front side of his body, he shouted, “Charge!”

Garrison dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, Gar’Ath’s and Tre’El’s mounts coming to a gallop on either side of him. A quick glance over his left shoulder confirmed that the other three knights with Tre’El were right behind them and the eight who’d been ordered to stay back were couching lances, drawing swords, readying flails...

“They are madmen,” Moc’Dar growled from within his mask, and he felt himself smile. The Roc’Ar’Kar, lying flat on its right side beneath him, stirred, its powerful hooves pawing the ground. “Yes!”

Moc’Dar sprang from the horse’s neck to his feet, giving a tug to the reins, the mighty animal leaped upright. Moc’Dar wrestled the Roc’Ar’Kar into obedience and grasped the animal’s high-cantled war saddle, mounting quickly as he ordered the five score soldiers with him, “We attack!” To the animal’s flaring ear, Moc’Dar cooed, “We shall both die as we have lived, in the flame of battle!”

Moc’Dar drew his firesword, the Roc’Ar’Kar jumping the low ridge of rock, bounding down into the defile, toward the Champion and the others. “I defy you!” Moc’Dar screamed at them.

The Sword of Koth immediately flanked him, men scrambling to their frantic mounts, running beside their animals, flinging themselves into the saddles. Looking behind him, he saw the scores of the Horde taking to their animals. As he’d withdrawn, buying time, five of the remaining seven elements of his original force had rejoined him.

Surprised as he turned his head, Moc’Dar saw the Ra’U’Ba. He not only held the Ra’U’Ba in contempt as a race, but had come to dislike this one on a personal basis. The Ra’U’Ba called out to him, saying, “You are not the only one who can die bravely in battle, Captain! I will die with you!”

Moc’Dar nodded, and with his sword gave the Ra’U’Ba a salute, then flicked the sword’s flat against the rump of his Roc’Ar’Kar and leaned into its neck. The animal’s mane lashed at Moc’Dar’s leather masked face, his eyes stinging from the occasional random impact and the cold wind around them. He spurred his animal faster, faster.

The Champion and the five men with him—four of them were knights of the old days from the time of Mir—reined in their mounts. Would they stand and die or flee, Moc’Dar wondered?

Eight more knights, several lancethrows back, formed themselves into a skirmish line.

The Champion’s horse reared, the other realm male keeping to the saddle with little grace but noticeable strength of will. “I would have your blood on my sword, Champion!” Moc’Dar called out.

The Champion and his five companions readied their weapons. No firespitter would save this other realmer now, and Moc’Dar acknowledged within himself that the Daughter Royal’s Champion showed courage, refusing to give ground in the face of certain death.

Less than a lancethrow away, Moc’Dar’s troops thundering in his wake, Moc’Dar’s heart sank. The Champion and his cohorts wheeled their horses, spurred their animals away. “Cowardly bastard!” Moc’Dar shouted after him, enraged.

Moc’Dar reined in, his men doing likewise. At the top of his voice, Moc’Dar commanded, “Sword of Koth! Form skirmish line!” His men rode forward, falling into a rank on either side of him, stretching from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. One of the Sword Generals used his horse to shove the Ra’U’Ba aside, and Moc’Dar ordered his titularly superior officer, “Give place to the Ra’U’Ba!”

“Yes, Captain.”

Moc’Dar’s eyes and the eyes of the Ra’U’Ba met, and then the moment was passed.

Moc’Dar raised his voice again. “Horde of Koth! Form three skirmish lines behind the Sword of Koth!” The clopping of hooves, the rattle of equipment, the creaking of leather, all formed a wondrously reassuring cacophony surrounding him.

Moc’Dar stood in his stirrups. One hundred score of men, all of them ready to fight and die, were ahorse and ready. Moc’Dar edged his Roc’Ar’Kar forward, inclining his head toward the Ra’U’Ba to join him. “Can your mount keep up?”

“If it falls, I’ll run beside you, and then ask if your mount can sustain the pace.”

Moc’Dar truly laughed, and felt a freedom he could barely recall having ever felt before.

“Good man!” Moc’Dar raised his voice one more time, shouting more loudly than he had before. “On my signal! Ready! At a canter! Forward!”

The Sword of Koth a stride behind him and the Horde behind them, all gradually picked up speed.

The Champion, his five companions and the eight knights who had stayed back were all mere silhouettes in the distance, and Moc’Dar knew where they were heading. He would follow, as they wanted him to.

They would lead him to the army of the dead. Nearly out of sight, the Champion and his cohorts stopped. This would be it.

As if materializing out of the ground behind them, there was a line, what little sunlight remained reflecting from swords and helms and armor, knights so numerous that the rank they formed not only stretched from horizon to horizon, it seemed, but beyond, as if, somehow, their numbers girded Creath, a barrier which could not be circumvented.

The Champion and his cohorts were lost among the knights who composed the army of the dead. Every other man in their rank rode a few strides forward, the knights in the now anterior rank raising their lances.

Running out ahead of this rank were archers, countless in number. After they formed, every other of them moved two paces forward and dropped to one knee, the rank behind them closing together. As one, the two ranks of archers drew taut their bows, fired a volley, their arrows landing in the ground. Another volley was fired, the arrows landing closer to the archers. They were setting distance for their longbows, marking the range. The archers remained formed, but slackened their bow strings.

Moc’Dar wanted to feel the wind on his face one last time.

The reins to the Roc’Ar’Kar in his teeth, with his left hand Moc’Dar reached up, slipping the knot at the nape of his neck which bound closed his head-cloth. He flung the black fabric aside. His fingers untied the lashing which bound his mask over his face. He spit the reins away, then tore the black leather from his skin. Moc’Dar cast the mask of the Sword of Koth to the ground beneath his horse’s hooves.

Gathering the Roc’Ar’Kar s reins, Moc’Dar leaned well back in the saddle, brandished his sword at arm’s length above his head and screamed, “Follow me to death!” And to freedom...

Erg’Ran, ahorse, zigzagged his way among the ranks of mounted knights, nearing Mir, calling to him, “I must know before you enter battle! I must know!”