General Guildenstern’s army had unicorn-riders, too. They were supposed to keep enemy cavalry off King Avram’s footsoldiers. But Geoffrey’s riders had proved better all through the war. They looked likely to be better here, for no gray-clad men on unicornback were in position to get between them and Rollant and his companions.

“In line to the right flank! Two ranks!” shouted Captain Cephas, the company commander. “Shoot as you find your mark-no time for volleys.”

Close by, another officer was yelling, “Pikemen forward! Hurry, curse you! Get in front of those unicorns!”

The pikemen did hurry. But the troop of riders had chosen their moment well. Rollant could see that the pikemen wouldn’t get there fast enough.

Because he’d gone over to the side of the road to shout at the farmer, he was among the crossbowmen closest to the on-thundering unicorns. That put him in the first rank. He dropped to one knee so his comrades in the second rank could shoot over him. Then it was the drill swearing sergeants had pounded into him: yank back the crossbow string, lay the quarrel in the groove, bring the weapon to his shoulder, aim along the two iron studs set into the stock, pull the trigger.

The crossbow bucked against his shoulder. Other triggers all around him clicked, too. A unicorn crashed to the ground. Another fell over it, sending its rider flying. A northerner threw up his hands and slid off his mount’s tail, thudding to the ground as bonelessly as a sack of lentils. A wounded unicorn screamed and reared.

But most of the troop came on. They smashed past the pikemen before the wall of spearheads could fully form. Rollant had time for only two shots before he had to throw down his crossbow and snatch out his sword. He might not be very good with it, but if it wouldn’t save his life, nothing would.