Chatting idly as they meandered along, the riders were equipped with a mix of arms and armor. All had breastplates of some description, ranging from a fluted southern pattern to a heavy, riveted relic of old Nordmaar. Each warrior carried a sword and shield (slung on his back), but for herding sluggish captives they also carried light spears, which could be cast or carried.
Leading the water detail was a hard-faced veteran with the insignia of a corporal on his helmet. He rode into the flowing stream and let his horse drink his fill. Twisting on his thin, worn saddle, he said, “Men on the left, water your animals. Those of you on the right, watch the prisoners.”
The last of the four men on the left side of the column steered his horse into the water. Near the center of the stream, the animal balked, bobbing its head many times and nodding.
“What is it? A snake?” asked the corporal.
The rider reined back his horse. “Don’t know, corp. Something’s got old Dodger spooked.”
In the water three dark objects rested on the bottom. They resembled logs, driven into the sandy creek bed. The trooper was about to poke at them with his spear when his comrades on shore, still unwatered, loudly complained about the delay.
“All right, you lot. Let your animals drink.”
The last three riders waded in with their horses, none of which shied from the unknown objects. When their mounts were slaked, the corporal ordered the prisoners to fill their buckets. The captives filed in, dipping first one side of their carriers, then the other. The corporal moved out of their way, riding up higher on the north bank.
He spotted something startling in the grass, a man’s limp arm, fingers slack. Hand on his sword, he guided his horse toward the motionless limb. It proved to be attached to a squat, powerfully built man with a shaven head. Purplish red stains covered the man’s face.
“Dugun! Fetz!” he said loudly. “I found someone!”
Work stopped. The prisoners stood in water up to their knees. The two named men rode across to their corporal.
“Ugly brute!” said the one called Fetz. “Is he human?”
“Looks like your brother,” quipped Dugun.
“Shut up and check him,” snapped the corporal. Dugun dismounted and kicked the body, none too gently.
“Hey! Hey!” When he got no response, the brigand squatted beside the unmoving body to see if the man was still breathing.
He never got the chance to find out. In the blink of an eye, the “dead” man drove a slim iron dagger into Dugun’s chest.
“He’s alive! Watch out!”
The corporal’s warning was too late. Hume rolled to his feet, snatched the sword he’d been lying on, and thrust upward. His point caught the corporal below the hip guard of his breastplate, driving deep into the man’s side. Blood spurted from the corporal’s lips. With an incoherent cry, he toppled from his horse.
Screaming, the captives threw down their buckets and fled to the south bank. One of the riders in the stream put a ram’s horn to his lips and sounded a long, wavering blast. The stream around him erupted, and the three sunken “logs” burst from the water. Malek, Nils, and Howland had plastered themselves with gray mud, leaves, and waited on the creek bed, breathing through hollowed-out cattail stems.
Malek cupped both hands under the horn blower’s heel and levered him off his horse. When he hit the water Howland gave a quick stab of his sword. The flowing stream gushed red.
Chaos became general as the captives scattered and the remaining riders rode into the creek to attack their unknown foes. Nils swung his walking stick like a club, rapping a horse on the nose. The startled animal reared and plunged, but the rider skillfully kept his seat.
Roaring a battle cry, Hume waved his sword over his head and charged toward the melee in the creek. One horseman cast his javelin at him. Hume batted it aside and slogged on, kicking up sheets of spray with his feet. He made for the still-bucking horse. On its next rise, Hume got under the flailing hooves and planted his hands on the animal’s chest. A man of ordinary size and strength would have been crushed into the stream, but Hume planted his feet and pushed horse and rider over backwards.
Malek leaped onto the rump of another horse, grappling with the man in the saddle. They struggled briefly, but Malek was powered by rage long suppressed, and he hurled the brigand into the water.
An arrow flicked by his face. One of the men had strung a short bow and was taking shots at the four attackers.
Malek slid off the horse. He’d couldn’t ride well anyway, and the beast’s side was good cover against arrows. When he raised his head to see if he could pinpoint the archer, he saw something that made his heart split in two.
Laila.
She was one of the prisoners fetching water. Malek saw her helping a fellow slave, a dazed old man, out of the water. He screamed her name.
“Malek?” she cried. “Malek, is that you?”
Shouting madly, he tore through the shallow stream, making for the south bank. Arrows hummed by him. but he neither heeded nor feared them. Laila got her aged companion onto dry land then started across the creek to meet Malek.
Howland dueled desperately with a fully roused warrior, fending off his spear thrusts with his sword. The rider was skilled and turned away each time Howland attacked, using his greater mobility and reach to put the gray-haired Knight on the defensive.
Now Nils saw Laila. Heedlessly he crossed in front of a brigand, who threw his lance. It struck Nils in the thigh. He collapsed in the water. Blinded with pain, he got to his knees and yanked the iron spear head from his flesh.
Drawn by the rider’s horn, more mounted men converged on the creek. Howland heard the rumble of many horse coming.
“Withdraw!” he shouted.
Malek was too close to Laila to turn back. She was almost close enough to touch. Hardship had lined her face, and her formerly spotless homespun was torn and dirty, but she was his Laila nonetheless.
A prancing roan horse cut off his beloved from him. The rider struck her down with the butt of his spear. Enraged, Malek flung his stick at the man and shouted, “Butcher, leave her be!”
Coolly the man turned, couching his spear under his arm like a lance. He dug in his spurs, twisting his horse’s head in a half circle to get at Malek. The young farmer backed frantically, but the water was knee deep, and it slowed him. Malek clearly saw the square-shaped spearhead plunging at his chest.
From nowhere Hume appeared, sword at maximum reach. He ran it right through the charging rider’s leg and into his horse. Men and beast fell together in tremendous fountain of spray.
Saved by his comrade’s rush, Malek tried to pull Hume from his tangle with the fallen horse and rider. The burly warrior rose, spewing creek water from both nostrils.
“Rally to Sir Howland!” he gasped. “Back to shore!”
“But Laila! It’s Laila!” Malek cried, trying to get around Hume.
Hume shuddered suddenly. To his horror, Malek saw an arrow sprouting from Hume’s broad back. Before he could even react, two more struck. Hume groaned deeply. His knees buckled.
“Get to shore!” he said through bloody, gritted teeth.
A hand seized the back of his shirt and pulled him away. Malek saw the Khurish warrior fall facedown in the stream.
Nils was dragging him. Malek tried to fight his way free, but his older brother held on. “Laila’s back there!” he screamed.
“I saw,” Nils replied. “We can’t reach her! Hume’s done for! We must get away!”
More horsemen appeared on the path, galloping to the fray. Gasping from his wound and spitting water, Nils let Howland take hold of his brother and drag him onto dry land.
Stumbling and staggering, the three men fled into the high grass. Had the horsemen been bolder, they might have caught them all, but without a leader to take charge, the riders gathered up the prisoners, the killed, and the wounded and beat a retreat.