Dirk leaped into their path, catching one man’s spear on his dagger and another on his sword. The parries threw the spears up, and their balance off; with quick kicks, he sent them reeling into the men behind them. Gar stepped in to take two more, but a third thrust a spear right at his face; he managed to dodge, but the soldier slammed into him, and down he went. The soldier lifted his spear high and thrust down with all his might, but Gar rolled aside, then up to his feet, and swung at the man while he was still trying to wrestle his spear out of the ground. The soldier had sense enough to let go, duck, and come in to slam a punch into Gar’s jaw. Gar reeled back, and another soldier stuck out a spear to trip him. Gar fell, and the soldier kicked him twice, hard.
Coll shouted, leaping down, and charged.
He caught the soldier in the shoulder just as he managed to yank his spear free. Gar came to his feet in time to catch the other soldier, hefting him high to hurl him into the faces of the two remaining soldiers who came running, spears leveled.
“Remaining” because, with Gar and Coll having tied up four soldiers, Dirk had managed to knock out the rest. Several lay clutching their heads and moaning; others just lay, period. Gar limped up to him, breathing hard. “Well done.”
“Ill done,” Dirk snapped. “One of them will never move again!”
“Better him than us,” Gar wheezed, “and they weren’t in a mood to be particular about what they did to us, or why.”
A little life came back into Dirk’s face, and Gar turned to clap Coll on the shoulder. “Thank you, Coll—twice. This knight would have spitted me on his lance if it hadn’t been for you, and his man would have done the same.” He turned to the knight, knelt, and lifted his visor. Bleary eyes opened and looked up at him, then snapped wide in horror.
“Tell the king you were felled by Sir Gar Pike,” Gar told him, “whose squire saved him from your cowardly onslaught. No, no excuses—if you knew enough to call me a deserter, you knew who I was. Now, thanks to my man, I can slog onward, trying to return to my king.”
“I-I had not known,” the knight stammered.
“You knew very well, and your eagerness to kill me must make us wonder for whom you truly fight. Still, I’ll say nothing about this unfortunate ‘mistake’ if you don’t. I’ve too many other things to worry me, such as defeating the alliance of lords. I leave you your life—but I will take your horse, since you slew mine.”
Outrage flared in the knight’s eyes, but he was in no position to argue. “It is the least I can do to atone for my error,” he said stiffly.
“I thank you,” Gar said gravely. “We shall return him to you when we have found our king again. Until then, farewell. Coll, prop him up against a tree.”
Dirk had to help him, but they managed to wrestle the knight over to a tree where he could lean back. By the time they were done, Gar had lashed the horse to the tongue of the cart, using his saddle cinch and one of the reins. The cart ground into motion, leaving behind a knight who was struggling to his feet by leaning heavily on a tree.
With the horse to help and Dirk, Gar, and Coll to help the horse, they finally managed to haul the cart up into the shelter of a rocky outcrop. Gar began to curry the poor beast and assure it how noble it was, while Elspeth took a leather bucket to a nearby spring to draw water for it.
Dirk wiped his brow. “You know, it occurs to me that we could have saved a lot of effort by leaving the cart.”
“True,” Androv wheezed, “but the properties and stage are our livelihood, Sir Dirk. Without it, we might be able to earn a living by pantomimes on fair days—or we might not.”
Dirk nodded. “Okay, I guess we do have to take it along.”
“Besides, we can always hide under it if the battle catches up with us again.”
It did exactly that only an hour later—or its aftermath did.
Suddenly there were soldiers falling all about them as they leaped down from the hilltop above. Some still held spears, but most were fleeing in outright panic. They struck at the players, bawling their fright, then ran on down the slope.
“Back! As far under the brow of the hill as you can!” Gar shouted. Elspeth took the horse’s reins and led the charger back into cover, then cowered beside it while Gar beat fleeing soldiers away and Dirk and Coll threw their weight against the cart, trundling it back until it jarred against rock. They turned it sideways, so that falling soldiers wouldn’t snap the tongue, then took up positions around it, ready to defend. They only had to push away the occasional soldier, though.
“Why are they in such a panic?” Coll called to Gar. “Because their side lost,” Gar answered. “Now they’re running for their lives.”
“Then the king has won,” Coll cried, “for those are Duke Trangray’s colors!”
“He should have waited for the rest of the dukes, after all,” Dirk said, grinning.
“The losers don’t bother me,” Gar told them. “They’ll only attack us if we get in their way. It’s the winners I’m worried about.”
“Yeah.” Dirk turned grim, sword and dagger out and at rest, but ready to snap up to guard. “Victors look for loot—and since there’s no town nearby, we’re the closest thing.”
They kept on fending off fleeing soldiers till the color of the livery suddenly changed. King’s men leaped off the brow of the hill, chasing the duke’s soldiers, and more of them came running around the side of the outcrop. They saw the players and skidded to a halt, grinning. “Loot! Are you fool enough to try to keep us from it?”
“I am,” Gar said grimly. “We’re knights, and this is our squire.”
“They got women in there?” one ranker asked, pushing toward the cart—then stopping as Dirk’s rapier circled in front of his stomach. “Hey, now! Get aside and let us at ‘em, or we’ll bury you under men!”
“Some of you will be killed,” Gar warned him. “Want to be the first?”
The soldier glared at him, but didn’t answer. Gar waited. But while he did, more and more soldiers assembled behind the first one. “What’s to do, Dool?”
“The big one says they’re knights, but they don’t look like it—and they got women in there and they won’t let us at ‘em!”
“Women?”
“Hit ‘em!”
“Bury ‘em!” The king’s men roared and rushed.
Coll caught a spear on his shaft, thrust it high, and clipped the soldier with the butt. The man fell, but two more pressed in in his place. Coll swung, slashing and striking, feeling blades cut his arms and legs, determined to keep them from Ciare. Beside him, Dirk and Gar thrust and cut and parried, and king’s men fell before them. Then a pike butt cracked into Coll’s jaw and he fell back against the cart. Dimly, he heard men roaring, heard Gar bellow with anger, and heard a series of loud thuds. Then he could see again, but the world seemed to tilt around him. It steadied, showing a dozen men lying on the ground before Dirk and Gar, who were both breathing heavily, both striped with blood from cuts on forehead, cheek, and arm—but the king’s men held their distance, uncertain.
Then a knight rode around the side of the outcrop and cried, “What moves?”
“They say they’re knights,” a soldier wheezed.
The visored helm turned toward Gar. “Whose knights?”
“The king’s,” Gar panted. “I’m Sir Gar Pike, and this is Sir Dirk Dulaine.”
Everyone froze.
Then the knight threw his visor up. “Where in hell have you two been?”
“Not in hell, but here and there about the countryside,” Gar said, still panting. “We were cut off from the king’s troops, retreated running and fighting, and found ourselves way behind enemy lines. We hid in the greenwood, and have been trying to work our way back to His Majesty ever since.”