Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  'Which one is he?' he asked the Laird. The little man hawked and spat.

  'You see the giant in the mailshirt at the centre. Well just to his left. The man pointing up at the hillside.'

  'I see him. How do you wish to proceed, Laird?'

  The Pannone scratched his black beard and sat down on a rock. 'I think you should lead your men against the centre. My men will attack the hillsides. Then we will come at Connavar from three sides.'

  Shard said nothing, and surveyed the enemy lines once more. Armoured men lined the western hilltop. As far as he could make out there were some five hundred of them. However, there were trees behind them that could hide a thousand more. The men immediately surrounding Connavar were also protected by mailshirts, shields and helms, but the massed ranks of his army were tribesmen in cloth shirts, and cloaks of blue and green. Shard strolled back to the other side of the hilltop and looked down upon his own force. Ten thousand battle-hardened warriors, well armed with swords and axes. Most of them sported mailshirts, though none carried shields. Shields were clumsy objects at the best of times, and slowed the charge. The Pannone force of eight thousand were some two hundred paces west of his own men. Lightly armed, mostly with wooden spears, they stood nervously waiting for the action to begin.

  Strange, thought Shard, how an army always reflects the personality of its leader. These young tribesmen were brave enough, but they followed a nervous man, and that, by some indefinable magic, had transferred itself to the warriors under his command.

  Let them attack the hillsides, he thought. Whether they take them or not is a matter of small importance. Once we have crushed the centre, and taken Connavar, the rest will run. They will flee to the temporary sanctuary of Old Oaks. And I will burn them out.

  He wandered back to where the Laird stood staring malevolently at the Rigante ranks some half a mile away. 'Today you will have your vengeance,' said Shard, amiably.

  'Aye. He will pay for the murder of my brother laird. He will suffer for the children he slaughtered and the women he raped.'

  Shard had heard the tale of Connavar's revenge. He could not remember rape being part of it. 'He must have been a busy man that night,' he said. 'To kill all those people, burn the village and still have time for sport.'

  The Highland Laird was not listening. Shard's huge hand descended on the man's shoulder. 'It is two hours after dawn. Time, I think, to make war.'

  He saw the Laird swallow hard, then the little man marched down the hillside to join his men. Shard took one last look at the Rigante. They were waiting quietly. Some were sitting down. There was no feeling of panic among them, or at least none that he could detect from this distance.

  Shard strolled down the hillside to where his captains waited, grim and fierce-eyed men. Taking up his sword and helm Shard strode to the centre of his army, and bellowed: 'Are you ready for the Crows' Feast?' A great, bloodthirsty cry went up from the thousands around him. He waited for it to die down. 'Let the gods drink their fill!' he yelled, brandishing his sword and waving it in the direction of the enemy.

  The army began to move: slowly at first, then, feet pounding the hard earth, the Sea Wolves ran towards the enemy lines.

  Fiallach stood impassively on the western hilltop as the Sea Wolves charged. Beside him Govannan cleared his throat. 'I think there'll be a frost tonight,' he said, trying to sound unconcerned. 'You can feel it on the wind.'

  Fiallach laughed. 'Then I shall wrap up warm in a Sea Wolf's cloak.'

  The Pannones were charging now, coming straight at Fiallach's position. 'Bring out the horses,' he called. 'Hold them ready.'

  Govannan leaned in. 'I think Conn will be hard pressed to hold the Vars. That's a ferocious-looking bunch of bastards.'

  Hundreds of archers moved from the shadows of the trees, leading Gath warhorses. Fiallach's five hundred Iron Wolves drew back from the crest of the hill and mounted. The archers loped forward, strung their bows, and sent volley after volley of arrows into the advancing Pannones. Fiallach stepped into the saddle and cast a glance to the eastern hilltop. From here he could see Maccus following a similar strategy. Scores of Pannones fell, then scores more.

  The eastern hill was very steep and the enemy charge had slowed almost to a standstill. Within moments hundreds of Pannone fighting men were hit. Bodies rolled down the hill, impeding the advance still further, knocking men from their feet.

  On the valley floor the Sea Wolves were within two hundred paces of the Rigante line. Fiallach edged his horse forward. The archers on the hilltop ran back, passing between the horses. Fiallach drew his sabre. 'Now!' he shouted, kicking his horse into a run.

  Five hundred heavily armed riders swept over the brow of the hill, smashing into the Pannone ranks, cutting and killing. Stunned by the charge the enemy fell back, trying to regroup. But the horsemen followed them, harrying them mercilessly. Panic followed as the Iron Wolves continued their attack, and the battle on the hillside swiftly became a massacre.

  Fiallach spotted the Highland Laird fleeing towards the north. He longed to ride after him, but Conn's orders had been clear. Once the Pannones had been scattered Fiallach should turn his attention to the flanks of the main Vars force.

  Regrouping his riders, Fiallach swung them and launched an angled charge. The plan was for the Iron Wolves to strike the enemy like a knife whittling wood, at an acute angle. That way they would not be sucked into the centre of the enemy army, where the crush of bodies would take away their mobility.

  On the far side Maccus was riding his Horse Archers along the enemy's right flank, arrows slicing into their ranks.

  Twice Fiallach led charges. On the second he was almost unhorsed by a young axeman, who leapt at him, grabbing at his chainmail and trying to haul him from the saddle. Fiallach struck him in the face with his shield. As the man fell back Fiallach's horse stumbled, pitching him forward. Losing his grip on his sabre he grabbed at the gelding's mane. The axeman hit him a blow on the left shoulder, above his shield. Fiallach felt his collarbone snap. The gelding righted itself. Fiallach drew his stabbing sword, swung the gelding and thrust the blade through the axeman's throat. Then Govannan appeared alongside him, scattering the enemy, and Fiallach managed to gallop clear.

  In terrible pain he rode away from the enemy, then turned, his pale eyes scanning the battlefield. The Pannones had fled, but the Sea Wolves had pushed Conn further back into the land between the hills. Conn's centre was now looking concave, curved in like a bow. Sweat dripped into Fiallach's eyes.

  'What now?' asked Govannan, as the Iron Wolves gathered around Fiallach.

  'Time ... I think ... to ignore our orders,' said Fiallach, gritting his teeth against the grinding agony of the broken bone below his throat. 'We must get back to the hilltop and charge in across the fighting lines. Too . . . much pressure on Conn. The line is ready to give. Follow me!' Fiallach urged his gelding up the hillside. The pain was so great now that the Rigante warrior almost passed out. With great difficulty he slid the shield from his left arm, allowing it to drop to the ground. Then he tucked his left hand into his belt.

  Glancing down he saw the ferocious fighting between the hills. Conn and Ruathain were side by side now, the enemy set to sweep around them. Hundreds of Rigante warriors were dead. Even through his pain Fiallach could admire the power of Ruathain and Conn. They were immovable, standing firm against the horde, their swords slashing left and right. Fiallach rubbed sweat from his eyes.

  'Straight through the middle,' he told Govannan. 'Then dismount and form a fighting line with Conn.'

  'We're going to lose the horses,' said Govannan. 'They'll be cut to pieces.'

  'Better that than our men,' grunted Fiallach. 'Forward!'

  And the Iron Wolves charged down the slope.

  For the first time in more than a year Ruathain felt no pain in his chest, no weakness in his limbs. He was, he realized, as he watched the Sea Wolves advance, a man again, the First Swordsman of the Rigante, ready to oppose the enemies
of his people.

  His silver-streaked fair hair bound into a ponytail, his old, round iron helm upon his head, Ruathain stood beside his son, his double-handed longsword plunged into the ground before him.

  'Stay close to me, Conn!' he heard himself say. Conn did not reply. A round shield of bronze upon his left arm, the Seidh blade in his right hand, he was waiting calmly, his odd-coloured eyes focused on the screaming wall of men bearing down upon them.

  Ruathain hefted his blade, his large hands closing around the leatherbound hilt. The Sea Wolves were close now: tall men, fair haired and blue eyed. Hard and tough, raised in the barren lands of the fjords, they were born to be warriors. Ruathain could feel their arrogance, and their belief that they would sweep these tribesmen before them. He glanced at his son, remembering the last time he had stood beside a loved one and faced the rage of the Vars.

  The first ranks of the Rigante line leapt to meet the Sea Wolves, bright blades glittering. The speed and weight of the charge swept them aside. Ruathain gave a great battle cry and rushed forward, his sword splitting the skull of a tall, axe-bearing Sea Wolf. Conn was at his side, the Seidh blade cleaving through chainmail as if it were linen. The fifty Iron Wolves formed up on both sides of their laird, strong men with no give in them...

  The Vars charge faltered, like an angry wave striking a great rock. Ruathain kept close to Conn, always watching. Three times he leapt in to block men coming at Conn from the side.

  His strength had returned, and deep in his heart he blessed Meria for forcing this day upon him. Yes, it would have been good, he thought, to spend quiet years with his family, waiting for his diseased heart to fail as he sat in his chair staring at the mountains. But this was better. This was life! Not the killing and the terrified screams of dying men suddenly facing the awesome spectre of their own mortality. No, but to face his fears as a man, to stand at the brink of the abyss and refuse to be cowed or beaten down.

  The Sea Wolves surged again, sweeping around Conn and pushing back his guards. Ruathain spotted the danger and hurled himself forward, shoulder-barging one warrior aside then leaping high to kick another in the chest, powering him back into his fellows. Then he was beside his son. 'Back to back!' he shouted. Conn heard him, and the two men stood close, their swords slashing into the enemy warriors surging around them. Ruathain took several blows to his upper body, but the chainmail held. A knife blade sliced into his calf, cutting deep. Ruathain glanced down and saw that a mortally wounded Vars had crawled in to stab him. The Big Man sent a scything cut across the man's throat, then raised his sword swiftly to block a wild sweep from a second warrior.

  Conn's Iron Wolves surged forward again, pushing back the Vars momentarily, and giving Conn and Ruathain the chance to retreat further into the line. Some of the Vars were climbing the eastern hill now, seeking to encircle the defenders. Ruathain saw Maccus and his Horse Archers thunder up the slope to cut them off.

  He glanced again at Conn. His son was covered in blood, his face and beard splattered with crimson. Conn stepped back, swiftly glancing left and right, then back towards the rear, gauging the strength of his remaining fighters. A Vars swordsman ran at him. Ruathain blocked him, killing him with a terrible stroke that swept through his shoulder and down into his heart.

  The battle had reached a crucial point now. If the Vars continued to push on they would breach the line, cutting Conn's forces in two. This would give them greater heart, and sap the morale of the Rigante. If they could be held for a little while longer their arrogance would start to fade and they would begin to know fear. The entire outcome of this blood-drenched day might, Ruathain knew, rest on the events of the next few minutes. Conn knew it too, and recklessly charged into the opposing line, trusting his men to follow.

  The remnants of the Iron Wolves, no more than twenty men, led by Ruathain, rushed in with him. Conn's battle fury was such that he cut his way deep into the enemy ranks. Ruathain battled desperately to join him. A spear took Conn in the chest, throwing him from his feet. Ruathain bellowed a battle cry and surged forward, his sword chopping through the arm of the spearman, who fell back screaming to be trampled by his comrades.

  Ruathain's huge form stood over the fallen Conn, his two-handed sword slashing and cutting. Conn rolled to his knees, gathered up his blade and rose alongside his father. A sword clanged against Ruathain's helm, dislodging it. The Big Man staggered. A second blow slashed towards his unprotected head. Conn parried it, giving Ruathain time to cut the swordsman from his feet.

  They heard the thunder of hooves and Ruathain risked a glance to his right.

  Fiallach's warriors speared into the Vars ranks, scattering men before them. The pressure at the centre eased, as the Sea Wolves swung towards this new enemy. The horsemen ploughed on. Several horses fell, pitching their riders into the Vars ranks, where they were hacked to death. But then Fiallach reached the centre and jumped from the saddle, wincing as he hit the ground. The Iron Wolves dismounted around Conn, allowing the horses to run free.

  All was confusion now, and Ruathain welcomed the time gained, for he was breathing heavily and needed a rest. He looked back towards the south. Wing should have sent more men by now, but none had arrived as yet.

  Suddenly he thought of Bendegit Bran. He too had been left behind at Old Oaks, on the insistence of Meria. The boy had been furious. Ruathain realized then that he had not said his farewells to his sons. The thought saddened him.

  Then the Vars attacked again. Ruathain pushed himself into the line alongside Fiallach and Conn. His strength was back, and there was still no pain.

  The feel of the battle was changing now. The Rigante had held the charge, and though they had taken fearful losses they were now pushing back the Vars. The Sea Wolves could sense it too. No longer were they fighting to conquer, but to stay alive.

  Maccus, his archers having loosed every shaft, rode behind the lines, dismounting his men. They gathered up weapons from the fallen and ran to join the fighting.

  Ruathain's left calf had begun to seize up now. His boot was full of blood and he was limping badly. Conn ordered him back, but Ruathain shook his head. Then the fighting swept over them once more.

  Ruathain took a blow to the head from the flat of a sword blade. He reeled back and fell. Two Iron Wolves hauled him to his feet, but he stumbled again. He thought he could hear horses and squinted back towards the south.

  Hundreds of riders were galloping their ponies towards the battle. In the lead he saw the golden hair of Bendegit Bran. Ruathain staggered back towards them, waving his hand towards the eastern hill. Bran saw him and swerved his mount, leading the riders up the hillside, where they dismounted and charged down to strike the enemy's left flank.

  The Vars pulled back, trying to reform.

  Their allies had fled. They were now outnumbered. They simply could not win. For a while they fought on, then the line broke and the survivors turned and fled, running back towards the north.

  The Rigante did not follow.

  Ruathain watched them go. He was tired now, bone weary. He plunged his blade into the ground before him and sat down on a rock. Conn walked back to him. 'Well, Big Man, so much for geasas,' he said.

  'Aye, I'll drink to that,' said Ruathain. 'Did you see Bran lead the charge? By Heaven, boy, he'll be a man to match the mountains.'

  Conn sat down beside the Big Man. 'I lost count of the number of times you saved me today.'

  'I feel I owed it to your father. He truly was the finest of men, Conn.'

  'You are the finest of men. But I'll honour him in my mind from now on.'

  'That would please me, son.'

  Bendegit Bran came strolling up, a broad smile on his handsome face. 'Almost missed the victory,' he said.

  Conn knew exactly what the Big Man was going to say. So did Bran, who looked at his older brother and winked.

  'I'm proud of you, lad,' said Ruathain, drawing the youngster into a hug. The boy grinned, then kissed his father's bearded cheek. 'Has
there ever been a time when you were not proud of me?' he asked.

  'Not that I recall,' said Ruathain, with a grin.

  'I need to check on the wounded,' said Conn. 'Come with me, Bran. You can explain why you're here against my orders.'

  Ruathain watched them walk away, saw Conn drape his arm around Bran's shoulder. The sun broke out through the clouds as he gazed with great pride on his sons.

  Resting his arms on the quillons of his sword Ruathain gazed around the battlefield, then at the distant mountains.

  This has been a good day, he thought.

  The death toll was chilling. Just under three thousand Rigante warriors, including two hundred and twenty of Conn's Iron Wolves. A further two thousand had suffered serious wounds, some requiring amputation. No-one counted the bodies of the Pannone and Sea Wolves. By Conn's order they were stripped of all armour and weapons, then the bodies hauled to deep pits that were being dug.

  Conn walked with Bran to where Fiallach, stripped to the waist, was having his broken shoulder reset and strapped. 'And here's another man,' said Conn, with a smile, 'who knows when to disobey a perfectly good order.' Fiallach's face was grey with pain, his eyes dark ringed.

  'Too damned close for my liking,' he said. 'I've sent Govannan and those of our men who still had warhorses to harry the enemy, driving them further north.'

  'You told him not to allow himself to be drawn into a pitched battle?'

  'I did. He knows better than that.'

  Conn crouched down before the injured man. 'You did fine. Very fine. You are my General of Wolves now.'

  Fiallach's face relaxed, and he smiled. 'You trusted me, Conn. I'll not forget that.'

  Conn and Bran wandered away. Three druids had appeared, two of them Pannone, the third being Brother Solstice. They were tending the wounded, along with several women who had arrived from a nearby Rigante settlement.