Authors: Miles Cameron
Peter couldn’t hang back when such daring was shown.
The next time the enemy turned to run, Peter joined his wild yell to Skadai’s, and saw Ota Qwan, who suddenly appeared just an arm’s length away, do the same. The three of them rose
from their cover, where they had lain to avoid the arrows – and charged. To Ota Qwan’s right, Skahas Gaho also rose to his feet, sword in hand, and others joined them – not many,
but a dozen all told.
An arrow flicked out of the sunlight like a hornet and hit Skadai in the groin. He stumbled, tumbled, and lay still.
Peter kept running. The man who had loosed the arrow had lost a step on his companions, and Peter ran for him, his whole self concentrated on that man, a red-haired giant in a fine mail shirt
that gleamed in the woodland shade. He had an iron collar, a gorget, and long leather gloves.
Peter opened his mouth and screamed. The man dropped his bow and drew his sword – an arrow stung the inside of Peter’s thigh as the head cut his skin, before flitting away between
his legs, and Peter reached out with the buckler and the man’s sword slammed into it. Peter pushed forward, the buckler pinning the sword, and his own short blade cut hard into the
man’s face, teeth sprayed and an eye was cut before the man turned away but Peter ’s sword was past his head, and he grabbed the blade with his buckler hand, locked the blade against
the man’s throat and sawed back and forth until he crushed his windpipe through the mail and iron collar.
Arrows hit his dying opponent – a dozen shot by his friends. But they had loosed unthinking, Peter’s rush had spun him around, and every arrow intended for him hit the red-haired
man.
He fell through Peter’s hands, dead before he hit the ground, and Peter dropped his long knife and stooped to pick up the great sword from the grass. Ota Qwan screamed in triumph, and the
scream was taken up along their line.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Hector Lachlan
The priest, Paul Mac Lachlan, died badly, because he’d never been much of a swordsman, and one of the painted devils was through his guard and into him, slicing his face,
choking him, using his body as a shield.
It demoralized them to watch one of their own carls die so easily, in single combat against an essentially unarmoured man.
On the other hand, Hector thought, they’d inflicted an incredible number of casualties. All the stories said that Outwallers were averse to taking casualties, and his people had killed
fifty, perhaps more.
And their red leader was down.
Give the priest that – he’d shot him.
Hector grinned at the men around him. ‘We all have to do better than that,’ he said.’
‘Fucking Paul,’ Ranald said. One of the savages paused to scalp the priest, and Ranald flicked a shaft into the painted bastard. He screamed.
Hector held his horn over his head, so all the men left were ready.
‘We’re going to charge through their line and make our shield wall over there,’ he said. Retreating any further, into the open ground, was foolish.
The Outwallers were gaining courage from the success of the last rush, and they were coming forward now. His men were loosing their last shafts. Even as Hector watched, all the Outwallers went
to ground again. If he had more woods, he’d retreat again. But he didn’t. The wildflowers of the long meadow were at his back.
He held his horn to his lips and sounded it.
Every man left to him turned and sprinted towards him. It only took heartbeats for them to join him, and in that time, only a bare handful of enemy shafts flew.
He didn’t wait for the laggards. When he had enough carls to make a song, he started forward.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Peter
Peter was running out of courage.
Ota Qwan was not. He rose to his feet and dashed forward even as one of their warriors bent over the corpse of the red-haired man, knife in hand, and died for it.
‘Gots onah!’ Ota Qwan roared.
But the warriors didn’t follow him.
Peter could scarcely breathe. The lightning nightmare of the close fight with the red-haired man had taken all his breath, all his energy, all his courage. He wanted to lie down and go to
sleep.
The wound in his leg ached, and worried how deep it went.
Ota Qwan went bounding forward as the mail-clad men sounded a horn.
Peter forced himself to follow the black-painted man. As he looked back, he saw Skahas Gaho and Brant rise from the grass as well.
They were following
him
, and there were ten more with them. They loped after him, and he ran as hard as he could after Ota Qwan.
To the right, the enemy shocked all of them by charging – not a handful of them, but a solid wedge, which ran right for the centre of their line.
Peter was so far to the right that the end man of the wedge wasn’t even close enough to fight – the wedge ran by him in him moment of indecision and then there were cries deeper in
the woods.
Ota Qwan continued to run forward. Peter didn’t think he’d even seen the enemy charge, but he followed.
Skahas Gaho stooped and scalped the red-haired man.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Hector
Hector was fresh and unblooded, and the first clump of Outwallers died on his sword point and edge as fast as he could roar his war-cry three times, and then they were down and
his wedge was alone in the woodlands.
The essence of warfare is to force the pace and hope your enemy makes a mistake. That was his father’s law of war, and his own. So he didn’t stop and form a shieldwall.
‘Follow me!’ he roared, and continued on.
On, and on.
The Outwallers were faster but not fitter than the drovers, and tricks of terrain and bad luck – pulled muscles, wounds – left them at the mercy of the hard-faced armoured men, and
their mercy had nothing of mercy in it. A dozen Outwallers died in a hundred paces.
Hector ran on, his sides heaving and his legs burning. Running any distance in mail was an effort.
Running five hundred paces was more than an effort. It was like a test.
Most of his men stayed with him. Those few who paused, died.
The Outwallers fled, but even in panicked flight they ran like a flock of swallows or a school of fish, and those ones unthreatened by the charge recovered first, and arrows started to lick
through the trees.
‘Keep going!’ Hector cried, and his men gave him everything they had.
An Outlander boy tripped over a root and fell, and Ranald beheaded him with a flick of his wrists.
On and on.
And then Hector had to stop. He leaned on the hilt of his great sword, and his sides heaved.
Ranald put a hand on his armoured elbow. ‘Water,’ he said.
The length of a barn away they found young Clip, the farmer from the Inn, pinned under his dead horse with his throat slit. A bowshot farther on they came to the ford that they would have
crossed. Outwaller arrows had begun to fill the air again, and Hector had perhaps thirty men left when he crossed the ford and won a respite. His men drank water, spread out in the trees, and
caught their breaths. Those that had shafts left, or who had pulled them from the ground, began to pick their targets carefully – and it began again.
Ranald scratched his beard. He’d taken an arrow in the chest – it hadn’t penetrated his fine mail, but it had cracked a rib, and breathing was hard. ‘That was worth a
song, that run,’ he said.
Hector nodded. ‘It’s noon and we’ve led them back a mile, anyway. When they come at us across the stream – well, Donald’s away.’ Hector shrugged. ‘If
I’d kept all the boys together, would we have beaten them?’
Ranald spat some blood. ‘Nah. They’re too canny, and we didn’t kill nearly enough of ’em. Hector Lachlan, it’s been a pleasure and an honour knowing you, eh?’
Ranald held out his hand, and Hector took it. ‘Don’t fash yourself, man – I reckon there’s five hundred of the loons out in the woods. This way, if you put a boy in that
lass – well, he’s got a fortune and fifty good men to start him off.’
Hector shook his head. ‘Sorry I am I brought you here, cousin.’
Ranald shrugged, despite fatigue and the weight of his chain mail. ‘I’m honoured to die with you.’ He smiled at the sunlit sky. ‘I’m sorry for a certain lass I
love, but this is a good way to die.’
Lachlan looked up at the sun. Arrows were flying thickly, and a few were starting to come from their own side of the stream – the savages had found a crossing too.
Despite it all the sky was blue, the sun was warm and golden, and the flowers of the forest were beautiful. He laughed, and held his sword in the air. ‘Let us make a song!’ he
roared.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Peter
Peter followed Ota Qwan until his lungs were starved for air, and then he slowed. The black-painted man slowed, too, as if they were attached by a string. They had reached an
open field, and there was a small herd of cattle, every head facing them – a single horse, and dozens of sheep.
And no men.
Ota Qwan leaped for joy, dancing on the grass. ‘We have beaten them! All their herds are ours!’ He embraced Skahas Gaho.
The taller warrior didn’t address Ota Qwan, but Peter. ‘Where?’ he asked. He mimed swinging a two-handed axe or sword.
Peter pointed back the way they’d come. He was bone weary, the wound in his leg was now a cold ache, and all the fury of combat had ebbed away to leave nothing behind. But Peter, having
started something, couldn’t give it up.
Ota Qwan shook his head. ‘The cattle! We need to get the cattle, or this is for nothing.’
Peter looked at the black-painted man wearily. ‘Have you not seen the numbers of our dead, Ota Qwan? This is already for nothing. Skadai’s death means there is no one to tell the
Sossag to stop attacking.’ He shrugged. ‘And this is only a tithe of their herds.’
Ota Qwan looked at him. Understanding dawned slowly.
‘We must stop it. We can shoot down anyone who still stands – take our time.’
You can be war leader.
Somehow Peter knew that this was Ota Qwan’s only thought.
But together with their two hands of followers, they turned and began to walk back towards the distant screams that marked the current edge of the battle. No one, not even Ota Qwan, had the
energy to sprint, so they ran and walked fitfully.
The sun was just past its height when they scrambled down the last part of the steep glen and crossed the water on rocks slick with blood.
There were still men fighting.
A dozen of the armoured giants stood in a ring, and some two hundred Sossag stood around them in a ring, and between the inner ring and the outer ring was a wall of corpses, some of which still
moved. Even as they crossed the stream, a pair of bold youths leaped at the circle of steel and died, one beheaded by an axe, the other spitted on a four-foot sword.
Their bodies were cast on the growing barricade of the dead.
And then the blood-spattered daemons began to sing. They weren’t very good, but their voices rose together, and the Sossag paused a moment in respect. A death song was a great thing
– a magic not to be interrupted. Even Ota Qwan was silent.
Their song went on, many verses, and when it was done their faces, which had been lit with passion, seemed to slump.
Ota Qwan leaped up on a stump. ‘Shoot them! Back into the trees and shoot! My curse on any man who tries to rush that circle!’
Some men listened. Arrows began to fly, and when a Sossag arrow hit a mail cote, dust flew, at least, although few shots from their short bows were powerful enough to penetrate.
But there were many arrows.
Peter saw Sossag die from arrows shot from across the circle. The arrows flew faster and faster, striking hillmen and Sossag alike and the hillmen began to sing again, and they charged and the
Sossags ran – again.
But not far.
Peter had no arrows. He picked up a spear decorated with feathers, and the next time the enemy charged the circle, he chose his moment and hurled the heavy spear into the back of the charging
men. The shaft spun out of control, but the weapon hit the back of the man’s armoured legs and he stumbled. Peter ran for him, a dozen Sossag with him, and they tore the hillman to bloody
rags.
Again, the hillmen gathered in a circle, and again the Sossag shot them, creeping closer, emboldened by the hillmen’s obvious exhaustion and despair. One more time, their leader rallied,
whirled his sword and led them at the closest Sossag, bent not on escape but on slaying as many as they could – and again they caught the fringe of the circle, killing a dozen painted men and
losing two more of their own. Ota Qwan was roaring for them to fall back and shoot, and Peter joined him.
The Sossag fell back to the trees and shot their last shafts.
Another giant fell screaming.
The Sossag yelled, but it was a tired, thin sound.
Ota Qwan looked around. ‘When they next charge, we must charge them in turn, and finish them,’ he said. ‘We cannot let any of them escape. We must be able to tell the matrons
we killed them all.’
Peter spat. His mouth was dry, and he had never, in all his life, slave or free, been so tired.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Hector Lachlan
Alan Big Nose, Ranald Lachlan, Ewen the Sailor, Erik Blackheart and Hector. The last men left.
Hector was hit again with a shaft that tickled his ribs. He was ready to die. He had no wind left, no joy in battle, and he was in enough pain that simple cessation seemed like a victory.
Even as he thought it, Ewen took an arrow in the throat and went down.
He wracked his memory for a song to end with. He was no bard, but he knew some songs. Nothing came to him but drinking songs, but then he smiled – a free smile – to think of his
young wife crooning. She’d sung to him, a lullaby.