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Page 237
The sword he had struck aside glittered as it came in against his shield. Simon leaned forward using his longer reach. His opponent howled, red fountained from a severed arm. A blow on the left thrust Simon sideways and without even looking he tilted his sword up over his stallion's neck and swung in that direction. Although he made no contact, someone screamed. Either Beorn had struck his man or he himself was down. Simon swung right, thrusting at one of a pair who were attacking a single man. He caught a shoulder, opened a gash, but the man turned and slashed at him. Simon cursed as he felt the point catch in his mail just above the newly healed wound that Alinor had treated. The skin was thin and tender. He could feel it open, but his opponent's sword was caught momentarily, and that moment was his death. Simon's blade went in through the mouth. Below the eyes, it was not a man anymore.
Right again, parry, slash, gasp as ice-fire ran down his right calf, parry, slash. A sword glittered red and gold, dangerously fast and close. A blow on the back hurt and drew a choked cry from him. One before and one behind was death, but not for him alone. Simon thrust up under the oncoming blade and steeled himself for oblivion. Only the song he had heard before sounded again in his ears, and it was certainly not produced by a choir of angels. In spite of the pangs that made holding his shield a curse, Simon laughed.
"Hurt, lord?" Beorn called.
"Forward!" Simon shouted, not deigning to answer that. It was not important. "Drive them back toward their gates!"
Beorn took up the cry and it spread to some other leather-lunged men-at-arms. There had not been many horsemen. Simon knew his impression had been at fault. The Welsh seldom used many mounted fighters. They counted on the quickness of their footmen and their ability to melt away into the forested mountains. Here

 
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