Mikantor had placed his men on a grassy pasture where the downs fell in wooded folds to the rolling ground of the Vale, his Companions in the middle and his allies to either side. Above them, the stylized outlines of the White Horse showed stark against the green. Mikantor had thought of the woods beneath it as a refuge. They might also be a trap, he realized, but it was too late to change his dispositions now. From the trees a crow was calling. Others answered from the air or settled with their brethren among the trees.
Tell your Lady to be patient, he thought grimly. She will have her offering.
Through the clamor as his men moved into their positions came an oath in the language of the Middle Sea. The voice was too deep to be Lysandros’. Heart pounding, Mikantor turned and glimpsed a familiar burly form.
“Velantos!” he called. “What are you doing out in such weather?” The skies were releasing a mizzling drift of moisture that could not decide whether to be rain or cloud.
“The gods know I nearly went back to bed when I saw the sky,” grumbled the smith, pushing through the crowd, “but I thought you might be able to use another pair of arms.”
Mikantor slid his shield off his arm and gripped the older man’s shoulders, only at that moment realizing how deeply he had hoped the smith would be there to fight at his side. The muscles moved like rock beneath his hands.
“Now we are unbeatable!” He grinned.
“Clack, clack . . .” replied the enemy spears.
“They look strong—” said Velantos.
They looked experienced, thought Mikantor as they drew closer, opposing a steady confidence, or maybe it was contempt, to the enthusiasm of Mikantor’s men.
“Well, so are we—” he said brightly. “But where is your shield?”
“Castor and Pollux here will ward me,” said Velantos, loosening the two wickedly gleaming axes thrust through loops in his belt.
“Those are new,” Mikantor said appreciatively.
The smith shrugged. “I got tired of making swords, and thought it was time to make use of Bodovos’ training.”
“We both owe him a great deal. I wish he was here.” Mikantor sighed. “Speaking of which, what have you done with Aelfrix?”
“Left him at Avalon with orders to tie him up if he tried to follow me.”
“And Anderle?”
Velantos looked uncomfortable. “That one has no need to travel. She can ride the wind.”
“That might not make any difference. So can Tirilan, but she is up on that hill—” He nodded toward the cluster of trees that hid the old tomb. “She said she could watch from afar, but not bind up our wounds unless she was with us. The men all promised her they would survive the battle unscathed, but she came anyway.” He and Velantos exchanged looks.
“We must do our best not to need her skills,” said the smith. “Where do you wish me to stand?”
“I’ve placed the tribal bands on my right and the men of the old blood on the left, with my Companions in the center. We have trained to fight in threes, so Pelicar and Acaimor will stand to either side of me. But you might watch my back, and take on anything that gets through their guard.”
“I expect there will be enough work for all of us,” Velantos remarked, his gaze on the enemy.
Mikantor glimpsed the russet cloaks of Galid’s personal guard and felt hatred flare through his veins like the fire in which Galid had allowed his mother to burn. In waking life he did not remember her, but he still had nightmares about fire. At least the warlord had not had the gall to assume the royal horns of the bull. Galid’s men wore fox pelts around their shoulders. He hoped that would prove a prediction—foxes were sly thieves, as ready to flee as to steal. Perhaps he should have worn his lynx skin, he thought then. He was going to need the wiry strength of the big cat today.
He tensed at a ripple of movement along the enemy line. Spearmen peeled away to either side to reveal Galid’s guard in the center, facing his own. Galid himself stayed in the midst of them, next to a man even taller than Pelicar, and heavier. This must be Muddazakh, the warrior from some northern land whom Galid had made his champion. The big man leaned on the young tree he used for a spear shaft as a smaller, slighter figure emerged from the enemy ranks to dance toward them, the beast tails fastened to his hide cloak fluttering with every move.
“That is Hino, the usurper’s fool,” muttered Ulansi from behind him. “Get ready for insults—that’s the only kind of humor the idiot knows.”
“Ho there, hill hares—you ready for the foxes? Hares run good. You ready to run?”
“Kick good too. We’ll kick your butts,” muttered the men of the moors.
“Our butts? Do you have moss to wipe your own? You’ll be fouling yourselves soon—a bunch o’ brown butts, that’s all we’ll see of you. A bunch of baby butts, running for your mothers.”
“Galid killed my mother,” Mikantor replied. “I don’t leave this field till his blood feeds the ground.”
“Poor little boy!” retorted the fool. “Traded from pillar to post, herding the sheep and sweeping the store. Even those holy bitches on Avalon threw him out. Don’t you wonder why no one would keep him? Poor little bumboy—how many masters did you serve?”
“Steady!” cried Mikantor as the growl of outrage behind him swelled to a roar, Velantos’ loudest of all. “Better to serve honest men than to batten off a pack of murdering thieves!” Now there was anger in the murmurs behind him. Even those who had not suffered themselves had friends or family with reason to hate Galid’s men.
“Clack! Clack! Clack!”
“Galid, come forth!” Mikantor’s shout rose above the beating spears. “Will you hide behind this fool? We summon you to answer for the men you have murdered, the women you have raped, the farms you have destroyed! The land itself cries out against you! The Goddess rejects you—”
His voice cracked on the final shout as the clacking ceased and the spearmen dropped to one knee. There were archers behind them. Mikantor was still lifting his shield when the arrows came.
He staggered as three bolts thunked into the wood. Acaimor cried out and sagged against him, a black-feathered shaft standing out from his breast. Mikantor took a quick step to stand over his body as Ulansi dashed forward to take his place.
The men of the moors and marshes got their bows up and began to reply, but their bows were lighter than those of the enemy, and they could not match the concentrated power of that first, unexpected flight. A few of Galid’s men fell, but the rest were filling in the gap before Galid’s guard and advancing, shields up, spears poised. For a pack of robbers, they showed surprising discipline.
Mikantor had the higher ground, but that would make no difference if they did not use it. “Companions, up spears!” he cried, lifting his own as the enemy came into range. “Cast!” This was a move his men had practiced. A dozen arms swept back, a dozen lithe bodies flexed, and the spears flew.
Now it was the enemy who were staggering and going down. “Charge!” cried Mikantor, seeing holes appear in their line. Drawing their swords, the Companions lengthened stride, using the slope to propel them toward the foe, as the allies fell in to either side to form the flanges of the spearhead. “Choose your man!” his screamed, fixing his own gaze on a scruffy fellow with a brindled beard. Then suddenly the man was before him; he smashed his shield against the enemy’s, spinning the man around, arm swinging to slash his unprotected side.
The sword sprayed crimson as he recovered; for a moment it was the King Stag Mikantor saw, understanding dawning in his widening eyes. He had a moment to be surprised that it should be no different to kill a man. Then he whirled, angling the shield to knock an oncoming spear aside, blade rising to counter another, passing beneath the shaft to pierce leather and cloth and flesh. He jerked the blade free, dodging, striking. There was no more time for thought, only reaction, as responses trained by endless practice directed sword and shield. Pelicar and Ulansi moved in rhythm beside him. Behind him he heard a meaty thunk a
nd a scream as Velantos’ ax clove flesh and bone.
A chaos of bloody, struggling forms surrounded him, in which his Companions formed islands of disciplined violence. Too few, he thought, when for a moment no enemy confronted him. A flicker in the light brought his gaze upward, and for a moment he glimpsed the shining shape of a swan. He could feel Tirilan’s love strengthening him, but his allies were being driven off the field. He had to get to Galid. The usurper would be hiding behind his champion, whose tall form rose above the fray. Even with the sword the man would have the reach on him, but at least the giant had lost his spear. Mikantor began to work his way toward him.
“Ho, big man!” he cried. “Is that a sword or a club you’re wielding? D’ye know what to do with that blade?”
“Stick it up your arse, bumboy!” grunted the giant, swerving to face him.
“Give us space!” Mikantor called to the others, springing forward, ducking under Muddazakh’s swing to slash at his calves. His foe was more nimble than he had expected; the sharp tip of his blade barely scored the flesh before the man had moved, blade whirling around in a blow that would have taken Mikantor’s head off if he had not gotten his shield up in time. The heavy blade smashed into the top of his shield, cracking the bronze rim and shattering the wood a handbreadth down.
He could feel the wooden slats begin to give as the next blow fell, but it held his enemy’s blade as he stabbed upward, felt the point go in. A spray of blood followed as he danced back, but Muddazakh took no notice. Was the man made of stone? Mikantor glimpsed faces, leering or cheering, in a ring around them. He ducked aside as the sword came down, slipped on wet grass, rolled, and came up again, but the shield had cracked as he hit the ground. When he caught the next blow, it split, and all he could do was cast the pieces away.
At this point, in practice, an honorable opponent would step back and drop his own shield. That was not going to happen here. All Mikantor could do now was dodge and parry, feeling the shock ripple through his arm with each clang of the blades. But he thought that Muddazakh might finally be slowing. . . . He straightened, breathing hard. The giant strode forward with lifted blade, blood streaming down his breast, not even trying to guard.
I have him now, thought Mikantor. As the enemy sword came down he stepped under the swing, bringing up his own blade to deflect the other and pierce that bull-like neck in a stroke the giant would not be able to ignore. Muddazakh’s blade blurred toward him, struck with a clang. A sound Mikantor had never heard from a sword split the air as the leaf-shaped blade cracked across and the top half wheeled away.
What was left barely reached the giant’s belly. Knocked off balance, Mikantor rolled as Muddazakh’s sword bit into the ground where he had been, grasped the shaft of a shattered spear, and came up swinging. The ring had disintegrated into a chaos of struggling men, half of whom seemed to be surging toward him. Beyond them, his allies were beginning to flee. He batted an enemy sword away, slashed with the stump of his own, too busy trying to stay alive to wonder whether he should follow them.
Something hit him from behind; he went down once more, limbs still responding even when thought was gone. “Tirilan!” he cried as what remained of his sword was knocked from his hand.
“POTNIAAAA!” VELANTOS SCREAMED, THE twin axes scything a circle of death around him. In ages past, the Kouretes had taught men to shape bronze into weapons, and then how to use them in this deadly dance. Beyond the gathering of russet cloaks he could see Galid’s gilded helmet. While Mikantor kept the giant occupied, the members of his guard were making a barrier around him. But like everyone else here, they had trained with sword and spear and shield. The smith laughed as he realized that no one knew how to defend against the double-ax technique that Bodovos had taught him. Forge-hardened muscles flexed and flowed as he struck, the sharp blades shearing through leather and muscle and bone.
This is the third time, you bastard, he thought as he plowed into them, and for a moment instead of Galid, it was King Kresfontes of the Eraklidae whose face he saw.
Like a voice from another world he heard Mikantor’s cry.
Men who are winning do not cry out a woman’s name . . .
Velantos’ right-hand ax lopped off an arm as he whirled and saw Mikantor on the ground, foes gathering around him like wolves on a fallen deer. A sideways leap brought him into the midst of them, Castor and Pollux jumping in his hands. Blood sprayed as one ax sheared through someone’s throat. The hammer end of the other slammed into a head, and suddenly the ground was clear before him. He bestrode Mikantor’s body, arms swinging, and laughed again as he saw them cower.
He dared a glance downward. Was the boy dead? But no, he had got a grip on a piece of spear and was trying to rise, though his helmet was gone and blood from a head blow was streaming into his eyes.
“Woodpecker—get up, lad—” Velantos said in the Akhaean tongue, in case the boy should think him an enemy. “It’s time to go. Get up, boy, and hold on to me.”
Groaning, Mikantor made it to his knees, got a grip on the smith’s belt and pulled himself upright, swaying as Velantos struck at a foe who had thought this would make him vulnerable, but not falling down. More by instinct than design the boy batted away the next weapon that came at them.
Velantos grinned. “Forward now—we’re a three-handed monster, and no one will oppose us—” They lurched toward the hillside. The surviving Companions battled toward them, the less scathed protecting those with more serious wounds. Not all of their allies had panicked. From the woods a flight of arrows discouraged their enemies.
“I’ll take him, sir—” said Ulansi as they reached the trees. “You’re the best one to guard our backs now.”
Velantos nodded, and turned as the Ai-Zir boy and Lysandros got Mikantor’s arms across their necks and dragged him away. Galid was yelling from across the field, but the enemy warriors recoiled at the sight of the smith standing there. They gestured and shouted like figures in a dream. Velantos looked again and realized that neither blood loss nor darkness was affecting his vision. A mist was rolling down the hillside, shrouding those who still lived in a ghostly veil.
“Follow us if you dare!” he cried. “Land fights for us! Come and I cut you down!” He took a step backward and then another, until he was hidden by the trees.
Velantos could hear men moving nearby, but he could see nothing but branches. Still, it was a safe bet that to move upward would be better than down. Slipping one of his axes through its loop and holding the other ready, he began to work his way among the tree trunks. The battle fever had receded enough for him to start limping on the leg that had been injured at Tiryns when a voice brought him to a halt, ax poised.
“Sir—don’t hit! I’m friend!”
A slim form appeared before him and he let out a long breath as he recognized the man as one of the dark folk of the moors.
“Come, sir, I take you to the others—we gather at the old tomb on the hill.”
At least, thought Velantos as he followed the twisting path his guide found through the forest, in this weather I am unlikely to be hit by lightning.
By the time they reached the road at the top of the downs, the stresses of the fight were catching up with him. He did not seem to have any serious wounds, but his cuts were aching and muscles had stiffened enough to make him wince with every move. But as they came into the campsite among the trees, any tendancy to self-pity disappeared.
The air was heavy with the scent of blood, the ground crowded with wounded men. Tirilan moved among them, with Ganath and Beniharen. As she bent to give water to one of the Lake Folk, in her fine features Velantos recognized for the first time Anderle’s disciplined severity. He gazed around him, searching for Mikantor, and felt something unclench within him as he saw the younger man sitting up, a bloodstained bandage around his brow.
It was only then, as the moment when he realized that Mikantor had fallen came back to him, that Velantos remembered that on the ground beside him he had seen the
broken half of the leaf-shaped sword. He swayed where he stood, unable to suppress a groan.
“It is the smith!” someone cried.
“Sir, are you hurt? Let me help you—”
Velantos shook his head, pushing aside Ganath’s supporting hand. Mikantor had heard and was gazing at him, his face brightening in joy. The smith closed his eyes. The sword had broken. His sword.
“Come and sit down—we have hot soup—come now . . .”
He could not resist the hands that led him toward the fire, could not evade Mikantor’s welcome.
“Once more you saved me! I thought I was dead, and then I heard you calling me, and I thought I was back in Tiryns and had overslept after some evil dream!”
“Saved you!” Velantos forced himself to meet the boy’s eyes, his face contorting in pain. “After my sword betrayed you! The sword I made!” The sword Anderle had sworn was not good enough. She had been right, after all. . . .
“Velantos—” Mikantor laid his hand on the smith’s arm. “It was only bronze . . . and the giant had an arm like a tree. Against that blow, no blade could stand.”
“You don’t understand,” Velantos whispered. That sword had been the best he could fashion, made with all the skills he had learned in the City of Circles. It should not have broken. He should have been able to shape a blade that would endure. “But I am glad that I reached you in time . . .”
“You are mourning a broken sword,” said Mikantor, the light leaving his eyes. “I am mourning my men. Acaimor is dead, and Rouikhed, and far too many of the Ai-Akhsi and the men of the moors. There are other swords, but I can never replace those men. . . .”
Hearing the pain in his voice, Tirilan came up behind him and bent, the folds of her cloak falling around him like the wings of some great bird. Mikantor sighed and leaned against her, the anguish in his face beginning to ease.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon Page 35