“Daga! Daga!” cried the Naudran, calling over the youth’s shoulder; and behind Elgo a mounted bowman set arrow to string, taking aim upon the Prince, the wicked barbs of his quarrel glinting cruelly in the morning Sun.
Nearby, Ruric saw what was happening and spurred Flint toward the archer, shouting “Elgo, ’ware!” but ere he could close with the threat, another foe drove his mount between them, shunting the Armsmaster aside.
And just as Elgo’s blade clove the Naudran before him, an arrow flashed through the air, sissing past the Prince to thock! into the throat of the bowman behind, pitching him backward over his cantle to crash dead upon the ground, his arrow flying harmlessly aside.
And Elgo glanced up to behold Elyn!
The Warrior Maid had at last come unto the battle!
And in the very nick of time, as well, for in her hand she gripped her bow; it was Elyn’s bolt that had saved Elgo. And he knew it as well as she.
Just then another arrow flashed among the foe, and one more easterling fell screaming to the earth. And young Reynor came darting afoot among them, his own bow in hand, setting shaft to string and loosing arrow into enemy. And he looked upon the living Prince and was glad.
And at that moment the Naudron made a break for freedom, disengaging from the Harlingar, fleeing back the way they had come.
And yelling Vanadurin battle cries, Elgo’s Warband took up the chase, Reynor catching up a loose steed to fly in their wake.
Thrice the Naudron turned at bay to give battle, but each time again they were routed, for they could not match the prowess of the Harlingar, even though the numbers were still slightly in their favor.
And Elyn’s lance drank foe’s blood, as well as her saber.
And upon the fourth time the harried Naudron stood for battle, black-oxen horn sounded in the distance, and afar could be seen a charging band of Vanadurin, one hundred strong or so, coming to the aid of Elgo’s Warband.
’Twas Arlan and the Easton muster, come at last in answer to Elgo’s need.
And the Naudron turned tail and fled, riding Hèlbent toward the east.
Cries of triumph burst forth from the Harlingar, and they gave chase, Elgo and Elyn in the lead as they had ever been, loosing arrows at the bolting eastlanders.
But Ruric sounded his own horn, calling for a halt. And they waited till Arlan’s band came upon them, the huntsman grinning from ear to ear. And the War Commander bade Captain Weyth to take charge of this muster of Easton riders and follow the interlopers, making sure that they crossed back into their Realm, harassing them as necessary, slaying them at need, but sparing as many as was prudent. “. . For wi’ their tails tucked ’tween their legs, we would ha’e these curs bear a message back unto Bogar: that the Harlingar brook no foreign armies upon their soil. But though ye drive them before ye, Weyth, seek not to cross over the River Judra and into Bogar’s own Land, for we would gi’e them no excuse to mount a counteroffensive. Now hie ye, Captain, and run these trespassers back into their borders, for I would ha’e them spend no more time upon our sod.”
’Mid jubilant yells of elation mixed with fierce battle cries, Weyth and Arlan and the Easton muster broke after the fleeing Naudron, now just distant specks flying o’er the grasslands, the Vanadurin riding like an undisciplined band of rabble scrambling ’cross the plains. But ere they rode from sight, they settled into an orderly column, spears set in stirrup cups, bristling to the sky.
Turning their own Warband, Ruric and Elyn and Elgo in the lead, the battle-blooded victors slowly wended south and west, back the way they had come, stopping only long enough to bind up their wounds. And as they rode for distant Arnsburg, Ruric noted the flushed looks of exultation upon the faces of the Prince and Princess. “Gloat not,” growled the Armsmaster, “for I ha’e something to show ye.” But what he meant by this admonition, Ruric would not then say.
As the setting red Sun lipped the western rim of the earth, Elgo’s Warband came unto the hamlet of Arnsburg. This was when it was that the Armsmaster made clear the meaning of his bodeful words: “Stay wi’ me, younglings”-Ruric’s voice was somber-“ye too, Lightfoot. I would shew ye all a thing ye need to ken.”
Bidding the rest of the column to ride on into the village, the War Commander turned his horse aside, the three youngsters following as he rode east across the oat field and in among low grassy hummocks. There within the barrow grounds, the Armsmaster dismounted, signing Elgo, Elyn, and Reynor to do likewise, and down they stepped.
Ruric pointed to fresh sod-covered mounds, mounds that only Reynor when scouting had seen before. “See this and that, and yon another.” The Commander swept his hand in a wide gesture. “’Neath these green turves lie the slain, my young friends; this be one price o’ War. Yet it be not all. There be more.”
Again Ruric mounted up, saying, “Come,” and once more his youthful charges followed.
This time they rode between the buildings and into the hamlet. Villagers came forth to greet them, many with tears in their eyes. Some had lost kith to the Naudron invaders; all had lost friends. For when the intruders had come upon the people of Arnsburg the previous morn, struggle had ensued, and Death had followed. And these slain were those who had been laid to rest within the barrow mounds.
Now the town was free once more; yet it was a freedom that had been purchased at a dear price, as it swiftly became stunningly clear.
Townsfolk had managed to clean up most of the signs of the battle, yet to one side of the street the corpses of the slain Naudron were laid out in rows. There, too, were composed the bodies of the dead Harlingar.
Afoot, Ruric led the three youths to look upon the faces of the slain.
“Gaze at this lad,” he commanded. “He could be no more than yer age, Reynor.”
The trio of young folk looked down upon the features of the Naudran youth. Black hair crowned his head, and his skin held the hue of pale amber. His eyes carried a tilt. He was perhaps seventeen.
“And here is one wi’ an arrow wound through the throat, Princess. Mayhap he has no children who will miss him, no wife who will mourn him-or mayhap he does.
“This one died by spear. See how the wound gapes. I wonder what his dreams may ha’e been: A small plot o’ land? Life in a forested dell? One o’ hunting, fishing? What e’er they were, now they can ne’er be, for his dreams fell slain wi’ him.”
Slowly Ruric led them past the slaughtered enemy, now without commenting, for the dead needed no herald to call out the manner of their killing, nor clergy to speak of those bereft of kin and friend.
Then the Commander stepped to the Harlingar dead.
“Here be Dagan, one I trained to the spear and saber. His new wife will now spend nights alone.
“And Hrut. Ye remember him, Elyn, for he was one o’ those who tested ye when ye became a Warrior Maid.
“This one be Old Kemp. We trained at swords when I first came to Aranor to serve. Ach, I will miss him, and so will his son, Young Kemp.” Nearby stood a youth, his eyes brimming with tears as he gazed down upon his dead sire’s face.
Once more Ruric fell silent as they passed among the dead, viewing friend and foe alike, seeing little difference from one to another, except perhaps for the color of hair and skin, and, of course, the manner of their death.
When they came to the last: “This be why ye must not gloat, my friends, this be why ye must not exult. For freedom be bought at a price too dear, for friend and foe alike, to exalt o’er a victory wi’out remembering that some were slaughtered at its purchase.