– Except that, as he bent down over his horse’s neck to deliver a straightforward diagonal cut along the line of some footslogger’s collar-bone, his saddle-girth snapped, sending him sliding helplessly down the vector of the stroke. He landed with his shoulder in the dead man’s face, with his saddle still gripped between his thighs.
If it had happened to somebody else he’d probably have wet himself laughing as he rode to the rescue; but comedy is relative, and when he looked up, the first thing he saw was a man standing over him. He was wearing a shirt, a kettle-hat and nothing else, and he was just about to stick a halberd into Sildocai’s chest.
There wasn’t a lot he could do about it; the damned saddle stopped him moving his legs, so all he was able to do was throw up his left arm in the way of the halberd. He had a boiled leather vambrace on his forearm; the cutting edge of the blade slid across it like a skater on ice and came off at an angle, making contact with his face at the point of his cheekbone and slicing off the top of his ear. That left his hand in good position for grabbing hold of the halberd shaft; but what with the shock and all he muffed it a bit, and the blade slit the web between his thumb and forefinger before he was able to tighten his grip and pull.
The manoeuvre was a qualified success; he got the halberd away from the man, but he pulled it down across his own face, cutting another line more or less parallel to the first, from the corner of his eye across the lower part of his scalp. He couldn’t keep hold of the halberd, and dropped it. The man stared at him, then kicked him in the face – not a good idea for either party, since the man wasn’t wearing anything on his feet. Sildocai was sure he felt one of the man’s toes break at the same time he felt the bone go in his nose.
He had his right arm free by now, and he used it to grab the man’s ankle and try to pull him down; but he muffed that too and was left gripping a flailing leg, hardly able to see because of all the blood in his eyes. There didn’t seem much point in holding on, so he let go, at which point the man suddenly threw his arms wide and fell on top of him.
He’d been hit hard, but not hard enough to kill him; at a guess, a scimitar-cut slantwise across the base of his neck under the rim of the kettle-hat. Now the bastard was lying right on top of him, their mouths almost touching, like lovers; the man’s eyes were open wide and he was making some sort of stupid glugging noise; he was trying to say something, but Sildocai wasn’t interested. ‘Get off me!’ he screeched, and jerked and pulled at his trapped left arm until he had it free. The fingers were stiff and tight (Permanent disability, Sildocai noted, worry about it later) but he had enough use of it to get a grip on the man’s shoulder and push. He didn’t want to go, but it turned out he didn’t have much choice; he rolled on to his back without moving, except for more eye-rolling and gurgling. With a lot of effort Sildocai found a way to scrabble himself up on to his knees, but things weren’t getting any better; a man running past him rammed him in the back, knocked him on his face and went sprawling down beside him. Damn, Sildocai thought, this is hopeless. The man was picking himself up; there was a sword lying beside him where he’d dropped it. But he left it there and skittered away, running very fast, which at the time seemed like a piece of luck.
Bad luck, as it turned out. The reason he’d bolted without even picking up his sword became horribly obvious as Sildocai lifted his head in time to see a horse’s hooves rearing up over his head. He dropped down again, but that didn’t help; he felt an unbearable pain in his back, felt something give way as the horse trod on him. He tried to shout, but his mouth was full of dirt and besides, all the air had been squeezed out of him. It took a lot of painful effort to put some back in its place.
Broken ribs, he diagnosed, with the part of his mind that somehow wasn’t involved, this isn’t getting any better. For two pins he’d have stayed where he was; but he could still recall a time when he’d been in charge of this situation, and one of the things he could remember about it was that as soon as the job was done, they were getting out of there and going home. Sildocai didn’t want to be left behind, so it was very important to stand up, find his horse (or any damned horse) and get back to the fortress.
The man next to him was still making that ridiculous glugging noise, like a fractious baby. Sildocai rolled over on to his right shoulder, kicked with his legs and jack-knifed himself on to his feet; he staggered, nearly went over again, caught his balance just in time. The operation was unbelievably painful – I shouldn’t have to be doing this, a man in my condition – and breathing had become a test of character. He took a step forward, but apparently someone had stolen the joints out of his knees while he’d been sprawling in the dirt. He managed to stay upright, but that was about the best he could do.
‘Steady now, chum, it’s all right.’ Whoever he was, Sildocai hadn’t seen or heard him coming; he was just there, a man to his left grabbing and holding on to his arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he repeated. ‘Let’s get you out of this before you fall over.’ It was a horrible sing-song voice – the Perimadeian accent had always grated on Sildocai. ‘Come on, this way.’
The bastard was trying to make him go back, towards the camp; that wasn’t the right direction, so why was he doing it? Then it made sense. This was the enemy, mistaking him for a friend (like the man lying blubbering in the dirt, who’d expected him to help) – well, that was just fine, but it was the wrong direction. Fortunately, the man was an idiot; there was a knife hanging from his belt, just handy. Sildocai pulled it out and stuck it between his shoulders. For once, something went in the way it was meant to, but he’d missed the spot he’d been aiming for. The man gasped with pain and shock, but stayed on his feet. ‘Oh gods,’ the poor fool said and grabbed at Sildocai for support – he hadn’t realised that Sildocai had stabbed him, must be thinking he’d been hit by an arrow or something. He took the man’s weight on his shoulder as best he could, though it was nearly enough to bring him to his knees; then he pulled out the knife and stuck it in under the man’s ear.
This time he did go down, but of course he was clinging on to Sildocai’s shoulder, and so they hit the ground together. This one was easier to shove off – he was dead, which helped – but getting up again was probably going to be too hard for him to manage. Well, he’d tried; and, as his father used to say, if you’ve done your best, they can’t ask any more of you.
Breathing was becoming harder, if anything. It was as if he had a big carpenter’s clamp screwed across him, pressing his chest and back together while the carpenter waited for the glue to dry. But some people never learn (four generations of leaders). He dragged his elbows towards his knees, pushed his knees forward, tried to straighten his back – no future in that. Thanks for nothing, he thought bitterly, aiming his displeasure at the man he’d just killed. I’d have been just fine if you hadn’t interfered. Then he straightened his legs and arms, probably the most gruelling physical effort he’d ever made in his life. It got him on his feet again. It was worth it.
Now then; all I’ve got to do now is find a horse, get on it… There didn’t seem to be much in the way of battle-noises, he noticed with dismay. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d come off his horse. It felt like his whole life, of course, but that was subjective time. Quite possible, likely even, that his men had done as they were told and pushed off as soon as the job was done. In which case he needn’t have nearly killed himself getting up.