Midnight Falcon

Chapter Sixteen

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.

Two hundred yards and Bran could now see the figure of Jasaray at the centre of the enemy square. The emperor was wearing a simple unadorned breastplate of iron, and an old battered helm. He was walking with his hands clasped behind his back, and chatting to the officer beside him.

One hundred yards, and the drums picked up their beat. The advance quickened. Bran could feel the tension in the men around him, the beginnings of fear.

'Death to Stone!' bellowed Bran, drawing his sword and holding it high. A huge cry went up from the Keltoi, a roaring, releasing wall of sound that swept over the advancing ranks.

Fifty yards. Now Bran could see individual faces. 'Archers!' he shouted.

The Rigante bowmen notched shafts to their bowstrings, drew back and let fly. Bran saw four Stone soldiers run to Jasaray, locking their shields round the emperor. Most of the shafts clattered from shields and helms, but a few found gaps in armour and sliced into unprotected flesh. A score of soldiers in the front line fell. The advance continued. Volley after volley soared through the air.

Twenty yards and Bran signalled a halt to the shooting. They had hit and injured some two hundred enemy soldiers, many of whom continued to march. Then the enemy shouted a battle cry and surged forward. The Keltoi leapt to meet them.

And the killing began.

Following Bran's orders the Gath general, Osta, led his Horse Archers in a flanking attack against the enemy's right. With shields worn on the left arm the right flank of an advancing army was always more vulnerable. But as Osta's five hundred riders bore down on them the men of Stone merely spun on their heels, presenting their shields, and blocking the first volleys.

Osta swung his men and galloped parallel to the enemy line, shooting as he rode. Beyond the shield wall Osta saw the Stone archers. Not one of them loosed a shaft. The attack having proved abortive Osta signalled his men to return to the hillside. Once there the Gath dismounted and walked to where Govannan was waiting with his heavy infantry.

'This doesn't look good,' said Osta. 'If we attack, we'll break on their shield wall like waves against a cliff.'

'We'll wait for the signal from Bran,' said Govannan, 'then we'll smash that wall or die trying.'

'Where in the name of Taranis is Conn?' whispered Osta, leaning in close.

Govannan said nothing. Before the king had ridden out yesterday he had summoned Govannan to his tent. The white-haired infantry leader had expected a conversation about tactics. Instead Conn had poured him a goblet of wine. 'I shall be gone for most of today,' he said. Govannan saw that the king was in full armour.

'Where to?' he asked.

'I cannot say.'

'The battle is tomorrow, Conn. For the sake of us all take no risks!'

'Some risks cannot be avoided.'

An uneasy silence had developed. Govannan broke it.

'What is it that you wished to discuss?'

Conn had smiled. 'You remember the bear?'

'How could I forget?'

'You and I were not friends then, and yet you ran to my aid. I have never forgotten that, Van. As the beast tore into me I saw you attack it, and in that instant I knew what it was to be Rigante. No matter how terrifying the enemy, we stand together and we do not run.'

'Why are you saying this?' asked Govannan, suddenly fearful.

Connavar smiled. 'I wanted to thank you for that day.'

'Damn, Conn, but you are worrying me now. Where are you going?'

'To meet someone I love.' He offered his hand and Govannan shook it. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

The king had left the tent, mounted the grey, Windsong, and ridden off towards the east.

'If he doesn't come we're finished,' said Osta, the words jerking Govannan back to the present. Govannan said nothing.

The fighting on the hillside was ferocious now. Hundreds of Rigante were down. And the Stone advance continued.

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 steadied. 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.'

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.

'Dead. Killed by his brother, Braefar.'

'I misjudged you, Bane. Always been too quick with my temper. Damn, but we beat them, eh?'

'Aye, we beat them.'

'Wish… I could… be there when we march on Stone…'

Fiallach's head sagged back. His eyes closed. Bane rose to his feet.

All around now the Rigante were moving among the wounded Stone soldiers, hacking them to death where they lay. Bane saw Bendegit Bran making his way through the warriors. Bane took up the reins of a wandering chestnut horse. Stepping into the saddle he rode back across the battlefield. Far to the left he could see Connavar's gelding, Windsong. It was standing now, reins trailing. Bane was glad it had survived. He touched heels to the chestnut and rode past Bran.

'Wait!' called Bran, but Bane had kicked his horse into a run.

As he moved across the battlefield soldiers stood and cheered him, waving their swords in the air, and chanting his name. He rode to the top of the hill and swung his mount to stare back at the blood-covered field of the fallen.

'Proud of you, boy,' came the voice of Connavar in his mind.