Tnúthgal raised his shield and hefted his spear.
Within moments of descending the hill, the bolts flew. Ten yards to his left, his cousin shouted imprecations against Cael's cowardice. Tnúthgal had to admit, such craven tactics rubbed him the wrong way as well. Warriors should meet one another in open battle, man to man. This bandit's tactics rankled his honor.
His cousin did as well. Tnúthgal knew Eowain suspected him of treachery, despite the care he'd taken. Eowain had put him deliberately into harm's way on the front line. By keeping him on Eowain's right, he'd made himself Tnuthgal's own shield-man, defending Tnúthgal's left flank. If Eowain himself had treachery in mind, it would be easy enough to make good on it.
The bandit arrows came in threes and sixes from the thick copses of trees, and then there was a hare-scramble as the archers and crossbowmen fell back on new positions.
Eowain's men made a harrowing advance through snares and dead-falls. Men screamed as they stepped into shallow, barbed pits. Spiked logs swung from trees and impaled the unwary.
All this over a woman. Tnúthgal grimaced as a spiked branch lashed out over his head. He'd been thinking often of her since the night at King Dafyd's hall. Of what he'd do with her if he made a hostage of her. She'd make a good wife, he'd come to realize. His chief wife had already given him heirs. She was pregnant already with their next. But she hadn't brought property or cattle or trade rights with her. She'd cost his father a pretty glynnid for a bride-price, in fact.
Yet behind him then was Eithne, with cattle and fur-trade, and the key to a stalemate with the Gwynn. A stalemate in which the Cailech could still be quelled for a time. And with the income due from her estate, he could fund a war-effort against the Gruin-men, before they dared cross the river into Droma.
And there was that red hair. And that insolent look. Those hateful and shynn-like green eyes. He'd enjoy breaking her to the marriage bed as a second wife.
Then it was arrows again in threes and sixes. Men screamed as arms, legs, shoulders and shields were feathered. Their own archers in the rear unleashed volleys into the trees, but the odds of striking a target were short. The bandits used the thickest copses for their hunting blinds, and picked at the men of Droma as if they were hares in a meadow. The bandits fell back again.
Tnúthgal picked his way through another copse of pines. He tested every step with his spear, scanned with his eyes for trip-wires.
Down the line, branches adorned with daggers snapped loose from their moorings and slashed a man's arm to ribbons.
Another man cried out. As a bent sapling stood abruptly straight, he was dragged through the underbrush and hoisted up into the air. Thrashing in plain sight, he was an easy target for a handful of bandit's bolts, and died before any could cut him down.
As they came out of the trees again, they were met with more arrows. Several thudded against Tnúthgal's shield, their points splintering through to his side. He cursed all his Gods. Damn it, Cael! I paid for those arrows! He appreciated the sport of being caught in a fart of his own engineering not at all. Aim to my left, damn you!
Beside him, Eowain trotted ahead over the open ground. He took bolts of his own, but to no avail against his cunning shield-work. Tnúthgal thought of the days, long ago, when he and Eowain's father had still been friendly. He'd taught shield-play to the young boy and his brother. I did my kinsman's duty too well.
Then again, the hare-scramble ahead of them as the archers fell back from their blinds. Tnúthgal glanced right and left. Their line had staggered as some men met trees while others still had open ground. "Hold the line!" The old soldier in him scolded the men to discipline, despite his hope that Cael had some better plan than this to put Eowain in his grave.
The snicker of a wire snapped loose. Tnúthgal crouched behind his shield as knife-adorned pine branches slashed over his head. He slashed them loose with the blade of his spear and forced his way through the thick bracken, alert for more traps.
There was a blast of horns somewhere ahead. "Cavalry." The thought was sour on his tongue. He crashed through the pine branches and dropped down as arrows came out of the trees some twenty yards ahead.
He'd lost sight of the line of men on his right, screened as they were by trees. To his left and ahead of him was Eowain, then three more men and another screening line of trees. Ahead, more pines crossed their path. He was alone in a box with Eowain and just those other three men. With his hated cousin's right flank exposed. And Cael's cavalry coming.
From the trees ahead, branches and leaves snapped away. Cael himself with a flying squad of horsemen broke into view. They shouted, spurred horses, and lowered spears.
Eowain crouched and set his spear to meet the onslaught.
Tnúthgal rose. With all his strength, he threw his spear at his cousin's exposed back.
—33—
Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.
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