Sword in the Storm (55 page)

He heard the door open. Meria ran in. “What is wrong,
lass?” he asked her, taking her in his arms and hugging her close.

She told him of the hound and the broken
geasa
.

“You say the dog fastened to his wrist guard?” he queried.

“Yes.”

“Did it pierce his skin?”

“No.”

“Then it was no bite. The
geasa
still stands.”

She pulled away from him. “You told Varaccon that it was his horse that killed the raven. You told him he had not broken his
geasa
. But he died. Oh, Ru, my son mustn’t die, too. I couldn’t bear it.”

He turned away from her. “I’ll speak to him,” he said.

“Speak? What do you mean speak? You have to keep him alive, Ru. Once you promised me you would bring my husband back to me. He died. This time must be different. You are the greatest warrior of the Rigante. All men know this. You must protect him, Ru. You must stand beside him. You will do this for me?”

He looked into her frightened eyes. “I was young when I made my first promise to you. I believed then that I was invincible and that I could protect all those I loved. I am older now and wiser.”

“No!” she shouted. “You can do this! No one is mightier than you. You can bring my son back to me. Oh, please, Ru. If you love me, then promise me you will be his shield.”

The words struck him with terrible force. His belly tightened, his breath catching in his throat. He looked into her terrified eyes and longed to tell her what she had just asked of him. “I do love you, lass,” he said. “More than life. Much more than life.” He took a deep breath, then he smiled. “I promise,” he said. The desperation faded from her. She sagged against him.

“You are my rock,” she told him. He stroked her back and kissed her hair. “You must go to Conn,” she said. “You must
lift his spirits as you have lifted mine. I know all will be well now. I know it.”

“Aye, all will be well,” he said softly. Then he dressed and walked through the hall to Conn’s apartments. His son was sitting at a curved table, nursing a cup of Uisge.

Conn glanced up. “She told you.” It was not a question.

“Did you think she wouldn’t?” Ruathain said with a grin. He sat down, took the Uisge from Conn, and drank deeply. “That is good,” he said, relishing the taste. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Big Man. Truly. If the
geasa
is broken, so be it. I am guilty of great evil, and I’ll accept it as a punishment. But by Taranis, I’ll not lose the battle, too. If I am to die, it will be done while destroying the threat to our lands.”

Leaning forward, Ruathain clapped his son on the shoulder. “Now,
that
is a man talking. I’m proud of you, boy.”

“I have thought about what you proposed. It makes good sense. You stay here and send as many men after us as you can. Not in small groups, mind. Gather them until you have maybe two thousand.”

Ruathain shook his head. “No, Conn. This time we must rely on Wing, for I’ll be beside you.”

Conn gave a broad smile. “Mother has ordered you to protect me, hasn’t she?”

“You’d expect no less, boy. I told her we’d win the battle, then I’d wash you, change your diaper, wrap you in blankets, and bring you home to her loving arms.”

Conn’s laughter pealed out. “Was your mother the same?”

“The very same. It is said a man doesn’t get old while his mother lives. I think it’s true. You are always a child in her eyes. It is irritating in the extreme. But you know, when they have gone, you’d give the earth just to hear them treating you like a child once more.”

“You never treated me like a child, Big Man. You always made me feel I was special: bright, intelligent, fearless.”

“You were all those things, lad.”

Their eyes met. “You are the best father a man could have,” said Conn.

“Och, boy, now you’re getting maudlin. Fill up the cups. I’ll have one more drink with you, then I’m off to my bed. We’ve a long day tomorrow.”

Shard stood on the hilltop, the Highland Laird beside him, and surveyed the enemy force. He calculated there were around ten thousand men manning the two hilltops and the low-lying ground between them.

“We can take them,” said the Highland Laird.

A small man with a small voice and a small mind, thought Shard. He could taste the man’s fear. But then, of course he was afraid. If he had not been, this alliance never would have taken place. The laird needed his Sea Wolves to smash through the Rigante ranks. There had been only one source of argument: who got to kill the Demon Laird. Shard had always seen himself as a generous man, but it had been hard to give way on the matter. If Connavar could be taken alive, the Highland Laird would kill him but Shard would have the head to take back to his brother’s house. Minor irritation touched the Vars king. Even now, all these months after the bargain had been struck, he found the thought of it gnawing at him. He narrowed his eyes, straining to see Connavar.

“Which one is he?” he asked the laird.

The little man hawked and spit. “You see the giant in the mail shirt at the center? 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 center. 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. Armored 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 mail shirts, 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 on his own force: ten thousand battle-hardened warriors well armed with swords and axes. Most of them sported mail shirts, though none carried shields. Shields were clumsy objects at the best of times and slowed the charge. The Pannone force of eight thousand stood some two hundred paces west of his 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. The 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 center 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 half a mile away. “Today you will have your vengeance,” Shard said 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 see from that distance.

Shard strolled down the hillside to where his captains waited, grim men and fierce-eyed. Taking up his sword and helm, Shard strode to the center 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 toward 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 there 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 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 saber. “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 toward the north. He longed to ride after him, but Conn’s orders had been clear. Once the Pannones had been scattered, Fiallach was to 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 center 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 the foe’s ranks.

Twice Fiallach led charges. On the second he was almost unhorsed by a young axman who leapt at him, grabbing at his chain mail 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 saber, he grabbed at the gelding’s mane. The axman 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 axman’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 farther back into the land between the hills. Conn’s center was now looking concave, curving in like a bow. Sweat dripped into Fiallach’s eyes.

“What now?” Govannan asked 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 and his old round iron helm on 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 on his left arm, the Seidh blade in his right hand, he was waiting calmly, his oddly colored eyes focused on the screaming wall of men bearing down upon them.

Ruathain hefted his blade, his large hands closing around the leather-bound 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 ax-bearing Sea Wolf. Conn was at his side, the Seidh blade cleaving chain mail as if it were linen. The fifty Iron Wolves formed up on both sides of their laird, strong men with no give in them.