Most of Towser's retinue must be cowering in the wagon, for only the four bodyguards braced for attack. Oles lined up his crossbow and shot, but the quarrel thudded into a shield. (The woodcutter surmised the shields were some very hard wood: hickory or rowan or iron wood.) A swinging grapnel either clipped Chad in the head, knocking him down, or he'd ducked violently. Kem scooted under a wagon, slashed with his short sword at a horse's leg, but the prime animal skipped aside without jostling its rider. Without losing a swing, that knight whipped out his saber and slashed for Kem's head. The bodyguard dived backward as the heavy blade chipped oak.
Only Morven was effective. Veteran of rolling battles on the high seas, the sailor calmly perched on a wagon seat, aimed his crossbow, timed his shot. The whirling marauders made confusing targets, but one suddenly whooped, bowled out of the saddle by a bolt slamming his face.
Helpless alongside a tree trunk, Gull fumed. He lacked his longbow, couldn't attack with his axe, couldn't get to the wagons. He scooted for a rock to heave, found none. Shivan Dragon, what to do?
And what were the horsemen after?
With a shout, three riders hooked their talons into the men's wagon. Cinching the lines to saddle pommels, they barked at their horses, who backpedaled neatly. One grapnel ripped loose of the canvas and skittered across the ground. But the other two bit deep.
The wagon jerked, creaked, rattled, tipped on two wheels.
The bodyguards shouted to get clear. Oles shot again, low, and a horse shrilled.
With a heave, the wagon crashed on its side.
It left a gap in the circle. Two invaders took it, charging in abreast.
Gull grabbed dirt, swiped grit up and down his slick axe handle.
Now came the killing. Of Towser's people, like fish in a barrel.
Two knights and chargers was a lot of man and horse. The riders found themselves in a tighter hole than they'd envisioned. Despite the heat of battle, Gull's flesh crawled. These strange-croaking men wheeled their animals like one flesh-like the centaurs Helki and Holleb.
Good thing, Gull thought, he was too busy to be scared.
For he charged the circle himself.
The two knights, brave, stupid, or glory-mad, spun their chargers, forcing back the bodyguards, chivying them to hide under the wagons. Flailing with long, curved sabers, they slashed canvas, wood, ropes, everything with their steely touch.
The outer riders, the woodcutter saw, resumed their circuit, grapnels whirling. So, he presumed, the centermost knights were to discourage crossbow shots as the others-what?-latched to another wagon further to destroy the train?
What did they want? Towser? And where was he, the cowardly bastard? This was his beknighted troupe!
Timing his rush, Gull dashed for a gap between a horse's head and the end of the flopped wagon. He hoped his throbbing knee didn't kick out and flop him.
But, like magic, a black horse rushed, slid next to a wagon close enough to brush a feed bag, and cut him off. Gull gasped. These knights could almost make their horses fly!
With a slither, the man drew a saber. He shouted something: a challenge? taunt? Other riders sheared off, widening their circle.
Trapped between walls of horseflesh, Gull cursed. He had his dirty axe and nothing else.
The knight glared down, the whites of his eyes bright above a black beard, snapped the reins to halt the horse almost on top of Gull. Maybe the horses were trained to trample infantry, yet another killing method. Either way, the rider hoisted his saber to the sky. From that great height, he'd split Gull like a chicken.
Ducking instinctively, Gull jumped close by the horse's head. As he hoped, the knight was reluctant to swipe near his mount's ear, so slashed for Gull's exposed shoulder.
Gull threw up his axe, sideways, to catch the blow on the haft. Instead the saber clanged on the steel head, so loudly it was painful. Sparks flew, blinding in the blackness. The impact made Gull's fingers tingle. With a curse, the saber flashed up, silver in the moonlight, poised for another swipe.
Needing to do something, the muleskinner punched the horse in its big brown eye. It squealed and flinched. The rider jiggled in the saddle, lost his upthrust. Encouraged, Gull rapped the horse's sensitive mouth. The beast flipped its head aside. Again the rider was jostled.
Why not? Gull thought. He dropped his axe and lunged.
With a forked hand, he banged the rider's boot at the ankle, straight back, brushed it clear of the stirrup. The man shouted in surprise, and Gull jerked savagely on the ankle, his wounded shoulder burning like fury. The knight smashed down his saber guard at Gull's head, but he had to twist or dislocate his ankle. Stiff-legged, his rump left the seat -and Gull heaved.
With a squawk, then a rattly crash, the knight slammed the turf.
Gull could have crowed with battle lust and laughter, but a circling rider cut his humor short. The woodcutter ducked a sizzling stroke that would have decapitated him. He snatched up his axe. The fallen knight scrambled up on the far side of the horse.
What now? A saber-axe duel in the dark? With an expert?
"No, thank you!" Gull called.
Fumbling, he gathered the black horse's reins, clucked encouragingly, then backstepped through the gap in the wagon train.
With the horse as a shield, the black riders outside couldn't close. In black silhouette, Gull saw the felled man call, grab his comrade's hand, swing up behind the saddle. They were fine riders, Gull had to admit.
The woodcutter hauled the skittish horse into the middle space. He called, "It's Gull! Gull!" so he wouldn't get shot.
"Who needs ya?" came a surly growl. Kem, welcoming him home. Gull could have laughed. But there was a tremendous thrashing in the center of the wagon train. Images tumbled in Gull's mind: he tried to recall the danger.
Hurriedly, he lashed the dark reins to a chuck wagon wheel. Instinctively, he talked to the animal.
A cooing came to his ears. Hearing his voice, Greensleeves had shoved aside the wagon curtain. Gull shook his axe, hissed, "Get back inside! Inside! It's too-oh, my…"
Three more riders shouted, whirled and flung grapnels. Steel talons bit deep into painted wood, snugged tight.
The chuck wagon rocked. Inside, Felda screamed. Curious, Greensleeves craned out even farther.
Then she bleated like a lamb. The wagon tilted on two wheels.
"Nooooo!!!" howled Gull.
Gull snatched for his sister's arm and missed. The girl was bumped from behind as Felda, the fat cook, fought to jump out. Greensleeves tumbled into the footwell of the wagon seat.
The wagon tilted higher. The black horse lashed to the wheel snorted, then squealed in terror as its jaw was hoicked into the air. Gull grabbed the wheel to throw his weight on this side, but freed, the wheel spun and he fell.
At the end of the wagon, Morven caught canvas and hung on, stalling the tipover. A rider barked at his own mount, no doubt to pull harder. Hampered by his heavy axe, his shoulder burning as if lightning-struck, Gull caught hold of a side and clung desperately, dragging the wagon back down.
But a saber blade slammed wood near his head, and he had to drop.
He'd forgotten the two knights inside the circle.
It was too late to dodge, for the saber descended again, a silver sliver like a new moon. Gull raised his axe.
Too late.
Instead of striking, the knight arched and twisted, flailed his arm wildly, pitched half out of the saddle. His blade slammed the canted wagon wheel, whacked an iron chip from the rim.
Supported by only a stirrup, the knight hung in the saddle. He seemed unable to grab anything, as if palsied. His head twitched from invisible slaps. The other knight in the cramped circle acted the same.