Then Old Meg stepped aside, gesturing down the beach. “Behold your first legion!”
Looking where she pointed, Brion saw a crowd of fishermen marching toward him along the sand, hard-faced and hard-handed, each with his filleting knife and his belaying pin thrust through his belt, each with his harpoon or his sharpened gaff hook in his hand. The young king seemed to expand still more, a smile glowing on his face, and when the fishermen knelt and cried with one voice, “Hail, King of Bretanglia!” he spread his arms wide, as though he would embrace them all.
Then an older man with grizzled hair and beard stood up before him. “We are come to march against the false druids and their cattle, Your Majesty! Where would you have us go?”
“Why, inland,” Brion said quietly. “Let us march!”
Then two men came from the trees that lined the shore, each leading two horses. They bowed to Sir Orizhan and Matt, handing them the reins.
Sir Orizhan turned to Rosamund. “My lady, will you ride?”
“I thank you, sir,” she said. “I shall.”
She mounted, but her gaze was on Brion—a troubled gaze, even hurt, for he seemed oblivious to her of a sudden, mounting his huge warhorse with the help of two of the fishermen, then turning to give them a quick, encouraging speech. They all cheered in answer, waving their weapons, but as Brion turned to lead the march, he gave Rosamund one brief, dazzling smile, and reached out to clasp her hand. Almost shyly, she gave it to him, squeezed the chain-mail palm of his gauntlet, then let it go and rode after him, seeming much reassured.
Matt mounted and fell in behind her, wondering if he would ever again be able to trust any steed. Then he noticed that the fourth horse followed Sir Orizhan on a leading rein with its saddle empty. Looking around, he saw Sergeant Brock marching beside the older fisherman, already deep in conversation. Matt smiled to himself, reflecting that the sergeant had already taken his natural position as leader, whether he realized it or not.
Into the forest they rode, with a fisherman walking before them, one who seemed to know the trails well, and Matt wondered how many midnight smuggling trains the man had led down this very path.
They were deep into the woods when howls broke out on every side, and four knights charged out of the leaves with a hundred footmen behind them, spears flashing through the leaf-filtered patches of sunlight.
Matt cursed his own stupidity even as he lugged out his sword and parried the cut from the nearest knight. He had known he was fighting a powerful sorcerer; of course the man had served where they would come ashore and what route they would travel!
But the fishermen were proving their worth against the spearmen, harpoons cracking against spear shafts, then stabbing home through leather armor. Other spears jabbed back at them, and here and there a fisherman screamed and fell, but more of them whirled even as they jerked out their gaff hooks and swept the next spear aside, then struck the spearmen low with an iron-tipped blow.
Matt parried and thrust, crying,
He thought he heard someone call, “Why, here I am!” but couldn’t turn to look—he was too busy ducking under a slash and catching the knight’s arm, yanking hard and turning his horse. Caught off balance, the knight shouted in anger as he fell from the saddle. A fisherman accidentally-on-purpose kicked him in the helmet, hard, since he happened to be passing by, and the knight went limp. His charger stepped over his fallen body, rearing and striking out with his hooves at anyone who came near—who just happened to be another knight, riding in to cut at Matt. The hooves struck him on helmet and shoulder, and the knight fell, out cold before he hit the ground.
Brion, roaring, finished dispatching the third knight by more conventional tactics—but the fourth shouted, “Retreat!” and galloped away, his men running to catch up with him. A scream of rage floated after him, and Matt, looking up, saw Rosamund facedown over the knight’s saddlebow, kicking and flailing with her fists.
“They have taken the princess!” Brion cried, agony in his voice. “After them, men of mine! They must not have her!”
“Majesty, no!” Matt caught Brion’s bridle. “That’s just what the enemy want you to do—go chasing off over half of Bretanglia instead of standing to battle against their army! Out there, they can lay a dozen ambushes for you, slay you before you’re halfway to Gloucester!”
“What matter!” Brion cried. “What use is my life without Rosamund? Let John rule, let the mock druids run rampant for all I care! Cast away my crown and my kingdom! Nothing matters, nothing has any worth without her!” He turned to the fishermen. “Run, to rescue the princess!”
The fishermen answered with a shout of determination, and Matt realized that no king would be able to keep the loyalty of his people if he couldn’t even rescue his queen—or lady-love, in this case. Matt let go of Brion’s reins. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Brion’s stallion leaped ahead. Matt kicked his heels into his horse’s sides and took off after the king, but Sir Orizhan was already ahead of him.
They left the fishermen to their headman and Sergeant Brock as they rode pell-mell through the forest. The knight and his surviving soldiers had left a broad trail and weren’t at all hard to follow. Within ten minutes Brion came in sight of them.
The rearguard heard the drumming of hooves, looked back and shouted with dismay, leaping aside from the virtual tank that was Brion in full armor on a Clydesdale. They knew he wasn’t after them. But they recovered from their terror in time to jab at Matt and Sir Orizhan, who weren’t armored. It was a mistake, for both men laid about them with swords. One or two footmen bled for their temerity, but the rest were smart enough to pull back.
Brion swerved his horse in front of the knight, meeting him with a body block that shivered both their horses but held them firm. The enemy knight instantly set the tip of his sword against Rosamund’s back. “Strike, and she dies!”
“Coward and caitiff, to hide behind a woman!” Brion raged.
“Oh yes, you are a man of honor,” the other knight sneered. “How much is that—”
Then the lasso settled about his neck, Matt jerked backward, and he went sprawling over his horse’s hindquarters, squalling.
Brion caught Rosamund to him, pressing her fervently against himself even as he settled her on his saddlebow. “My lady, I thought you were lost, and all the world lost with you!”
Rosamund only gave a single cry of relief and joy, pressing herself against his breastplate, then shoved herself away and leaped to the ground. “Do as you must, my lord and king!”
“As I must indeed!” Brion glared at the enemy knight.
The man was just fighting free of the loop of rope, crying, “What coward’s weapon is this!”
“A coward’s weapon for a coward,” Matt returned, “and a treacherous attack for treachery.”
“I shall sever your—” Then the knight saw Brion, sitting like a mountain above the foothills of his horse, impassive and immobile, his sword raised to guard.
“I am unarmed!” the knight protested, holding up empty hands.
“Give him his sword,” Brion grated, and a fisherman sprang to scoop the blade from the ground and offer it hilt first to the enemy knight.