‘That’s what I’m thinking,’ Conor confirmed.
‘Ach, but they’re not blind,’ scoffed Toráin. ‘They’d see that coming a long way off.’ He turned to Fergal, who stood pulling on his moustache, his brow wrinkled in thought. ‘Well? You are very quiet all of a sudden. All froth and no ale?’
‘It could work,’ replied Fergal at last. ‘But you’re right—the dog-eaters would see the feint unless we could hide our intentions from them somehow.’
‘Aye, fair enough,’ agreed Laegaire. ‘But how to hide such a thing?’
‘We might be able to use the speed of their chariots to our advantage,’ Conor said. ‘What if we ride out in force and break ranks once the Scálda have committed to the attack?’
‘One battle group holds the centre,’ said Fergal, ‘and two wings to come in from either side.’
Laegaire was already nodding. ‘If the centre collapsed, drawing the dog-eaters into pursuit, it would make it easier to get in behind them.’
‘Then we can do our work,’ said Médon. ‘I like it.’
They went over it again, refining it a little, and when everyone understood the plan, Conor turned to the other lords and said, ‘Now, then, one of you must go and explain it to Vainche and Liam. We need their warbands to do their part or the attack will fail.’
‘I’ll go,’ volunteered Aengus.
‘Nay, brother, let me,’ said Toráin. ‘Vainche will listen to me—Liam, too. I’ll make them understand.’ He hurried to his horse and rode to where the Brigantes and Darini had drawn up. The others watched as the three held a brief conference that concluded with nods all around. Toráin returned to say, ‘They will do what is necessary.’
‘Good,’ replied Conor with a nod. To the others, he said, ‘Prepare to ride. We’ll attack on Fergal’s command.’ The lords hurried off to ready their men, leaving Conor and Fergal alone for a moment. ‘Are you content with your part, brother?’ he asked.
‘As content as any fella can be standing on a battleground,’ replied Fergal. Looking Conor in the eye, he asked, ‘And are you content with the portion you have taken on for yourself? Or has all that high living made you soft?’
‘Never say it! In truth, brother, I feel more myself on the battlefield than I do in a cornfield.’ Conor held out his arm to Fergal. The tall warrior gripped it and the two exchanged a last word, then went to take up their weapons and mount their horses for another assault. When all the Dé Danann were mounted, Conor nodded to Fergal, who gave the signal to ride out.
This time, the combined warhost moved onto the plain in a long line that stretched from one side of the field to the other. As expected, the Scálda saw the Dé Danann advance and responded in kind, quickly rolling out to offer battle. The warbands of Aengus, Toráin, and Laegaire, and Morann, held the centre, with Conor and the fianna on the far right flank; Vainche and Liam with the Brigantes and Darini warbands anchored the extreme left. As before, the Scálda kept their chariots in a tight formation so as not to allow anyone to slip through the line. Both sides raced to join battle and the dull thunder of horses’ hooves and the rumble of chariot wheels resounded across the plain.
As soon as Aengus saw that the enemy were committed to the impending clash, he raised his spear and waved it above his head—giving the prearranged signal to retreat. But, in the rush of motion, the signal went unheeded. The two sides closed on one another in a shuddering clash.
Aengus and Cauci, leading the charge from the centre, suffered the impact of the collision with riders overthrown and trampled; a number of chariots were upset and this added to the carnage. All along the line, defenders fell to enemy spears or were thrown from their mounts and crushed by enemy chariots. It seemed as if the battle would be over almost before it had begun. Desperate, Aengus signalled the retreat once more. This time the sign was received. All along the line, riders wheeled their horses and the Dé Danann withdrew from the field, leaving the outer wings separated by a great gaping hole.
Alert to the collapse of the centre, waiting for it, Fergal and the fianna making up the right wing swerved hard to the right, galloping for the distant boundary of the battleground as if they would retreat that way. The Brigantes and Darini performed the same manoeuvre, swerving sharply to the left, riding hard for the opposite side of the plain. The chariots, in tight formation, swept past in a flurry of pounding hooves and spinning wheels. At that moment, Fergal gave out a cry and the fianna turned back—driving once more toward the centre of the plain; only, this time, they were behind the chariot line and were soon in swift pursuit. Faster and faster they flew, lashing their mounts mercilessly, gaining ground on the Scálda from the rear.
Fergal gave out a battle cry and let fly with his spear.
Instantly, twenty more spears took flight. Only a few reached their marks, but one of these struck a Scálda driver, causing him to lose control of his team. The cart slewed sideways, slamming into the next chariot. The fast-spinning wheels of the two vehicles tangled, the slender spokes splintered and gave way, and the wheels broke. Drivers and warriors spilled onto the ground in a mad jumble of wicker and flailing limbs. The horses charged on, dragging the wreckage. Fianna swords made short work of the warriors, and the chase moved on. Two more drivers fell to the fianna’s counterattack in quick succession. The sudden loss of four chariots from the line alerted the enemy that a Dé Danann battle group was now behind them.
One of the Scálda battlechiefs shouted a command and an entire rank of chariots on the outer wing of the formation slowed, turned, and swung onto a new attack course. At the same time, a second wave of Scálda appeared behind them and began hurling spears at the defenders’ unprotected backs.
Fergal saw what was happening and instantly broke off the chase, changed course, and streaked toward the centre of the plain to join up with the Brígantes warband driving in from the left.
Even from a distance, however, Fergal could see something was wrong: the Brigantes battle group was nowhere in sight. Fergal pulled up hard. ‘To me!’ he shouted. ‘To me!’
Conor came pounding up beside him and reined in. ‘Where is Vainche?’
‘The Scálda left flank is intact,’ cried Médon from somewhere behind them. ‘The Brigantes didn’t make the turn.’
Conor quickly cast his gaze across the battle field. The entire left-hand side of the Scálda chariot formation was not only intact, it was now in the process of turning inward to challenge the fianna from that side. The centre of the plain was now occupied by two enemy chariot lines—the first wave in full pursuit of Aengus’s retreat, and a second wave coming up fast behind them. The fianna were trapped in a pocket between the three converging lines with no way out.
‘Form up! Form up!’ cried Fergal. The fianna quickly reined in around him. To Conor, he said, ‘Fight or run, brother—which is it to be?’
Conor, his eyes on the chariots rumbling closer, hesitated. Búrach, sensing the tension in his master, tossed his head and stamped a hoof. ‘My good horse wants to fight,’ he said. He looked to the centre of the plain where the enemy was still in fast pursuit of the main Dé Danann battle group. ‘That way,’ said Conor, pointing with his spear.
‘We’ll be trapped!’ exclaimed Diarmaid. ‘Between the—’
Fergal cut him off. ‘We go!’ Raising his spear, he signalled the fianna to move out. Within two heartbeats, they were once again in flying pursuit of the Scálda chariots dead ahead. The Scálda behind them were not slow to react; they altered course to head off the fianna. The charge swiftly transformed into a frantic race to get between the fianna and two opposing chariot divisions—one to the left and one to the right, and both intent on cutting off the fianna before they came within striking distance of the main Scálda force as it chased the Dé Danann retreat.
Conor on Búrach held a straight and steady course, with Fergal hard on his right hand and Médon on his left; in a tight cluster on either side came the fianna—all of them low on their mounts and riding for their li
ves as the twin enemy battle groups rumbled toward them from either side. The chariots on the right flank were in the lead of those closing in from the left, so Conor veered slightly toward the left and, lashing the grey stallion hard, raced for the gap between the two wings—leading the fianna through the opening as if between two swiftly closing gates.
They nearly made it.
The lead chariot closed on them with astonishing speed. The first Scálda spear sliced the air a mere hand’s breadth before Conor’s face. ‘Hie! Búrach! Hie!’ he shouted, trying to coax a little more speed from his mount. The second spear struck the stallion high on the shoulder, penetrating the thick horse cloth and biting deep into the withers. Only a little higher and the blade would have found Conor’s thigh. Búrach, enraged by the sudden flash of pain, put back his ears and surged forward in an effort to carry his rider out of danger.
Conor seized the iron-studded shaft of the spear and plucked it from the stallion’s wound; he turned it and, casting a fleeting glance around behind, saw the enemy charioteer reaching back, steadying himself for a third throw. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation to aim, Conor simply swung the spear shaft sideways and flung it behind him.
The spear spun in a crazy circle across the intervening space to smack the oncoming team, catching both animals a blow across the foreheads. Distracted, unnerved, the creatures jerked hard to the right to avoid getting hit again. The chariot driver reared back on the reins in an effort to get his team back under control. The horses resisted and the chariot lurched farther to the right, unbalancing the Scálda spearman, slamming him against the side of the cart. He grabbed the rail to keep himself from falling from the wildly lurching vehicle and the spear in his hand tilted down; the spearhead came in contact with the spinning wheel and caught a spoke. The force yanked the weapon from the warrior’s hand and sent it spinning away to be trampled by the chariots coming on behind.
The disruption caused by the out-of-control chariot rippled through the chariot ranks as the others swerved out of the way—not by much, but enough for Conor to gain a little distance on the pursuit. Búrach sped through the gap and out onto the open field. Those behind Conor were not so fortunate.
Médon and Fergal were able to avoid the careering chariot, but those in full gallop behind them could not. The speeding war cart veered into their path, forcing them to rein aside. This deviation, however slight, proved enough of a lapse. Spears flashed out, tracing bright arcs in the air, striking home with deadly accuracy, and three horses sped on without their riders. Two more ran on with their riders slumped low, clinging to their galloping mounts.
Again the spears flew, and again riders fell.
Conor heard the wild whooping cries of the Scálda and the screams of spear-pierced horses, the shouts of the Dé Danann and the metallic clash of weapons. Cut off now from Fergal and the fianna, he raced on, hurtling toward the line of enemy chariots directly ahead. Those behind him swooped in to close the gap. Two of the nearest vehicles did not succeed in completing the turn. Unable to slow enough when those around them suddenly turned, the two carts slewed sideways as the wheels skidded on the grass; the iron rims bit into the soft earth and caught.
Over went the chariots, hurling their occupants to the ground. The horses galloped on, dragging the upturned vehicles behind them. But the necessary turn slowed their vehicles and the Dé Danann defenders seized on the momentary lapse. Fergal broke off the attack, turned, and fled. The Scálda gave chase, but the mounted warriors were faster and the distance between them and the fianna slowly increased. The fleeing fianna could not be caught. The best the chariot drivers could do was continue the pursuit and hope to get close enough to cast a spear or run down a wounded or unwary adversary.
Conor glanced behind him, saw the war carts giving ground, and urged the stallion on with strong words and praise. The grey’s hooves drummed a quickened beat upon the earth, and the wind of their passing lashed the stallion’s mane and tail like a streaming battle flag.
As soon as the rearmost chariot came within striking distance, Conor, leaning low on the neck of his galloping mount, gave Pelydr a mighty thrust. The charmed faéry spear struck deep. The sleek razor point buried itself between the shoulder blades of the chariot driver. Conor darted away again. The driver gave out a cry and sank to his knees on the floor of the fast-moving vehicle; his warrior companion tried with his free hand to take the reins from his dying partner, but could not reach them. The reins jerked free and the chariot started drifting off to one side, veering out of the tight wedge-shaped formation.
The struggling spearman, unable to regain control of the horses, made an awkward swipe with a blade, but Conor was already out of reach. The chariot continued its uncontrolled arc and Conor remained right with it. Driving in close, he delivered another blow: a rising slash that caught the enemy warrior between the elbow and shoulder. The warrior cried out and scrabbled for another spear. Drawing it from its holder, he half turned and made to let fly. At that moment, the speeding war cart hit a clump of saw grass and bounced, throwing the warrior off balance. He made a flailing grab for the cart rail. His hand, bloody from the cut, slipped and he fell out of the vehicle. Conor saw the wounded warrior hit the ground and then Búrach trampled the body.
The war cart with its dead driver swung farther out of formation, opening another gap in the flying wedge and forcing the nearest chariots to swerve to keep from colliding with the loose vehicle. Conor saw the breach open before him and, in the near distance beyond it, the main body of the Dé Danann warhost. Laegaire and the retreating defenders had reached the base of the hills at the far end of Mag Cró. Through the open space before him, Conor willed them to turn around and see the yawning rupture he had forced in the Scálda chariot line. But they rode on, so Conor went to work trying to widen the gap.
He made for the nearest chariot and soon caught up with it. Leaning out, he came abreast of the driver and made a great swooping slash with Pelydr. The swipe did not connect, but proved a distraction nonetheless. The Scálda warrior lunged with a spear, but missed—and then hurled the spear instead. Conor saw the movement of the warrior’s arm and threw himself down flat against Búrach’s neck as the blade sliced the air a spare hand’s breadth above his head. Conor pulled hard on the reins; the stallion swung to the right. The Scálda spearman plucked another spear from the carrier, drew back his arm, and tensed to throw. Conor saw the movement and raised Pared; the faéry shield took the blow an instant later without so much as a quiver. Conor jerked the reins to the left, bringing Búrach back in line with the chariot team. Conor jabbed at the straining neck of the lead horse. The animal shied away from the thrust and the vehicle lurched, slamming the driver into his warrior companion. The warrior staggered back, lost his footing, and toppled full length from the chariot. The driver fought to regain control of the fast-moving vehicle, but the horses continued pulling against one another, slowing the war cart further and opening the gap wider. It was now big enough for one horse to pass through … then two … and three … and more.
‘Hie, Búrach! Hie!’ Conor cried, lashing the stallion faster. The grey lunged forward and Conor made for the opening, galloped through it and away. The Scálda shouted and threw spears, but none struck home and Conor drew swiftly away and out of reach.
Once begun, the collapse of the enemy wedge formation proved irreparable. The Scálda warleader chose to fall back to regroup. This gave the harried Dé Danann defenders time to escape and return to their mustering place to the east. Conor made directly for the Dé Danann muster point at the foot of the low hills on the edge of Mag Cró; he threw himself down from his winded mount and ran to confer with Laegaire and the others.
‘What happened out there?’ Conor demanded, his scarlet blemish flaring with the heat of his anger. ‘You were supposed to make the Scálda chase you, not engage them!’
‘I gave the signal! No one saw it!’ shouted Aengus. The broad-shouldered young lord, breathing hard, wiped sweat and
blood from his face with his sleeve. ‘I had no choice!’
Conor clenched his teeth in frustration, but held his tongue. He drew a hand across his sweat-beaded brow and looked around. ‘Where is Vainche?’
Laegaire, breathing hard, shook his head. ‘Was he not out there on the battlefield?’
Conor turned and scanned the plain. He saw the wreckage of several chariots—one with a wheel still spinning and others a tangled mess of wickerwork and iron—and, here and there, a few Scálda dead: both horses and men lying still on the lumpy ground. There also, in grass stained with their own blood, lay the Danann dead. Conor did not have the heart to count them, but knew the tally would be more than he could stomach just then. Instead, he watched as the Scálda came streaming back onto the battle ground to retrieve weapons and strip the dead—both their own and Dé Danann. Farther out on Mag Cró, he saw Fergal and the fianna working their way back along the edge of the plain to rejoin the warhost. Raising his eyes, he quickly searched the slopes and heights of the hills west of the battlefield. There was no one to be seen. ‘They’re gone,’ he concluded.
‘Who?’ wondered Morann, hobbling up just then. He was bleeding from a nasty cut to his leg where a blade had slid off his shield. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Vainche, of course,’ growled Conor. ‘Who else?’
‘Both the Brigantes and the Darini gone,’ reported Toráin. Red-faced from his ride, he bent at the waist and gulped air. ‘I didn’t see them on the field, either.’
Lord Morann came running up just then. ‘What happened? Why did you break off the attack? We could have turned them. We could have driven them back.’
‘What happened?’ snarled Conor. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. Vainche withdrew his men from the fight and abandoned the field. He deserted us in the midst of battle—’
‘Aye,’ said Toráin, ‘and he took the Darini with him.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Traitor. If I see him again, I’ll kill him.’
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 11
