Then they were out of the woods, racing down a well-traveled road passing through farmlands. Their horses were lathered and panting, and they spurred them on to more heroic efforts, for while the black riders were not gaining on them, they were not falling behind either.
They sped through the dark, climbing upward, as the road rose out of the gentle hills around a plateau that dominated the valley farmlands near the coast. The road narrowed and they strung out along it in single file, Martin pulling in until the others were past.
The trail became treacherous and they were forced to slow, but so were those behind. Arutha dug his heels into his horse’s sides, but the animal had given all it had left to climb this road.
The evening air was heavy with haze and unseasonable cold. The hills were widely spaced, lazy rolling ridges that gently rose and fell. The highest could be climbed in less than an hour. All were covered in wild grasses and brush, but they were free from trees, for this had been farmland.
The abbey at Sarth sat atop a high, craggy place, a small mountain rather than a hill, an upthrust thing of rock and granite facings, flat on top like a table.
Gardan looked downward as they hurried up the side of the mount and said, “I’d not want to attack up this road, Highness. You could hold it with six grandmothers wielding brooms . . . forever. “
Jimmy looked back but couldn’t see their pursuers in the gloom. “So tell those grannies to get back there and slow down the black riders,” he shouted.
Arutha looked behind, expecting to be overtaken by black riders at any second. They rounded a curve and followed the road upward to the summit. Suddenly they stood before the arched entrance to the abbey.
Behind the wall a tower of some sort could be seen in the moonlight. Arutha pounded on the gates and shouted, “Hello! We seek aid!” Then all heard what they had waited for: the pounding of horses’ hooves upon the hard road. Drawing weapons, Arutha’s party turned to face those who followed.
The black riders rounded the curve before the abbey gates, and the battle was again joined. Arutha ducked and parried as he tried to protect himself. The attackers seemed possessed of unusual frenzy, as if there was a need to quickly dispatch Arutha and his party. The scar-faced moredhel nearly rode over Jimmy’s mount to reach Arutha, his disregard for the boy being the only reason Jimmy survived. The Dark Brother headed straight for Arutha. Gardan, Laurie, and Martin all strove to keep the black riders at bay, but they were on the verge of being overwhelmed at last.
Suddenly it was light on the road. As if full daylight multiplied tenfold had burst forth in the gloom, a dazzling brilliance surrounded the combatants. Arutha and the others were forced to cover their eyes, which teared from the blinding light. They could hear muffled moans from the black-clad figures around them, then the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Arutha peeked through narrowed lids behind his upraised hand and saw enemy horsemen falling stiffly from their saddles. The exceptions were the unarmored moredhel, who shielded his eyes against the sudden light, and three of the armored riders. With a single motion the mute rider waved his three companions away and they turned and fled down the road. As soon as the black riders were out of sight, the brilliant light began to diminish.
Arutha wiped tears from his eyes and began to pursue, but Martin shouted, “Stop! Should you overtake them, it’s your death! Here we have allies!” Arutha reined in, loath to lose his opponent. He returned to where the others stood rubbing their eyes. Martin dismounted and knelt over a fallen black rider. He pulled off a helm and quickly stood away. “It’s a moredhel, and it smells as if it’s been dead for some time.” He pointed at its chest. “This is one I killed at the bridge. My broken arrow is still in its chest.”