Midnight Falcon (48 page)

It had all been so exciting, planning and plotting in secret. He would show Connavar that his strategic skills were greater than those of little brother Bran. He would also prove he was no coward when the time came, by riding alongside Shard when the Sea Wolves invaded.

Braefar shivered at the memory as he recalled the wild, terrifying ride to flee the battlefield. Yes, he had been frightened out of his wits, but that was also the fault of Connavar, for his brother had never offered him the chance to fight in battle. Had he done so, Braefar would have learned to overcome his fears. Well, he had overcome them now. He was waiting here, with Guern and his warriors, to kill Connavar.

To kill Connavar! The thought shook him.

All his life – until the last few years – he had worshipped his brother. Most of the mistakes he made – though not entirely his fault – had come about by trying too hard to please him. 'I loved you, Conn,' he whispered.

He relaxed as he realized that Conn would never ride in alone to meet Guern. He would know it was a trap. He will send Fiallach and a score of Iron Wolves to arrest us all. Braefar knew what he would say when he was brought before the king. 'So, Conn, you did not have the courage to meet us as we asked. Perhaps you are not such a hero after all, sending your Wolves where you did not dare to go.' It would be worth banishment just to say that phrase in front of Connavar's generals. Then he would head south and join Jasaray.

Guern called out to him. 'Here he comes!'

Braefar's heart sank. On the far hillside he saw a single rider on a white horse, the sinking sun turning his armour to gold.

'Oh no!' whispered Braefar. He scanned the hills for sign of the accompanying Iron Wolves, but slowly, as the rider approached, he realized he was alone. 'Oh, Conn, why did you come?' he said.

Connavar the King rode into the circle. He was wearing a winged helm of bright silver, a breastplate embossed with the Fawn in Brambles crest of his House, and the famous patchwork cloak. At his side was the legendary Seidh sword, with its hilt of gold. His full-faced battle helm was upon the pommel of his saddle. The king dismounted and walked forward. He did not look at Braefar, who slunk back into the shadows of the stones.

Guern stepped forward. 'Come and join us, Connavar. Let us talk of a new peace.'

'You have not asked me here to talk,' said Connavar, drawing his sword and resting the blade on the rocky ground, his hands on the golden pommel. 'You have asked me here to die. Come then, traitors. I am here. And I am alone.'

The eight men around the campfire had stood as the king rode in. Now they drew their swords and formed a half circle around the golden warrior facing them. Despite their numerical advantage they were reluctant to attack. This was not a mere man facing them. This was Connavar, the Demonblade, the warrior king who had never tasted defeat.

Braefar watched the scene, and a terrible sadness filled him. Conn had never looked more magnificent than he did at this moment, whereas his enemies had become, in Brae-far's eyes, small men with small dreams. Braefar had never wanted this. He knew it now. He drew his own sword, determined to rush in and aid his brother. Yet he did not. His legs would not obey him, and he stood, as he had all those years ago when the bear attacked, and did nothing.

Suddenly two of the men rushed in. Connavar swung the Seidh blade in two slashing cuts. Blood sprayed into the air, and the men fell. The other six rushed in, hacking and cutting.

At that moment there was a blast of cold air, and the circle trembled. A bright light shone and a warrior leapt from nowhere. Braefar blinked, his sword falling from his nerveless fingers. This new warrior carried a golden shield of incredible brightness. He rushed at the fighting men, smashing the shield into the face of the first, and cleaving his sword through the ribs of a second.

Braefar looked down at his fallen sword. He wanted to stoop to pick it up, but his legs were trembling, and he feared he would fall if he tried. So he drew his dagger. The sound of sword blades clashing, the screams of dying men, ripped through him and he fell back against a stone column, squeezing shut his eyes, and holding his fists over his ears. He couldn't shut out the sounds, and instead forced his mind to remember happier times, when he and Conn, as children, had played upon the slopes above Three Streams.

The sounds ceased, and Braefar opened his eyes. The new warrior – he saw now it was the bastard, Bane – was standing alongside the king, holding his arm. Connavar's winged helm was lying on the ground close by, dented by a sword blade. There was blood on the king's cheek, dripping to his breastplate. There was more blood upon his left arm. Braefar watched as Connavar loosened his breastplate. Bane pulled it clear. Then the king shrugged out of his mailshirt. Braefar saw two huge bruises on the king's left side, the skin gashed.

The trembling ceased and Braefar tottered forward. Connavar saw him, and his expression changed. Braefar had expected – desired – anger. But there was only sorrow in the king's features.

'Why, Wing?' he asked.

'Why? For all the hurts and humiliations you have piled upon me.'

'What hurts? I love you, Wing. I always have.'

'I know how you have laughed at me all these years. Don't lie to me, Conn. I know.'

'No-one laughed,' said Connavar. 'Not in my presence. Where did you hear such nonsense?' He stepped in towards Braefar. 'Let us put this behind us, Wing,' he said. 'There is a great battle coming . . .' He reached out to his brother.

'Don't touch me!' yelled Braefar, lashing out, the dagger in his hand almost forgotten. In that fraction of a heartbeat, with his anguish and anger paramount, Braefar tilted his fist. The blade slid between Connavar's ribs. The king grunted and fell back, blood streaming from the wound.

'No! I didn't mean . . .'

Bane drew his sword and advanced on the slender figure. 'Leave him! Don't kill him!' said the king, and then he slumped to the ground. Bane stood for a moment, his cold eyes locked to Braefar's tortured face.

'Get away from here, you snake!' he hissed. 'If I ever see you again I'll kill you where you stand.'

For a moment Braefar didn't move. Bane's sword came up. Braefar turned and sprinted for the woods.

He ran and ran, legs pumping, heart racing.

Bane was stunned. He thought Riamfada's prophecy had been proved wrong. He and Connavar had killed the rebels, and the king had but a few minor scratches and bruises. But now, as he looked down at the grey-faced man sitting quietly, his back to a column of stone, Bane knew he was dying. The dagger had plunged deep.

As the light faded Connavar began to shiver. Bane removed his own cloak and draped it around Connavar's upper body. 'Are you in pain?' asked the younger man.

Connavar coughed and blood dribbled into his beard. 'A little,' he confessed. 'Where is Wing?'

'He ran into the woods. Why did you want him spared?'

Connavar leaned his head back against the stone. He smiled. 'He's my little brother,' he said. 'I've looked after him all my life.'

'He's a treacherous dog – and he's killed you.'

'I came . . . here to die,' said Connavar. 'That was the price the Morrigu wanted. I don't know why. She always made it clear that the defeat of Stone was . . . important. Without me . . .' He fell silent for a moment. 'What are you doing here, Bane?'

'A friend of yours asked me to come. Riamfada.'

'The little fish,' said Connavar.

'Fish?' queried Bane.

'When he was . . . human . . . his legs were useless. Govannan and I used to carry him to the Riguan Falls. We . . . taught him to swim.'

Bane looked into the pale face of the dying man. 'He was the boy you were carrying when the bear attacked?'

'The same. The Seidh gave his spirit a home.' Connavar groaned, his face contorting. 'Damn, but this little wound is troublesome.' He looked up into Bane's face. 'I am glad you're here, Bane. It would have hurt my soul to die without . . .' He winced again, his body spasming.

'Don't talk,' said Bane. 'Just rest easy.'

'To what purpose?' asked Connavar, forcing a smile. 'When we lifted the Morrigu I saw many things, and I shared moments of your life. When you won that race, and came running towards me . . . You remember?'

'Of course I remember. You turned your back on me.'

'I am sorry for that, Bane. When I saw you running ahead of the others I was so proud I thought my heart would break. But I couldn't stay. To have embraced you and acknowledged you as my son would have meant seeing your mother, and I had sworn never to cast eyes upon her again. If I had my life over I would do so many things differently.'

'You blamed her for your own shortcomings,' said Bane, without anger.

'No,' said the king. 'I never blamed Arian. I loved her from the moment I first saw her. The fault was entirely mine. But I had to pay for my evil, for the slaughter of innocents and the death of Tae.' The king lapsed into silence, and Bane thought he had died. The night grew colder.

A movement came from behind. Bane rose and whirled, sword in hand. A straw-haired boy in a faded tunic stood there. He looked startled as Bane swung on him. Bane put away his sword. 'What are you doing here, boy?' he asked.

'I saw it,' said the lad. 'Wolves chased me and I climbed a tree. I saw the fight, and that man stab the king. Is he going to be all right?'

'Gather some wood for a fire,' said Bane, then returned to Connavar's side. Reaching out he touched the king's throat. A pulse was beating weakly there. Connavar's eyes opened, and he reached up, taking Bane's hand.

'I had a vision,' he said. 'I saw myself dying here, but I also saw myself leading a charge against the enemy. I didn't understand how both could be true. I see it now . . . I see it!' Once more he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The boy gathered wood and laid a fire close by. Then he found several pieces of flint, and Bane sat quietly, listening to the rhythmic strikes of the fire stone. At last a flame caught in the tinder and the wood began to crackle. The boy nursed it to life, then eased himself round to sit on the other side of the king. 'He's not going to die, is he?' he asked.

'What is your name, boy?'

'Axis. The king came here once and gave my da a bull, for ours had died.'

'You keep the fire going, Axis,' said Bane gently. 'We'll keep him warm.'

'He is going to die then?' said the boy, tears spilling to his cheeks.

'Yes, Axis, he is going to die. Tend to the fire.'

Bane glanced down. The king's hand was still holding to his own. Bane felt the warmth in the fingers, and saw the battle scars on the king's arm. Blood had ceased to flow from the wound in his side, but Bane knew that internal bleeding continued. He had seen wounds like this before in the arena. It might take hours yet, but death was certain.

The moon rose above the stone circle. Bane looked round at the boy by the fire. 'Go and check the horses the killers rode,' he said. 'Perhaps they had food. You look hungry.'

'I am hungry,' said Axis. 'Shall I bring the horses into the circle? The wolves may still be close by.'

'Yes, do that,' said Bane.

The boy ran off and came back moments later leading three horses, which he tethered inside the circle. 'The rest ran off,' he said. Axis moved past the fire, gathering the reins of the king's white gelding, bringing that also close to the fire. Then he searched the saddlebags of the other mounts, coming up with several thick slices of ham, wrapped in muslin. He offered some to Bane, and the two sat in silence as they ate. Time passed slowly. The boy Axis fell asleep by the fire and Bane found himself thinking of the past, of his hatred for Connavar, of his yearning to be accepted and acknowledged. He had lived so long dreaming of the day he would kill this man whose hand he now held.

The king groaned again. Bane looked at his face, and saw his eyes were open. But they were not focused on him. 'Ah, Wing,' he said, 'don't look so sad. Everything will be all right.'

'Connavar!' said Bane, squeezing the king's fingers. Connavar blinked then looked at Bane.

'He came back,' he said. 'He is waiting for me.'

Bane said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

'Put . . . my sword . . . in my hands,' said Connavar, his voice fading. The blade was leaning against the stone behind the king. Bane lifted it, placing the hilt within reach. Connavar did not move. Carefully Bane opened his fingers, pressing them closed round the fabled hilt. The dying man gave a last sigh, then his head sagged, his body sliding into Bane's arms. For a little while Bane sat holding the king, feeling the weight of Connavar's head against his shoulder. Then he laid the body down.

Riamfada walked into the stone circle and knelt beside the body, leaning over and kissing the brow. He turned to Bane. 'I thank you for being with him,' he said.

'Why didn't you tell me about Braefar? I could have stopped him.'

'I did not know exactly how it would happen, Bane, only that it would happen.'

'I'd like to find him and kill him myself,' said Bane.

'There is no need. Braefar is dead. He ran into the woods, and slashed his own throat with the dagger that killed Connavar. Now he and his brother are together, and all the ill feeling is gone.'

'Then it was Braefar the king saw as he was dying?'

'Aye, it was.'

Bane rose.

'Have you made your choice?' asked Riamfada.

'I have – as I think you knew I would.'

'Of course,' said Riamfada. 'You are the son of Connavar, and I would expect no less.'

In the faint light of the pre-dawn, as the breakfast trumpet sounded, Jasaray awoke from a light sleep. For the first time in years he had suffered bad dreams. He had been walking towards a torchlit parade being held in his honour. As the crowds cheered he saw a shadow above him, and realized it was a falcon, flying through the night sky. He looked up, wondering what would force a sunlight bird of prey to take to the skies in darkness. Then it swooped down towards him, its talons rending at his face.

Jasaray shivered at the memory. He had a slight ache in his back and groaned as he sat up. It had been some years since he had embarked on a campaign and at sixty-five his body was complaining bitterly. His joints had throbbed since arriving at Accia during a thunderstorm, and his mood was sour.

Outside the command tent he could hear men moving about their chores, the stripping down of tents, ready to be rolled and packed, the gathering at food queues for the bowl of hot meat broth and the hunk of bread, the rattling of harnesses, the banter of fighting men who knew that a battle loomed. These were sounds Jasaray had come to love with a passion that had always been missing from every other aspect of his life. He had hoped that the campaign against the Rigante and their allies would lift his spirits, and resurrect the joy of his youth, but that hope seemed doomed now. There was no way that the coming victory would really satisfy either the people of Stone or indeed himself. The citizens were used to victories by Jasaray and his Panthers against overwhelming odds. Invincible Jasaray!

The emperor sighed. Who would have imagined thirty-seven years ago that the spindly lecturer in mathematics would become the greatest military genius of the age? Certainly not the man himself, thought Jasaray, with a wry smile.

The twenty-eight-year-old whose co-ordination was so bad he had never mastered either swordplay or the throwing of spears, who had never attended the military academy, found that his first rank within the army was that of a general. It had been wonderfully bizarre. The civil war was at its height, and the biggest problem facing those trying to save the republic concerned logistics and supply – food for the army, wagons, horses, weapons. In short the Third Army of the Republic, under Sobius, needed a qualified quartermaster. In order for him to negotiate at the highest level Sobius had made Jasaray a general. He had, as they hoped, proved a brilliant quartermaster, and the Third Army was never short of equipment or food. What they were short of, however, was intelligent leadership, which led to the army's being routed by the rebels. In the space of three short days, with Sobius and his staff dead, Jasaray was the only general who could take the field.

And he had, fighting a stunning rearguard action, using tactics no-one had ever encountered, marshalling his troops with a precision previously unheard of. Thus the man known with affectionate contempt as the Scholar won the war and saved the republic.

Within the next few years the increasingly powerful Jasaray wrote three Manuals of Combat which changed the face of war. His armies were well armed, well fed, and superbly disciplined, exchanging personal heroism for unit cohesion, brute strength for tactical brilliance. No Stone army under Jasaray had ever tasted defeat. In fact the only stain on the military history of Stone had come at the hands of Connavar when the idiot Valanus had marched a pitifully small force deep into Rigante territory and been massacred.

Now that reverse was to be expunged from memory by a crushing victory. Yet there would be little joy in it. Jasaray had hoped Connavar would be able to gather an army of at least a hundred thousand. Instead reports suggested less than fifty thousand opposed him.

What a waste of time and energy, thought Jasaray, rising from his bed and pouring himself a goblet of water. He should have sent Barus to subdue the tribes. And he would have done just that – save for the unrelenting and increasing boredom he had suffered since becoming emperor. He could have blessed Nalademus for his treachery, which, at least, had provided a spark of excitement. The truth remained that the only real pleasure still to be had was on the battlefield, and Stone was running out of worthwhile enemies. Jasaray could have invaded the Rigante many times over the years. But he had reserved Connavar as a special treat, the last great opponent in an increasingly dull world.

Jasaray had followed his career with interest, remembering the young Keltoi who had served under him in the battles against the Perdii. A fine young man, brave and intelligent, and yet with the mental strength to curb the wild, reckless excesses of his Keltoi nature. Today's battle – though its outcome was certain – would not be an easy one. And there would be no glory in it. Back in Stone they would hear of his victory and shrug. 'Ah well,' they would say, 'it was only a few tribesmen.'

The tent flap opened and one of his guards looked inside. Seeing the emperor awake he called out, 'The scouts are back, lord.'

'Send them in.'

Two Cenii scouts entered the tent, accompanied by the guards, who watched them warily. Both the Keltoi were rough-looking men, sour-faced and surly. 'Well?' asked Jasaray.

'The Rigante are forming with their backs to the river,' said the first. 'They are manning a line of hills around a mile north of here.'

'How many?'

The scout spread his arms. 'A little more than you have here. I can't count that high.'

The general Heltian ducked under the tent flap. Jasaray dismissed the scouts and told Heltian to have horses saddled.

Minutes later, dressed in a simple tunic and a hooded woollen coat, Jasaray, with Heltian and three junior officers, rode from the night fortress. Jasaray did not take a weapon. There were two reasons for this, the first being that having never mastered the sword he would be useless in any physical encounter. The second reason, however, was far more important. The troops would watch their emperor riding out unarmed to view the enemy and say, 'There goes the Scholar, afraid of no man.' They would chuckle, and much of the pre-battle tension would ease away.

Jasaray and his officers rode out onto the open land to the north until they spied the enemy forces ranged against them. Jasaray reined in. His eyes were not as sharp as once they were, but vanity stopped him from admitting it. He turned to one of the junior officers. 'Maro, describe their formation.'

The young man gazed out over the distant ranks of tribesmen. 'They have massed in the centre, possibly some fifteen thousand men. I can see heavy infantry to the left and right of them, but no cavalry or archers as yet.'

'What does the formation suggest?' asked the emperor.

'I . . . do not know, lord,' admitted the young man.

'What about you?' Jasaray asked a second officer.

'They expect us to attack the centre and have reinforced it?' he suggested, without confidence.

As the five riders studied the enemy a long column of heavily armoured riders appeared a half mile to the right, moving slowly along the hilltops. 'That will be Fiallach and his Iron Wolves,' said Jasaray. 'They will bear watching. Can anyone see Connavar?'

'I see the King's Banner,' said Maro, pointing to the centre of the enemy. Fluttering on the breeze was a pale blue cloth with a white motif.

'What are they doing now?' asked Jasaray, squinting towards the enemy lines.

'They are passing out food, lord,' said Maro.

'A wise general knows that men fight better on a full belly,' said the emperor. 'Well, gentlemen, I think we have seen enough.' Turning his mount awkwardly he heeled it into a canter and rode back to the earth fortress.

Inviting Heltian into his tent he ordered servants to bring them breakfast. While they ate Jasaray pictured the battlefield. The land was flat between the hills, then steadily rising. Beyond the Rigante centre was a wide, deep river, which meant that Connavar had left himself without a natural line of retreat. 'What do you think?' he asked Heltian.

The normally grim-faced officer smiled. 'I'm glad you didn't ask me in front of the youngsters. I'm probably wrong, but it looks to me like they are preparing for a head-to-head, win-or-die battle. Nothing more.'

'Yes, you are wrong,' said Jasaray. 'Connavar is a little more cunning than that. If that were the true situation he would have placed his heavy infantry at the centre. But no, they are, with the cavalry, on the flanks. Their centre stretches for at least a quarter of a mile. To attack along its length we would normally adopt a Five Formation. It is Connavar's hope we will do just that and launch a major push against his centre. Then his heavy infantry would move against our flanks, compressing our forces, making manoeuvrability difficult. Since his centre is lightly armed he would expect us to use our archers to thin their ranks, using up all their shafts. At this point the Iron Wolves would charge our rear, compressing us further. Surrounded, with no opportunity to adapt our tactics, we would be slaughtered like sheep.'

'Then how do we proceed, lord?' asked Heltian.

'Exactly as they require. We will march in the Five Formation, close ranks ten deep, archers at the rear. As we approach their centre that formation will change into the full open fighting square, six deep, two Panthers in reserve. The archers will not loose a shaft until ordered by me. We will hold them for the charge of the Iron Wolves. Once the open square is fully functional we will advance slowly against their centre and crush them. If possible I want Connavar taken alive. He will be my trophy. We will take him in chains to Stone and execute him in the great arena.'

'You make it sound like an easy day, lord,' said Heltian.

'Oh, I don't doubt Connavar will have a few surprises for us. Either him, or that brother of his – Bran. Clever man. I should have had him killed when he visited Stone.'

'Do you want him taken alive too, lord?'

Jasaray shook his head. 'No. Kill him with the rest. No prisoners today, Heltian. No slave lines. Every Keltoi standing against us must die. When Valanus was defeated the Rigante placed Stone heads upon spears at the border. Today we will plant a forest of heads, so that all who dream of rising against Stone will take heed.'

'Yes, lord.'

Jasaray saw that the man looked troubled. 'What is it, Heltian?'

'You are the Scholar, and I do not have your skills in strategy, lord. Yet it seems to me that to march into their trap is unnecessary. If we storm their right, pushing back their infantry, they will be forced to change their battle plan, and be thrown into disarray.'

'Ah, yes,' said Jasaray, with a smile, 'indeed they would be. But where's the joy in such a simple victory? The enemy will think they have us, and then, when we show that we know their plan, their hearts will break. Cruel, I know, but emperors must have their pleasures.'

Bendegit Bran stood on the rising ground and watched as the columns of Stone marched out of the morning mist almost a mile to the south. Around him the volunteer forces from Pannone, Norvii and Rigante stood their ground, fierce eyes observing the advancing enemy.

Bran had made no fiery speeches to these men, nor exhorted them to fight hard for their loved ones and their land. There was no need. They knew that today's battle could change for ever the lives of every Keltoi. They knew that if they failed their wives and daughters would be enslaved, their children slaughtered. No, thought Bran, there was no need to inspire these men.

Although, in truth, he wished there was someone who could inspire him.

The death of his first-born son had all but unmanned him, but the news Banouin had given him several hours ago had been crushing.

Connavar was dead, killed by Braefar.

Even now Bran could scarcely believe it. Wing had always been a troubled soul, but Bran had never doubted his love for Conn, or his own people. Yet he had, in one dreadful thrust, destroyed both his brother and the hopes of the Keltoi. Connavar's legend was such that he was worth ten thousand men in battle, for the troops would see him in his golden armour, and their spirits would soar like eagles. Even now Bran could see men scanning the hillsides, wondering when the king would appear.

Ahead, on the flat plain, the army of Stone continued its advance, the columns smoothly melding, the formation changing. Closer now, and Bran could see sunlight glinting on their helms and the great, rectangular shields they carried. Their formation was – as he had hoped – the Classic Five, ten ranks deep along a wide front, their flanks defended by six Panthers, three on either side, stretching back down the plain and creating three sides of a square. Between the defensive lines Bran saw the Stone archers bringing up the rear. He gauged their numbers to be around a thousand.

Scanning the enemy force, Bran calculated their numbers. He reckoned Jasaray had brought ten Panthers, plus his archers – thirty-one thousand fighting men. That meant he had left two Panthers to defend the night fortress, allowing himself room to withdraw to a position of safety should the battle go against him. Against him Bran had marshalled just over forty thousand tribesmen, many of these untried in major battles. Despite the numerical superiority the reality was that Jasaray had the stronger force. The real strength of the Keltoi army lay in the ten thousand Iron Wolves, eight thousand heavy infantry, and three thousand Horse Archers. These were battle-hardened, well-trained and disciplined fighters. The rest were brave tribesmen, who, left to their own devices, would be cut to pieces by the soldiers of Stone within an hour.

The wind changed, and the sound of drumbeats echoed across the field as the Stone army continued its march towards the Keltoi centre. Bran signalled his archers to draw up behind the front lines. Hundreds of Rigante bowmen ran forward.

Three hundred yards away now and a trumpet sounded in the enemy ranks. The soldiers of Stone halted their march, the formation changing again. Bran's heart sank, for the Stone line spread out into the open fighting square. Then they advanced once more. Bran's mind raced. They could still envelop the enemy, but to what advantage? Their only hope had been to compress them, destroying their ability to manoeuvre. This new formation was flexible, and Bran could see two Panthers in reserve at the centre, ready to plug any gaps that might develop.