Meanwhile, arrows from the citadel continued to drop steadily into the ranks of the sell-swords. A man who thought himself well clear of these two madmen might turn to find an arrowhead through his corselet and into his lungs.
If the ground around Pirvan and Darin did not turn to mud from the amount of blood they shed, it was only because not all of the slain lay down and died on the spot. Soon, a wider circle emerged, still carpeted out to its very edges with the dead and dying.
Pirvan gripped sword arms with Darin, both arms red to the elbows with other men’s gore. Then they both looked outward. Pirvan saw Lewin still mounted, trying to rally men who were rapidly losing their zeal to storm the walls. The only ones still obeying the Knight of the Rose seemed to be Solamnic men-at-arms, a dozen or so around Lewin himself and a few others scattered here and there about the battlefield.
The clear sight came at a price. None dared approach Pirvan and Darin closely, but that meant they were now safe targets for archers. Some of the bowmen among the sell-swords were looking away from the citadel, from which the elves were picking off any hostile archer who ventured close enough to shoot accurately. Sooner or later they would start looking for easier targets. Short of sinking into the earth, Pirvan and Darin would be there in plain sight.
Pirvan had just decided that next to Haimya, there was no one in whose company he would rather die than Sir Darin, when the matter suddenly was moot.
“Belkuthas!”
“Pirvan of Tirabot!”
These shouts were immediately followed by something in the elven tongue. Pirvan recognized Tharash’s voice.
Then what seemed a solid wall of horsemen crashed into the ranks of the sell-swords between Pirvan and the citadel wall. The cavalry seemed to leap over piled rubble, ride down men as if their horses had claws instead of hooves, and shoot arrows half a dozen at a time.
The men between Pirvan and the citadel wall recoiled. They turned. They ran. Pirvan and Darin now had to wield their swords not for defense against attack but to keep from being trampled to death in the rout. Darin finally took the smaller knight behind his shield-there was ample room-and stood, again like a rock in a torrent, while the rout poured around him even faster than the advance had.
Peering out from behind the shield, Pirvan saw Rynthala leap her horse over three crouching sell-swords, slashing down at them with a scimitar she wielded with more enthusiasm than skill. She struck none of the men and nearly tumbled out of the saddle, but Pirvan supposed she could not resist taking a hand in the close fighting.
Above the rout and ruin, Sir Lewin also rose like a rock. Pirvan wondered how long this would last. Many might not recognize Lewin as a Knight of Solamnia. Others who did would still care only that he had led enemies against Belkuthas, and likewise treat him as an enemy.
Pirvan had reached Darin, and the younger knight was safe. Now he had to reach Sir Lewin, if the Knight of the Rose was to live more than a few more moments.
“On to Sir Lewin!” Pirvan shouted. Then, hoping Rynthala and-yes, Eskaia was riding with the warrior maiden-would hear him, he all but screamed: “Spare Sir Lewin! Unhorse him if you must, but spare him at all costs!”
Pirvan started running. The thought came to him that he might have condemned Rynthala or even Eskaia to death, if Sir Lewin fought, as he might. The thought departed without slowing Pirvan’s steps.
“Est Sularus oth Mithas.” The Oath of the Knights-“My honor is my life.”
Today, on his battlefield, Sir Pirvan’s honor was Sir Lewin’s life.
Zephros reined in as soon as he was out of bow shot of Luferinus’s men. This was partly to spare his horse, worn down like all his company’s mounts by the desert journey. It was also partly to let whatever comrades were ready to escort him catch up, so he did not ride into the flanking column alone.
Or ride anywhere else alone, either. He shuddered at the memory of that thin, filth-spattered, and wholly deadly figure spewed up by the earth, seeking his death and achieving Luferinus’s.
A little farther on, and he was in sight of Sir Lewin’s column. But where was Sir Lewin? The compact mass of Solamnics was nowhere to be seen, let alone their leader. Zephros saw two-score horsemen and more cutting in and out of the ranks of the sell-swords like hot knives through cheese. But they wore no colors he recognized, and some of them were mounted archers, who had not been-
Zephros had believed he was safely out of bow shot from the walls of the citadel. Had it not been for elven eyes and archery, he would have been right.
As it was, five long-range shafts suddenly filled the air about Zephros. One pierced his left arm, painfully tearing flesh. Two struck his horse, and one of those pierced through to its heart.
Zephros’s wounded arm burned all the way up to his brain as he jarred it in falling. The dying horse screamed and sprayed blood all over its rider. Zephros himself wanted to shout in pain, rage, and frustration.
If Sir Lewin had not gone the way of Luferinus, he was somewhere amid that mob of horsemen, no longer in command of his own movements, let alone an attacking column. Meanwhile the attacking column had turned into a routed mob. They were stampeding for the cover of the forest like fly-beset cattle for the cool mud of a riverbank. They threw down weapons, trampled comrades, and generally forsook the name of soldier in the hope of remaining alive.
Even if Zephros had been mounted, he could have done nothing to stem the rout. On foot, all he could do was join it. But he did one thing to prove he had not abandoned the name of soldier.
He walked away from the citadel of Belkuthas. He expected every moment, for what seemed like hours, to feel an elven shaft in his back, the last thing he would ever feel. But he did not care. If the elves wanted to shoot a man in the back, that was between them and their gods.
Zephros would walk back to his men-if there were any left.
Pirvan’s orders had reached more people than he had expected. Indeed, Sir Lewin was more mobbed than properly attacked. Two of Rynthala’s people dismounted, slipped in close, and hobbled the knight’s mount. Then Rynthala herself rode up to him on one side, and Eskaia rode up to him on the other.
“In the name of peace and virtue-”
“In the name of Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword-”
Lewin’s glare would have made cows go dry at a distance of half a league. The women ignored him.
“The ladies want you to come into Belkuthas, sit down, and talk with some people,” Tharash said.
Lewin looked down at the aged elf and reached for his sword.
“Not wise,” Tharash said. He gripped Sir Lewin’s foot with both hands and heaved.
In the next moment Sir Lewin learned that underestimating elven strength was as foolish as underestimating elven archery. He found himself in midair, then crashing to the ground, then supine while someone-he could not see who-held a lance point to his chest.
“Sorry I had to hurry,” Tharash said, “but I thought you might want to wash and change before you met with Sir Pirvan.”
Lewin found his voice. “What-is Pirvan really here?”
“Yes,” a voice came from behind. Lewin twisted, pushed the lance point away, and sat up.
“I will not say well met, because we are not,” said the figure, who looked more like a gutter-dwelling beggar than a knight. “But matters may mend, if you learn a few truths about Belkuthas. I pray you, accept the hospitality of Lord Krythis and Lady Tulia, which I offer to you by my authority as their war leader.”
“A Knight of the Sword playing sell-sword to half-elves?” Lewin exclaimed. The lance point suddenly reappeared, not only at his throat but pricking his skin. He looked at the faces around him and realized that silence would have been more prudent.