Caewen was right. The knights and horsemen made no move for hours. They stood or sat, seemingly sunk into a strangely conversationless, oddly sullen quietude as they waited. At last, when the sun was not much more than a bleeding wound of orange atop the caps of westward peaks, only then did the knights stir and make ready to attack. Thin, high and wailing horns sounded and someone among the ranks started beating a kettle drum, rapping out a fast rhythm. The two draig-riders launched into the air at that moment and circled, menacingly. The boy watched them as the hobbes and Caewen readied themselves.
“What should I do?” he said, abstractedly.
She looked at him. “Hide. Get away from the fight. You’re still a child–and, truthfully, rather a thin and gangly one. You won’t want to be in a battle with real steel biting through flesh and bone. Believe me. And you’ve still the Old Great Spell to think of too.”
He supposed this was true, but there still seemed to be time. He didn’t need to remove himself just yet.
The enemies were still readying themselves.
Caewen turned her focus back to the men massing below. She took up a very distant look on her face.
“What are you thinking about?”
She drew a long, soft sigh. “People. Faces. In our life, we always assume we will see again those we love. Family. Friends. But things may happen. To us. To them. I might win through this fight. Or not. I’m just dwelling on those who are far away. Thinking of absent faces. My brother, for one. It’s been so long. I wonder how he is growing up. He’d be about your age, you know.” She considered then. “Asheway the weaver. This face and that. I’m thinking about a young man from my village. Farrowly. He was the eldest son of the millerman. He always had a bit of an eye for me, I think. And yet at the time, I never paid him any heed. I wonder now if I ought have.”
Dapplegrim twitched an ear.
If it was a gesture meant for her, she ignored him. “So, here’s hoping we set eyes on faraway faces again.”
“Hur. Hurm. Forget that. Here’s hoping we live to set eyes on nearby faces again. And let’s hope those faces are not too bloody and disfigured by heavy steel weaponry.” Then Dapplegrim turned his long, eerie visage, looking back. “You should get yourself somewhere safe now. Hurm. They are starting to form up and advance. Be sure there will be draig-claws upon us very, very soon. And if we die: run. Run for your life. Run as if all the lives of every quiet, peaceful being of world depends on it. For well, they might. Hur.”
“Oh hush, Dapple. You’re frightening him.”
“Good,” he muttered through his sharp, ivory teeth. His eyes flashed red and black before he turned his attention to the forces arrayed in the approach below. More quietly he repeated the word: “Good.”