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Even Lugh can't fight two, he knew angrily; not in a straight-up fight between lines. There aren't enough of us!
Then three women threw themselves on the man ahead of him, so quickly that he nearly put his back out halting his own strike; one grabbed at the Cutter's shield, the second hung on his sword arm despite a chop that sliced open her leg to the bone, and the third leapt up and wound her legs around his waist and stabbed him in the face, over and over again with a long-tined roasting fork held in both hands, her arms pumping like a water-driven machine in a foundry. She stopped only when a tomahawk whirred across the width of the Cutter formation and sank into her skull with a chock that was horribly like an axman landing a cut on a tree.
Rudi's shete and shield moved as fast as he could turn and wheel and strike, a blur of motion, but the other two women died in the next three seconds; one quickly with a shete thrust to the gut, the other thrashing and gobbling with half her face cut away. Then an arrow struck his own shield with a hard whirr- thuck and a blow like a sledgehammer, the sharp point showing on the inside of the curve of bullhide and sheet metal and wooden frame. He blocked, struck, blocked, skipped backwards two steps to give himself room to look to either side.
"Cover!" he snapped.
He retreated again and crouched behind an overturned wagon. Edain was beside him.
That's as well, Rudi thought, wincing at what he saw. This isn't war. It's… sure, and I don't know what it is, except that it's ugly.
The mass of women had struck the Cutter shields with a reckless fury that made them more effective than he'd dreamed; half a dozen of the plainsmen were down, dead or badly hurt. But for the most part they hit the wall of shields edged with sharp swinging metal and splashed, the way a man might if he'd been shot out of a catapult at a castle's ferroconcrete ramparts. They had few proper weapons, no shields or helmets or armor, and none of the Cutters' hard-gained fighting skills; and while they were strong from churn and loom and hoe, the enemy were stronger still by far.
Rebecca had said the women were all willing to die rather than be led away captive; and they were. It would be good if they accomplished something by it. Trying to fight with them would do nothing but see Rudi and all his companions dead at their sides.
"Cut, cut, cut!" the war cry rang out.
Then the rush was over, and the recurve bows of the plainsmen began to snap.
Moments now, Rudi thought, judging the distance to their horses. Nothing more we can do unless Nystrup comes. What's keeping the man?
He pursed his lips and whistled for Epona. Another arrow slammed into the wagon beside his ear and he ducked backwards. The sun was up now, over the peaks eastward, and casting long shadows down the road. A knot of horsemen came over the rise, dust and gravel and bits of broken asphalt paving flying up from the hooves of galloping horses, and Rudi let out his breath in a whuff of relief. They were supposed to have been here a little earlier, but things like that happened in fights, and there'd been no way to coordinate more than to say at dawn.
Then he saw that the Deseret guerillas and his own companions were shooting backwards from the saddles, and arrows flickered towards them. They had most of Rancher Smith's remount herd ru
What There wasn't time to give way to bewilderment. Epona was there, drawing ahead of the other horses with every step, moving with a grace that was beautiful even then. Rudi leapt with all the power of his long legs, three bounding paces and a snatch at the saddlehorn. It slapped into his hand, and he clamped down with a blaze of determination, pouring will up his arm and into fingers and wrist. Two-thirds of a ton of horse tore by, and his grip turned the momentum that threatened to rip his arm out at the socket into a vault that landed him in the saddle and his feet in the stirrups seconds later.
That was good, because they'd almost run into Rancher Smith and his men. Epona reared, crow-hopping on her hind legs; Rudi leaned forward until his face was in the black silky-coarse hair of her mane. Her forefeet milled like steel-edged clubs. A shield cracked under them, and the arm under it, and another man catapulted backwards as a shod hoof crushed his face. Rudi caught himself as his legs clamped down on his mount's barrel. The Cutters' rank was broken, more by the rush of rider-less horses than by the mounted men and women behind and among them; the Easterners were too surprised to fight and too brave to run.
One of them shook himself out of his daze and ran in at Rudi's side; it was Rancher Smith, moving with lizard-quick skill to slash at Epona's hamstring. With most horses it would have worked. The big black mare had already set herself, her head around and judging the range. She kicked out with her left hind, powerful and accurate and blurring-fast. Smith would have died then if he hadn't turned his rush into a frenzied leap backwards, dropped his shete and tucked his shield into his gut as he realized what was happening.
The hoof punched into it with a crack like mountain ash breaking in the coldest part of winter, and the plainsman flew backwards, his feet off the ground for six feet or more. Then he rolled across the rough ground, shrieking as it battered his broken forearm amid the warped and shattered remnant of the shield's frame. The thump when he struck a wagon's wheels was enough to stop the sound.
Rudi ignored him; a man Epona kicked wasn't going to be a problem anytime soon, even if he was lucky enough to live. The mare spun beneath him, agile as a cow pony despite her size; sparks shot as her hooves scored rock.
There were men coming behind Nystrup's Deseret guerillas and Rudi's own companions. Men in the lacquered-leather armor and spiked helmets of the Sword of the Prophet, a score or more of them, their ranks disordered with the hard pursuit that had left them clumped in ones and twos and little bands. A swift glance told him their horses were spent, laboring, their necks and forequarters thick-streaked with lines of yellow-white foam, but the riders were ready with bow and lance.
"Too many!" he called. "Run!" Then: "Edain!"
The younger Mackenzie was shooting at the oncoming troopers of the Sword; one went down, another, another. But there were too many for any single archer to stop, even an Aylward; a Cutter was coming, his horse's gallop a wheezing shamble, but faster than a man could run and with his lance leveled. From the look of Edain's set face, gone milk-white and staring, he didn't intend to stop killing until he died. The Dark Mother had him, and the Devouring Shadow was a dangerous thing to evoke.
Epona moved, responding as if she were part of him. His desperate sword stroke knocked the lance out of the line that would have brought it into Edain's chest. But that meant it struck his, and Rudi wheezed in astonished agony as the blade scored across his flank and slammed him back against the cantle of the saddle. Armor snapped, and something within him. Half a second later the horses struck shoulder-to-shoulder, and the Cutter's lighter gelding went back on its haunches and then over backwards with a bugling scream of terror; the Cutter's scream was cut off as the weight landed square across him.
Edain shot again, and again. He reacted only to struggle blindly when Rudi threw his shete aside, snatched him by the back of his jacket and tossed him with a grunt of back-crackling effort across his pony's saddle. White fire washed across Rudi's eyes at the effort, and injured muscle tore.
"Go!" he shouted, and Epona nipped at the gelding's haunch.
It shot eastward with a squeal, and Rudi turned again. More Cutters were coming at him, more of the Sword of the Prophet-and they were close enough that he'd only be lanced or shot in the back if he ran. The first went by him at the gallop; he ducked in the saddle so that the lance went over nearly close enough to part his hair, then rose and smashed the hammer edge of his fist down on the man's neck. Something cracked, but the Mackenzie froze and grabbed at his side; it was as if he were coming apart, and only the strength of his arms kept everything inside from tumbling out.