The Highwayman

18

For the Line of Pryd The smell of brine hung thick in the air; they could hear the waves crashing against the rocks beyond the few remaining eastern ridges, and with great hopes and great hunger to be done with this awful campaign, the men of the many holdings pressed forward. The intensity of their charge drove the bloody-cap dwarves before them, spurred by the common cry to "push them into the sea!"

Led by their eager young prince and by the mighty Bannagran, the men of Pryd Holding drove hard from the southern end of the line. Bannagran charged out in front, his heavy axe clearing the way of powries with powerful sweeps.

One dwarf got past that flashing blade and rushed hard at the large man's side, short sword leading. It clipped Bannagran's hip, and the man grimaced and turned. Out snapped Bannagran's hand, catching the dwarf by the front of its leather tunic.

Up into the air went the powrie, soaring over the ridge line to bounce down the rocky eastern side.

Two other dwarves pressed Bannagran furiously from the front, whacking at his blocking axe with their spiked clubs. He was forced back and slipped down to one knee, and the dwarves charged in for the kill. But Bannagran scooped up a large rock and hurled it forward, smacking one powrie squarely in the face. Up came the huge warrior, prodding the spiked tip of his axe straight ahead to halt the charge of the second dwarf.

The powrie had the better angle and tried to shove that axe aside, but so strong was Bannagran that even off balance, even with only one hand holding the axe shaft, he managed to keep the powrie at bay.

Bannagran got his feet under him, and he stood up and lunged forward, his other hand now slapping against his axe handle. He forged ahead, and the powrie gave ground and slipped a step to the side. Instead of following the movement, Bannagran snapped his axe the other way. Suddenly free of the entanglement, the powrie stumbled on the uneven ground, putting distance between himself and the axe-and that gave Bannagran enough room to maneuver and strike, his axe plowing into the dwarf.

He had to reverse his swing immediately, though; and he took the head from a second dwarf that was clambering over the rocky ridge.

Propelled by the warrior's gains, Prince Prydae led the rest of his forces in a sudden charge up the ridge. The powries broke before them, affording them the high ground and offering a moment of respite from the nearly constant fighting of that morning. As soon as he was clear, the prince rushed up beside his friend and clapped Bannagran on the shoulder. "We have met our objective and the sun has not yet reached its apex," Prydae congratulated.

"Our comrades have not shared in our good fortune this day," Bannagran replied as both of them looked northward, where the men of several other holdings lagged, mired in heavy battle with the fierce and stubborn dwarves.

"If I could offer them sons of Bannagran to spearhead their charge…" Prydae said, and when Bannagran turned to regard him, he found his prince smiling.

"I hear the waves!" one man cried from behind them, and that brought a cheer from all the men of Pryd.

Prydae's smile became a wry grin. "Is our work done this day?"

Bannagran saw the answer clearly in the man's expression. "It came to us too easily," he replied with a shake of his head.

"Let us press on."

"We risk leaving our support behind," Bannagran warned.

"To the east a bit, but then north," Prydae explained. "Let us turn the end of the line so that the powries cannot flee around us."

Bannagran looked back to the battlefield in the north, across the broken and rocky terrain. All seemed quiet in the east, after all, and the day's fighting was not half done.

Prydae clapped him on the shoulder once more. "You take half our charges and move straight north in support of the men of Laird Ethelbert. I will hold your eastern flank with the other half."

Bannagran fixed him with a knowing stare.

"I will spread my forces out in a secure line north to south," Prydae promised, "to ensure that I am not flanked." He clapped Bannagran once again and moved off, calling his men to order. "The daring young Prince of Pryd," Laird Ethelbert remarked when one of his commanders brought news of the unexpected northward curl of the army of Pryd Holding. "Ever out in front is that one."

"The powries break before his ranks," said the commander. "The men of Pryd have marked themselves well."

"Yes, particularly Prydae's large friend. One victory after another for the men of Pryd." Ethelbert smiled as he considered his own words. He wasn't jealous of Prydae's gains; quite the contrary: Ethelbert figured that Prydae's reputation would serve him well when he annexed Pryd Holding into the greater kingdom of Ethelbert, opposing Delaval. Though they remained far in the north, the men of Delaval had no doubt heard of Prydae's exploits here. What might their reaction be if Laird Delaval, attempting to take all of Honce for himself, ordered them into battle against the daring and cunning young prince and his soon-to-be-legendary champion?

"Tell your men to take the valor of Pryd Holding as their example," Ethelbert instructed his commanders. "Let us press forward as Prydae and his forces seal the trap. The more powries we kill now, the fewer we will have to kill later. Perhaps this day will mark the end of our troubles.

"So valiantly, one and all of Ethelbert!" the laird cried loudly. "The completion of our task lies before us this day, and the road home is at hand!"

With cheers reverberating along the line, the men of Ethelbert Holding charged forward against the fierce dwarves. Their advance inspired those armies of the lesser holdings flanking them to fight on more courageously.

Laird Ethelbert shifted his gaze from his own men to the army of Pryd, who were forming a line east to west, up one side of a ridge and down the other. Still the powries broke before them as they made their way north.

Ethelbert wondered if he might be watching the champion he would name as heir to Ethelbert Holding. The powries continued to break ranks and flee, and the men of Pryd, led by their new champion, Bannagran, eagerly gave chase. Even those at the end of the line looked ahead more than behind as they swept along the ridge line.

Which was exactly what the powries had anticipated.

Standing in the center of the two lines, Prydae clearly saw the first signs of the counterattack. Powries leaped up from concealment in the rocks and pressed against the trailing edges of the Pryd line.

"Turn, lads! Close up the line!" he cried. "Hold, Bannagran! Tighten the ranks!" As he shouted, Prydae moved south along his trailing forces, and each step more clearly revealed to him the urgency of the situation. For this was no disorganized and desperate maneuver by the dwarves. The prince had to wonder if all his army's gains that morning had been but illusion. Had the powries allowed him, even enticed him along on his sudden push?

There was no time for Prydae to stop and think about it, for the fight was on at the southernmost end of the line, his soldiers already sorely pressed by a score of dirty dwarves. Into their midst charged the valiant prince, his sword ringing hard against a powrie weapon.

He turned the powrie blade and, with a burst of rage, leaped forward and struck hard, driving his sword deep into powrie flesh. He cried out to bolster his men; but it was hardly necessary, for his presence alone had already stabilized their defense and solidified their determination. Not a man broke ranks and ran.

For a moment, the powrie attack seemed to waver, as several dwarves fell, and others shied from the sudden presence of the mighty prince. But then came further proof to Prydae that this was not an improvisation by the bloody caps; for the second wave came on the length of the Pryd line, locking his men into place as they tried to reinforce the weakness along their ranks. And from the south and west, behind Prydae and his men, came a second group of dwarves, howling and hungry; and some already seemed to reach for their berets, as if the spilling of human blood was inevitable.

Prydae batted aside one thrusting sword, then backhanded to clip off the head of a spear. Then he ducked to avoid a second spear, thrown from somewhere in the rear ranks of dwarves. Acting purely on instinct now, Prydae roared encouragement to his men and forced himself to press on. For he knew that to run was to die, that the dwarves had them caught, whatever the outcome might be. And he knew that without his example many men would turn and run and that would spell doom for them all.

"Hold strong!" he yelled, parrying another sword blow, then thrusting forward to send a powrie spinning down in pain. "Fight them, I tell you! Hold strong! Bannagran!"

Above all the turmoil, Bannagran heard his prince's call. He brought his axe high to intercept an overhand chop by one dwarf, then stepped in, his sheer strength forcing the powrie's axe over its head. He gave a sudden jerk, throwing the powrie off balance, then caught the dwarf by the front of its shirt and lifted it into the air.

"Bannagran!" Prydae called again in desperate tones, and the mighty warrior threw the dwarf back into its fellows, forcing that entire section of the powrie line backward just a bit-enough for him to turn and locate his prince amid the confusion of the melee.

The huge man winced as Prydae swiveled away from one thrust and barely pushed a second spear aside. Bannagran's hopes soared for an instant, when Prydae not only intercepted a third blade but also suddenly turned and sprang forward, his sword taking down one of a trio of powries. The prince landed in perfect balance and began to fend against the remaining two.

Bannagran's hopeful nod froze when he noted, and Prydae obviously did not, that the dwarf on the ground was not quite out of the action.

"My liege!" he screamed, and he broke ranks and charged toward him.

Prydae never heard him. Prydae never noticed the dwarf on the ground, reaching for its spear.

Suddenly the prince felt a fiery explosion erupting through his groin. All strength deserted him and his arms dropped and his sword fell.

He was already falling before the nearest powrie slugged him.

Prydae hit the ground hard, his loins torn and bloody, fires of pain coursing through his body. He knew that the powries were closing to finish him. He knew that all was lost, but there was nothing he could do.

He had no strength even to cry out for help, his voice stolen by the crashing waves of agony.

He saw only a blur as a large foot planted itself on the ground in front of his eyes. A hollow sound echoed through his fading senses, and only distantly did he hear Bannagran, though he was straddling his prone form, as he cried out for the men of Pryd to rally round their prince.

Finally, Prince Prydae slipped into blackness.

Bannagran set himself solidly, a foot on either side of the prone and unmoving prince. All around him, the men of Pryd tried to rally, but the dwarves came on in force from all sides. They smelled blood, Bannagran knew, and nothing lured a powrie more fiercely than the notion that it might get to dip its shining red beret in the blood of a victim.

One dwarf came at Bannagran hard from the side, and he brought his weapon up to meet the charge, holding his large axe out horizontally and catching the dwarf's axe as it chopped for him. Hands set wide on his axe handle, Bannagran jerked his weapon, hooking the dwarf's axe under its bulky head and lifting it. The stubborn powrie didn't let go even when the tall human brought his hands up over his head, forcing the dwarf to its tiptoes.

Bannagran turned his weapon and shoved it out to the side, sending the dwarf into a half turn. He saw that the powrie was already winding up for a second swing as it finally managed to plant its feet, but he was the quicker, kicking the dwarf hard in the ribs and knocking it several steps away. It swung anyway, its flying weapon falling far short of the mark, and Bannagran took a step forward and stabbed straight out with his own axe's pointed tip. Stuck, the powrie staggered away.

But Bannagran couldn't afford to follow and finish the task, for all around him, his men were falling.

And there remained Prydae, lying so still.

A roar of defiance escaped Bannagran as he set himself determinedly over his prince and began battling a pair of dwarves. He worked his axe furiously, stabbing and slashing, spinning to meet a charge from behind, and even hopping so that he dropped his feet on the opposite sides of the prone man.

He got hit hard in the ribs but shrugged the pain away. As he spun again, his axe flying, his weapon came together with a dwarf's axe at an awkward angle, and it rode right up the shaft. With a growl and his tremendous strength, Bannagran managed to wrest the axe from the dwarf's hands, but he clipped his own hand on the sharp underside of the dwarf's weapon, the blade cutting through his leather gauntlet and gashing deep into his skin.

Bannagran ignored the angle of his pinky finger, obviously severed and hanging in the torn glove. He couldn't afford to feel that pain at that time.

Not now. Not with dwarves flowing about him and his men, like water breaking over rocks.

Despite his roars of defiance and the brilliance and strength of his movements, Bannagran saw the truth. The men of Pryd could not hold back this force. Prydae was doomed, he was doomed, and all of Pryd's army was doomed.

He felt a twinge of regret and the guilt of failure, and he kept swinging and kept urging on his desperate companions.

Beside him, the powries took down another of Pryd's brave warriors and swarmed over him, chopping and stabbing, many already eagerly pulling off their berets.

The blare of horns rent the air suddenly, freezing man and powrie alike, and as he came to understand their source, Bannagran managed a sigh of tremendous relief.

"Ethelbert!" one Pryd man cried. "The Laird of Ethelbert is come!"

A great thrust, turn, and sudden swing had one dwarf flying away, giving Bannagran a moment to look back over his shoulder and regard the scene. Rolling through the rocky dale to the north came the forces of Ethelbert Holding, chasing the powries before them.

Hope suddenly renewed, Bannagran shouted to his beloved prince, "Hold strong, my liege! Our salvation is at hand! Laird Ethelbert is come!

"Fight on, men of Pryd!" the great warrior shouted, and he followed by cleaving a dwarf's head nearly in half. "The day is yet to be won!"

Powries swarmed Bannagran then, and he went into a fit of battle rage, his axe swinging and stabbing. They hit him with clubs and chopped him with their fine blades and stabbed him with their fine swords, but he paid them back many times over.

And he held his ground, his legs as solid as if rooted deep into the earth. He was only half conscious when another mass of powries came by him, but enough aware to hold his strike.

The men of Ethelbert Holding flowed past their Pryd brethren, driving the vicious dwarves away.