Pagan Siege (Tribes of Britain Book 5), Sam Taw [beautiful books to read .TXT] 📗

They were too far ahead for us to see, let alone be of use to the Chief. He was angry and careless, and that spelled disaster. Ren kicked our pony into the fastest canter she could manage through the trees towards another steep section of the trail. The men were farther ahead. Kitto had the stronger horse of the two leaders, out pacing Tallack by just one length of a pony. I could imagine the sneer on the warrior’s face, grinning over his shoulder at Tallack as he raged through the pain of his loss. There was one last patch of tall trees in their path before the scree sloped track to the mines. All the men pushed their ponies hard, cantering side by side, hollering their signature cries and waving their weapons about to scare the hiding miners.

Before they reached the edge of the forested glade, Tallack suddenly pulled up on the reins. His horse groaned, skidding to a halt while all those around him galloped by. “No, Stop!” He yelled, but it was too late. He had spotted what they had not. A taut rope snapped with a twang between the thick trunks of two oaks, decapitating the warrior leading the charge. The gut churning sound of breaking bone marked the moment two more lives were taken; their necks snapped in an instant. Kitto, a larger man all round, took the force from the rope across his collar bone and chest. It flipped him backwards until he was face down on the earth. His horse rode off without him, leaving the rest of his men to screech to a halt or crush into the fray. Those of us at the back managed to stop in time, but many didn’t.

Shrieking and bucking, the horses kicked out, throwing some off their backs and trampling others. Kitto took the full weight of one pony and his rider as it slammed down on his spine from rearing up high. All we could do was to sit and watch the Head Hunters smashing and flailing into one another in a melee of crushed limbs and shattered bones.

“Do something!” I cried, but I knew that nothing could be done. Those who were less injured scrambled to regain control of their mounts and ride to a safer distance. I fidgeted on the back of the bay mare, preparing to slide down with my healing kit. Before I could throw my leg over, an arrow whistled past my ear and thudded into a tree. A second scored a direct hit, straight into the neck of a warrior in front. Ren took evasive action, yanking the reins to the side and turning us back the way we came. Before long, the air was filled with the evil darts, each aiming for our softest parts.

Tallack called the retreat. He slipped off his horse and, risking life and limb, struggled to load Kitto across his pony’s back. I screamed in Ren’s ear to stop and help, but we were already through the narrow gap in the rocks. Clinging onto my friend, I watched over my shoulder as our Chief mounted the laden beast and urged it away from danger. Some followed but many could not, their horses injured or dead, they were sitting ducks for Kenver’s archers.

We did not slow down until we were more than half way back to camp. Survivors from the low trail were few in number and all were injured, shot through with arrows or wounded when their horses threw them from their backs.

They too, encountered a similar trap, with the rope low in the undergrowth, set to cripple their horses, thus proving us right all along. It was an unbelievably foolish plan from start to finish. My anger bubbled inside like molten tin. So many men lost, so many horses suffering or killed.

Kewri had tried to catch up with us but stopped to rest on a rock by the river. When we rode past him, he began the run back to the huts. I held my fury inside until we were all back within the boundaries of the camp. Ren helped the Chief carry Kitto into one of the empty shelters, expecting me to summon the gods to cure him.

The massive warrior made no sound as they hooked his arms over their shoulders and dragged him inside. It was as though he had no sense of pain despite the terrible injuries he’d suffered. From the stains on his leggings, he’d pissed himself too. That was all the confirmation I needed. Kitto had not lost control of his bladder through fear. His back was broken.

I looked at Tallack and shrugged. “There is nothing I can do to fix him. His fate lies in the arms of the Morrighan.” I wasn’t sure whether the warrior could even hear me. He neither spoke nor showed any indications that he understood my words.

Tallack’s face remained impassive, calm. He scratched his face, nodded, and left the hut. At first, I thought it was all too much for him to process, the brutal death of his lover, the number of men killed in such a short space of time, plus the news that Kitto would never recover, but he surprised me. He went straight to where the wounded had gathered to lend a hand.

We left Kitto with one of the able-bodied Hunters and joined my nephew outside on the grass. Here the injured lay. Most were shot through with arrows, others with simple gashes and cuts or dislocations.

The worst was a young lad who was thrown by his horse onto rocks. His thigh bone was splintered into sharp spikes erupting through his skin. Even though the warrior was unconscious, I could see from the spurts of fresh blood that his heart still pounded in his chest.

One look was all it took to know that it could not be mended. It had to come off entirely. The problem with leg amputations is that they