Fiallach rode down from the hillside, leading ten thousand Iron Wolves. Slowly they filed across the field, just out of bowshot of the enemy rear, forming up into five well-spaced lines, ready for the charge when the signal came.
The giant Rigante warrior longed to kick his horse into a run, and thunder towards the hated foe, his blade scything through flesh and bone, and it took a great effort of will merely to sit and await Bran's signal. Especially now, with Bran's plan in ruins and hundreds of Rigante warriors being cut down by the advancing square.
Fiallach stared with undisguised malevolence at the enemy bowmen. Not one shaft had been loosed, and that meant the charge would take place under a rain of death, horses falling, men being trampled under iron-shod hooves. The horses' breasts were covered by chain mail, but necks, heads and legs were open to attack. The big man eased his shield from his left arm, hooking it over the high pommel of his saddle. His son, Finnigal, moved alongside. The boy shouldn't have been here, but Vorna had healed him well, and he had insisted on riding beside his father. Fiallach scratched his silver-streaked beard. 'Not long now,' he said.
Finnigal removed his helm, running his fingers through his hair.
'The losses will be fearful,' he said. 'We'll be riding into an iron-tipped hailstorm.'
'Aye - and we'll ride through it,' said Fiallach grimly. 'This is the moment I have waited half my life for, to destroy once and for all the myth of Stone. And we will, boy.'
'Where is the king?' asked Finnigal, echoing the question in every man's mind.
'He'll be here, don't you fret about that. You think Connavar would miss this battle?'
'He's missed it so far,' muttered Finnigal.
Fiallach did not respond. The king's absence was a mystery, and a worrying one at that. Many men had seen Connavar ride from the camp. By the evening Fiallach had sought out Bran, but he had no idea where his brother had gone. All he could say was that he and Conn had worked on a strategy, and Conn had left the camp in mid-afternoon. Fiallach had then spoken to Govannan, who told him of the conversation earlier, when Connavar had said he was going to meet someone he loved.
'Many men need a woman the night before a battle,' said Fiallach. 'It helps to relax them.'
'I think he was planning to meet Braefar.'
'For what purpose?'
Govannan had shrugged. 'To forgive him, perhaps. Hell's teeth, Fiallach, I don't know. What worried me was that it sounded like a farewell.'
'You must be mistaken,' said Fiallach. 'Conn would never leave us at such a time. Gods, man, this is Jasaray we are facing!'
'I hope you are right, my friend,' said Govannan, 'because without him we'll not succeed. Don't misunderstand me - Bran is a great planner and you are a fighter beyond compare. But Conn brings his own personal magic. Every man fights harder when he is close. He inspires the men just by his presence.'
'He'll be with us,' said Fiallach.
But now the battle was under way, and there was no sign of the king. On the slopes far ahead the Stone advance had pushed halfway to the crest. Several thousand Rigante had been killed. Fiallach hefted his shield and slipped it over his arm. Signal or no signal, he would not wait much longer.
A huge cry went up from the right. The heavy infantry on the hillside were cheering wildly. Fiallach swung in the saddle. The lines parted and Connavar the King came riding through, his golden armour ablaze in the sunlight, his full-faced helm in place, his patchwork cloak streaming in the wind. Upon his arm was a shining shield of gold, that glittered so brightly it seemed the sun itself was riding with him.
'What did I tell you?' said Fiallach, relief flooding him.
Jasaray, hearing the roar from all sides, looked round to see Connavar riding his white horse across the battlefield. He shivered suddenly, even though the sun seemed to shine brighter in the sky for a moment. The feeling was exquisite. Jasaray thought about it for a moment, analysing the sensation. This was fear, he realized. How excellent it was. Jasaray's whole body felt alive.
Ahead the advance slowed as the Rigante hurled themselves with renewed vigour at the soldiers of Stone. One Keltoi, half his face sheared away, grabbed at a soldier's shield, dragging it down. A second Keltoi warrior leapt forward, plunging his sword through the face of the shield-bearer. The man fell back and the Rigante thrust himself into the opening, slashing his blade through the throat of a second soldier, even as he himself was cut down. The line closed, but the advance had halted. All along the line the Rigante fought with terrifying ferocity.
Heltian moved alongside Jasaray. The emperor glanced at him, and both men stared back at the Iron Wolves, and the golden figure riding towards their centre.
'A magnificent sight,' said Jasaray. 'Gaudy, but magnificent none the less.'
'Aye,' agreed Heltian, 'it makes the flesh crawl.'
'He's a throwback to more ancient times,' said Jasaray, 'embodying the principle of heroic leadership, and the days when kings and generals fought in the front line with their men. See how much better they fight now they see him with them?'
Heltian gave a tight smile. 'I'm not so anxious to see them fight better, lord.'
Wounded men were being carried back from the front line and laid in the open square behind, where surgeons tended them. 'They are still losing two - perhaps three - for every one of ours,' said Jasaray. 'They cannot sustain such losses for long.'
Clasping his hands behind his back he turned once more to survey the fighting. Because of the slope he could see Bendegit Bran some way above. He was standing beneath the blue and white banner. Now that he was closer Jasaray noted that the white motif on the banner was a fawn trapped in brambles. How odd, he thought, that a fighting race should have such a motif. Then he recalled having seen it once before. It was in his tent before the first battle with the Perdii, when he had summoned the young Connavar to meet with him. The fawn in brambles had been fashioned both on his cloak brooch and the hilt of his sword. Curious, he thought. If we do take him alive, I shall ask him about it.
The Stone line began to bulge inwards at the centre, as the Rigante not only held their ground, but pushed back against their enemies. Jasaray signalled for another three sections of reserve warriors to bolster the line. The three hundred men hefted their shields, drew their swords and marched into place smoothly. The line straightened. Jasaray swung his gaze to the heavy infantry on both sides of his force. It would be soon now, he thought. They cannot compress us, and they cannot hold the centre. Connavar would be forced to signal the heavy infantry to advance in order to take the pressure away from his brother.
He turned to Heltian. 'Drop back to the reserves and be ready to bolster the flanks. Leave two Panthers to close the rear of the square once the Iron Wolves charge.'
'Yes, lord,' said Heltian.
Even as the general moved back Jasaray saw the man next to Bendegit Bran hoist the Fawn in Brambles banner and wave it from side to side.
The heavy infantry began to move. Jasaray had expected them to charge down the slope in the Keltoi manner, racing to their doom with all the enthusiasm of young men pursuing comely maidens. Instead they came slowly, shields at the ready. He saw then that they were not carrying the long-bladed swords so popular among the tribes, but short stabbing swords like those of his own soldiers. This was cause for concern, for the Keltoi longsword was an inadequate weapon for close-quarter fighting, since the tribesmen had to open their ranks in order to swing the swords. Short swords meant they could fight shoulder to shoulder with their comrades, putting more pressure on the Stone line. They have the weapons, and they are mimicking our discipline, he thought. It is a compliment of a kind. How long that discipline will last is quite another matter.
The heavy infantry came down the slope, then broke into a run. Not a headlong charge, but a steady lope. At the last moment, just before their shields crashed against those of the Stone soldiers in the front rank, they let out a ferocious battle cry. The Stone line bulged inwards on both sides, then steadie
d. The noise of clashing shields and slashing swords was thunderous. And Jasaray loved it.
Ahead the advance up the hill had started once more, and Bran had been drawn into the fighting. Jasaray swung and stared back at the golden figure on the white horse. 'Come,' he said softly. 'Pay a visit to your old friend.'
Bane had ridden through the night, using two of the rebels' horses to conserve the energy of Connavar's white gelding. Leaving the spare horses behind the lines he rode through the heavy infantry, their cheers washing over him, and then onto the slope. From here he could see Fiallach riding down from the hillside, leading ten thousand Iron Wolves. Slowly they filed across the field, just out of bowshot of the enemy rear, forming up into five well-spaced lines, ready for the charge when the signal came. As Fiallach drew rein he grunted, the swollen boil just below his belt sent a stab of pain into his back. Should have had it lanced yesterday, he thought. It was throbbing mercilessly now. Fiallach absorbed the pain, allowing it to fuel his battle fury.
Bane galloped the gelding down the hillside and out onto the flat land beyond. The Iron Wolves drew their swords and sent up a welcoming roar as he approached. Fiallach rode to meet him. The big man came close and Bane - despite the full-faced helm of bronze that showed only his eyes - felt nervous under his scrutiny.
'By heavens, Conn, you had me worried,' said Fiallach.
'I am here now,' said Bane, deepening his voice, and hoping that the metallic echo of the helm would disguise it sufficiently.
Fiallach looked at him closely for a moment. 'Well, Bran is in trouble. Do we charge?'
Bane was about to agree. Laying his hand on the hilt of Connavar's sword he drew it. As his fingers touched the weapon he felt a cold breeze whisper into his mind. 'Not yet, my son.'
The shock was so great he almost dropped the sword.
'I am with you for a little time. Ride to the centre and wait for the right moment.'
'How will I know it?'
'You'll see the wheels of fire. Now, I think Fiallach is suspicious. Our eyes may be the same, but I am a little weightier than you.'
Bane turned to the silent Fiallach. 'Did you get that boil lanced?' he asked.
Fiallach laughed. 'Thought I'd wait and ask some Stone soldier to do it for me. Are you all right, Conn? Your voice sounds strange.'
'Never better, my friend,' said Bane, touching heels to the white gelding and moving into position.
High in the sky, just below the scudding white clouds, Banouin's spirit watched the battle. The great square of the Stone army was moving inexorably up the hillside, and already some three thousand Keltoi had died.
The arrival of Connavar stunned the young druid, and he sped instantly to the Circle of Balg. There he saw the body of the king, a young, yellow-haired boy sitting beside it. Returning to the battlefield he knew instantly that only one person could be impersonating the king - the son who despised him, and who had refused to fight alongside the Rigante.
Banouin floated above the carnage, high enough so that he did not see the horror of blades cleaving flesh. From here the battle was bloodless, the giant square of Stone, moving slowly northward, pushing the Rigante back towards the river.
Once more the Rigante banner was waved from side to side.
On the hillsides to left and right of the square horsemen appeared, hauling wagons onto the crest. Flaming torches were thrown into the wagons, and oily black smoke drifted up into the sky. There were three wagons on each hill, and the horsemen pulled on the ropes, dragging the burning vehicles out onto the slopes. Slowly they gathered pace. The horsemen loosed their ropes and rode clear of the blazing wagons as they hurtled towards the Stone square.
The soldiers below, seeing the wagons bearing down upon them, tried to break lines, allowing them to pass through. Not everyone managed to escape, and several soldiers were crushed beneath the wheels. Inside the wagons the huge pottery jars of lantern oil cracked in the heat, spilling their contents to the damp straw which surrounded them. Other jars exploded, spraying burning oil over soldiers nearby, setting fire to cloaks and leggings. Two of the blazing wagons smashed into the ranks of bowmen, scattering them. Smoke and flames belched out in a roar of thunder.
Standing with his unit among the men of the reserve Panthers young Maro tore off his red cloak as flames licked at it. Throwing it to the ground he stamped out the fire. His eyes were stinging with heat and smoke. Around him several of the men were also trying to beat out flames upon their clothing.
The northerly breeze sent the smoke drifting towards the south. Maro saw that very few men had been injured by the attack. The wagons had come to a stop now, and were burning brightly, but the line had closed once more. The archers were regrouping, and all was returning to normal.
Then he heard the thunder, and glanced at the sky, expecting to see storm clouds. But there were none, and in that moment he realized the truth. There was no storm. The thunder was coming from the south, and it was not emanating from the sky. The ground was shaking beneath his feet.
From out of the smoke came the charging horsemen of Connavar's Iron Wolves, and at their head a figure in gold, with a shining shield.
It seemed to Maro at that moment that time slowed. He saw the Stone archers, still trying to regroup, string their bows and send a ragged volley towards the charging horsemen. The arrows seemed to hang in the air for ever. Then they slashed home, and scores of horses fell. Not one shaft struck the golden rider, though many were aimed at him. They bounced from his shield, or sailed past him, plunging into the riders close by. Smoke billowed back over the archers, causing many of them to cough and splutter, their eyes streaming.
Despite their losses the Iron Wolves continued to thunder towards the square. Maro found himself suddenly thinking of Cara, and his son, and the sunlit garden behind the house. He felt a great sadness upon him as he thought of all the letters he had written and had never been able to send.
He drew his sword. The Iron Wolves came out of the smoke, bright swords in their hands. From behind he heard Heltian order the advance. The reserve Panthers began to form a fighting line, locking shields.
Maro closed his eyes for a moment and sent a brief prayer to the Source. 'Let me live to see my son,' he whispered.
Bane leaned low over the gelding's neck as it thundered towards the Stone archers. A volley of shafts slashed through the air. Raising his shield Bane glanced left and right. Alongside him horses went down, their riders thrown through the air. An arrow slashed the gelding's flanks and ricocheted from the bronze greave on Bane's right leg. Another arrow glanced from the rim of his shield.
Hundreds of shafts sliced into the riders, then hundreds more, but the charge continued. Bane risked a glance forward. Some of the bowmen had begun to run, seeking the transient security of a place behind the reserve Panthers, who were trying to form a shield wall. Their efforts were hampered by the fleeing archers.
The gelding galloped into the square, knocking several bowmen from their feet. The Seidh sword slashed down, cutting through an iron helm and crushing the skull beneath. Bane had never known such a weapon. Light as a wand, yet able to cut through armour and bone. Beside him he saw Fiallach, an arrow jutting from his left shoulder, ride into the mass of bowmen, striking left and right. Another arrow hit him high in the back, but he ignored it, and carried on cutting and killing. Bane dragged on the reins - then charged the forming shield wall, scattering the soldiers.
The gelding went down. Bane kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped clear. A Stone soldier ran at him. The Seidh sword slashed out, cutting through the man's sword arm at the wrist. Hand and sword fell to the grass. The man screamed. Bane killed him, then swung to face another attack. Riders forced their mounts around him, pushing back the Stone soldiers. Fiallach, grabbing the reins of a riderless horse, brought it to Bane, who swung into the saddle. Smoke from the burning wagons billowed about him as he charged again at the reserve Panthers.
Higher up the slope, some eighty yards
away, Jasaray ordered a change in formation. Command trumpets were sounded, and several ranks on the left and right faded back to reinforce the reserve. This had the effect of weakening the square and Govannan urged his men to greater efforts. Osta and the Horse Archers rode in behind the Iron Wolves. Dropping their bows they drew sabres and launched an attack against the inner left side of the square.
Bane's second horse was killed under him, and collapsed head first. Bane was thrown from the saddle, and landed awkwardly. A Stone soldier ran at him. Rising to his knees Bane blocked the thrust. Then Fiallach rode his horse at the man, sending him spinning from his feet. An arrow slashed through the throat of Fiallach's mount, and it reared and fell. Fiallach jumped clear and ran to stand back to back with Bane. Stone soldiers hurled themselves at the two men. A blade hammered against Fiallach's mail shirt, snapping a rib. The big man's fist slammed into the soldier's face, knocking him back, then the Rigante's sword clove his skull.
Once again the Iron Wolves rallied around the golden figure, leaping from their mounts to form a shield wall of their own. Bane glanced at Fiallach. There was blood on the big man's face, and he was breathing heavily. That boil troubling you?' shouted Bane.
Fiallach grinned. A sword lunged for the older man's face. Bane blocked the blow, killing the wielder with a reverse cut across the throat. On the left several hundred Iron Wolves had breached the Stone line. Breaking into a gallop they rode behind the reserve, which struggled to form its own defensive square. Bane and the Iron Wolves around him attacked again. Bane beat aside a shield and sent his sword slashing through the bearer's leg. The man fell. Fiallach, following in, killed him.
A young dark-haired officer stepped in front of Bane. It was Cara's husband, the young Maro. Maro's sword slashed towards him. Bane swayed back, deflecting the blow with ease. Fiallach's sword smashed through the young man's skull, sending blood and brains splattering over Bane's golden armour.
On the hillside at the north of the square Jasaray drew back his front lines, ordering Heltian to reinforce the rear with another two Panthers. 'Oh, and forget what I said about taking Connavar alive. I rather feel that his death would be advantageous at this point.'