“But it is your duty!” declared Mala. “Alliances need be made. Other Women of breeding do it.”
“By Hèl”-Elyn’s fist crashed down upon the table, Darcy, Elise, and Kyla flinching at her wrath-“I am not like those cows that coyly laugh behind their fans and sit about a needlepoint! Heed me: I am a warrior!”
“La, my dear, a good Man will soon take this Warrior Maid foolishness from your mind,” declared Mala, archly. “Besides, if you were indeed a warrior, then why are you not on this mission ’gainst the Naudron?”
Elyn ground her teeth in rage, and hurling her napkin to the table, she suddenly stood, knocking her chair over backwards to come crashing to the floor. “Why am I not on this mission? Why not indeed!” she gritted. “Why not indeed!”
As the Princess stormed from the room, Mala cast her eyes skyward. “Ye shall reap what ye have sown, Aranor, what ye have sown.”
Within the hour, a horse bearing a light load with a remount trailing behind hammered through the gates and out upon the plains, swiftly heading easterly.
A Warrior Maiden was riding to battle.
CHAPTER 10
Spring, Summer, and Fall, 3E1594
[Eight Years Past]
Young Reynor slipt back through the trees of the coppice, his footstep soft upon the moss. This youth felt that Fortune had smiled upon him, for he alone of all the lads among the Castleward-lads at or near the age of Elgo-he alone had been chosen to accompany his Prince and the other Men upon this desperate mission-for none knew that he was but fourteen years of age. Even so, it was because of his demonstrated skill at scouting that he had been picked: none could move more quietly through the woods than this slender man-child, and Ruric named him Lightfoot.
And Reynor was within arm’s reach of the sentry when he softly announced in Valur, “Ic eom baec, [I am back,]” causing the warder to jerk in startlement.
Swiftly, Reynor made his way to War Commander Ruric, and Prince Elgo smiled when the lad drew nigh, and Reynor knew at that moment he was Elgo’s Man forever.
“Well, lad,” Ruric growled quietly, speaking in the Vanadurin War-tongue, for the Harlingar were on a battle mission, “what be their disposition?”
“They are just now gathering in village center, for their morning meal, unmounted save for a few, though most of their steeds are saddled. Many have laid aside their weaponry-bows, sabers-but it is within easy reach. Huntsman Arlan’s report was accurate, for there are one hundred or so. A sentry is posted at either end of the village, north and south, though none stand between the buildings, and I deem that we can come upon them out of the east, out of the Sun, though that would not allow us to strike with the full force of a running steed. Of the Vanadurin townsfolk, I saw no sign, though there are fresh mounds of turves upon the barrow grounds.” Reynor paused, then pressed on, speaking directly to Elgo: “Sire, I deem that there is no better time than now to strike, for we will catch them in disarray. But as to how to attack-From north or south, ’tis warded; and from east or west, we cannot run at speed.”
Ruric looked to Elgo as well. “Well lad, ’tis yer plan so far. What deem ye it best we do?”
Elgo’s answer came almost immediately: “Reynor, take a bow. Split the southern guard’s gizzard. When we see him fall, we’ll come in from the south to whelm them, driving them north, these Naudron interlopers, then east, back to the foul Land whence they came.”
Reynor’s eyes lit with fire, for Elgo had chosen him! And it would be his hand alone that would loose the signal for the retribution to begin. Quickly, the lad stepped to his steed and took up his bow and arrows.
As Reynor made ready to slip back through the coppice and across the field to the south end of the village, Ruric stepped before the scout and took him by the shoulders, looking the lad straight in the eye. “Soft now, Lightfoot. Go softly.”
Ruric released the boy, and Reynor gave a sharp nod. Then he was gone.
All the Harlingar mounted up, their numbers now fifty-one strong, and slowly they stepped their horses along the line of trees bordering the southern edge of the oat field, the new crop but an inch or so tall. At their backs the morning Sun had just cleared the horizon, its rays glancing across the land, though Elgo’s Warband cast no long shadows, being among the trees as they were.
When they came to the marge of the road, they waited, spears at the ready, hidden by the woods. And not fifty yards away sat the Naudran warder, ahorse, absorbed with his breakfast, his fingers shoveling some type of stew into his mouth amid slurping and licking sounds.
“Mark him well,” breathed Ruric, “for this be how all Naudron appear.”
Faintly yellow seemed the warder, and his eyes appeared slightly atilt. Black fur ringed his steel cap, a stubby spike jutting up from the crown. A dark fur covered his chest as well as his arms, bound by crisscrossing straps. Breeks he wore, and his feet were shod in fur boots, also bound by leathern thongs wrapped ’round. Scabbarded at his side was a saber, and an unstrung short bow with arrows depended from saddle cantle.
Elgo studied the Naudran, taking in detail, yet his heart cried out for action. Behind him the restive column of Harlingar stood impatiently, as a quarrel in a taut-wound crossbow, waiting to be released. Interminable moments dragged by, and now Elgo’s eyes sought Reynor, to no avail.
Is the lad lost?
More time seeped past.
Will he never come?
The Sun crept higher.
Has he been captured?
Just as it seemed Elgo could bear it no longer, with a sigh the guard slowly toppled sideways off his horse, landing upon the earth in a sodden mass, only the faint thuck of arrow striking into a distant target betraying the cause.
And Elgo’s Warband was in full-throated charge, spear-lances lowered, black-oxen horns belling wildly, hooves pounding upon hard-packed road, the earth trembling as they thundered down upon the foe.
At the first sound of oxen horn, Naudron warriors leapt to their feet with cries of warning. Many ran for their horses, while others scrambled for their weapons, striving desperately to string bows and nock arrows. But the Harlingar shocked into them ere they were prepared, and spears driven by full-running steeds whelmed into the disarray. Cries of Death filled the air as lance shivered ’gainst bone, and sabers were drawn and hewed into the living, the hideous sound of blade cleaving flesh lost ’mid the screams of the dying.
Elgo’s spear had shattered upon impact with the first Man he spitted, and now it was his blade that clove through thong and fur and hide to hack into the flesh below. Blood runnelled down to the hilts of his saber, speaking of victims dead or wounded.
But though they had been taken unawares, still the Naudron were fierce warriors, and those afoot at last brought their weaponry to bear, even as others rode into the fray, their own sabers flashing.
And now Vanadurin fell before the foe, lax hands losing grip upon spear and saber alike, as Men fell unto the sanguine earth.
Shang! Chang! Elgo’s saber clashed into that of a mounted Naudran, the easterling perhaps twice the age of the youth. Drang! clashed their blades, steel striking steel. Head to tail, flank to flank, the horses jostled ’gainst one another, as their unheeding riders sought to find advantage.