Blood geysered, spattering a steaming gout over Reave’s massive forearms and across one side of his face as well.
If the narrow alley made it hard for the raiders to bring their full strength against Kern’s besieged band, so did it make it difficult for Kern to retaliate. It was a contest of push and shove. Then Garret went down, overwhelmed by the warriors coming at him, rolling back to avoid their stinging blades. Nahud’r danced forward, his scimitar striking out in quick, rock-scorpion stings, driving the raiders back away from the fallen man. Desa slipped up at his side, wedging between Reave and the Shemite, plugging the gap and making it all but impassable.
Reave had a new cut gashed across his forearm. Kern’s head wound had taken another shock when a raider hammered at him with the hilt of his broadsword. Blood matted his hair and flowed freely down his face.
“Kern!” Ehmish, scrabbling about atop one of the hovels. “Kern, they’re coming!”
The archers. Who had left off hammering at them with flights of arrows to get more selective. They marched forward with the Ymirish war leader. Most of them concentrated on Ehmish for some reason, keeping him pinned to the back side of the thatched roof. Only a few risked shots at Daol, though it didn’t make sense for all of the cursing and scrabbling taking place above. Until a wild, piercing shriek reminded him of the earlier appearance of a large, red-tailed hawk.
Daol, apparently, had his hands full.
A moment later, he had more than that. Tumbling backward off the roof with an arrow stuck through the meat on his upper arm. Landing hard next to Garret, who was picking himself up slowly. Too slowly.
Ashul raced up to them, then veered away as two raiders came around the far side of one hut, weapons ready and death in their eyes. She left Garret and Daol to take care of themselves.
A few heartbeats later Ehmish abandoned his own vantage point. With a wild, banshee yell, the young warrior threw his bow far behind Kern and the battle, then leaped out over the narrow path with his broadsword out and flashing down as he fell—
—right into the midst of the Vanir raiders.
Except for the early rush, Kern’s pack had been trading nicks and cuts and drop for drop of blood with the raiders. But Ehmish had hurled himself into what seemed certain death. Landing just behind the forward line, with a pair of fresh raiders ready to step up and run him through with bright, cold steel and a troop of archers moving up fast.
Shouting for the young man, Kern barreled forward, shoving one raider back, spinning another away with an arm sliced down to the bone. Stupid, brash child! It took Crom’s own stones to believe he’d live through such a stunt.
Or a glimpse of the counterattack about to hit the raiders from behind.
They were coming. Ehmish just hadn’t been very specific about who they were.
Crashing brush and the drum of heavy feet against the earth was all the warning the Vanir received. That and one last shrill blast from the horn Kern had salvaged from the ground earlier and entrusted to Brig Tall-Wood. Three horses thundered out of the forest slightly east of the Vanir advance, with Aquilonian cavalrymen hunched low over the animals’ necks, shields tucked in tight on their left sides, lances thrust forward on their right as they controlled their mounts with pressure from their knees alone. And a Cimmerian warrior tucked in behind each holding on with one arm for their lives. Aodh and Daol’s father Hydallan held their bows to their side, and an arrow or two gripped in the same fist. Brig had slung his war bow over his shoulder, using his free hand to hold the Vanir horn to his mouth, blowing that final, strident alarm.
This time, the northerners had trusted too much to their own devices, and the hunting calls they used to communicate while on a hunt. They hadn’t bothered to send men around to their left, thinking that another war party had moved up on Gaud from the east. Kern was also willing to wager that their belief at having a second troop close by helped edge them forward, rather than wait for the second war host moving in from the west.
Regardless, it was the results that mattered. The Vanir were undone, with their archers caught in the open, barely a handful of heartbeats to realize their danger and react. Shouts of alarm and surprise turned a few of the advancing warriors around, buying Ehmish another precious moment of life. Several archers simply threw their bows aside and clawed for their blades. One or two loosed a hasty arrow at the Aquilonians.
A handful of them scattered, opening up their formation rather than be run down like a herd of stunned cattle.
One strong-hearted raider leaped in front of the Ymirish, holding his shot for an extra heartbeat before loosing it point-blank at Strom. That arrow glanced off the horseman’s vambrace. Then Strom’s lance skewered him through the chest, knocking the Vanir to one side with a brutal shove. A quick and brutal death, though likely saving the life of the frost-bearded leader.