Then the three riders were past, leaving a scattered, shattered formation in their wake. A Vanir with more forethought than his fellows had moved aside and held his arrow ready, now turned and drew, loosed it at the vulnerable back side of the nearest horse and riders.
Kern did not see if the shaft struck true. With Reave and Nahud’r and Desa, they had shoved back the raider line several important paces. Crouching at Ehmish’s side, he hauled the young man up by one shoulder. A dark, purplish bruise swelled along one side of Ehmish’s face, and blood trickled down from a gash across his ear, but otherwise he seemed hale and hearty.
Mostly. The lad wobbled, but held his feet. Was even able to raise his heavy broadsword in some semblance of a threat.
Kern chopped aside a thrust made by one nearby raider and used his shield to turn the blow of a second. Stepping forward, he elbowed Ehmish behind him.
“Do that again,” he said through clenched teeth, “and I will kill you myself.”
Bucking up, Ehmish stagger-stepped forward and laid open the back of a raider’s hand with a quick, awkward swipe. The man lost his sword, and stumbled back.
“You can try.”
Regaining the head of the alleyway, Kern moved out and aside to give Reave more room to lay about with his massive, Cimmerian greatsword. He also saw Gard and Ossian off to his far left, fighting side by side while standing over Mogh’s fallen body. Of Old Finn there was no sign, though a glimpse of Wallach Graybeard at the side of the dilapidated lean-to and shouts from around that side of the battle lent him hope that they held their own.
And ahead, Strom had wheeled his mount around, leading the other two horsemen in a quick turn that brought them to a brief halt. Hydallan made it look easy, kicking back as Niuss made his turn, sliding back from the large animal, landing in a ready crouch. Nock an arrow and loose in the space of a single breath.
A Vanir screamed, taking half of the shaft through his belly.
Brig and Aodh landed with less grace. Aodh looked as if he might be favoring his left leg. But both men dropped a scatter of arrows at their feet, and began a rapid grabnock-loose pattern to keep the Vanir off-balance and unsure which way to turn.
As the horses completed their turn and readied for another charge, Brig nocked two arrows at once, held his war bow out horizontal, and let them both fly.
One glanced off the horned helm of a Vanir.
The other buried itself at the feet of the Ymirish leader.
The golden-eyed leader saw his own plans in ruins. His raiders broken into three separate battles, any one of which he might win or lose. He might inflict heavy losses against the Gaudic survivors, but at what cost to his own war host? At what danger to himself? Even at a distance, struggling against the hammerlike blows of a raider whose long, red-golden braids whipped about like living snakes, Kern saw the decision play out over the other man’s face.
The Ymirsh bent, picked up the arrow, and looked back over the struggling fight. His cheeks drained of color, back to a waxy, pale skin with a cold, flat expression, he surveyed the battlefield. He snapped the arrow in two, then crooked up an arm, as if waving his fist in some kind of signal to his men.
Not quite. But a signal, yea. The large, red-tailed hawk Kern had noticed earlier swooped back to its master, talons digging in against unprotected flesh as it grabbed a roost.
The Ymirish turned his back on the battle, and Gaud. Stalking back into the forest as if without a care for what else happened.
Their leader having retreated, the raiders who had protected him were first to break, turning and chasing after the frost-bearded Ymirish. Strom’s horsemen chased them right back to the forest edge, but the Aquilonians were smart enough not to pursue footmen into the narrow confines of the forest. They wheeled away, letting their momentum carry them in a long, swooping arc back toward the village proper.
By twos and threes, then, the raiders standing in a line against Kern’s beleaguered group jumped back out of reach, then swarmed off to the west, moving in close to where Gard and Ossian and Wallach Graybeard were forming a defensive triangle.
Kern and Nahud’r chased after them a few paces, but only long enough to see that the Vanir had no interest in working through the defenses of a few standing Cimmerians. All of them fell back toward the forest edge. Snarling and spitting curses still, dragging a few of the walking wounded along with them, and keeping good order. Brig, Aodh, and Hydallan swung around with their bows and spent their last few arrows to keep the raiders moving fast, but except for a shaft struck into one shoulder, one leg, the raiders gained the safety of the forest without further injury.
Dropping to one knee, Kern propped himself up with his short sword against the ground, breathing heavily. The scent of blood and ash clogged his nose and left an acrid taste at the back of his throat. He swiped an arm across his forehead, smearing blood away from his eyes. Every muscle ached, especially across his chest and back, which had borne the brunt of battle. But it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. It was warming, in fact. A kind of thrilling heat that he rarely knew.