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.
19
The Way of Samhaine Thousands lined the streets of Pryd Town on the day the men came home from war. Bright banners waved and horns blew from every rooftop. Women put on their finest clothes and danced and twirled with abandon, children cried out in joy, and all the air was full of music and vibrant sound and bright colors flashing.
Prince Prydae led the solemn procession of returning warriors. He sat astride a large roan stallion, riding somewhat gingerly but holding his shoulders proudly squared. Bannagran, with a multitude of new scars, rode beside him, but other than those two, the procession consisted of footmen alone. Dirty and ragged footmen. Men weary of war and dirt, ill nourished and battered. Men with hollow eyes that had seen too much. Men with heavy hearts that had known too much pain and too much sorrow. They and their comrades of the other holdings had driven the powries to the sea and had all but eradicated the threat of the vicious bloody-capped dwarves, but the victory had been long and costly. When Prince Prydae had ridden out of Pryd Holding three years before, he had led a column of more than three thousand men.