Then the spear line faced the shield wall. A hundred yards of bloodied grass, of bodies, of men and Kurii, separated two species of warring animal.
Kurii from within the camp, where they could, streamed to join their comrades. Men, too, where they could break away from small battles, individual combats, found their way to our lines.
It seemed startling to me that we had stood against Kurii, but we had.
The Kurii showed no signs of emerging from the shield wall. It consists of two lines, one on the ground, the other at chest level, of overlapping shields. The shields turn only for the blows of axes. We could see the two front lines, one kneeling, one standing, of Kurii. Similar lines, fierce, obdurate, protective, extended about the formation, on all sides, forming the edges of the Kurii war square. Within the square, formed into ragged “Hands,” “Kurii,” and “Bands,” with their appropriate leaders, were massed a considerable number of Kurii, ready to charge forth should the shield wall open, or to support it if it seemed in danger of weakening. It was my supposition that their square contained, now, better than twenty-three hundred beasts.
“Let us again attack the square!” cried a man.
“No,” said Svein Blue Tooth. “We cannot break the square.”
“They will wait for night,” said Ivar Forkbeard.
Men shuddered. The Kur has excellent night vision. Men would, for practical purposes, be blind.
“They will slaughter us with the fall of night,” said a man.
“Let us withdraw now,” said another.
“Do you not think they will hunt us in the darkness?” asked Svein Blue Tooth. He looked up. “It is past noon,” he said. Then he said, “I am hungry.” He looked to some of his men. “Go to Kurii fallen. Cut meat. Roast it before our lines.”
“Good,” said Ivar Forkbeard. “Perhaps they will break the square for us.”
But the square did not break. Not a beast moved. Svein Blue Tooth threw Kur meat into the dirt, in disgust.
“Your plan has failed,” said Ivar Forkbeard.
“Yes,” said Svein Blue Tooth grimly, “they are waiting for night.”
I saw the general within their square, the huge Kur whom I had seen before, in the hall of Svein Blue Tooth, it with the golden ring on the left arm. The ring of gold, as far as I knew, had no military significance. Many Kurii wear such rings, and necklaces and earrings. That no ring of reddish alloy was worn, which would distinguish the leader of a Band or March was of interest. The leader of a Band wears two welded, reddish rings, the leader of the March, which contains twelve Bands, only one. The general in the form tion against which we stood wore not even one reddish rin Surely he was not a “Blood” of a “People.” Yet there w little doubt of his authority, or his right to such authority expected he stood as a commander from one of the stcworlds themselves, sent to unite and command native Kur.
“Sometimes,” said I. “Kurii react to blood, reflexively.’
“They have had their fill of blood,” said Ivar Forkbeard.“The air is heavy with it.” Even I could smell blood, mixing with the smoke of fires, where Kurii lodges burned.
But the Kurii square held. It did not move.
“They are patient,” said Svein Blue Tooth. “They wait for night.”
At the same time Ivar Forkbeard and myself looked one another. I smiled. He grinned.
“We shall break the square,” I told Svein Blue Tooth,“We shall do so in one Ahn. Find what food and water you can. Feed the men. Give them drink. Be ready.”
He looked at us, as though we might be mad. “I shall,” he said, fingering the stained tooth of the Hunjer whale whi ch hung about his neck.
Kurii lifted their heads, apprehensive. They heard I bellowing, before it came to the ears of men.
The earth began to tremble.
Dust, like smoke, like the earth was burning, rolled in the air.
They looked to one another.
Then the air was filled with the thunder of hoofs, bellowing of the bosk. The bosk, in their charging hundreds, heads down, hooves pounding, maddened, relentless, driven, struck the square.We heard, even from behind the herd, Ivar, and I, and ahundred men, screaming and shouting, the howling, the startled shrieks of Kurii, the enraged roars of Kurii. We heardthe scraping of horns on metal, the screams of gored Kurii;the howls of Kurii fallen beneath the hoofs. Nothing onGor withstands the charge of the maddened bosk. Larls themselves will flee before it. The herd thrust through the square and, half milling, half still running, emerged from its other side, making for the slopes of the valley. Dazed, injured Kurii, their formations disrupted, reeled, only to find, among them, screaming men, the launched horde of Svein Blue Tooth. His charge was unleashed while the last of the bosk were still striking the western edge of the square, and other animals were streaming, bellowing, goring, through it. Screaming men, axes raised, emerged from the dust, running, falling upon the devastated Kurii. Not an instant had they been given to regroup themselves. Kurii, howling, fled, knots of men following individuals.
“Press them! Press them!” screamed the Blue Tooth. “No quarter. No quarter!”
Once again the camp became a melee of small combats, only now the Kurii, where they could, fled. If they fled north, they were permitted to do so, for north lay the “bridge of jewels.” Since morning this “bridge” had lain in wait, more than four hundred archers surmounting the pass. That there is an apparent avenue of escape serves to make the enemy think in terms of escape; a cornered foe, desperate, is doubly dangerous; a foe who thinks he may, by swift decision, save himself, is less likely to fight with ferocity; he is quicker to abandon his lines, quicker to give up the combat.
Ivar and I strode through the burning camp, axes in our hand. Men followed us.
Where we came on them we killed Kurii.
We passed the poles of the vast pen. Within it, looking through the bars, not daring to leave it, were hundreds of bond-maids. We saw Pouting Lips within. Behind her was Leah, the Canadian girl. Ivar blew Pouting Lips a kiss, in the Gorean fashion, brushing the kiss with his fingertips toward her. She extended her hands through the poles but we turned away, leaving her, and the Canadian girl, behind them.
We saw a sleen herding a girl back to the pen. She was turning about, crying, scolding it, but it, snarling, relentless,snapped at her, cutting at her heels with its fangs. She: before it, weeping, running to the pen.
Ivar and I laughed. “They are useful beasts in herdingwomen,” he observed.
“My Jarl,” said a voice. We turned about. Hilda knelt beforeIvar Forkbeard, her hair to his feet. “May I not follow my Jarl?” she begged. “A lowly bond-maid begs to heel her Jarl.”
“Then, heel,” said Ivar, good-naturedly, turning away.
“Thank you, my Jarl!” she wept, leaping to her feet, falling into step on his left, two steps behind him.
We heard, behind a tent, the snarl of a Kur. Ivar and I swiftly, circled the tent.
It was a large Kur, brownish, with blazing eyes, rings its ears. In its right hand it dragged a human female. It was Thyri. Ivar motioned me back. Blocking the path of the Kur was a man, in a kirtle of white wool, a collar of black iron at his throat. He held his ax lifted. The Kur snarled, but the man, Tarsk, Thrall of the Forkbeard, once Wulfstan of Kassau, did not move. More than once today had I seen the fellow Tarsk at work in the fighting. In the lines of Svein Blue Tooth, once he had fought not more than six men from my right. His ax, and his kirtle, were much bloodied.Many times had his ax in the ferocities of combat drunk the blood of Kurii.
The Kur threw the girl to one side. In her collar she f whimpering, her eyes filled with terror.
The Kur cast about and suddenly darted its great handdown and clutched an ax, a Kur ax.