Beside him Gallowglass coughed and spit. “See anything?” he asked.
“I can’t even see the cannons now,” answered Taybard.
During the next few minutes the cannons fired four more salvos. The silence that followed the explosions was rent by the screams of mutilated men.
By that time Taybard had taken to counting slowly between salvos. The gunners were experts. Each time Taybard reached the count of twenty-eight, the sound of distant thunder would herald another murderous assault from the sky.
“How many is that so far?” said Gallowglass, making Taybard lose count.
“Eight, I think. Nine, maybe.”
Taybard saw movement to his left. A group of wide-eyed, fearful men was scrambling from the trenches. Two had thrown aside their muskets. Taybard could feel the panic spreading.
Just then the Moidart came into view. He had his hands clasped behind his back as if out on a morning stroll.
The fleeing men paused. “Best keep your heads down,” said the Moidart, moving past them. They hesitated, then returned to their trenches. A breeze began to blow across the ridge top. The Moidart approached the spot where Taybard and Gallowglass were hunkered down. They moved aside to make way for him. “Not long now,” said the lord.
The breeze quickened, and the smoke and dust began to clear.
Taybard squinted through the last of the haze. On the valley floor he saw red-coated lines of men marching forward, muskets in hand, thousands of them.
“Time to call up our boys,” said Gallowglass, scrambling from the trench.
“Not yet,” said the Moidart.
Other men had the same idea. The Moidart called out to them. “Stay where you are! There’s one more salvo coming.” Then the Moidart rose and calmly walked across the pockmarked ridge, disappearing from view.
Gallowglass stared after him, then looked back at the advancing enemy. They were within two hundred yards of the ridge now. At that point they quickened their pace. Sunlight gleamed from the bayonets on their muskets.
“I think we are going to need a little help up here,” muttered Gallowglass.
At that moment the cannon thundered again. Huge chunks were ripped from the ridge. The force of one blast caused a twelve-foot section of hillside to slide away, sending rock and earth tumbling down the slope.
“How in seven hells did he know they were going to fire one more salvo?” asked Gallowglass.
“They were hoping to catch more of us as we swarmed back up to defend the ridge,” Taybard told him, taking up his blanket-wrapped Emburley and untying the strings that held the covering in place.
Behind them two thousand musketeers scrambled over the ruined ridge, taking up prearranged positions in three ranks. Bendegit Law and his artillery men came over the ridge top, hauling barrels of powder. Eight of the twenty defensive cannon had been smashed by the enemy’s salvos. Four others were damaged. Bendegit Law directed his men with quiet efficiency. Bringing the eight surviving cannons to bear, they loaded them and waited.
Taybard could see the faces of the attackers now, grim and determined as they stormed the slope. Lifting the Emburley rifle, he cocked the hammer. “Front rank, forward!” bellowed General Beck. The six hundred men of the front rank shuffled into position. “Take aim!”
The red-garbed attackers faltered as the musketeers appeared on the ridge. Then they charged.
“Fire!”
Six hundred muskets loosed thunder into the charging men. Smoke billowed across the ridge top. “Second rank, forward!” shouted Beck. The first rank fell back to the rear to reload as the next line of musketeers stepped in to take their places. This maneuver was an innovation of Beck’s that the men had been practicing for weeks now. In most battles Taybard had seen or taken part in the object had been to deliver full ferocious volleys, then to reload. This rolling fire was far more effective.
The second rank emptied their muskets into the faltering advance. Hundreds of enemy soldiers were down. Still they pushed on, stepping over the bodies of the dead and dying.
“Third rank, forward!” yelled Beck. “Fire!”
Some of the soldiers below were starting to shoot up the slope now, and a score of Eldacre men went down.
The first of the enemy was almost at the top of the slope when Bendegit Law ordered the cannons to be fired. The blast ripped away the leading ranks of the enemy.
Taybard watched it all as if in a dream, his Emburley unfired. Smoke covered the ridge like a blanket of fog, and when the first rank volleyed again, Taybard could not even see the enemy. Beside him Gallowglass was frantically reloading.
The second rank moved forward again, but this time Beck did not order them to fire.
The breeze picked up again, and the smoke cleared. The hillside was littered with red-coated bodies. The survivors were pulling back.
The Moidart approached Beck. Taybard heard what he said. “While not wishing to appear intrusive, Beck, might it not be wise to pull back a ways? I fear another salvo is likely soon.”
“Indeed, my lord, that is good advice.”
He swung toward the men. “By rank fall back to the base of the hill!”
The move was not quite swift enough. In the distance the huge fifteen-pounders roared. The Eldacre men began to run. Two explosive charges burst in the air above them. More than a hundred musketeers went down.
Taybard and Gallowglass had not moved from their trench. Once more earth rained down upon them.
19
* * *
Kaelin Ring watched the carnage on the ridge and then returned his gaze to the open lands directly to the south. There was still no attack from that quarter. More columns of enemy musketeers were advancing against the western ridge, and he could see the Moidart and the defenders marching back into position.
“I wouldn’t want to be up there,” said Korrin Talis.
Raising his head above the earth sacks, Kaelin scanned the south. Lines of horsemen were gathering beneath the far slopes. “Not long to wait,” he said. “The knights are forming.”
“How many?” asked Korrin Talis.
“Can’t tell. Too much smoke. I’d expect around four thousand. Everyone knows what to do?”
“Of course they know what to do,” snapped Korrin Talis. “We’re not idiots.”
A huge mass of enemy infantry moved out of the smoke, charging the eastern ridge, which was held by Mantilan. Kaelin saw the Rigante under Bael Jace rush to their aid.
“Here they come,” said Korrin Talis.
Kaelin jerked his gaze back to the south. The knights, wearing breastplates that glittered in the sunlight, were smoothly moving into formation. Their first line spread out until it covered around a quarter of a mile. Other lines formed behind them.
“Impressive bunch, aren’t they?” muttered Korrin Talis.
A distant bugle sounded, and the knights advanced at the trot. When they reached three hundred yards, they began to canter.
“Rigante!” bellowed Kaelin Ring. The eight hundred Rigante musketeers raised their weapons. The knights charged, the pounding hooves of their warhorses making the ground tremble.
“Fire!” yelled Kaelin.
The first volley tore into the charging horsemen, smashing men from their saddles and bringing down mounts. The Rigante tossed aside the first muskets and lifted fresh weapons.
“Take aim! Fire!”
Another volley ripped into the enemy, but still they came.
“Back!” shouted Kaelin.
Leaving their muskets, the Rigante began to run back toward the line of bushes a hundred paces away.
The knights galloped on, sabers gleaming. The first of the horses reached the earth ramparts and leapt over them. The Rigante were streaming back now, and the knights began to shout war cries as they bore down upon them.
As the fleeing Rigante passed the line of scrub growth, they suddenly turned and re-formed, drawing pistols from their belts.
Then ten of the twenty cannon hidde
n in pits behind the line of bushes belched thunder and fire into the knights. The carnage was appalling. Each of the cannons had been packed with hundreds of musket balls—grapeshot, Gaise Macon called it. Where there had been a division of highly disciplined charging cavalry there was now a charnel house of twisted corpses and mutilated men. The horsemen who had survived the horror of the first cannon blasts urged their mounts on.
A second volley of cannon fire thundered. Kaelin saw men and horses flung to the ground.
Even then the knights did not retreat.
“Forward!” shouted Kaelin Ring.
The Rigante charged, scrambling over the corpses and the mutilated survivors. With pistol and saber they surged into the horsemen.
From the right came Gaise Macon and a thousand Eldacre cavalry. They hammered into the enemy’s flank.
Kaelin blocked a savage downward stroke from a cavalry saber, then leaped, grabbing the rider by his breastplate and hauling him from the saddle. As the rider fell, he lost hold of his weapon and hit the ground hard. Kaelin stabbed him through the throat. The man’s horse suddenly reared, its front hooves cracking against Kaelin’s injured shoulder, throwing him from his feet. He scrambled up. The surviving knights had swung to face Macon’s lighter-armed cavalry. A little distance away Kaelin saw Gaise Macon cut a man from the saddle and spur his horse deeper into the fray. Then his horse stumbled and went down. Macon kicked his feet from the stirrups and leaped clear. Two knights rode at him. Kaelin dragged his second pistol clear of his belt and fired at the first rider. The shot punched through the center of the knight’s forehead. Gaise Macon ran at the second, ducked under a slashing saber, and forced his blade through the rider’s breastplate. The man sagged to the right. Gaise pitched him from the saddle. Grabbing the pommel with his left hand, he vaulted to the beast’s back. Taking the reins, he swung the captured mount and returned to the attack.
With the Rigante surging forward and Macon’s cavalry cutting its way forward, the surviving knights finally broke. Swinging their mounts, they galloped back for the safety of their lines.
Kaelin and the Rigante moved back across the field of the fallen and resumed their position at the earth ramparts, reloading their muskets.
Behind them the cannoneers recharged their weapons, then ran among the fallen knights, killing those who still lived. Kaelin Ring tried to close his ears to the almost inhuman shrieks of the mortally wounded. He had never felt any regard for the men of the Varlish and was surprised that their deaths and their suffering should touch him so. He gazed out over the battlefield. It seemed to him that the dead almost outnumbered the living now.
And the dreadful day wore on.
The pain from the stump of Rayster’s amputated left arm caused him to groan aloud. That display of weakness annoyed the clansman, and he gritted his teeth as the orderly continued to wrap the honey- and wine-soaked bandage around the cauterized stump.
Sweat gleamed on Rayster’s face, and his jaw ached from where he had bitten hard into the leather strap the surgeon had placed between his teeth. “I can give you something to dull the pain,” said the orderly, a soft-faced man with large, friendly eyes. Rayster shook his head. He had no strength to reply. It was all he could do to stop from screaming out in his agony.
His head sank back to the pillow. For an hour he fought the pain after refusing the narcotics offered by the orderly. In the distance he could hear the cannon fire. Finally he struggled up. All around him were wounded men, overworked orderlies moving among them.
Rayster stood, then staggered. The first orderly ran back to him. “What do you think you are doing, man?”
“Where is my cloak?” Sweat dripped into Rayster’s eyes. Then he saw the garment in a heap on the floor by a window.
The orderly gathered it up. Rayster’s sword, pistol, and knife were lying beneath it. “I will look after everything for you, clansman. I promise you. No one will steal your weapons.”
Rayster took the cloak from the man and tried to swing it around his shoulders. It was difficult with one hand, and it was impossible to open the Rigante cloak brooch. Rayster felt a wave of despair roll over him. He looked into the soft eyes of the orderly. “Put my cloak on me,” he said. “I’ll not die in here.”
For a moment the man appeared to be ready to argue the point, but then he expertly settled Rayster’s cloak into place and unpinned the oval bronze brooch. “I have seen these before,” he said. “Usually there is a name embossed within the eye.”
Rayster did not reply. He stood and swayed, then he leaned down and picked up his pistol, thrusting it into his belt. “Strap on my sword belt,” he said. The orderly complied. Rayster felt suddenly faint and sat down heavily.
The orderly sat beside him.”You are a strong man,” he said, “but you have lost much blood. You need to rest awhile, gather your strength. The body is a remarkable thing. It will heal itself, and you will learn to do everything you need even though you have lost an arm.”
“I am not concerned about the arm,” said Rayster. “I have comrades out there.”
“You’ll be no help to them in this state.”
Reluctantly Rayster lay back. Amazingly, despite the pain, he slept for a while. When he awoke, he felt stronger, though not much. Rising, he forced himself to walk among the injured. Other Rigante wounded were somewhere in the castle’s west wing. Rayster located several of them. Their wounds were severe, and all the men were unconscious, having availed themselves of the narcotic drink. The air in the wing was filled with a curious smell that made Rayster’s stomach queasy. Moving to the open doorway, he stepped out into a hallway beyond. It was filled with corpses, the bodies laid out in rows.
Rayster moved on. In a nearby corridor he saw a group of some twenty Rigante sitting together. Two, like him, had endured amputations. One had lost a hand, and another had a bloody bandage over the stump of his lower left leg. Most of the others had bandaged wounds to the upper body, and one man had lost an eye. The man with the amputated left hand saw Rayster and called out: “Looks like we were both lucky, eh, Rayster? Never was much use with my left.”
Rayster moved to where they sat. Weary now, he sank alongside the man. “You never were much good with your right, Connal.”
Connal Ironlatch grinned. “Can you believe they wanted to take our weapons away? My father would flay me alive if I came home without his favorite sword.”
“Aye, he was put out when Bael told him to stay home,” said Rayster. “Never seen him so angry.”
From outside came the thunder of horses’ hooves on the stones. Then a shot sounded, and a man cried out in pain.
It had been so long since Winter Kay had felt genuine fear that he was almost unmanned by the experience. He had believed for years that he was a powerful man, in full control, merely aided by the magic of the skull. The realization that the essence of his power came from Kranos and that he was in truth merely ordinary was almost more than he could bear.
He had no idea how to plan the battle against Gaise Macon, no overall sense of strategy. He looked at the land, the high ground and the slopes beyond the ridges, and saw only meadows, hills, and a valley. With the skull in his possession he had needed only a glance at a battlefield to note instantly the key areas to control.
Winter Kay desperately needed to regain the skull. After the spirit of Powdermill had spoken to him, he had decided to send Eris Velroy and a hundred Redeemers to make a swift raid into Eldacre and retrieve it. Velroy was willing but pointed out that a hundred men riding from the battlefield would alert the enemy and probably cause them to send out a cavalry troop in pursuit. A smaller force might pass unnoticed. Winter Kay agreed. He did not care how many men rode into Eldacre as long as they rode out with the skull.
Then paranoia touched his soul. What if Velroy decided to keep the skull for himself? Worms of doubt burrowed into Winter Kay’s mind. “I will lead the raid myself,” he told Velroy. “Thirty Redeemers should suffice.”
“Who, th
en, will conduct the battle, my lord?” asked Velroy.
“You will. It should hardly be taxing, my dear Velroy. We have overwhelming superiority in numbers.”
“But the battle plan?”
“You have always shown high skill in strategy, Velroy. Now is the time to display it.”
“I am honored, my lord. I . . . I thank you for your trust in me.”
“As soon as I have the skull, I shall return and we will review your actions.”
“Yes, my lord.”
That had been just before the dawn. Winter Kay and thirty Redeemers had ridden away to the southwest, skirting the woods and circling into the hills above Eldacre. There they had drawn up and dismounted. With an ornate long glass Winter Kay studied the town. There were no signs of troops.
Then came the sounds of cannon fire in the distance. The battle had begun.
Winter Kay was torn between the desire to ride down into the town and risk entering the castle and a sudden fear that it was a trap. He sat in the shelter of the trees, his mouth dry. The men with him were nervous. They were all on edge, for none of them had received the power of the skull in days. Worse than this, Winter Kay found himself seeing them differently. His Redeemers, he had always believed, were the elite, powerful, single-minded men, the best the Varlish could create. He looked at them now and saw their fear. With the strength-enhancing magic of the skull and the mystical advantages they gained they had been elite. Now they were merely—like him—frightened men.
Once more Winter Kay scanned the castle. He could see a sentry at the gates.
“Do we go in, my lord?” asked a man.
Winter Kay rose. Before he had possessed the skull, he had been a soldier and a fine swordsman. He had not lacked courage then, he told himself.
“Yes. We go in.”
Mounting his horse, he led the thirty men down the slope and into the town. They did not ride fast. There were some citizens on the street, but they largely ignored the riders. They had seen so many strange soldiers during the past weeks that they did not recognize the Redeemers as enemies. Winter Kay began to relax. They rode past the huge cathedral. Winter Kay’s fears vanished then, replaced by the anger of memory. His brother Gayan had died there, killed by a highlander during the botched execution of a witch. Now that witch was sheltering in Eldacre Castle.
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