Outrage flared in Michael. 'They're going to kill them? We can't let them do that. We have to do something.'
Cat and Mirkady looked at him.
'We're here to steal you a steed, or had you forgotten?' Mirkady asked archly. 'And, besides, see the men on horses?'
There were perhaps half a dozen of them, their mounts hardly larger than ponies but thick-limbed and shaggy. The riders wore leather armour that flashed with odd pieces of bronze and were decorated with strips of fur. On their heads were rough helmets of hide and horn, guards coming down from the brims to encircle the eyes and make beaks out of noses. They appeared predatory, capable. They bore lances of bronze-tipped wood and long daggers. One had a sword slapping at his thigh in a wolfskin scabbard and all of them had the scarlet shape of a cross dyed into their jerkins, rusty as ageing blood.
'Who are they?' There was something elemental about the horsemen, something unrestrained. They were laughing as they rode in circles round the two prostrate tribesmen, and when one of the fox men levered himself to his knees the butt of a lance sent him sprawling again. The priest stood preaching with his arms in the air and the villagers quietened. Even from here Michael could see the glee in some of their faces, the uneasiness in others.
'They are Knights Militant, the military branch of the Brothers,' Mirkady told him. 'The Protectors of the Villages and Saviours of the Church. They are animals.'
'They know no mercy, Michael. It's best to steer clear of them,' Cat said, though her eyes were fixed and glaring at the scene below.
'They're killing them,' Michael Protested, horrified as he watched lance butts hailing down on the prostrate fox men. 'What kind of priest is it who can watch them murdering people?'
'The Brothers are from all peoples,' Cat said. 'Both good and bad. They have been here a long time— centuries, perhaps. Some of them were of the tribes themselves once. In the main, though, they see such folk as savages. Hiethyn is the word they use. They do not like the villagers to have dealings with them.'
'Wisht! See now,' Mirkady said in sudden excitement. 'Here's a turn-up. There'll be sparks a-flying in a trice I shouldn't wonder.'
Something had alarmed the villagers and the horsemen. The priest was gesticulating more wildly than ever. 'The tribes come!' Michael was able to understand. Then something dark appeared in the priest's throat and he toppled backward.
The villagers froze in shock for a second, then abruptly scattered. The Knights had to fight their horses through the milling throng, shouting and belabouring with their lances. Michael saw a flicker of movement in the treeline and then a line of fox men had burst out of cover and were sprinting across the stumpfilled clearing, shrieking as they came. A burning torch was flung over the palisade on to a hut and at once the roof took light, grass and bark blackening and smoke staining the air. The fox men halted at the rude stockade and fired arrows through gaps in the stakes. The villagers cowered behind buildings or ran away, though two of the braver were struggling to drag the body of the priest from the bank of the stream.
The horsemen galloped upstream, nearer to Michael's tree.
They were making for the gate, meaning to outflank the tribes-men by going round the outside of the palisade. Michael could see the drawn sword of the leader flashing as bright as lightning. An iron sword, not the yellow of bronze.
He dropped down from the tree, making the Knights pause, but then they galloped on. He heard Cat shouting behind him but ignored her. Blood was singing through him. He felt as light and fiery as a wind-borne ember, and could understand the flung shout of the lead horseman: 'Stay together. Let none through!' It was as clear as if Cat had spoken to him. Something in him had leapt into place and found its home. He loaded the shotgun automatically as he ran for the gate.
He met them as they powered out of the gateway, watched the glaring eyes of the leader behind the helmet guards, and then saw the man's chest erupt as the first shot hit him fair and square in the breastbone. He remembered no noise or recoil, but was vividly aware of recocking the weapon, the click impossibly loud as another Knight spurred past his falling leader with lance thrust forward.
High, this time. The shot took the top of his head off, the helmet splitting and flying away along with fragments of skull and brain and a dark gout of blood. The horse cantered past Michael with its dead rider sliding down one shoulder.
The four remaining riders were crying out, their mounts backing and bucking away from the roar of the shotgun. Methodically Michael broke the weapon open, ejected the two smoking shells and reloaded. It was like a dream.
More shouting, from the village this time. There was a pall of smoke in the air, the crackling of flames, women screaming. Michael stepped forward and fired again—too low. The shot exploded the side of a horse's face and it went down at once, throwing its rider forward. Something like warm rain kissed Michael's face as the animal struggled a few moments, its awful ruined head swaying about like a flower on a stalk, the bone glinting and blood rising and popping in great bubbles. The air was suddenly rank and sickening with the stink of slaughter. Michael hesitated, the euphoria leaching out of him. His next shot went completely wide, and he dropped the weapon from nerveless hands as the dismounted Knight lunged at him with bared teeth and glittering eyes.