Stay close? thought Bridei. That’s a joke. He scrambled up the rise to Breth’s side, readied his own bow, began to loose his shafts with care; the slightest miscalculation and the arrow intended for a hulking warrior of the Gaels might instead pierce the breast of one of their own comrades.
“Over to the south,” muttered Breth. “See, beyond the main mass of Ged’s men? Give Fokel cover.”
From here it was just possible to see what Fokel was doing, though in the press of the battle all had seemed random, the pattern of the day’s conflict reduced to a single man with a big knife who was trying to kill you, another with a spear who had just killed your comrade. Down there all was moment to moment, strike, breathe, survive, press on. From the little rise, Bridei saw that Talorgen’s forces were making slower progress now; they were barely past the stream bed, facing a sizeable number of Gaels, and many men from both sides lay prone or writhed on the ground, their moans drowned by the shouting of exhortation or insult, the clash of blades, the whistling of arrows.
Ged and Morleo were doing little better. Their forces, somewhat farther from the settlement walls, were bearing the brunt of the archers’ work. From down there none of them could see Fokel and his small band of fighters. Fokel had taken his men far upstream, and now they snaked their way back on the other side, making use of the bushes that grew on the banks for cover, edging ever closer to the chaos before the gates.
Following Breth’s lead, Bridei sighted and loosed an arrow and another, trying for the Gaels at the back of the throng, those most likely to be in the way when Fokel’s men broke cover and surged up the hill toward the walls. It was crazy; it was just the sort of thing Fokel could be expected to do. Likely his entire squad would be picked off before they reached the enemy positions. Still, that man whose chest Bridei’s arrow had just pierced would not see them coming. Nor would the fellow Breth got in the eye, nor that one, nor that . . .
“Always said you were a good archer in the making,” muttered Breth, sighting and loosing again.
“How many arrows have you got left?” Bridei asked him.
“Two. Here.”
They shot together; a pair of Gaels fell. Then it was down the hill again, into the nightmare. Donal was nowhere in sight; Gartnait, too, had disappeared in the melee. Talorgen, shadowed by Garth, was using his sword to devastating effect; this was a leader ready to put his life on the line with his men’s. Ged’s forces, bright tunics now spattered with blood, their own, the enemy’s, were across the stream and making progress up the hill. And now, beyond the seething mass of men, something new could be seen. From within the neat palisade of sharpened staves came a brilliant glow of light, a harsh crackling and the voices of women raised in screams of alarm. Fokel’s men had set fire to the settlement. Their creeping approach had brought them within range; flaming arrows had done the rest.
The archers on the upper walkways ran, deserting their posts; quenching the blaze was more urgent. Grimly, the Gaels on the ground held their positions. Perhaps it was their wives, their children in there where flames caught hungrily at grain store and tannery and sleeping quarters, where folk scurried desperately for buckets, where lads too small to fight set their puny arms to pumps, where women used sacks and blankets to beat at the engulfing flames. The men fought on, hard-faced, as the smoke blew over the battlefield, bathing sword and spear, splintering shield and blood-drenched banner in an eerie half-light, rose and gold and shadow gray.
Bridei had not carried a thrusting-spear; he had a short sword, a knife, and his bow, now useless unless he could scavenge a new supply of arrows. It became impossible to see what was happening; to know what the leaders wanted them to do. It became purely moving forward in a general direction of uphill and managing not to be killed. It was one small desperate battle, then another and another. Bridei made use of both sword and dagger. There was a young warrior, a Gael, with a hideous wound to the stomach, his entrails dangling, his face whey-pale with terror. Bridei had not thought he could reach down and slit a man’s throat in pity but, when it came to it, he did so without hesitation, muttering a prayer to whatever gods this fellow believed in, Take his hand.
After a long time, a very long time in which his body simply moved on, wielding weapons in the well-drilled patterns, thrusting, dodging, stabbing, and his eyes stung with smoke and sweat and tears, and his throat grew painful with shouting, it became evident the tide had turned. Up ahead through the curtain of gray could be seen a bright flowering of fire, and silhouetted against it were, not the Gaels of Galany’s Reach in implacable defensive array, but Fokel’s wild warriors, all bared teeth and long serrated knives, moving down on the enemy from behind like vengeful furies. It was a terrible sight; that they were on Bridei’s own side made it no less so. Fokel’s band cut down all in their path. They fought with a savage efficiency that brought to mind the fiercest of forest predators, perhaps a great wildcat, blank-eyed at the moment its jaws close on the neck of the quarry, knowing nothing but the smell of blood.
Bridei found himself right on the edge of this grim onslaught, exchanging sword thrusts with a broad shouldered warrior of Dalriada while beside him Fokel held a prisoner in a ferocious lock, twisting the fellow’s arm behind his back and forcing the Gael to his knees before him. Fokel poised his knife before the captive’s eyes. Bridei’s own attacker was a solid man, leather helmed, his hair as red and wild as the fire that now devoured home and family behind him. Bridei read on his weary face that he no longer cared if he lived or died. Still he fought grimly on; both taller and broader than Bridei, the only advantage he did not have was youthful agility.
In the back of Bridei’s mind was the fire; the need to get the women and children out now, before it was too late. Talorgen should give the order. He should send men up there. If he did not do so soon, all would perish, and the Priteni would prove themselves no less barbarous than their enemy . . .
“Ah!” Bridei gasped as pain lanced through his thigh; his opponent’s sword had slashed him, drawing blood, and he staggered. The Gael raised his weapon anew, aiming for the neck this time. Bridei did not stop to think. He threw himself to one side, ducked, turned, and thrust hard. It was over before the fellow had time to blink. The warrior fell forward, a surprised look on his face and Bridei’s sword lodged hilt-deep in his chest.
Bridei knelt, breathing hard; rolled the dead man over and extracted the weapon glistening with blood. He reached to wipe it on grass already besmeared with any manner of unspeakable things. In the instant that he moved, he saw a man rising from the ground behind the bending Fokel, a man in whose hands was a spiked club poised to descend with crushing impact on the chieftain’s head.
Bridei leaped. His body slammed into Fokel’s, sending them both crashing to the ground and out of range. The club fell, delivering a stunning blow to the Gael who had been Fokel’s prisoner, the one who, a moment earlier, had been facing the point of a sharp knife. That weapon would no longer be necessary; the club had smashed the fellow’s skull. Bridei was sprawled across Fokel, face down in the blood and mud of the battlefield. He drew a deep breath; felt his heart racing and bade it slow. He rose to his feet, every joint aching, and reached out a hand to Fokel. Behind him, the Gael who had wielded the club and killed one of his own now lay on the ground, his body pierced by no less than three Priteni spears.
“Black Crow save us!” spluttered Fokel as he got to his feet and retrieved the dagger he had dropped. “You young fool! Are you completely out of your mind?”
Bridei looked at him. He could think of nothing to say. The battle seemed to be moving away from them; through the thick smoke, he could see small groups of men still locked in their own particular nightmares, but there seemed now to be a general movement up the hill toward the burning settlement. He could hear Morleo’s deep voice shouting orders, and could see the banner of Fortriu, white with the royal symbols in blue, held high amid a crowd of cheering men.
“Didn’t you see the knife in my hand? You
came within a whisker of getting that right through the neck!” Fokel said, sticking the weapon in his belt and giving the fallen Gael a token kick. “Who taught you to fight, a lunatic?”
Bridei smiled. “A man called Donal. He’s about as far from a lunatic as you could get.”
“What’s your name, lad?” Fokel was not a man who could ever appear friendly; his face was like a wild creature’s, wary and dangerous even in moments of repose. Still, it seemed to Bridei that the chieftain was not displeased, for all the manner of his words.
“Bridei, son of Maelchon. I am the foster son of Broichan, the king’s druid.”
“Broichan, eh?” Fokel’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe that explains it. Not a lucky chance, but a calculated risk. I see I’ll have to watch you, young Bridei.”
“My lord.” Bridei bowed his head courteously.
Fokel startled him by bursting into laughter. “Such lovely manners, and such rash acts on the field! You are a rare one! Sure you don’t want to join the wild men of Five Sisters, lad? No, no, don’t bother to find a courteous reply, no doubt your druid has other things in mind for you. Now, let’s be moving. It looks like this is over, and I want to be inside those walls before too many of the men are; there’s a fire to be put out and order to be restored.”
He began to walk up the hill, glancing over his shoulder as he did. After a moment Bridei followed him. It did seem to be over. Now that it was, he was beginning to feel very odd indeed.
“I owe you a favor, druid’s foster son,” Fokel said. “Let me know when it’s time. The chieftain of Galany always pays his debts.”
Bridei was inclined to a polite demurral such as, “It was nothing,” or “There’s no need,” but he merely nodded and walked on. This was a pact between men; not to accept would be an insult.
It came to Bridei, after that, that it was not the battle itself that was so hard to come to terms with; it had passed in a haze of frenzied, chaotic action, of choices made so fast there had scarcely been time to think what they meant, a whirlwind of time, of pounding heart and panting breath, of bodies torn between the cold sweat of utter terror and the rushing exhilaration that is the other side of fear. Its gruesome sights were still in his mind somewhere and would no doubt return redoubled in his dreams. In the midst of it all, he had seen them and simply moved on to what was next.
The harder part came when the fighting was over; when the heart slowed and the breath steadied. Then the mind came back to itself and the eyes began to see with balance and consideration. It was then, walking through what remained of the settlement at Galany’s Reach, that Bridei began to recognize the true meaning of war.
Morleo’s men were putting out the fire. They had brought down a long section of burning staves and demolished the huts that had been crowded in behind; water was conveyed in buckets, men standing in line to pass them, while others beat at the flames or shoveled earth to smother them. Here and there, blankets covered still forms on the grass; at the end of one such bundle a small bare foot protruded. There were men of Talorgen’s here now; Bridei saw a young fellow he had trained with sitting bent over with his head in his hands, wracked by violent spasms as if with an ague. Beside him squatted the big warrior Breth, his quiet voice a counterpoint to the youth’s helpless sobbing. A light rain began to fall; soon the blaze would be quenched. Morleo’s men worked on, orderly, disciplined.
Ged’s warriors were outside the gates, finishing off the last of the opposition. A party of Talorgen’s men could be seen beginning to scour the field for their own wounded. Some, surely, must already have been sent up here to evacuate women, children, and old men, to take prisoners and to flush out any pockets of resistance.
Bridei followed Fokel through the splintered gates and into a settlement eerily darkened by the haze of smoke, the air dense with particles of drifting ash and glowing cinders. The chance of spot fires flaring seemed high, despite the rain; while some of the houses were built of stone, many were mere hovels of mud and wattles, and it had already been demonstrated how fiercely that outer wall could burn. The pathways between were narrow, of beaten earth; here and there hens squawked hysterically and pigs added their own resonant complaints. There was no sound of women’s voices now, nor children’s, only the shouts of Morleo’s men working on the fire and the more distant, deadlier sounds from beyond the wall, where even now the husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers of Galany’s Reach lay dying. No; that was wrong. What had Donal said? You couldn’t let yourself think that way. Start seeing your enemy as a real man, a man like yourself, and you could never bring yourself to stick the knife in his guts. And if you couldn’t do that in the heat of battle, you would lose. It would be you who would die, and in time all that you cared about would die as well. So, forget sons, brothers, fathers. Think only, the enemy. Remind yourself that they had stolen the Mage Stone, and that they deserved to die.
Bridei managed to hold that in his mind just as long as it took to reach a fork in the path.
“You go right, I’ll go left,” Fokel said. “Check for survivors. The whole place might go up, Morleo or no Morleo. Anyone you find, get them out that gate while there’s still time. If their chieftain’s still alive, he’s mine.” Just in case there was any doubt about his meaning, he bared his teeth in a ferocious grin and made a sharp gesture, fingers across throat. Then he headed off up the left path, vanishing into the smoke.
The way seemed deserted. Bridei moved forward cautiously, sword in hand, knowing such a patrol should be carried out by two men at least and better four: one to batter doors down, one to cover him as he did so, two to wait, weapons in hand, for whatever might emerge. On his own, he wouldn’t be breaking down any doors. Instead he hammered on them one after another, shouting, “Out! Quick! Fire!” and silently thanking his old tutor Wid for the few words he’d imparted in the tongue of the Gaels.
No sign of life. Where only threadbare curtains hung across the meager entries, he made himself draw them aside, look in, scan the gloomy interiors for crouching children or huddled women. He found none. He walked on, heart gripped by a mounting unease that had little to do with the fact that he was alone in a place where well-armed Gaels could be waiting, concealed, until he moved closer, and a lot more to do with the instincts of a mind and body druid-trained. Something was wrong here; he felt it.
He rounded a corner and found himself in an open space, a meeting place around which the modest buildings clustered. A haze from the fire hung over all, but Bridei could see a plum tree in early blossom and by it a cross made of stone, with snakelike patterns carved on it. Beyond, he heard men’s voices laughing, speaking in his own tongue, and saw movement half shrouded by the pall of smoke. Bridei moved forward, passing the cross, and halted abruptly.
The women and children who had been hiding in those wretched small dwellings were all gathered here now, crowded up against a wall, pressing back on one another to escape a semicircle of Priteni weapons aimed toward them. A young mother clutched a squalling babe in her arms, her face contorted by terror and rage. An old woman crouched, enfolding two wailing children. Others stood silent, ashen-faced. Bridei stared, disbelieving. The men who had herded them here and now held them at spear point were not Fokel’s wild warriors, those commonly thought capable of almost anything. They were not Ged’s brightly clad followers, nor the forces of Morleo of Long” water, all of whom were busy with the fire. These warriors were Talorgen’s. And although their weapons were pointed at their pitiful clutch of prisoners, it was not at these the men were looking. Not far off, two Priteni warriors held a young woman pinned against the wall, and a third, barebuttocked, was fumbling with her long skirt. More stood behind him, watching with grins on their faces.
Outrage seized Bridei’s heart; his fingers tightened on his sword and he opened his mouth to roar he knew not what, a string of curses, an order, something they would not heed, since he was young, unknown, untried. An instant later, Broichan’s teaching asserted itself along with Donal’s, and he fo
und himself possessed by a cold calm. He walked forward, weapon in hand.
“By all that is sacred,” he said, and felt in his voice some little echo of the power Broichan summoned at the great rituals, a depth that came from realms beyond the merely human. “In the name of the Shining One and the vows you have made to serve your king in courage and truth, let this woman go at once!” He strode toward the half-naked soldier, raising the sword. “Leave off! Is this the act of a true warrior of the Flamekeeper? You two, release her!”
The fellow stepped back, cheeks flaming with what might have been either shame or merely frustration. The men who had been holding the woman released her arms and she subsided to a crouch, hands over her face as if this might make her invisible.
“Who do you think you are?” challenged one of the men who had stood behind. “Some sort of self-appointed chieftain?”
“They’re scum,” said another. “What else are they good for?”
“That’s right,” said the first. “It’s been a long time, druid’s boy. You wouldn’t know, I suppose. Scarcely out of swaddling yourself. You should watch and learn—”
“Enough!” Bridei’s voice was quieter now, but there was something in it that silenced them. “You know this is wrong. It mocks your comrades’ bravery on the field of battle; it shames those of our men who have fallen. The Shining One would look down on this with horror; you cannot say you fight in her name when you commit such deeds.” He held out a hand to the crouching woman, thinking to help her to her feet. She raised her head and spat at him, her red-rimmed eyes bright with hate. He wondered how many would have abused her, here with her friends looking on, perhaps her mother, her children, if he had not arrived in time.
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