Free The Plains of Kallanash by Pauline M. Ross Page A

riders had misjudged Walst’s speed, and sheer momentum would carry him all the way to the flag hill. Hurst heard shouts, and saw arms waved frantically. Then, the moment he’d been waiting for. Kelmannor himself took a group of riders to deal with the intruder. The flag hill was almost undefended, and everyone’s attention was on Walst.
    “Your turn,” Gantor said, grinning at him.
    Hurst lowered his visor and urged his horse into action. She sprang forward enthusiastically. Then there was nothing but the gallop, the roar of the wind rattling his visor, the rhythm of the horse beneath him, the enemy flag hill directly opposite him. He was vaguely aware of horses moving here and there, of shouts and whinnying, a crashing sound. A rider came into view nearby, then fell behind. Hurst stormed onwards. More riders ahead, and a group on foot, swords out. A quick swerve and he was past. Another group, more determined, forced him off course to the left. He smiled under his helmet. All part of the plan.
    Abruptly he was surrounded, his horse rearing, voices yelling, something clanging against his helmet. He held on, his horse dancing to avoid crashing into others, snorting her disgust at the abrupt end to her race. Then a huge weight thumped against his chest and he was falling, curling by instinct into a ball, rolling in the mud, kicked once, twice. He lay still, gasping for breath until it was over.
    Before he dared open his eyes, there was a shriek. “Another one! Over there!” Then pandemonium. The sound of many men mounting up, riding off, frantic cries. He smiled. That would be Trimon, another of his Companions, and the final part of his plan. While Walst and Hurst had been showily distracting Kelmannor to one side of his flag hill, Trimon had been sneaking round the back. Moments later, he heard the horns signalling his success. Trimon had set his flag on the summit of their opponents’ flag hill. Hurst laughed out loud.
    A hand flipped his visor up, and an amused face peered at him. “You all right? Most of the horses missed you, I think.”
    Gingerly, Hurst uncurled himself and the hand hauled him to his feet, making him wince. “Kelmannor?” He pulled his helmet off, and cautiously stretched arms and legs, and wiggled his fingers. “I’m fine. The others? Walst?”
    “Everyone else had the common sense to stay on their horses. Gods, Hurst, how do you always put one over on me? Three last minute flag runners? And next time it will be some other new idea. Can I have Jonnor back, please? He’s much easier to deal with.” The younger man laughed and clapped Hurst on the back, making him wince again. “Thank the Nine this is the last skirmish before the quiet. We’ve got so few flags this time that you’ll wipe us out in the melee.”
    Hurst smiled and said all that was proper. For a while the excitement lifted his spirits, but inside he was empty. He knew as well as Kelmannor that these few small victories came too late to offset the many losses of this year. When the Voices assessed the skirmish results, it would be Kelmannor moving on to the fourth line, and Hurst would be left on the third yet again.
    Still, the skirmishes kept him busy, and that was as close to happiness as he could get at the moment. He’d had so little skirmish time the last two or three years, and he was grateful that Jonnor’s low mood kept him at home. Of course, he was careful to ask Jonnor’s advice on strategy and sometimes he even took it, if it matched his own ideas.
    It was satisfying to be in control again, but in truth, he found the skirmishes a strange and sterile business. On the border the battles against the barbaric Vahsi were infrequent but bloody, and men learned to fight for their lives or else died in the attempt. The skirmishes along the interior boundary lines were artificial, with their protocols and flags and odd truncated encounters, no more effective a training for the reality of the Vahsi than a game of