Not quite fast enough. A swordsman lashed out, drawing a bloody gash down one of the gelding’s barrel-like sides and across Niuss’s leg. Kern also hadn’t realized how open their backs would be once they wheeled into their turn, and he waited for the archer to knock any one of them from their saddle.
Which was when he noticed that the warrior ridden down under Strom’s hooves had been the great-horned archer. The veteran had likely recognized the threat and shifted his path exactly in order to prevent taking a shaft in the back.
The entire side of the hill was in pandemonium. A few Vanir raced foolishly after the horsemen, and only one or two stumbled forward on their own toward the small copse, which came alive as the Cimmerian archers bolted for a thicker stand of forest.
Daol, a lithe shadow in the night, dropped the first Vanir with an arrow through the throat. Brig—Kern was certain—got the second.
Hydallan or Ossian missed theirs.
The cries of alarm and the sudden renewed pursuit of the archers played directly into Kern’s plans, though for the moment it left him with a tight stomach and a cold, cold flush across the back of his neck. There were moments in any plan where the danger mounted for one person or another. Right now the bowmen were as exposed as they would likely be, with swordsmen racing up behind them and a double handful of archers on the hillside, firing, racing forward, firing again, dropping lethal shafts around them.
But Kern counted four men. And when they reached the forest edge a moment later, still four.
He elbowed Reave in the side. “Go.” And he grabbed for the two unlit brands that had been lying near him.
Like a pair of attacking wolves bounding out of ambush, he and Reave sprang forward and raced up the side of the hill at an angle to those coming down. Their focus divided between horsemen and fleeing bowmen, no one thought to check for a third or even a fourth group.
Hunched over low to the ground, each of them carrying a pair of unlit torches on long, long handles, they cut around a wide patch of thorny scrub and flowering berry bushes, then jumped in among the tents of the Vanir camp. Of course the raiders had not stopped to put out the twin fires lit by the flaming arrows. What were two tents when there was blood to be shed? But Kern was able to put those piles of flaming wood and cloth to good use as he thrust the ends of both torches into the flame and caught them afire. Reave did the same. Little more than bales of twigs and dried grasses, tied with strong leather stays and slathered with a bit of rancid fat, the torches caught quickly and burned hearty.
Kern and Reave ran from tent to tent, thrusting their torches into the small shelters, putting blankets and felt mats to the flame. Where he could, he stepped between two close shelters and used both torches at once. Six more tents aflame. . . . Seven. The acrid stench of scorched wool was strong.
Eight.
Then Nahud’r was there, grabbing Kern by his cloak, hauling him toward one of the lean-to structures where the Vanir had piled most of their common supplies. “This way!” he said, more insistent than Kern ever remembered.
He resisted, though only for a moment. Allowing his dark-skinned friend to pull him along past perfectly good tents. “You were supposed to wait down the hillside to cover our escape!”
“Aodh and Ashul take care of that. The supplies!”
Heartbeats were slipping away from them. Any moment the Vanir would see their camp being put to the torch behind them.
The archers had dodged into a spiderhole, a specially prepared blanket covered with leaves and branches and long grasses, propped up by some tall willow sticks so that when they rolled beneath their own personal cover, they would be instantly hidden away from sight. Then the warriors and archers would notice that the horsemen had not returned. Looking around.
“It will take too much to set them ablaze.”
Kern waved his flaming brands into a nearby tent. The felt cover caught up at once, licking flames along the slender support pole. Two days before, everything would have been too wet to set afire. A day’s good weather and the Vanir’s organized camp was making the job easier.
But the Shemite pulled Kern over to the wooden structure regardless. Reaching into the large pouch at his waist, he pulled out a fist-sized bag. Unrolled the opening and dipped in two fingers, coming out with a healthy scoop of fine-grained powder.
“Shaman give. Understand?”
Kern remembered. The powder Callaugh’s shaman used to burn the torches brighter and longer. Hotter. Nahud’r had collected a small supply, apparently, with the shaman’s blessing. The lean-tos were not thatched, but the wood wasn’t too thick. With a bit of help, they could be made to ignite and burn well.