The Sword of the Spirits

  I went across the pass first, leading the scouts. I had decided to bring the army over in units of twenty, to avoid confusion. It made it a long business. We had started in early morning but at nightfall a quarter of the army was still on the other side.

  If we had been attacked during this maneuver we would have been massacred; but I had no fear of it. There was no dwelling within five miles of the pass; no blade of grass on which a wandering shepherd might feed his flock. There was only a barren desert with the Burning Lands between. The next day the rest of the army came over. We lost one horse that fell and threw its rider and had to be destroyed, having broken a leg. But another warrior picked up the horseman and got him across with nothing worse than a few burns.

  When we had gathered our forces, we rode south. Kluellan had been in favor of taking the nearest town to use as a base, but I had vetoed it. That town was Marlborough. It was part of Oxford’s kingdom and for more reasons than one I did not want to get embroiled with Oxford. So we bypassed it and made for Salisbury.

  We had brought little in the way of provisions, ammunition for the guns being the more important consideration, and so we had to live off the land. The villages through which we passed were forced to give us food. In return we did them no harm. At one place there was a scuffle between one of the Wilsh soldiers and a girl. I do not know what caused it—the soldier swore his innocence—but Kluellan had him flogged on the spot.

  From the moment of first contact, of course, pigeons had taken word of our presence, and it had spread far and wide by now. I knew they would have heard of it in Winchester, and wondered what Blodwen would think of my return at the head of her father’s army. She and her lover might have had many laughs together during the winter, over poor banished Luke. This news would not give them much to laugh at.

  We followed the Avon valley and so passed within a few miles of Sanctuary. I did not try to contact the High Seers. They had given me a weapon but I had won an army myself. I no longer needed either them or their Science.

  • • •

  It was while we were camped between Sanctuary and the town of Amesbury that the scouts brought word of an enemy. The army of Salisbury had ridden north to challenge us. So we prepared for battle, and the next morning fought it.

  Our army numbered more than a thousand, of which three hundred were armed with Sten guns. These left their horses tethered and advanced on foot. I watched it from high ground, west of the river. They looked like peasants as they walked across the green fields, specked white and gold with buttercups and daisies. In front of them, holding a slight rise, the men of Salisbury sat their horses, whose occasional snorts and whinnies came thinly through the air. Their banners of red and black blew bravely in a breeze from the north. It was a fine sight. I felt my blood thrill to it. The men on foot seemed puny in comparison.

  The horsemen were preparing themselves for the charge. I saw the bugler lift his instrument to his lips and heard the harsh notes blare out, my horse twitching under me at the distant sound. For a moment, despite all I knew of the weapon I had armed them with, I did not believe the Wilsh footmen could withstand their onslaught.

  They moved, slowly at first but gathering speed and momentum. I watched my own troops and anxiously waited. The Captains had been told to let them come to fifty yards and then, on the command of one Captain, fire together. They had practiced this against their own horsemen, firing the bullets into the ground in front of them; but practice, as any warrior knew, was not the same as battle. If they fired prematurely and raggedly, it was possible that all might be lost.

  But the months of drilling and discipline brought their reward now. They stood like rocks while the line of horsemen thundered down. I guessed the distance separating them as best I could. Two hundred yards, a hundred, seventy-five . . . Then the single cry: “Fire!”—and after that not one tongueless stammering giant but hundreds of them. The valley rocked with the noise.

  And as though they had crashed into a steel rope, drawn across their front, the line of horsemen stumbled and fell. Maybe a score rode on a few more yards, ten, even twenty, and were picked off one by one. None reached the soldiers with the guns.

  I raised my arm. From behind, the Wilsh horsemen charged in their turn, the footmen giving way to let them through. Their swords flashed as they rode down on those men of Salisbury who had risen from their dead or dying horses. Some did their best to fight, but their case was helpless. They were cut down with scarcely more trouble than a girl might take to pluck a flower. Soon they dropped their swords in surrender. From the bugle call to this instant, no more than ten minutes had passed.

  • • •

  Within an hour I had a visitor. He came from the north with a single troop of horse, no more than thirty men. His standard bearer carried the white flag of truce. It was Eric of Oxford.

  He dismounted and gave me greeting, and I returned it.

  He said: “I had news of your coming, Luke. And news earlier of what happened in Winchester. Why did you not come to me? I would have helped you.”

  “Your father might not have made me welcome.”

  “He would have known nothing.” I looked at him in inquiry. “He was gravely ill even then and confined to bed. He died in November.”

  “And you are Prince of Oxford? I have failed in duty.”

  I gave him the formal bow which a Captain should make to a ruler. He laughed.

  “Enough of that! If what I hear is true you command a greater army than mine. But you may still welcome help to win back your city. I told you once: when I can help, I will. I can do so now.”

  “It is an army of barbarians,” I said, “from beyond the Burning Lands. Have you heard that also?”

  “All the more need for the support of friends! Then no one can say you required barbarians to regain your own. It looks better if you have an ally close to home. I can bring my army here within a week. Can you hold off from battle till then?”

  “You are too late, Eric. The battle has been fought.”

  “Fought, you say?”

  He looked at the bustle of the Wilsh camp around us. I said:

  “And won. Would you see the field?”

  He rode in silence with me. I heard him draw breath as we came in sight of the ugly rampart that marked the scene of carnage. It was made up of the broken bodies of horses in their hundreds, mingled with the bodies of men. In among them moved those Wilsh I had detailed to end the sufferings of any horses that still lived. I think probably they had already finished that work for no horse moved or cried. They were engaged on a more congenial occupation: stripping the dead warriors of Salisbury of their rings and ornaments.

  Some ten yards from the wall of horror, Eric reined in.

  “I have never seen slaughter approaching this,” he said. “What casualties did your Wilsh have?”

  “None. None serious, at least. A few have minor wounds.”

  He shook his head. “It is beyond believing. It is said the Spirits protect you. But do they rain death from the skies on armies that take the field against you?”

  I told him of the Sten guns. I did not say where they came from, leaving him to think it was a device of the Wilsh. He said:

  “They are machines, then.”

  I asked: “Is that so hard a thing to hear, for one who told me he looked for change from old and stupid ways?”

  “I looked for change; not for a rotting mountain of dead horses. Your enemies are men. Did you need to have your soldiers kill these poor beasts so mercilessly?”

  “The horses are a bigger target, their riders helpless once they are brought down. The soldiers fired at them by my command. These are the right tactics for winning a battle with such a weapon.”

  “I believe you. But is there honor in such a victory?”

  “What is honor?” I said. “They stripped mine from me in Harding’s house, sitting round an oak table. But I live, to take my revenge.”

  Eric was silent, staring at the carnage. D
irectly opposite us a stallion, a magnificent bay, thrust its head upward to the sky, jaws open in a silent scream.

  I said: “The old battles achieved nothing: you told me that in Winchester. They had horses and honor but they brought no resolution. Things will be different from now on. There will be no room for horses or honor in the battles we shall fight, but we shall have victories of a kind men have not known before.”

  Eric turned his horse’s head away. He said:

  “All this may well be true. I bid you farewell, then, Luke.”

  “You will not bring your army south to join us?”

  He smiled. “I was mistaken. You have no need of help.”

  “And the alliance you offered me?”

  “Farewell, Luke.”

  I rode with him a little way. “Will you fight against me?”

  “Am I a fool?” he said. “I have seen your victory.”

  NINE

  THE WALLS OF WINCHESTER

  SALISBURY OPENED ITS GATES TO us in shock. I put a garrison there and moved on. I left forty men and that was more than was needed; because I left twenty Sten guns with them. I had no fear of an uprising after the army had gone.

  We took the road to the east. I had not intended to attack Romsey but their army came on us as we crossed the valley of the Test. They aimed to take us by surprise, riding out of the shelter of woods as we approached the river and clearly hoping to drive us into it.

  They appeared to have some success at the outset. Their charge broke through our flank, and I heard their cry of triumph: “Romsey! Romsey!” But the flank had given way on my instructions. Our Sten gun troops were in the center. They had no time to dismount, but they wreaked a fair havoc from horseback. The attack crumpled and broke. Those that were not brought down scattered and fled to the woods from which they had started.

  Our own horsemen pursued them, killing many, but I called them back by bugle. The victory was decisive enough; and a rabble fleeing back to the city served us better than unnecessary slaughter. It would be easy enough to take Romsey, and other things came first. The road to Winchester lay open.

  The banners of the army that rode out of the woods had all been yellow and black, and there were no men of Winchester among the fallen. This meant that Romsey had freed itself, or been set free by Harding and the rest. But although they must have heard by now how we had destroyed the army of Salisbury, they had still ridden against us alone rather than wait and join with Winchester.

  Cymru spoke of it. “These are a strange people. Out of resentment, you think? But we are foreign and invade their lands. Does it not make sense to combine together when there is a threat to all?”

  I tried to explain the way of it to him, but with small success. He could not conceive what it might be like to live as a citizen of one free and independent city amongst many, to nourish rivalries through generations. He came after all from a single city, an oasis of culture and prosperity surrounded by lands that were savage but offered no threat. There were no divisions among the Wilsh, or none that mattered.

  Cymru shrugged. “Well, it serves our purpose. Though if all their cities sent their armies against us together, I do not think it would make much difference. This is a mighty weapon you have given us, Luke.”

  I looked at the mound of death beside the river.

  “Mighty indeed. Nothing can stand against it.”

  “I have one regret.”

  “What is that?”

  “That we lose you when you regain your city.”

  He had said fulsome things about me in the past, as the Wilsh commonly did; but now he spoke from the heart.

  I said: “There will be commerce between us. I shall visit you in Klan Gothlen.”

  Cymru shook his head. “It is a long journey. And you will be well occupied here. But no man may command another’s destiny. It is enough that we share this mission. We shall take your city for you and avenge the insult that concerns us both.”

  • • •

  It was raining as we came down into the Itchen valley, a feathery drifting rain that slowly soaked to the skin. We rode past the water meadows where on a summer’s day—so long ago but less than a year gone by—Edmund had played the lute and sung to Blodwen while I rode from them, foolishly content. Now the fine rain washed over the grass under a weeping sky of gray.

  Our scouts reported the army of Winchester ahead of us. They had drawn up west of the river in ordinary battle array. I said to the scout who told me:

  “Are you sure of this? Their full army?”

  “We have covered the ground well, Lord. I think if there was a single man in hiding we would have found him.”

  I did not doubt it: the Wilsh made cunning scouts. Still it was hard to believe. They would have heard what happened to the warriors of Salisbury and Romsey. Surely they were not such fools as to stand in the open and wait for us to attack?

  And yet when we came within view of them my heart was moved by the sight. The troops were set out in classic fashion, each with its banner of blue and gold: Captains, standard-bearers, lancers with their spears at rest, and behind them the swordsmen. It was a brave challenge to those who came against them—a challenge to battle in the old way, right arm against right arm, steel against steel: honor an equal prize with victory.

  For a moment I was tempted to accept it, and to lead my Wilsh horsemen into the charge. But too many things had happened, and too much was at stake. I kept the horsemen back. The Sten gunners were already quietly moving into position on high ground to the east. One of the high-roads of our ancestors ran there. It had been a railway once and steam engines had pulled carriages along it, taking people to far places at many times the speed of a galloping horse. Now it was overgrown with bushes and trees, and gave good cover.

  They could still have attacked us while the Sten gunners were taking up their places. It would have made no difference in the end, but as with the men of Romsey they might have gained an advantage at the start. But they did not move. They were waiting until our own disposition was complete. According to custom we should sound a bugle to show our readiness. Then they would attack.

  Why did they do this? I wondered. Out of folly? It might be so, but they were men I knew, and knew to be hard-headed. Nor could I think they would really believe that I would accept the challenge to fight on equal terms. If I had not spared Salisbury and Romsey, who had done me no real harm, why should I spare them?

  I think it was more from resignation and despair. They could see nothing facing them except defeat; but at least they would go down in ancient fashion, fighting as the armies of Winchester had fought for generations. Perhaps it was folly, but it had grandeur in it.

  My Sten gunners were ready. I made a sign to the bugler. He sounded the call and it was answered. A quarter of a mile away the line of horsemen began to move toward us.

  This time I had told the Sten gunners to hold their fire until a command from me, as shown by a second blast on the bugle. The bugler rode at my side, ready for my word. In front of us the line came on, through the drizzling rain; from a walk to a canter and so to full gallop.

  When they were a hundred yards from us they would be not much more than fifty yards from the gunners, thereafter moving away from them as they closed with us. It was that moment I was waiting for. I watched the distance narrow, the word ready in my mouth. When the line drew level with that stunted tree . . . I knew it well, had climbed it as a boy. The horsemen thundered on. They approached the tree; they reached it. I tried to cry my order. Ice blocked my throat and would let no word pass.

  They rode in savage fury and their battle cries shattered the sky. I tried to speak again, and failed again. If they smashed into us with this impetus the Wilsh, I knew, would not withstand them: no horsemen could. Even at that moment I felt a pride in them.

  They were not much more than fifty yards away. I could see the faces of men I knew: Blaine, Nicoll, Stuart. And in the center, mouth open in a yell, Edmund, who had been my frien
d. It was then that the ice cracked. I spoke, and the bugler blew, and at the first savage note my tongueless giants stammered out their hate.

  Dozens fell but the rest came on. The guns could only fire for a few moments or they would rake us too. The line was full of gaps but it reached us. Then everything was forgotten in the clash of sword on sword.

  I remember little of the battle itself. I do not know who I struck down, nor how many, nor who it was that gave me the thrust in the shoulder that all but unhorsed me. I do not know how long it lasted. Time has no meaning in a battle and this was a battle of the old kind, the last such there would ever be. All was slash and counterslash, cries of men in pain or triumph, the snort and squeal of horses, nerve-wrenching scrape and clang of steel, the wetness of rain and sweat and blood . . .

  They drew back at last. Late though the command had been, the guns had taken dire toll of them before they reached us. Only desperate courage had enabled them to come to grips with our horsemen after that. They broke and scattered and fled under the shoulder of Catherine’s Hill to the distant East Gate.

  I did not take my men and ride after them, but let them go.

  • • •

  The surgeon came to see to my wound. I told him it would wait, dismissing him with anger when he persisted. I walked between the bodies of the fallen. Some of the Wilsh were unfamiliar to me but there was not a face among the dead of Winchester I did not know. Barnes I saw, and the trooper who had taken my arm when he arrested me in my brother’s name. Foster, whom Hans had come near killing in the barracks on the night of the victory feast, lay sprawled on his back—now truly dead. I saw Edmund’s brother, Charles, with his head in a bloody puddle, eyes staring in surprise.

  And I saw Harding. There was no mark on him, either of bullet or sword, but his horse lay dead of bullet wounds beside him. Harding’s head drooped at an unlikely angle. He had been thrown when his horse fell, I guessed, and broken his neck. I looked long at him. He had always been a slight man and now seemed very small, a child grown old. I felt no pity, but no joy either.