Ironhand's Daughter

by David Gemmell

  Instead he held her to him and listened to her soft breathing.

  “Will you hold, Fell?”

  Aye, he thought, I will hold.

  The loss of a group of his scouts was not entirely unexpected, and the Baron had dispatched four more men to scout the Duane Pass. Only one returned—and he had an arrow wound high on the right shoulder.

  “Well?” asked the Baron.

  The man’s face was grey, and he was in great pain. “As you predicted, lord, they have taken up a position on the flat hill. A wall of shields. I estimate there are almost three thousand warriors there.”

  “Their full force?” The Baron laughed and turned to his officers. “See what happens when a woman leads? What fools they are!” Swinging again to the wounded scout, he asked, “What of the western slope?”

  “Around a hundred men hidden in the trees. I got pretty close before they saw me.”

  “To the east?”

  “I saw no one, sir.”

  “Good. Go and get that wound seen to.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The Baron gathered his officers around him. “You have all studied the maps, and you will realize that their position is a strong one. We must first encircle the hill; that will stretch us thin in places, but it is too high for them to make a swift sally down upon us.” He fixed his attention on a tall, lean cavalryman. “Chaldis, you will take half the cavalry and a thousand foot. Kill the defenders on the western slope and attack their encampment and the surrounding Pallides villages.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Chaldis responded.

  “Where is Cheops?” asked the Baron.

  “Here, my lord,” answered a short, stocky figure in a uniform of brown leather, pushing forward from the back.

  “You will take your archers to the eastern slope and pepper them. I will initiate attacks from the western side. Be wary, Cheops. I would sooner your arrows fell a little short than sailed over the defenders and struck our own men. Nothing so demoralizes a fighting man as to fear death from the shafts of his own archers.”

  “You can rely on us, my lord.”

  “Leofric, you will command the cavalry wing. Skirt the hill and continue sporadic raids from the north side. Use only the heaviest armored lancers. The enemy will have good bowmen on that hilltop. Do not push too far. Hit hard, then break away. It will be the infantry who apply the hammer blow.”

  “Understood, my lord.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the Baron with a rare smile. “A magnificent opportunity lies ahead of us. In the south there is a great panic concerning these rebel Highlanders, and when we have defeated them the King will make sure you are rewarded for your efforts. But remember this, though they are barbarians and scum they still know how to fight. I want the woman alive; I will send her in chains to the capital. As to the rest, slaughter them to a man. God is with us, gentlemen. Now let us be about our duties.”

  The Baron strode to his tent and ducked below the flap. Once inside he turned his attention to the Highlander, sitting flanked by two guards. The man was of medium height, with greasy dark hair and a wide mouth. He did not look the Baron in the eye.

  “Your information was correct,” said the Baron. “The bitch has fortified the hilltop.”

  “As I told you, my lord,” said Bakris Tooth-gone, starting to rise from his chair. But a soldier pressed his hand on Bakris’s shoulder, easing him back into the seat.

  “Treachery always fascinates me,” said the Baron, flicking his fingers and pointing to a jug of wine. A servant filled a goblet and passed it to his lord; the Baron sipped it. “Why would one of Sigarni’s captains betray her?”

  “It’s a lost cause, my lord,” said Bakris bitterly. “They’re all going to die. And I want to live. What’s wrong with that? In this life a man must look out for himself. I’ve never had nothing. Now by your leave, I’ll have some gold and some land.”

  “Gold and land,” echoed the Baron. “I have sworn to see every Highlander slain and you are a Highlander. Why should I not kill you?”

  Bakris grinned, showing stained and broken teeth. “You won’t get them all in this one battle, lord. I know all the hiding places. I was a forester; I can lead your soldiers to where they run to. And I’ll serve you well, lord.”

  “I think you will,” the Baron agreed.

  Three servants set about dressing the Baron in his black armor, buckling his breastplate, hooking the gorget into place, attaching his greaves and hinged knee protectors. Accoutred for war, he strode to his black stallion and was helped into the saddle.

  Touching heels to the stallion’s flanks, he rode to the front of the battle line and lifted his arm.

  The army moved on toward the mouth of the Duane Pass.

  To the Baron’s surprise there were no flights of arrows from the rearing cliff faces on either side, nor any sign of defenders on the gentle slopes to left and right. Ahead the sun glimmered on the shield wall of the defenders, as they ringed the flat-topped hill half a mile distant.

  A long time ago the Outlanders themselves had employed the shield-ring defense. It was strong against cavalry, but weak against a concerted attack from infantry, with support from archers. Bowmen could send volley after volley of arrows over the shields, cutting away at the heart of the defenders.

  The Baron rode on. Now he could see the tightly packed clansmen, and just make out the silver-armored figure standing in the front line.

  I should be grateful to you, he thought, for you have made my glory all the greater. Swinging in the saddle, he glanced back at his fighting men. If the losses were too light the victory would appear shallow, too high and he would be deemed an incompetent. Around three hundred dead would be perfect, he thought.

  Leofric rode past him on the right, leading the cavalry in columns of three. On the left, Chaldis led his fifteen hundred men up the western slope to the enemy’s right. “That’s good, Chaldis,” shouted the Baron admiringly. “Let them see where you are heading; it will give them time to think about the fate of their wives and sons. Fire some buildings as soon as you can. I want them to see the smoke!”

  “Aye, my lord,” the captain replied.

  The Baron rode on, leading his infantry to the foot of the hill but remaining out of bowshot. Custom demanded that he give the enemy the opportunity to surrender, but today was not a time to consider custom. Good God, they might accept!

  Glancing to his right, he saw Cheops and his fifteen hundred lightly armored archers toiling up the slope. Each man carried thirty shafts. Four thousand five hundred sharp missiles to rain down upon the unprotected defenders!

  The Baron ordered the encirclement of the hill and the three thousand remaining infantrymen, holding tightly to their formations, spread out to obey.

  There was no movement from the defenders, and no sound. No harsh, boastful challenges, no jeering. It was unusual. The Baron could see the woman, Sigarni, moving among the men. The helm she wore was truly magnificent and would make a fine trophy.

  Dark storm clouds obscured the sun, and a rumble of distant thunder could be heard from the north. “The Gods of War are preparing for the feast!” he shouted. “Let us not disappoint them.”

  Fell waited behind the cover of the trees, Torgan beside him. They could not yet see the lancers, but they could hear the thundering of their hooves on the hard-packed earth of the hill. Fell glanced to his right, and saw the Highlanders notching arrows to their bows. To his left the swordsmen waited, their two-handed claymores held ready. Five hundred fighting men, ready to defend their homes, their families, and their clans.

  The first of the lancers breasted the hill: tall men on high horses, their breastplates shining like silver in the sunlight, their long lances glittering. Each man carried a figure-of-eight shield on his left arm. They were still traveling in a column of fours, but as they reached open ground they spread out. The officer drew rein, shading his eyes to study the tree line.

  Fifty Highlanders moved out onto open grou
nd and loosed their longbows. Some of the shafts struck home, and several men and half a dozen horses fell, but most were blocked by the shields of the lancers. Leveling their lances, the riders charged.

  “Now?” whispered Torgan.

  “No,” Fell told him. “Wait until they are closer.”

  The fifty exposed Highland bowmen continued to loose shaft after shaft at the oncoming riders. Horses tumbled under the deadly volleys, but the lancers rode on. The distance closed between them, until no more than thirty paces separated the two groups.

  “Now!” said Fell. Torgan lifted his hunting horn to his lips and blew two short blasts. Another hundred bowmen ran from the trees to stand beside their comrades. Hundreds of shafts tore into the lancers; the charging line faltered as the missiles slashed home into unprotected horseflesh. Horses reared and fell, bringing down following riders. Amid the sudden confusion the Highland swordsmen charged from cover, screaming their battle cries. The lancers panicked, though many tried to swing to meet this unexpected attack. Horses reared, throwing their riders, then the Highlanders were among the lancers, dragging riders from their saddles and hacking them to death upon the ground.

  Among the first to die was the enemy officer, hit by four shafts, one taking him through his right eye. The horsemen at the rear pulled back, galloping toward the safety of open ground. Torgan blew three blasts on his horn, and a chasing group of Highlanders reluctantly halted and jogged back to the tree line.

  Over the hilltop marched a thousand Outland infantry, flanked by a score of archers. They drew up and surveyed the scene of carnage, then locked shields and advanced in broad battle formation, one hundred shields wide, ten deep.

  “More than we thought would come,” said Torgan.

  “They can’t hold that formation within the woods,” said Fell. “Fall back fifty paces.”

  Torgan’s hunting horn sounded once more, in one long baleful note.

  Highland archers continued to shoot into the advancing mass of men, but to little effect. Some fell, but the infantry held their long rectangular shields high and most of the shafts bounced from them.

  The lancers had re-formed now, and galloped forward to try an encircling sweep of the woods. Obrin and two hundred riders countercharged them from the left, cleaving into their flank, hacking and cutting. The lances of the Outland riders were useless in such close quarters and they frantically threw aside their long weapons, drawing their sabers. But this second attack demoralized them, and they were pushed steadily back.

  The Outland infantry slowed its advance, their leader unsure whether to push into the trees or swing and defend the beleaguered cavalry.

  “Come on, you bastard!” whispered Fell. “Come to us!”

  The line began to move once more, the formation breaking into a skirmish line as each of the soldiers increased the distance between himself and his fellows by around three feet. Fell was forced to admire the smoothness of the switch from tight ranks to open formation.

  These were enemies to respect.

  Less able to protect one another in this new formation, however, the Outlanders began to take heavy losses from the retreating archers.

  “This is it,” Fell told Torgan. “By God, we’d better get it right!” Torgan gave a wide grin, and sprinted off to the left where his hundred men waited. With a harsh battle cry Torgan led his warriors in a frenzied assault on the enemy’s right flank, just as they crossed the tree line. Fell saw the Farlain leader push himself deep into the fray, his claymore rising and falling with deadly skill.

  Drawing his own sword, Fell signaled his own hundred and they crept through the undergrowth toward the enemy’s left flank. Outnumbered ten to one, Torgan’s men were being driven back as the wings of the Outland force pushed out to encircle the defenders.

  With all attention on the right Fell charged the left, his claymore smashing through a soldier’s helm and scattering his brains over his comrades. The Outlanders fell back but re-formed smoothly, trying to close ranks. The thick undergrowth and the trunks of tall trees prevented them re-forming into a tight single unit and the Highlanders, unencumbered by heavy armor, tore at them like wolves around a stag at bay.

  A sword flashed for Fell’s face. Swaying aside, he swept up a vicious two-handed cut that glanced from the tip of the soldier’s shield and smashed into his cheekbone. The soldier was punched from his feet by the blow.

  On the right Torgan had pulled back his men. Some Outlanders had given chase, but Torgan swung back his group and cut them down.

  Out on open ground the lancers broke into a full retreat. Obrin made no attempt to give chase, but gathered his men and galloped for the woods. Leaping from their horses, the Highlanders ran to the aid of their comrades. Torgan saw them coming and blew on his horn. Highland archers dropped their bows, drew their swords, and joined him.

  Again he charged the enemy right, and such was the ferocity of the charge that the Outlanders buckled and broke, losing formation. Beside him the giant Mereth, wielding a club of oak reinforced with iron studs, hammered his way forward with Loran beside him.

  “Pallides! Pallides!” roared Mereth.

  Torgan hurdled a fallen tree and shoulder-charged an Outland soldier. The man staggered back, falling into his comrades. Torgan’s claymore sang through the air as three men hurled themselves at him. He blocked the lunge of the first, all but decapitating him with a reverse cut. The second man’s sword cut into Torgan’s side, the third aimed a blow at his face. It was blocked by an upraised sword, and Torgan saw Obrin smash the man from his feet.

  Ignoring his own wound, Torgan leaped once more into the action. To his right Mereth was surrounded by swordsmen, but was holding them at bay with great sweeps of his murderous club. “Farlain!” shouted Torgan, rushing to his aid. Several men followed him, including Loran. An arrow sliced by Torgan’s cheek, taking Loran in the side of the neck; the handsome Pallides staggered to his right and fell. Ignoring the bowmen Torgan raced into the fray, ducking beneath a wild sweep and slashing his sword through the knee of the wielder; the leg broke with a sickening snap and the swordsman fell, screaming. Mereth bellowed a war cry and ran at a second group of men. One of them rammed a spear through the giant’s belly and Mereth staggered to a stop. Then his club swept up and across to smash the skull of the spear-wielder. A sword clove into Mereth’s bull neck. Blood spurted from the severed jugular as Torgan stabbed his own sword into the killer’s belly.

  On the left Fell was battling furiously. Here the Outlanders retained at least a semblance of order, and were pulling back toward open ground. Again and again Fell led his men in increasingly desperate charges.

  But there were fewer of them now. Obrin and twenty Highlanders ran to his aid. Fell had been cut on the right cheek, and blood was flowing from a deep wound in his thigh. His claymore, though, felt light in his hand as he charged again, Obrin beside him.

  “Don’t let them re-form!” he bellowed.

  The archer captain Cheops reached the crest of the eastern slope and glanced across at the enemy defensive wall. Beyond that he could see the cavalry charging the woods. It was all going well; the range from his position to the enemy was less than two hundred yards, well within killing distance. It was hot, and today would be thirsty work. Glancing behind him he saw a heavy stand of gorse, and beyond it a grove of trees.

  “You!” he shouted to a young recruit. “Go back into the trees and see if there’s a stream or a pond. If there is, you can refill our canteens.”

  “Yes, sir!” the boy called out, setting off at a run.

  Cheops strung his longbow. He had made it himself five years ago, a splendid weapon tipped with horn. Pulling his shafts from his quiver, he pushed them point first into the earth. For some reason that Cheops had never been able to fathom, arrowheads with a little clay stuck to them pierced armor all the better.

  Selecting his first shaft, he notched it to the bow. There was little point in trying to select a target, since he would have to a
rc the arrow over the shield wall. Still, the Highlanders were densely packed on the hilltop, and any hit would be an advantage. Cheops drew back on the string and sent the shaft in a long, looping flight.

  This was going to be a good day. No sign of rain to warp the arrows. Not much wind.

  His archers gathered on both sides of him, selecting their arrows and removing their cloaks.

  It was all so easy . . .

  Idly he wondered why the Highland bitch had decided to make a stand here.

  Cheops did not have long to wait for an answer. From behind there came a scream and he swung around to see the boy he had sent looking for water running for all he was worth. The lad had discarded his longbow, which amazed Cheops, for the loss of a weapon meant a thirty-lash flogging. What had he seen? A bear?

  The boy glanced back as he ran and tripped, rolling headlong. Gripped by panic, he scrambled to his feet. From the gorse and the undergrowth came thousands of Highland warriors.

  Cheops stood transfixed. It was not possible. They had an army of three thousand—and there were at least that many on the hilltop opposite.

  Impossible or not, they were here!

  “Back! Back!” yelled Cheops. His men hardly needed the order. Lightly armed with bow and knife, they were no match for sword-wielding warriors and began to stream back down the hill, leaving their arrows stuck in the soft earth. The Highlanders poured after them.

  Cheops hurled aside his longbow and pumped his arms for extra speed. Ahead he could see the Baron, directing an attack on the western side of the hilltop.

  The Baron swung around, and stood openmouthed as his archers hurtled down into the pass. The thin circle of soldiers around the hill also glanced up. Cheops knew that his dignity was fleeing ahead of him, but he didn’t care. Dignity could be regained. Life was another matter entirely. He reached the foot of the pass just ahead of the fastest of his men, and slipped through the infantry to what appeared the relative safety behind the infantry lines.