At a word from Muuril, Haeksin hauled back on the reins and brought the abada to a halt.
"Let's not give them any warning, eh?" said the sergeant, advancing around the back of the cart.
Faeghun stepped up with Muuril, earning himself a glance of annoyance from the wiry legionnaire.
"Not sure we need you along, boy," said Muuril. Faeghun looked at Muuril with incomprehension, so the sergeant jabbed a finger into the Linghar warrior's chest and then pointed at the ground; a signal to stay put that crossed all language barriers. A stare from Gelthius silenced the youth's protest before he could give it voice.
"The others in the village might know we've left by now and come looking, so I need you and Gannuis to keep watch here and protect your family if they come," said Gelthius. He shared a glance with the other legionnaires, who nodded reassuringly; though they had no idea what he was saying, they could guess his intent. Gelthius patted Gannuis on the arm. "This ain't going to take too long, son. Holler if anything happens."
"What are you going to do?" asked Minglhan, head poking over the side of the cart. "You going to kill Kalsaghan?"
"Right enough," said Gelthius as he leaned past his son and grabbed his spear from the back of the wagon. "Don't worry, lad, I'll be back quicker than you know."
He nodded at Muuril to lead the way, and the group of legionnaires set off down the hill, padding quietly along the grass beside the stony track, shields and spears held ready.
"So, you gonna tell the king to attack or what?" Loordin whispered from behind Gelthius.
"The chieftain's thinking of heading duskwards, running away," replied Gelthius. "If he's clever, he'll head off first thing tomorrow and we won't see them for dust."
"Probably better that way," said Gebriun. "I remember my grandfather telling me about when the Askhans came to Ersua. Some joined up quick as a hawk, but some tried to hide in the mountains. Got short shrift from the Hillmen, and when winter came, thousands starved. I guess nobody learns, do they? We always try to fight what's going to happen."
Gelthius said nothing; he was far from happy about the whole situation. He had grown up in these hills, played in the river, hunted in the forests and even tried to raise a farm on the pastures to coldwards. He had no love for Naraghlin and his ilk, but it was another to condemn the whole of the tribe and the others of the Linghar people to brutal death and subjugation.
He silently cursed Aegenuis. If the Salphorian king had any love for his people he would tell them to lay down their arms and accept Askhan rule, just like the ancient Maasrites had done. That would never happen, Aegenuis was too proud, just like the rest of the chieftains; and too scared of what might happen to him if he showed weakness to his political enemies. Such men would rather have a glorious, bloody defeat than a peaceful, sensible surrender.
That was the problem with chieftains and kings, thought Gelthius. They always think they have more to lose than everybody else, but at the end of the day, they died with nothing just the same.
As the legionnaires sneaked through the bushes, the first fall of fresh rain pattered on the withering leaves around them. As the intensity of the rain increased, Gelthius hoped that the men standing guard at the bottom of the hill might be convinced to seek shelter. Peering through the dark, he saw that the flickering glow of the torches moved to one side of the track but not further. He adjusted his grip of his spear shaft, hand slick from the rain.
"How we going to do this?" he whispered to the others, who were nothing more than darker shapes in the downpour. "There's at least twice as many of them."
"We need to divide them if we can," said Muuril. "Loordin, work your way around to the right and attract their attention."
"How?" asked Loordin, face looming out of the night.
"I don't know," said Muuril. "Shake a bush, drop a stone, or something. We'll come up from behind them, from the left."
Loordin hesitated. From what Gelthius could see of the Loordin's face, the soldier was doubtful.
"I can't see my own feet," said Loordin. "What if I get lost?"
With a snarl, Muuril put his spear in his shield had to grab the collar of Loordin's breastplate and pull him close.
"I'm giving you an order, legionnaire," snapped the sergeant. "Stop whining like an unpaid whore and move your arse over there. Give us to a count of two hundred and then attract their attention, right?"
With a sigh of resignation, Loordin nodded. Muuril let go of the man's armour and slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way.
"Follow me," said Gelthius, stepping to the left around rock outcrop. "We can come at them from the bottom of the cliff."
Water dripped from his helmet and soaked his shirt as he led the way, wet leaves slapping at his shins as he stalked through the grass and bushes at a crouch. Always keeping the glow of the torches in the corner of his right eye, Gelthius picked his way carefully down the slope, using the butt of his spear to test the ground for holes and rocks, knowing that any stumble now would be heard by the waiting tribesmen.
"One hundred," whispered Muuril, tapping Gelthius on the shoulder. "Try picking up the pace, will you?"
Gelthius eased himself across a stony hump and turned right, pausing for a moment to fix on the torches again before heading straight towards the flickering patches of light. The ground was levelling out and in the lee of the rock face the rain swirled about, blowing into his face with each sporadic gust of wind.
When he was about a hundred paces from the vague figures next to the trail, Gelthius found shelter behind the trunk of a tree. He dropped to his haunches and waited, eyes fixed on the Linghars. He counted eight of them moving around in the glow of the brands, but was sure there were two or three more that he couldn't see.
He took another step when the crack of a branch caused him to freeze on the spot. Ahead, the tribesmen had heard it was well. They looked to Kalsaghan, who picked out five warriors and sent them across the track to investigate
"He's fucking early," said Muuril. "He's counted too quick."
Haeksin rose up out of the grass but was stopped by Muuril's spear.
"Wait! Let them get a bit further away."
The tribal warriors that had stayed with Kalsaghan were focussed on Loordin's diversion; none of them spared a glance behind them to where the legionnaires lurked.
"That's it, let's go," Muuril told them when the flickering torch of the searching group was just a distant glow in the gloom.
The legionnaires stalked through the grass, almost shoulder to shoulder; Gelthius on the left, Muuril next to him, Haeksin on the sergeant's right, Gebriun on the other end of the group. They were less than fifty paces from the Linghars when Muuril snapped the order to charge.
In step, the four of them broke into a run, keeping pace with each other just as if they were not a group of four, but part of a phalanx one-hundred-and-sixty strong. The snap of branches and jingle of their armour warned the tribesmen, who turned around with astonished looks as the legionnaires burst onto the path.
Kalsaghan gave a warning shout as the legionnaires bore down on them, shields locked, spears jutting like the horns of a charging bull.
"At them!" roared the chieftain's son, breaking into a run. "Bring me the traitor's balls!"
Gelthius tightened his grip on the strap of his shield as the Linghars sprinted towards him. Kalsaghan and two others were the fastest and were a few paces ahead of their companions when the groups met.
"Take the hit!" roared Muuril.
The legionnaires skidded to a stop, sandaled feet sliding in the mud, a moment before the three Salphors reached them. Gelthius concentrated on raising his shield to block the two spear tips thrust at him, trusting Muuril to protect his right side. In coming for Gelthius, Kalsaghan and his two warriors had put themselves directly in front of the legionnaires, attacking the strongest part of the group. Their rush was met with the ineffectual crash of spears on shields.
"Strike!" bellowed Muuril.
As if guided by a single hand, the four of them jabbed forward their long spears. Gelthius aimed the point of his spear at the throat of the man directly in front of him. His aim was low, but the tip caught the Linghar warrior in the right side of his chest, easily punching through his leather jerkin. Muuril's spear took Kalsaghan in the gut, but the third Salphor managed to deflect Haeksin's blow. Shouts and curses accompanied the clatter of bronze and wood, a plaintive wail torn from Kalsaghan as he collapsed into the mud.
A sword bit into the rim of Gelthius's shield as the rest of the tribesmen arrived, the momentum of the warrior's charge knocking the legionnaire back a step. Without an order uttered, the small line broke. Muuril lunged into the Salphors, spearing one of the warriors in the side, while Gebriun tripped another with his shield before driving the point of his weapon into the man's back. Still regaining his balance, Gelthius stumbled again as a spear tip grazed across the cheek guard of his helmet and opened a bloody cut across his chin. He slashed at the warrior's legs with the edge of his shield, rearing up with his spear as the man jumped back.
Rain hammered on Gelthius's armour, the ground underfoot turning to slurry. The torch carried by one of the Linghars was lying next to the track, quickly guttering, plunging the fight into near-blackness. Gelthius swiped the point of his spear at the man in front, tearing through his arm. Dropping his weapon, the Linghar back-stepped, but not quickly enough. With an explosive breath, Gelthius lunged after him, stabbing his spear through the tribesman's thigh. The Linghar let go of his shield and splashed into the mud, cradling his wounded leg.
A startled cry on the right caused Gelthius to turn. He did not recognise who had shouted, but saw one of his fellow legionnaires dropping to his knees, red gushing from a gash in his throat. Gelthius had no time to wonder who was down; Kalsaghan was rising to his feet, one hand clamped to the wound in his midriff, a dagger in the other hand. With quick feet, the chieftain's son dodged the weaving tip of Gelthius's spear and closed with his knife, slashing at the legionnaire's chest. The blade rang against the bronze breastplate and scored across Gelthius's left arm. Gelthius kicked out, driving his foot into Kalsaghan's groin. Blood pouring down his arm, Gelthius rammed the rim of his shield into the fallen warrior's face, splitting open the youth's cheek with a crack of bone.
Another tribesman hurtled out of the gloom, tackling Gelthius to the ground in a spray of muddy water and flailing limbs, the legionnaire's spear spinning out of his grasp. The warrior punched Gelthius across the jaw, loosening several teeth. His hands tightened around Gelthius's throat. Stunned, the legionnaire swiped wildly with his shield, smashing the other man in the ribs, but the Linghar's grip did not weaken.
The helmet crest of a legionnaire appeared over the tribesman's shoulder a moment before a sword erupted from his shoulder. Kicking the man from him, Gelthius grabbed a proffered hand and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet.
"That's the last of this lot," said Muuril, wiping his bloodied sword on the dead tribesman's jerkin. The sergeant had lost his shield in the melee and held his spear on his left hand, the water washing blood across his kilt. Muuril looked around as Gelthius recovered his spear. "Haeksin's dead."
Gelthius paused to take a deep breath, and could hear the shouts of the warriors that had been sent after Loordin. Gebriun was down on one knee, ripping the shirt of one of the dead Linghars to make bandages.
"Do you think they've caught him?" asked Gelthius.
"Not yet," said Gebriun. He drove the butt of his spear into the muck and gestured for Gelthius to hold out his wounded arm. Binding the cut with a strip of the ripped shirt, Gebriun then turned his attention to a ragged hole in Muuril's calf. "We'll just get ourselves straight and head after Loordin."
Feeling groggy, Gelthius spat out a mouthful of blood and tested his teeth with a probing finger. He winced as one came out with little effort; two others wobbled at his prodding.
"We'll get that sorted out back in camp," said Muuril. "Let's get going. Give the word to the others to come down the track. There's no point fighting here if they get caught by a band coming from the top of the hill."
Gelthius's shout was answered by Gannuis, his voice almost drummed out by the rain. Hefting his shield, Gelthius signalled to Muuril and Gebriun to move off.
The Linghars pursuing Loordin were shouting to each other in the darkness. It was hard to be exact about their whereabouts, but it was clear they had broken into at least two groups, one of which was coming closer, their cries echoing from the rock face not far behind the legionnaires.
"Can't see anything," muttered Gebriun.
"Stop a moment and listen," said Muuril.
All Gelthius could hear was the thudding of his heart and the splashing of rain. After a few moments, there came a clang of metal, followed by a cry of pain and the splash of something heavy falling.
"Off to the right," said Muuril. "Not far."
They broke into a trot, grass and ferns whipping at Gelthius's bare legs, the thorny branches of bushes scratching at him as he pushed through the tangle of vegetation clinging to the shallow slope.
A hazy figure appeared in the gloom, running full pelt. Gelthius brought up his spear out of instinct, teeth clenched despite the pain in his jaw.
The shape resolved into Loordin, without shield or helmet, the broken haft of his spear in one hand. He shouted in alarm and turned away before Gebriun's call halted him. Wide-eyed, the legionnaire approached, wiping the rain from his face with a bloodstained hand.