His thrust, awkwardly made, did little harm. Lenard broke free and crashed his shield-rim down on Carl’s wrist. Numbed, the boy dropped the dagger. Lenard thrust close, sword spitting from behind his shield. Carl clinched again. Lenard thrust a sudden foot behind Carl’s ankles and shoved. The boy went over on his back. Lenard sprang at him. Carl kicked with both feet. The kick thudded against Lenard’s shield, driving him back. Carl rolled free and regained his stance, panting.
Lenard’s blade sang against Carl’s helmet. The Dalesman staggered, and the watching Lann cheered afresh. Carl lurched back, Lenard hammering his defense.
“Carl, Carl,” groaned Owl.
Wildly, the boy held firm and battled. His breath was sobbing now. A wave of dizziness went through him and his knees shook. He was not afraid. There wasn’t time for fear. But his body wouldn’t obey; it was too tired.
He sent a mighty blow against Lenard’s bare head. The shield came up to catch it, and the saber chopped for his neck. Carl ducked, letting the sweep ring on his helmet. He yanked his sword free and stabbed two-handed against Lenard’s shield. The bullhide gave—but only a little, and Carl had to leap away before he was cut down.
His back was once more to the wall. He leaned against the old bricks and met the furious assault as it came. Steel whistled and belled, a flying blur.
Carl’s sword met the thick edge of Lenard’s saber, slid along it, and caught in a notch there. Lenard roared triumphantly and twisted with a skilled strength. The sword spun from Carl’s sweat-slippery hand and went clanging to the street.
“Now you’re done!” shouted Lenard. His saber lifted for the death stroke. The Lann howled their glee.
Carl sprang. He leaped against his enemy, one hand closing on the sword arm, one reaching for the throat. Lenard writhed, stepping back. Carl’s right hand doubled into a fist and jolted a blow to Lenard’s jaw. The northerner snarled and tried to jerk his weapon free. Carl tripped him, and they crashed to earth.
The boy clawed for the saber. Lenard’s shield was pinned under the barbarian, holding his left arm useless. Carl’s hands tugged at the saber haft. Lenard slipped his shield arm free and closed it about Carl’s neck. The boy grunted, hammering a fist down on the fingers closed about the weapon. It suddenly clattered free as the two fighters rolled to one side.
Carl’s fist smashed into the dark face that was now above him. Blood came. Lenard gouged for his eyes. Carl flung up an arm to protect himself, and Lenard twisted away, clutching after the saber. Carl got a scissor-lock about his waist and dragged him back.
The air was alive with the howling of the Lann. The Dalesmen strained forward, white and drawn of face. The combatants rolled in the street, fists and arms locked, battering, raging.
The flat of Lenard’s hand struck Carl in the throat. Gasping with pain, the boy released his gripping arms. Lenard writhed half-free of the scissors-hold, reaching for the saber.
Carl surged up, clawing his way onto Lenard’s back. He closed fingers in the barbarian’s hair and smashed his enemy’s forehead against the old pavement.
Lenard roared. Carl beat his head down again, and again, and again. Suddenly the warrior lay still.
“Carl, Carl, Carl!” whooped the Dalesmen.
The boy shook his head, now ringing and swimming with darkness. Thunder beat in his ears and blood dripped from his face to the street. Shuddering, he crawled free on hands and knees, looking up at the enemy host through ragged veils of darkness.
They surged uneasily, muttering, rolling wild eyes. Had the boy’s victory proved that he was a powerful witch, or did it mean nothing? But Lenard lay beaten, Lenard the bold who had egged them on in the teeth of angry gods. Their courage waned. There were so few Dalesmen to stand them off—but who knew what powers those few had ready to loosen?
Carl sat up, holding his aching head in both hands. The darkness was fading now, swirling from his eyes, but the thuttering and booming still went on. There were faint shouts and—
And they weren’t within himself!
Carl staggered erect, not daring to believe. Above the Lann host, suddenly shrieking in alarm, there was the blowing of horns, the drumming of hoofs, the deep-voiced shouts of men. Far down the street, Carl saw a green and yellow banner advancing, floating against heaven. The noise of battle lifted as the newcomers fell on the Lann from the rear.
Dalesmen!
Carl reeled away from the sudden, trampling horde of spectators. Almost without thinking, he grasped Lenard by the hair and pulled the unconscious prince away from those frantic feet. Owl and Ezzef sprang out to help him back.
“Our people!” gibbered Owl. “Our people! I can’t believe it!”
“Let me see—” New strength flowed back into Carl. Aided by his friends, he climbed up on the top of a wall from which he could see what was happening.
He recognized his father, mounted in the van of a Dale force that must have numbered some four hundred men. They were dusty, weary, their armor and bodies scarred with recent combat, their horses staggering in exhaustion, but they were hurling themselves against the enemy with a fierceness that rang between the ancient buildings.
The Lann at that end of the avenue had kept to their horses and were meeting the attack with the vigor of freshness. Behind them, their fellows rallied, pressing forward against this new menace and raising their own war shouts. Carl’s new-found gladness turned to dismay.
The Dalesmen had come, yes—but they were tired, outnumbered two to one, moving against the most terrible foe of their history. Could they win? Would this prove only a trap?
Chapter 20
TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
From his post on the wall, Carl saw Ralph plainly now. The Dale Chief was still mounted, a tall and terrible figure in travel-stained armor, hair flashing gold in the late sun. His standard-bearer rode beside him, but the rest of his army were leaping from their animals and thrusting ahead on foot.
A Lann cavalryman swung mightily at Ralph, sword whistling to clang against the Dalesman’s blade. That steel seemed to come alive, howling and roaring, smashing down the northerner’s guard and sending him to earth. A lancer thrust at Ralph. The Chief chopped out, hewing the shaft in two, and pressed against the man.
The Lann horseman edged back from the grimly advancing wall of pikes. In this narrow space, they had no chance against such an assault. Their comrades on foot yelled at them to get out of the way, and they too dismounted.
Now arrows began to fly over the heads of the front-rank Dalesmen, sleeting down among the Lann. A rattle of swords and axes lifted as the two lines met. The rearward Lann whooped, pushing forward, adding their own weight to the thrust against the Dalesmen. Their advance halted, the warriors of Ralph opened their ranks to let a line of their own swordsmen and axmen through the pikes.
Metal banged on metal and sheared in flesh. Ralph’s horse neighed, rearing and trampling, while its rider’s blade swung like a reaping scythe. The Lann attacked with steadily rising bravery, leaping over the bodies of the fallen, smashing against the Dale weapons, and slowly, step by step, they drove the newcomers back.
Ezzef groaned. “They’re too many for us,” he said. “Too many—it’s all been for nothing, Carl.”
“No—wait—what’s this?” The boy peered down the street, shading his eyes against the western sun. “What are they doing?”
The double front rank of the Dalesmen stood firm, trading blow for blow, but their comrades behind them were withdrawing, racing down the street. Ralph himself pushed through his human wall to join those pulling back.