Midnight Falcon (50 page)

'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.'

Jasaray stood calmly, arms clasped behind his back. The charge of the Iron Wolves had been well executed, the use of fire wagons quite brilliant. But the charge was over now, the battle still to be decided. Jasaray's expert eyes scanned the scene. More than half the Rigante army had been killed or wounded, whereas he had lost around a third of his force. The death of Connavar would turn the tide. It was always the problem with heroic leadership. Yes, the men would be inspired by the golden figure at their head. But when that man died, so too did the inspiration, and in its place came despair. Connavar was the pumping heart of the Rigante. Every tribesman fighting here was performing above his abilities as a result of his presence. They would break and run when they saw him fall, Jasaray knew.

The emperor watched dispassionately as Heltian led another six thousand men into the fray. They charged into the Iron Wolves who had made it to the rear of the reserve square, killing the horses, toppling the riders and stabbing them to death. Then, forming a fighting wedge, they began to push back at Connavar and the men with him. Connavar – as Jasaray expected – gave no ground and the Stone Panthers surged around the Iron Wolves. Now Connavar was fighting within his own defensive ring. The losses suffered by the Panthers were very high, for they were fighting not lightly armoured tribesmen, but Connavar's elite warriors, picked for their courage and strength. Even so they were cut off from the main force of Iron Wolves, and outnumbered some six to one. It was, Jasaray considered, but a matter of time before the golden-garbed warrior fell beneath the stabbing iron of Stone.

On the outside of the square Govannan saw Connavar's plight. 'The king! The king!' he shouted. The heavy infantry – having already lost more than half their number – tore into the shield wall ahead of them, fighting like demons now. Govannan rammed his shield at the line, which suddenly gave. Moving into the breach he killed two startled soldiers. A third dealt him a terrible blow to his helm, which shattered. The sword smashed his skull and Govannan half fell, righted himself, and sent a vicious cut into the man's shoulder, half severing his arm. With a cry of pain the soldier fell. Govannan's men poured through the breach after him. It was as if a dam had burst. The soldiers of Stone peeled back in disarray and the wall broke in a dozen places. Govannan staggered forward, bright lights exploding around his eyes, blood pouring to his neck. He knew he was dying, but hung on grimly, staggering towards the men surrounding his king. Several hundred infantry warriors followed him, and fell upon the rear of the force surrounding Connavar. Surprised by the suddenness of the assault the Stone soldiers had no time to regroup. Some tried to turn to face this new attack, others shuffled back in an attempt to make a shield wall.

At the centre of the fighting Bane, his armour soaked in blood now, cut a path through to Govannan, Fiallach beside him. Just before they met Bane stumbled. Two men stabbed out at him. Fiallach leapt to shield Bane. A sword plunged into his shoulder. He killed the wielder, then a second blow slashed into his side. Fiallach fell. Bane plunged his sword into the heart of the soldier, dragging it clear to hack through the skull of a second man. As he reached Govannan he saw the general slump to the ground, blood bubbling from a split in his skull. The soldiers of Stone fell back. Bane crouched down beside the kneeling Govannan. 'Getting . . . to be . . . a habit . . . saving you, Conn,' whispered Govannan. 'But that damned . . . bear was . . . less troublesome.' He pitched forward. Bane caught him, but he was dead.

On the far side of the square Osta's Horse Archers, dismounted now, clove through the Stone lines, linking up with the heavy infantry beyond. Jasaray's square was in ruins.

The dawning awareness of defeat permeated the Stone lines. At first a few men started to run towards the south and the transient safety of the night fortress. Then a few score threw down their shields and took to their heels. The trickle became a stream, then a flood, as the army of Stone crumbled and fled.

Heltian tried to gather a wall around Jasaray, but Bane rushed at him, slashing his sword through the officer's throat. Heltian fell at Jasaray's feet, and even in death tried to raise his shield to protect his emperor.

Jasaray stood, calm as ever, his hands behind him. 'I take it you haven't come to surrender?' he asked the man he believed to be Connavar.

Bane pulled clear the full-faced helm, and saw the shock register on the emperor's face. 'Where is Connavar?' asked Jasaray.

'Murdered by his brother,' Bane told him.

Jasaray suddenly laughed, the sound full of humour. 'So, in the end, I have been defeated by a boy with no understanding of battle strategy. How droll!'

'You are a brave man,' said Bane, 'and I wish I could let you live. You have any gods you would wish to pray to?'

'No,' said Jasaray.

The Seidh sword flashed in the morning sun, slicing through Jasaray's thin neck. The head fell to the floor and rolled for a few feet. The body sagged sideways and sprawled to the grass.

Bane walked back to where Fiallach lay on the ground. The big man was still breathing, though his face was pale.

'They . . . lanced my boil,' said Fiallach, forcing a smile. 'I knew . . . you were not Conn.' Arrow heads had pierced the rings of the chain mail, and lodged in the flesh beyond. The shoulder wound was deep, but the mortal blow had been struck against Fiallach's left side, where the chain mail had parted.

'You fought well, big man,' said Bane.

Fiallach gripped his arm, drawing him in close. 'Where is the king?' he whispered.