Authors: Angus Watson
Drustan had helped a little, magic-wise. By sacrificing an ox, so he said, he’d caused the wind to veer round to the east so that it was behind them. But that was it. He said that those who could use the gods’ powers could only draw a limited amount. Lowa had asked him if there was anyone else. He’d said no. The gods had shown him that he was going to find a young person who was the greatest ever practitioner of magic. He’d thought that this was Ragnall, and he’d even tricked Ragnall into believing he’d lit fires with his mind in order to draw it out of him, but now he knew that the young man had no contact with the gods. The magic youngster foretold was Spring.
But now Spring had lost her magic. Had the gods deserted her, Lowa wondered, because the Maidun army was doomed to be annihilated by the Dumnonians, and gods don’t like helping losers?
There was one way to find out.
She raised her arm and dropped it. The Maidun trumpets spewed their cacophony. Her army’s left, her mass of heavy chariots, stirred then surged towards the Dumnonian line of foot soldiers.
On her right, the Dumnonian chariots charged the Maidun infantry. Javelins launched. Maidunite shields appeared like a sudden bloom of flowers. There was a great howl of disappointment from the Dumnonians as their missiles were deflected by the revealed defences, but they charged on, swords aloft, wheel-blades flashing.
At the last moment, all along Maidun’s right flank, long spears sprung up like hair bristling on a wildcat’s neck. The Dumnonian chariot line faltered as thousands of reins were yanked in panic, but it was too late. The horses and chariots hit the infantry’s spears. A heartbeat later she heard the sound of a thousand wooden poles snapping under the impact of horses and people, followed by the screams of Danu knew how many Dumnonian horses and men as iron spear heads punctured their limbs, stomachs, faces … She thought of her own soldiers, kneeling behind shields as tons of man, horse, iron and wood smashed down around them. All along the Maidun line, horses’ hooves would be crushing skulls and splintered chariot draught poles impaling the chests of her own people. That had been unavoidable. She prayed that not too many were killed, and that none of them was Dug.
The Maidun front line held. The Dumnonian attack crumpled as wave after wave of horses, chariots and charioteers crashed into and on to the broken pile of their fallen comrades.
On the left, Maidun’s chariots stopped twenty paces short of the enemy line, as, Lowa thought with some satisfaction, the Dumnonian heavy chariots should have done. Maidunite javelins flew. The volley whumped harmlessly into thousands of Dumnonian shields. The Dumnonians shouted in delight, dropped their shields and charged. The Maidun chariots paused for a moment, then unleashed their second, unexpected salvo of javelins. That was much more successful, as were the third, fourth and fifth javelin volleys. Hundreds of Dumnonians fell. Their line dissolved in disarray. Some ran back to retrieve their shields. Some ran at the chariots. Captains screamed contradictory commands.
For centuries it had been the pan-tribal British custom to carry only one javelin in each chariot. You chucked that as an opener, then the crew-warriors dismounted for some proper mêlée fighting with swords, axes, hammers and the like. It hadn’t been easy, but Lowa was glad she’d talked the charioteers into flouting tradition and carrying five javelins each. Hopefully now, if they survived this battle, some of the other innovations she had in mind might be more readily accepted.
On the right, her infantry dropped their pikes and dashed in to finish off the downed charioteers. The Dumnonians saw the line broken, rallied and came at them, but the Maidun soldiers rolled back into their line, retrieved their spare, unbroken pikes, held them aloft and retreated steadily, backwards and outwards, away from Lowa and the centre. The Dumnonian heavy chariots pressed, but, having seen what happened to the first lot, held back from all-out attack on those bristling pikes.
Another discordant trumpet blast honked from the Dumnonian centre and their light chariots set off at a gallop to swing around Maidun’s right and attack the flank of the infantry. Lowa gritted her teeth. She’d planned on Samalur doing exactly that, but not so quickly. If the Dumnonian chariots got round behind her right flank, then her plan was screwed and they were all dead. It was going to be close.
On the left, the Maidun charioteers had exhausted their javelins. Hundreds of Dumnonians had been killed or disabled, but that was only a tiny proportion of their force and the battle there was far from over. On the same trumpet call that sent Dumnonia’s light chariots around their left edge, thousands upon thousands of their infantry charged on the Dumnonian right, armed with shields and heavy iron swords.
The Maidun chariots cantered away. Like the Maidun infantry, they retreated both backwards and away from the centre, spreading the width of the battlefield.
One Maidun chariot stopped and was soon left behind, on its own between the two armies. A little warrior leapt out, sword in one hand, ball-mace in the other. Even from a couple of hundred paces away, Lowa recognised Chamanca the Iberian, ex-bodyguard to Zadar, the woman who had bested her on Mearhold and would have done again in the Maidun arena had it not been for Spring’s magic. The fastest Dumnonian infantry reached the lone figure. A blur of movement, the Dumnonians fell and the Iberian was left standing. But there were many more Dumnonians coming. Chamanca leapt for her chariot, but too late. The main body of the Dumnonian infantry swept over and gobbled up horse, chariot, driver and Chamanca. Lowa grimaced, then smiled as Chamanca’s chariot burst from the Dumnonian ranks, with the Iberian aboard and shaking her fist at the pursuers.
Queen Lowa looked back to Spring, on horseback behind her, and nodded. The girl yelled a screeching “Fiiiiiiiii – errrrrrrr!!!!”, louder than any trumpet or whistle. All along the rear of Lowa’s battle line, men and women put torches to the tight bundles of thatch that sat on a long line of catapults.
Dug looked about, shaking his head in exasperation. Someone had taken his badger-fucking spear. “Remember where you put your spare spear, and make sure you pick up the same one again. Not someone else’s.” That’s what he’d told them. But some wanker had taken his. It was unforgivable.
He saw a spare one and bent to pick it up.
“Oi! That’s mine! Hands off!” shouted a young, square-jawed woman. “It’s your plan, Dug! What’s everyone else going to do if you don’t stick to it? Come on Dug, leadership!”
It was Nita, Mal’s wife. Mal, next to her, raised a “you see what I have to put up with?” eyebrow.
Dug nodded. He didn’t want the spear, he was a lot happier with his hammer, but Nita was right. He was leader and he wanted to show everyone what to do with their spears. However, looking about, they seemed to have got the idea. They were marching steadily backwards in good order, long spears raised. Dug shook his head in gratified surprise. He’d never commanded men and women who did what they were told more than about ten per cent of the time. Say what you like about Zadar, but his troops knew how to follow orders.
“You all right there, Mal?” Dug had been glad to see a familiar face when his old mate Mal Fletcher had sought him out a couple of days before.
Mal winked. “We should have stayed back at base and guarded the tavern like you suggested. Thought I’d retired long ago, but this one,” he cocked his head at his wife, “reckoned Lowa would need our help.”
Dug nipped in behind Mal. Without a spear, he’d just be in the way in the front line. “Lot of trouble, that Lowa. Might get us all killed one day.” It was rubbish banter and Dug knew it, but at times like this it was good to be distracted from one’s surroundings.
“One day? Have you seen what’s coming?” Behind and uphill of the pursuing heavy chariots, they could see the Dumnonian light chariots thundering northwards across the plain, perpendicular to the line of battle. The lead chariots had already swung eastwards towards them, aiming for the criminally exposed Maidun right flank. A flash off to the left caught his eye.
“Oh no,” said Dug. “Look, she’s gone and fired her bloody catapults too late. If they were meant to slow the light chariots, which I bet they were, then we’re in trouble.”
“She’s lost it!” said Mal. “She’s lost her mind and we’re all going to die.”
Nita slapped his arm with the flat of her sword. “Lowa knows what she’s doing.”
“Then why,” said Mal, “has she used the one unusual weapon we’ve got that might actually surprise the enemy to bombard the gap left by the Dumnonians attacking us? What did she hit?” Mal stood on tiptoes to peer over soldiers’ heads. “Yup, thought so, a grassy space where the enemy used to be. I’m sorry, Nita, but she really doesn’t know what she’s doing with those catapults.”
Nita didn’t have an answer.
Dug looked to Atlas to see if he’d seen what had happened. He had. Two hundred paces away along the front line, the large African had climbed on to someone’s shoulders; Carden Nancarrow’s probably, since those two were always together and Carden was about the only man in the army who could have born Atlas’ armoured weight. The Kushite blew an iron whistle twice.
The Maidun line doubled the speed of its retreat, jogging diagonally backwards, away from the pursuing Dumnonians and out from the battle’s centre, spears brandished to keep the heavy chariots at bay. They were headed for a thickly brambled band of wood, which would protect their flank from the light chariots and their slingstones. Given the speed those chariots were coming, though, there was no way they were going to make it.
Dug was glad he wasn’t on the far right. Very soon they were going to be hit hard by a hailstorm of lethal stones. Still, it didn’t really matter whether he was there or not. If the far right collapsed under the onslaught, they were all fucked.
Dozens of balls of burning thatch crackled over Lowa’s head.
She looked across to Samalur’s position. She had a clearer view of him since both armies had split down the middle, hers retreating away from the centre, his following, leaving a gap in front of his central command position. Like her, he was perched on a burial mound, surrounded by a few guards and probably the same group of hangers-on from the day before. For an instant she was sure he was looking directly at her, but then he was obscured by smoke from the burning thatch.
Atlas’ whistle sang out three times, the signal to pick up the pace again. It would be difficult for the ranks to maintain form at that speed, so it meant that something was going wrong.
Oh aye, thought Dug, as he saw over on the right the first of the light chariots come into range and unleash a volley of slingstones. Those holding pikes in the front rows – the ones holding the blade-wheeled heavy chariots at bay – didn’t have shields. A lot of them fell. The heavy chariots charged.
“Now?” asked Spring.
“Now,” Lowa agreed, putting her hand over the ear that was nearest to the girl.
“Horrrrr – sesssssss!!!” screeched Spring. She might not be able to use her magic, but her scream, louder than all the battle trumpets combined, was proving useful.
From their hiding place behind a low rise, Ragnall and two hundred other riders armed with swords and bows heard Spring and mounted. For the first time in a while the young man felt brave, confident and full of purpose. He roared a battle cry. That drew some disapproving glances from his mostly older and more sensible fellows, but he didn’t care.
He was off. He was leading the charge.
Lowa saw then coming and sped ahead, followed by Spring. So Lowa was leading the charge now and Spring was at her shoulder. How annoying, thought Ragnall. Although also something of a relief. The first enemy stones and arrows were not usually targeted on the third rider from the front.
Up ahead, the catapulted bales burnt merrily, gushing smoke away from them, obscuring the Dumnonian army, then Lowa as she and her horse plunged into the fog, followed by little Spring on her mount. Ragnall willed his horse on. The beast complied. Ragnall took a deep breath. Gripping his horse with his thighs and his sword in his hand, he followed the new queen into the smoke.
They reached the trees and stopped retreating, but it was far from the end of problems for the right of the Maidun army. In fact, Dug realised with a snort of annoyance, it was the beginning of his.
The far right was now, as planned, protected from Dumnonia’s chariot-mounted slingers by a stand of bramble-skirted trees, but the slingers leapt from their chariots and ran across to join the warriors from the heavy chariots. Together, the Dumnonian heavy infantry and slingers advanced at the now static Maidun line. Dug gulped. There were a lot of them and they all seemed to be coming at him.
Shields went up over Maidun heads as slingstones rained down. Soon those shields would be needed to stop swords. It was a nasty situation. Retreat was tempting, but if they fled the Dumnonians would part ranks and the bladed chariots would stream through and cut them down.
There was, Dug realised with a mixture of terror and disappointment, only one thing to do.
Atlas worked it out at the same moment and five blasts rang out on his whistle. It was the signal to charge. Dug shook his head. So it was time to attack. No choice in the matter. He shuddered. Just as he thought his growing fear might overwhelm him, it morphed into raging courage. It felt like a monster was growing inside him, expanding out from his stomach, widening his shoulders and burning in his head hot as a bone-fed furnace. His battle lust was coming, he realised with a mixture of shame and excitement, and it was time to bid rational thought goodbye for a while.
Dug gripped his shield in one hand, warhammer in the other, and sprinted at the broad enemy line. The ground flew under him as he pumped his legs. He ran full tilt, no thought of pacing himself. He didn’t need to. He had all the energy in the world. Slingstones whistled past his ears. The front line of Dumnonian troops, a mass of bearded men, shaggy haired women, sharp iron weapons and flying stones, zoomed towards him.