In this moment of disarray, Pirvan and Haimya rode in among the Istarian ranks, with Whistletrot and Stalker running behind them. The air was suddenly full of war cries, screams, neighing horses, the clash of steel, flying bolas, and the weird roaring of a kender hoopak lustily wielded.
Pirvan nearly lost his mount to his second opponent, but replied by slashing the man’s horse across the rump. The horse reared and threw his rider, and Pirvan put a knife into the man’s throat as he started to rise.
Haimya had worse luck in the matter of opponents; Pirvan saw Stalker use his last bola to bring down the horse of a rider coming around on Haimya’s blind side. The knight waved his thanks.
In moments the Istarians had lost five men and every bit of their remaining order. It was then that Waydol reentered the fray. He held the bloody lance he’d drawn from his shoulder in one hand, then gripped it with both hands and swung it like a club. Suddenly there was another vacant saddle-and the lance snapped like a twig.
Pirvan thought he heard Waydol grunt. He knew he saw the Minotaur reach back over his shoulder with both hands and draw his clabbard. Then all saw what a minotaur who had in his youth fought with a clabbard in each hand could do, even many years later and with one shoulder a mass of blood and torn muscle.
The Istarians who saw this mostly did not live to tell anyone about it. Waydol emptied the area around him of living or at least fighting men and horses in less time than a thirsty man could empty a cup of wine. Several horses who did not go down were running off, screaming from wounds or stark terror, saddles empty.
The other cavalry soldiers began drawing back, whether out of fear or to give the infantry a clear field. Stalker took one of these cautious warriors down with a sling, and Whistletrot jumped up behind another and garrotted him out of the saddle. The man was still fighting when he hit, so Haimya rode over, made her horse rear, and brought its forehooves down on the man’s chest.
Then Pirvan saw movement rippling down the line of infantry. It was time to say farewell to Haimya, because they had about a minute more before they went out fighting.
The high captain’s banner burst through the ranks of the infantry. Beliosaran was going to lead the final charge himself.
Then more happened in a single moment than any three men could have seen even if each had three eyes. Archers leaped up from the rocks above the entrance to the stronghold. The Istarian cavalrymen on the left, about to dismount and hold the entrance against Epron’s square, found death hailing from above.
Birak Epron shook the square out into a line, so that all the archers would have a clear line of fire. They shot, and the surviving cavalrymen joined their comrades.
Beliosaran and his guards dug in their spurs-and Waydol’s last shatang flew.
It struck the high captain’s horse, and the beast stopped so suddenly that the rider kept going, right over its head. He landed lightly, however, springing up at once and drawing his sword.
He cut a fine, warlike figure for the last moment of his life.
Then Waydol closed and swung his clabbard. The saw-edged blade removed Beliosaran’s head as deftly as a girl plucking a grape. The high captain’s guards were too far from Waydol to use their lances, but not far enough to be out of range of the clabbard.
Those who weren’t cut out of their saddles were too busy to notice Pirvan and his comrades charging them. In a moment the charge went home, and several more of the Istarian guards went down, though Pirvan was now content to dismount them rather than kill them.
The stronghold suddenly had a fighting chance, likewise the square. But the five comrades were now barely a hundred paces from a thousand Istarians howling with rage over the death of their leader.
A ball of fire plummeted from the sky, to strike the ground barely a spear’s length in front of the Istarians. Tongues of flame spurted in all directions where it landed. Some reached nearly as far as Pirvan; many flowed over the Istarians.
Pirvan’s mouth fell open, but he closed his eyes and wished he could close his nose. He had seen enough dead men still able to writhe and scream, and smelled enough charred flesh.
Only the smell of heated earth and burning grass reached him. He opened his eyes. Flames were rising from the grass and undergrowth everywhere the tongues of fire had touched down. And the Istarians were retreating. In fact, they were running as if the flames were licking at their heels. Some of them were throwing off their armor, and all of them were crying out in fear, some even in pain.
But there was not a single charred corpse to be seen, let alone smelled.
“I think we have found Rubina,” Waydol said, “or she us.” Then he coughed. Blood spattered the ground at his feet.
Pirvan rode toward the Minotaur, then realized the futility of trying to hold up or lift onto horseback a being who weighed more than he and Haimya together.
“Hang on to my saddlebow.”
“No. You folk get-get on inside. There’s more Istarians about, and Rubina may not be up to all the work of seeing them off.”
“Waydol, you swore an oath of peace, which means you promised to obey me.”
“Only in disbanding my folk and sending them away in peace.”
“Play the law counselor later,” Haimya said, riding up on the other side of Waydol and reaching down. “You cannot make us shame ourselves by leaving you out here.”
Waydol grunted, the grunt turned into another cough, and more blood joined that already on the ground.
Pirvan met Haimya’s eyes above the Minotaur’s head. Lung wound. If we don’t take him down to Sirbones, he’ll bleed to death or suffocate.
Pirvan took a firm grip on one massive wrist and placed it on his saddlebow. “Now hold on, friend Waydol, for very surely we will have to dismount and die with you if you stumble over your own hooves!”
Behind them, beyond the first line of fires, another fireball erupted. A pine tree boomed into a pillar of flame, and steam shot up like a geyser as a stream boiled.
* * * * *
Tarothin was vaguely aware of Rubina at work ashore. He deliberately kept the awareness vague. Awareness could lead to influence, and this was no time for Evil to influence Neutral spells.
Not when he almost had the enemy in his grasp. It had been almost easy, once Rubina told him; he would never forget that.
As for the rest-as a Neutral wizard fighting for the balance, he had power that Evil priests fighting against it could never attain.
He gripped his staff and began to repeat the first five syllables Rubina had taught him.
* * * * *
There’d been no more than a dozen archers on the rocks above the entrance, but they’d had the advantages of height and surprise and were picked men.
Pirvan still insisted that they go on ahead, through the entrance, down the tunnel, and into the stronghold. He dismounted, slapped his horse on the rump, and saw it prance away. He hoped it would find a way around the flames-Rubina’s fireballs now had three half-circles of fire burning around the stronghold.
“Waydol?” Cold gripped Pirvan as he realized he could not see the Minotaur.
“Over here.”
Pirvan scuttled around a boulder. Waydol sat on the ground, head slumped on his chest. Blood now trickled steadily from his mouth.
“Had-had to set-fall. We can bring the rocks-bring the rocks down from inside. My people-know how.”
“You can do it yourself, after Sirbones heals you.”
“Sirbones-”
“A priest of Mishakal will heal anyone his power allows.”
Waydol raised his head. Half his mouth quirked in a smile. “For me-that is a lot of power.”
“The longer we wait, the more it will take.” Pirvan hoped he would not have to leave a Waydol who could no longer walk, and hunt up some eight or ten bearers to worm him through the tunnel.