Sword in the Storm (56 page)

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 specter 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 chain mail 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 a chance to retreat farther back 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 spattered with crimson. Conn stepped back, swiftly glancing left and right, then back toward 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 toward 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 center eased as the Sea Wolves swung toward this new enemy. The horsemen plowed on. Several horses fell, pitching their riders into the Vars ranks, where they were hacked to death. But then Fiallach
reached the center 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 they had gained, for he was breathing heavily and needed a rest. He looked back toward the south. Wing should have sent more men by then, but none had arrived 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 farewell to his sons. The thought saddened him suddenly.

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. 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 toward the south.

Hundreds of riders were galloping their ponies toward the battle. In the lead he saw the golden hair of Bendegit Bran. Ruathain staggered back toward them, waving his hand toward 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 re-form.

Their allies had fled. They were now outnumbered. They could not win now. For a while they fought on, but then the line broke and the survivors turned and fled, running back toward 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 honor 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,” Ruathain said 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 and saw Conn drape his
arm around Bran’s shoulders. 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 on to the distant mountains.

This has been a good day, he thought.

The death toll was chilling: just under three thousand Rigante warriors, including 220 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 armor and weapons, and then the bodies were hauled to where deep pits 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,” Conn said with a smile, “who knows when to disobey a perfectly good order.” Fiallach’s face was gray 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 have warhorses to harry the enemy, driving them farther 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 the Iron 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 and the third being Brother Solstice. They were tending the wounded, along with several women who had arrived from a nearby Rigante settlement.

Warriors were moving around the battlefield, seeking out injured men among the dead. Pannone wounded were carried
back to receive attention. The Vars were not so fortunate. They were dispatched wherever they were found.

Conn drew Bran aside. “Where is Wing?” he asked.

Bran shrugged. “Back at Old Oaks. He felt a strong force was needed there in case the enemy broke through.”

“And he sent you instead.”

“Not exactly, Conn. In fact, I broke his orders as well as yours. Quite a day for defiance, eh?” Bran picked up a stone and hurled it high into the air, aiming at a pigeon and missing narrowly.

“So what were his orders?”

The seventeen-year-old ran his hand through his long golden hair. “Ah, Conn, it’s not worth getting angry with him. You know Wing. He told all the warriors to move inside the fortress. I argued with him, but he would have none of it.” Bran looked away. “He was very frightened, Conn. Anyway, I saw one-eyed Arna, the laird from Snake Loch, riding in with his men, so I took a pony, galloped down to them, and said we had orders to join you here. He had over eight hundred men with him, and they were mounted on good ponies. We made it in just under two hours. Not bad, eh?”

“You helped turn the tide,” admitted Conn. He swore softly. “How many men does Wing have barricaded in with him?”

“Over three thousand.”

“We could have used them here,” said Conn, his voice cold.

“Aye, but we didn’t need them, did we?”

“That’s not the point, Bran. I have to be able to rely on my orders being carried out.”

“But not by me or Fiallach, eh?” Bran laughed aloud, the sound so infectious that Conn could not help but smile.

“You are an insolent rogue. Now gather some men and help Brother Solstice.”

“I’ll do that. But promise me you won’t take it out on Wing. He can’t help being what he is, Conn.”

“I promise. Now go!”

As the afternoon wore on and the injured were tended and the dead buried, three pipers arrived and began to play the “Warriors’ Lament,” the sound causing a ghostly echo in the hills.

Govannan and his riders came back toward dusk. Govannan dismounted wearily. “We chased them back toward the sea,” he told Conn. “The Sea Wolves’ king escaped. We thought we had him, but he led a countercharge. He’s a fighting man, by heaven. We had to pull back. Still, we did bring a prisoner.” Govannan signaled two riders, who heeled their mounts forward. Behind them, his hands tied, rode the Highland Laird. One of the riders pushed him from the saddle. The little man fell heavily, then struggled to his feet. Fear was strong upon him, but he held himself straight and, when he was brought to Conn, spit in his face. Govannan made to strike him, but Conn raised his hand and shook his head.

“Free his hands,” said Conn. Govannan produced a knife and sliced through the laird’s bonds. “Come, walk with me,” Conn told the laird, and strolled away to a group of boulders, where he sat, staring out over the battlefield.

“You expect me to beg for my life?” said the laird. “You’ll have a long wait.”

“I don’t expect you to beg. You are a Keltoi chieftain. What I expect from you is wisdom, and you’ve shown precious little of that. Had the Vars succeeded, it would have signaled the end of our culture. They would have taken our lands and brought in their families and more warriors. Your thirst for revenge blinded you to this simple fact, even as my desire for revenge blinded me. Not a day passes when I do not think of those children at Shining Water or the women who fell under my sword. I do not expect forgiveness. Some crimes should not be forgiven. But if you want my death, send a champion and I will face him.” Conn looked at the battlefield. “I killed
some
of your people, laird.
You
brought
thousands
of them to
their deaths. And for what? What has it achieved?” Conn sat silently for a moment. Then he looked up and held the man’s gaze. “I will send a messenger to you, offering weregild for Shining Water. You will accept.”

“Why would I accept?” asked the laird.

“Because it is right for you to do so. Understand me well. This battle could be an ending to our feud.” Conn leaned forward, fixing the man with a cold stare. “Or it could be the beginning of a terrible war that I will bring to you. I will destroy your towns, your settlements, and your ports. I will raze your buildings and sow salt in your pastures. I will hunt you down and kill you and your whole family with you. The choice is yours. Peace or war. Make the choice now.”

“What have you done with the Pannone wounded?” asked the laird.

“They are being tended along with my own men,” Conn told him.

“Then it shall be peace,” said the Highland Laird.

“You will swear this as a blood oath before the Druids. Then you can go.”

“I will stay and help with the wounded,” said the laird.

“As you wish.”

The pipers were still playing, and the sad, haunting sound filled Conn with a deep melancholy. This morning his men were fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons. This night there would be new widows and orphans, and across the land there would be a great sadness in many homes.

He saw Bran talking to Brother Solstice and moved across to join them, telling the Druid of the Highland Laird’s promise of peace. “Will you take his blood oath?” asked Conn.