Thus he left his spear in its long boot as Dubheitte started his plunge down the, slope to the Leinsterish shore.
That charge nigh cost Cormac his seat and perhaps more; on a horse without stirrups, a precipitate downhill charge was unwise indeed. He was forced to rein back a bit and do his best to lean against gravity. Clamping his mount with all the strength of both legs, he braced hard against the beast’s neck. Cormac knew a hollowing sensation in his stomach and the feel of being purely a nighhelpless passenger on a juggernaut unmindful of leaving him sprawling behind.
Below, the battle continued. The five Picts raced to join it.
Forced to slow, turning his mount, Cormac made another decision. He must forego the element of surprise, else he arrive only in time to avenge-and likely to die, one against seven. For the five would be upon the two battling the man in the blueplumed helmet before Cormac reached them.
Cormac bellowed out a long-drawn “HO!”
The beset Gael did not look up. Neither did his two assailants. All three were well occupied in activity requiring their full attention.
The five Cruithne took note, and froze, half-turned to stare at the huge black beast that now reached the foot of the sloping hill. Dubheitte lengthened his stride immediately he felt level soil beneath his hooves, however sandy. The horse charged as though he’d been weaned on Picts. Having taken no time to think and with no better, tactic in mind, Cormac gave the beast his head. With shield on left arm and sword in hand, he let Dubheitte gallop free. Blackwing sped as if he did, indeed possess wings.
The dark warriors seemed unable to believe the horse would not swerve. Dubheitte had no such intention. At the last possible moment his quarry began to scatter. A vicious sidearmed upstroke opened the dark-skinned back on Cormac’s right, from hip to shoulder. To the left a Pict moved an instant too slowly, and Dubheitte’s forehoof destroyed the stocky man’s ankle. Then the animal was through them, galloping on.
Straightened from his sword-slash, Cormac had to tense and lean a bit leftward; with nothing against which to brace his feet, he could only grip the horse’s sides. Fifteen pounds of shield on his arm aided him in righting himself. Then, awkwardly, he used his sword-hand to drag at the horse’s reins.
The excited animal was unwilling to halt. He fought his rider’s tug by leaning into it, slewing leftward. Ahead, one of the two Picts hemming the other Gael heard the drum of hooves and glanced around. Cormac had a fleeting glimpse of the blueshirted man catching the ax-blow on his shield while he danced one-legged: he groin-kicked him who had been unable to resist looking away.
Dubheitte made a turn that was almost too tight on itself and his rider hung on with legs straining powerfully enough to interfere with the beast’s breathing. Cormac was dismayed to see that his charge had not downed the enemy whose back he’d opened; that Pict was on his feet and braced for the Gael’s return charge for all that blood washed down his dark back and leg.
Damn the training that spoke against sheathing a blooded blade! Cormac had a spear and knew how to throw it. Surely a good cast would remove one enemy.
Dragging his complaining mount to a pause long yards from the five Cruithne, Cormac committed the reprehensible act of sheathing his blood-smeared sword. He unlimbered his spear and raised it. At the same time as he hurled it, he drummed his heels and grunted “Go!” Dubheitte lurched anew into a gallop. Again the youth was in danger of losing his seat. But with sword in hand and shield on arm he remained mounted-and unloosed another wild yell.
Matters still went less than superbly for the weapon-man turned horse-soldier. The five Cruithne had scattered. One lay grimacing, with his splintered ankle; Cormac had made his cast at the two who stood close together. The cast missed. Nevertheless their dodging insured that neither of them would make a good return throw at once, and Cormac twitched Dubheitte toward two others: a spear wielding Pict stood over his companion of the crushed foot.
The big horse bearing down on him must have looked like a tumbling black boulder. The Pict launched his spear too hastily. The long ashen shaft went so high that Cormac hardly had to duck.
Moments later that savage’s head was rolling on the sand and his downed comrade was blinded by the gouting blood. The headless corpse toppled over him. Again their foe was through. Now four Cruithne lived, and two of those were of considerably reduced menace. At least he’d kept them all from the other Gael.
Man and rider leaned through another turn. This time Cormac lengthened its arc, the while he took time to glance at the enemy. That proved wise: carefully leading the horse with a practiced stare, a silent Pict hurled his spear. His eye was as good as his arm. Cormac only just interposed his shield in time. With a great bam sound, the spearpoint struck his shield, drove into the wood-and stuck.
Dubheitte came about and lengthened his leggy stride into a third charge. His rider’s shield-arm was dragged down by the long pole standing from the buckler’s face. Managing to swerve his mount, Cormac made use of the liability: the spear-haft swept the wounded Pict off his feet. Another jabbed as Cormac plunged past and the youth’s swordblade struck that spear aside. And again he was through them, at the gallop-and frustrated. Too, the impact of spear-butt with Pictish calves had torn the point free of Cormac’s shield with a jerk that would give him an aching arm-later, when he had time to notice.
Though mac Art bent low to lessen the possibility of a spear in the back, none was hurled. He had at least disconcerted his chosen enemies.
Even then he smiled; the man to whose aid he’d come was yanking his sword out of the belly of his standing opponent. The other lay doubled from the kick he’d taken to his stones; the blue-shirted Gael plunged the bloody sword into his side and gave it a vicious twist. Two pair of Pictish legs kicked reflexively.
Dubheitte wanted to return to what he took to be his business. Cormac worked at slowing the animal and keeping him on a steady course of the other Gael. That man grinned and waved a dripping sword, then ran to his own horse. The chestnut-hued animal shied and flared his, nostrils at the scent of blood. His master spoke low rather than cursed, while Cormac, grimly smiling, held Dubheitte in check-semi-check. The other man mounted.
“Forgall mac Aed!” he called, the man whose shield and helmet’s plume were bright with Leinster’s blue.
Cormac did not understand. He shouted “World without Picts!” and grinning, the two men charged.
Peradventure the gods ordain such things, as some have said; perhaps Dubheitte was overexcited and careless; perhaps his master was, in his inexperience and his pride-and assumption that two mounted Gaels were more than match for four Picts, two of whom were wounded. And perhaps a spear-cast was particularly good, or merely lucky. Whatever the cause, a hurled stave went low and buried its flinty head in Dubheitte’s chest.
The horse screamed. Cormac was hurled to the sand as the big black animal fell. Even if he were not dead, he was surely in shock, and thrashed strangely.
His master’s impact was painful and jarring, through mailcoat and padded underjack; worse was the slamming of his right elbow onto hard sand. His fingers sprang open. His sword made little cling-ting sounds as it struck the sand and skittered.
The spear-thrower was on him and he could but scramble, grunting when a stone ax banged off his shoulder. The mail held. Cormac meanwhile flailed head with his left arm. His buckler’s edge caught the Pict in the leg, just beside the knee. He fell. Cormac daggered the dusky warrior before he could so much as turn over.