The powrie threw the pommel against Prydae's face, but the prince only shouted all the louder and charged in, stabbing with abandon.
He felt Bannagran rush behind him to finish the other dwarf.
When both powries finally fell, Bannagran clapped Prydae on the shoulder, and the two spun, looking to see where they could fit into the continuing brawl. One group of Pryd men nearby was sorely pressed by a trio of dwarves-until the prince and his champion leaped into the fray.
Prydae paused and glanced up the slope, to see the men of Ethelbert Holding cutting the remaining dwarves into smaller and smaller groups. More and more of those powries broke and ran. "Come along then, Laird Ethelbert," Prydae muttered under his breath, for if the army of the southeastern holding didn't immediately pursue, he and his men would be even more sorely pressed.
And at first it did seem as if the men of Ethelbert would hold their defensive position on the high ground.
"Come along!" Prydae shouted in frustration, for he knew that every second of hesitation would cost a Pryd man his life. "Come along!"
Laird Ethelbert himself appeared among the ranks on the ridge line, scanning the unexpected fighting down below. He locked eyes with Prydae then. Smiling and nodding, he ordered his men down to the aid of their Pryd comrades.
Their charge shook the ground, a continual thunderous rumble amid the flashing storm. Powries broke left and right; some tried to cross the ranks of Prydae's men, all in a desperate effort now to get away.
And many did escape, but many did not, their blood running with the rainwater along the stones of the gully.
Through it all, Bannagran and Prydae kept on the move, joining wherever the human line seemed in danger of breaking, standing strong over fallen friends to keep the deadly dwarves at bay.
When it was done, Bannagran held a handful of berets out to Prydae, but the prince smiled and shook his head. "I have enough of my own this time."
Bannagran returned that smile and nodded. Between his work and that of his liege, nine powries had been sent to the otherworldly halls of their ferocious gods.
"Take the ridge to the east!" Bannagran ordered the men of Pryd. "No retreat to the west! One less gully to cross on our march to the sea!"
Those men who were able trudged up the slick eastern slope and began settling in among the many large rocks. Prydae remained in the gully, moving among the injured, offering comfort and calling for brothers of Abelle to come with their healing gemstones. He stayed with one gutted man-a boy, really, of about fifteen winters. Prydae took the boy's hand in his own and locked stares. He could see the terror there.
"I'm dying, my prince," the boy gasped, blood accompanying every word out of his mouth.
"Priests!" Prydae cried.
"Won't do no good," said the boy. "Prince Prydae, are you there? Prince Prydae?"
"I am here," Prydae yelled at the boy, who no longer seemed to be seeing in the land of the living. Prydae clutched the hand tighter and called again, desperate to let this young warrior know that he would not die alone.
"Oh, but it's cold, my prince," the boy cried. "Oh, where'd you go, then?" His hand fumbled, clasping and pulling Prydae's. Prydae tried to call back to him, to offer some words of comfort, but his voice caught behind the lump in his throat.
"My prince, it's so dark and so cold. I cannot feel my feet or my arms. It's all cold."
A shiver coursed Prydae's spine.
The boy rambled on for a short while, grabbing frantically at Prydae's arms, while the prince tried to soothe him and tried hard not to let his voice break. Then suddenly the lad quieted, and he opened his eyes wide, his face a mask of surprise, it seemed. He gripped Prydae so tightly that the prince feared he would crush his forearm, but then that grip relented, and the boy's hand fell away.
A monk of Abelle arrived then, soul stone in hand. "Too late," Prince Prydae said to him, and he placed the boy's hand on his chest.
The monk stared at the Prince of Pryd. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was tending another…" He started to point back along the gully, but Prydae stopped him-and when he grabbed the monk's arm, the prince saw that his own hand was dripping with blood.
"You could have done nothing for him anyway," he said as if it did not matter, and in his heart, Prince Prydae knew that he could not allow it to matter. "The wound was too great."
"I am sorry," said the monk, and Prydae nodded and rose. He started to walk away, but hesitated there for some time, looking at the dead boy, remembering his own past adventures a decade before, when he was more slender, when his eyes held a youthful luster, and when he thought he could conquer the whole world.
"We lost seven more, though it could go as high as a dozen," reported Bannagran, coming to his side. "And I am thinking that we should surrender that eastern ridge and pull back to the west, for we're out in front of the rest of the line."
"The southern men did not advance?"
"Laird Ethelbert retreated as soon as the last of the dwarves went out over the eastern ridge," Bannagran explained.
Prydae scanned to the west, his lips going very tight.
"And probably wise that he did," said Bannagran. "None of the other lairds saw fit to advance, and we'd all be sticking out like a spur begging to be clipped."
Prydae looked at him.
"Those powries are not fools, my liege. They could use the same twist on us that we just used against them. Sweep in behind us and cut us from our kin."
Prydae looked all around and heaved a frustrated sigh. "Make sure that all the wounded and the dead are brought back behind Laird Ethelbert's lines," he ordered. "Then bring our charges all back to the crest north of Ethelbert. A fine fight, but no ground gained."
"No ground lost, either," Bannagran reminded him, eliciting a strained smile from his friend.
And a short-lived smile, as Prince Prydae continued to scan the rocky area. Wet, cold, and aching from head to toe, he was weary of this campaign. The combined armies of Honce had chased the powries to the coast in short order, but it had been day after day and week after week of fighting since.
"One ridge at a time," he muttered.
"That was among the most daring maneuvers I have ever witnessed, Prince Prydae," came a voice that drew both Prydae and Bannagran from their private thoughts. The two turned as one to see Laird Ethelbert walking his warhorse down toward them. He cut an impressive figure on the armored stallion, but it didn't escape Prydae's notice that the old man was not covered in the blood of his enemies nor in mud. Prydae had to wonder if Ethelbert had even drawn his sword. Was there a single nick along its iron edge?
"I grow weary of advancing one ridge and then retreating to the previous," Prydae replied.
"Three forward and two back," Laird Ethelbert agreed, for that was a fairly accurate assessment of their progress over the last three weeks of fighting. "But still, more than a few bloody caps met their end this day, thanks to the daring maneuver of the men from Pryd Holding."
"If Laird Grunyon and his men had closed from the south, more would lie dead."
Ethelbert shrugged. "Night is falling, and it will be a dark one. After this rout, the dwarves will not return before dawn. Take supper with me in my tent this night, my friend Prydae, and pray bring your champion with you."
Prydae watched the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel as he turned and casually paced his mount away. Ironically, it was exactly that steadiness and solidity that for a moment unnerved Prydae. He couldn't dismiss the stark contrast of Ethelbert, in his shining and clean armor, so calmly walking his warhorse past the torn bodies of fallen men, some dead, others grievously wounded, some even reaching up toward him desperately. That's what it was to be a leader among men in Honce, young Prydae decided, the godly separation between laird and peasant, between noble and common. A rare gift it was for a man to be able to shine above the mess, beyond the touch of blood and mud and rain. Laird Ethelbert then stepped his horse right over one wounded peasant and paid the man no notice at all as he went on his way.