So, gotta think outside the box, went through him as the lancehead came for his life.
Then: Crack!
He caught the lance on his shield, just. The force of it punched him back and sideways, out of the saddle. The ground came up and hit him with stunning force, and he tasted blood. Doggedly he shook off pain and struggled to his feet, spitting to clear his mouth. A half-dozen yards away Norman Arminger struggled to free himself from the wreck as his horse sank and threshed and screamed, with three feet of lance driven into its flank; the broken stub protruded just in front of Arminger's left knee. Havel took a step forward, and hissed at the sensation in his left leg and hip; it was like nerves being stretched out naked and scraped with serrated knives. He made himself move nonetheless, the backsword coming out as he advanced, the targe on his left forearm.
"Pain is weakness leaving the body," he muttered to himself. "Shit. Let's go, Marine."
The lord of Portland managed to get himself free of the high, massive saddle, but at the cost of abandoning his shield beneath it; the Bearkiller would have been on him while he pulled and tugged otherwise. He drew his heavy dagger with his left hand instead, holding it point-up with his sword overhead, hilt-forward. His eyes fixed on the limp Havel couldn't quite keep out of his walk.
"You swine," Arminger said with quiet sincerity. "You aimed at my horse. Deliberately!"
The northern army seemed to share its lord's prejudices; a huge chorus of hoots and groans came from them. Laughter and roaring cheers came from the allied host behind him.
"Why is it," Havel said, grinning, "that you evil bastards always get indignant when you find out you don't have a monopoly on ruthlessness? It's only a horse, Norman-and you're better than I am with a lance. If God had meant us to be lancers, He'd have given us hooves."
"Haro! Portland!"
"Hakkaa Paalle!"
The longsword flashed down. Crack and the curved leather of the targe shed it, but he didn't overbalance, and the smashing punch of the Bearkiller's backsword caught on the dagger. The hilts locked and they strained against each other for an instant, face panting into face in a perverse intimacy.
Christ Jesus, he's strong! Havel thought, as they disengaged and Arminger blocked a cut at the back of his knee, turning the longsword from the wrist like a ribbon-saber. Got the edge on me there, only by a bit, but it's there.
He'd counted on better speed and endurance, but the wrench to his hip was slowing him, draining away agility. The other man's lack of a shield would help-he couldn't just tuck his shoulder into it and try and overrun with a rush. It balanced out:
They circled, Arminger moving on the outside of the curve, Havel turning on his right heel. Engage, a flurry of strikes, back. The Portlander was breathing harder, sweat runneling down his face, but Havel felt the weight of his armor too. Try a stepping lunge for the slit in the hauberk exposed by the lack of a shield The hip betrayed him, and Arminger's dagger knocked the point wide. He snarled and reversed the strike, slamming the pommel of his sword up at the other man's armpit. The strike hit, but not quite on the nerve center, and the armor and padding muffled it. Arminger's fingers flew open, and the dagger went flying, but the arm wasn't disabled; he grabbed at Havel's shield, dragging it down and pinning that arm as their swords locked. Swaying, pushing, and he hooked an ankle around the bigger man's and pulled.
They crashed to earth, side-to-side. Arminger wasted an instant trying to shorten the sword and stab; the edge grated over Havel's hauberk, and then he raised it high to hammer the pommel down.
Crack.
Something gave in the left side of Havel's chest, and the coldness of it radiated out into his body like cracks in ice on a winter pond. But he'd dropped the long sword and had his dagger out now, and as the brass ball on the pommel crashed down on him again he let the rest of his body go limp and focused, draining the strength into his right arm. And thrust, the will a point of rage and effort like the knife, and the narrow point punched into a ring of the hauberk and broke it, sank deeper.
Crack.
The pommel struck in the same place, and Havel's mind went blank for an instant in a sheet of icy white fire. Arminger fell forward onto him, gauntlets scrabbling at the wheat stems. Havel pushed, pushed again, slowly and laboriously climbed to his knees. He took up his sword and used it to climb erect, right hand only-the left was limp, and the whole upper left side of his body was coming and going in waves that washed out further and further.
The Lord Protector looked at him, and one strengthless hand fumbled at the dagger driven up under his short ribs. He tried to speak, or perhaps only to scream. Havel took a staggering step, and placed the point of his backsword on the coif at the base of the other man's throat, and leaned all his weight on it.
"Signe," he wheezed. "Mary, Ritva, Mike: Rudi."
Something crunched beneath the steel. Havel's hand slipped away and he went to his knees. Blackness.
Aaron Rothman was bending over him, fingers infinitely gentle in their probing. Tears were falling into the stubble on the doctor's face.
Mike Havel said nothing, squinting against the sun. He felt clear-headed, but weak, and there was an enormous weight on his chest that was just this side of pain. Gradually he grew aware of other faces around him-Signe on one side and Juniper on the other, looking unaware of each other for once, Eric Larsson and Will Hutton, Luanne. More stood at a distance, silent, waiting.
Definitely not good, he thought, and tried to raise a hand. It took considerable effort; someone took it, Signe.
"Arminger's dead," she said, knowing what he'd want to be certain of. "Some of his men are leaving already."
He sighed, and turned his head to the doctor. "The word, Aaron."
"Oh, God, Mike, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, there's not a damned thing I can do that wouldn't kill you quicker-ribs, heart-if I had a pre-Change trauma room, maybe-"
"The word." "Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. That's all I can say."
"Well, that sucks!" Mike Havel said, and started to laugh, then controlled it; not a good idea if his shattered ribs had punctured things inside, and there were a few last things to do.
"Aaron, you're a good guy and a good friend. Help look after my kids, will you? Face it, you were born to be an uncle!"
The doctor turned away and fell to his knees, sobbing into his hands. Havel looked up; there was a tree casting some shade, they must have carried him back on a stretcher, and the light dappled his face, dazzling glimpses of sun and blue through shifting green.
Pretty damn good world, he thought. Right to the end. This isn't a bad way to go, not bad at all. I've seen and heard a lot worse.
Then he pushed heavy eyelids up. "Hey, alskling," he said.
Signe leaned forward; her hands felt very warm as they gripped his, which meant his was getting cold.
"Alskling," she said back, her eyes searching his.
"Look after the kids, and tell em I loved them; God knows it's true enough. Tell em I wish I could have seen them grow up. Never expected to be a dad: that was more fun than anything except you. Help look after the Outfit. Couldn't have done it without you, kid."
"Goddamit, Mike, don't leave us!"
He grinned, feeling the fierce beat of her will even then. "We're both hammers, you and I, that's our problem-and Lord, didn't we make some lovely sparks together! Remember when we fought those bandits in the ruin, and it turned out to be a porn-video store? And I said I still live, and you thought it was Tarzan, and it was John Carter?"
Sleep was calling; she was nodding, crying and laughing at the same time. He went on: "Just: keep in mind: all the problems aren't nails, OK? And you're twenty-eight. That's how old I was when I met you the day of the Change, and my real life was just starting. Don't make this the end of yours."