Altogether, the counterattack crashed into the head of the column with a savagery that could have routed a much larger and stouter-hearted force. Those in the column who did not fall at once recoiled, then turned and ran. Those immediately behind them fell into disorder as they tried to avoid being trampled by their fleeing comrades.
The four mounted leaders-Pirvan, Haimya, and the two sons of Redthorn-wheeled their horses and drove them in among the ranks of the fleeing men. Their men followed, with more haste than order, but this was a battle where steel and ferocity counted for much more than well-ordered lines.
Pirvan’s heart rose into his throat and stuck there when he saw that one of the “men” was Eskaia. Fortunately her brother was on one side of her, wielding his sword with nearly a knight’s skill. On the other side of her, improbably but undeniably, was Grimsoar One-Eye.
Serafina was nowhere in sight. Pirvan suspected her heart, too, was in her throat, seeing her weak-lunged sailor husband ride into battle on a horse barely large enough to carry him at a trot.
If Grimsoar does not live through this battle, Pirvan thought hastily, I had best flee to live out my days among the minotaurs, or Serafina will track me down.
Then somebody was shouting, loud enough to be heard above the horse cries and man cries, the hammering of steel on steel, and all the rest of the battle din. A moment later Pirvan could even make out the shouter’s words.
“Look! Up on the hill, above Darin! Enemy cavalry!”
Pirvan looked, and his heart sank down to his bowels. The dust had cleared enough that he could see Darin-well forward in the ranks of the enemy, along with his men-and also a mounted force descending the slope to strike at Darin’s flank.
The battle had suddenly turned from hard fought to desperate.
When Rynthala led her band over the crest of the ridge to within sight of the battle below, two things immediately faced her. One was a vast cloud of dust, in which it was barely possible to tell that human beings moved and fought, let alone which side was where.
The other was a kender, standing on a rock, desperately waving his arms.
Rynthala spurred her horse toward the rock, then reined in so sharply her riding teacher would have winced. Battle imposed its own rules.
“Ho, little friend-”
“Little? I am as tall as my Uncle Trapspringer, who was tall enough to be mistaken for a human. This annoyed him very much. It will annoy me as much if you do not rescue my friend, Imsaffor Whistletrot.”
Rynthala pointed at the dust cloud. “Is he in there?”
“Well, I have not seen him come out and, if he didn’t fly or burrow into the ground-and he isn’t a dwarf, but a kender like me-”
The kender had sent his message. Rynthala pointed off to her left.
“Follow me down there, but stay in line and clear of the dust. We don’t want anyone striking out at us in a panic.”
Rynthala hoped she would have equal self-command. At the moment, her mouth was as dry as if she had swallowed dust for an hour. Her breath came quick, and muscles that she had not known she had were twitching of their own will. When she dug in her spurs, she was surprised that the pressure of her legs did not crack her mount’s ribs.
But the horse seemed as eager as his familiar mistress. Together they shot down the slope. Rynthala’s notion was to stay well clear of the dust until she could snatch a prisoner or even find a willing informant among those fighting. She saw no elves and little archery at the moment, but the dust cloud was rapidly growing large enough to hide a small manor. She could not risk the slaughter of friends on the slim evidence of her eyes.
A breeze rose as she was halfway down the slope, at first blowing the dust toward her. She rode through a yellow wall, half surprised that it was not as solid as brick, to find herself coughing in relatively clear air.
She was also almost on top of the largest man she had ever seen, nearly the size of an ogre although vastly better-formed. Indeed, he was so handsome and so swift and graceful, Rynthala’s hand came up of its own accord to make the sign of Kiri-Jolith.
The godlike young warrior did not see Rynthala at first, being occupied with two opponents. She noted that he was holding them at a safe distance without trying to beat down their guards and kill them; he could have done so easily, with his advantage of height and reach, not to mention a sword in proportion to the rest of him.
At last, one of the men threw down his blade and knelt to ask mercy, and the other turned and fled. As he vanished into the dust cloud, Rynthala heard a scream-and the man stumbled out again, clutching a bleeding leg.
A kender followed, clutching his hoopak and trying to look in all directions at once. He was coated with dust and spotted with blood, but from the vigor of his movements most of it must have belonged to others.
“You must be Imsaffor Whistletrot,” was the first thing Rynthala could say.
At least it was better than hailing the warrior as Kiri-Jolith. A valiant fighter, surely, and almost certainly for good, but definitely human, and not even as young as Rynthala had thought. He could not be far off thirty, which to her still seemed a considerable age.
Both the warrior and the kender replied at once, but the kender talked three times as fast, so that Rynthala heard his answer first, even if most of it did not make sense. Apparently she had named him correctly, he thanked her, he trusted that Horimpsot Elderdrake had told her, he would return his friend’s hoopak now, and on and on for some long while.
By then the warrior was plainly trying hard not to laugh. He looked down at the kender, who barely came up to his waist, and said, “Have I changed so much that you no longer recognize me?”
The kender looked up, his mouth fell open, and for once in history a kender was too astonished to speak. This gave the warrior a chance to bow to Rynthala.
“I trust you are on the side of good, my lady, for it would be a painful duty to fight you. I am Sir Darin Waydolson, Knight of the Crown.”
“I am Rynthala of Belkuthas, and I won’t fight you unless you are going to attack my parents’ home.” Rynthala felt herself flushing at the way the words came out. She had talked more sensibly when she was ten years old!
Sir Darin was too polite to notice. Instead he waved his sword across the slope, where the dust was now exposing a good-sized battle. It was nearly finished, now, judging by the number of men down-and Rynthala noticed that most of these wore sell-swords’ motley gear, and most of those standing wore either Free Rider or Solamnic garb.
As far as I can tell under the dust, anyway, Rynthala reminded herself.
Sir Darin stepped closer and pointed his sword downhill. Another, thinner cloud of dust surrounded a second battle, still in progress. A mixed band of Solamnics and Free Riders hotly engaged another column of sell-swords, trying to force their way down from a pass to the east.
“If you wish to fight beside anyone, take your folk down and report to my commander, Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword. Or Threehands, son of Redthorn the Gryphon, who is chief alike with Sir Pirvan. I will send a man to guide you, if needed.”
Rynthala was torn between relief that there was still a fight to fight, and regret that Sir Darin would not be going with her. She signaled to the riders behind her. Follow me.
Rynthala was able to bring her band-or at least two score of its arrows-into the last moments of Pirvan’s fight. The warrior maiden was plainly disappointed.
Pirvan assured her that her arrival had ended the fight more quickly and, thereby, saved lives on both sides. For this he would be grateful, and Kiri-Jolith and Paladine would honor her.
“Are you Sir Pirvan of Tirabot?” was all the warrior maiden replied.
“I am, but-”
“Then I am bidden by Sir Darin Waydolson to seek you out. Have I done so?”