There he stopped and looked back.
The Highlanders were pouring down the hillside, screaming some incomprehensible battle cry. They struck the infantry like a hammer.
Then they were through.
With nowhere left to run, Cheops drew his dagger. As a burly white-bearded warrior carrying a battle-axe charged him, Cheops ducked under the swinging blade and thrust his knife at the man. The blade was turned by a breastplate and Cheops stumbled and fell. The axe clove him between the shoulder blades.
On the hillside the Baron shouted orders to the infantry to form a defensive square and retreat down the pass. With fine discipline they gathered, the Baron at the center.
The Highlanders beat ineffectually against the shield wall, and the withdrawal began.
Leofric had never wanted to be a soldier, or any kind of fighting man. His loves were numbers, logistics, and organization. As he sat his gelding on the north side of the hill he found himself contemplating his future. Never having seen a battle, he was unprepared for the ferocity, the screams, and the cries. It was all so . . . barbaric, he realized.
Once it is over I will return to the capital, he decided. The University had offered him a teaching post in languages. I will accept it, he thought.
“Do we attack, sir?” asked the lieutenant at his side. The man had drawn his sword, and seemed eager to lead the five hundred cavalrymen up the steep slope. Leofric glanced up at the shield wall above.
“I suppose so,” he said. “The Baron ordered us to make probing assaults.”
“I understand,” said the officer. “Wasp formation, sting and run. How many should I take, sir?”
Leofric swung in the saddle and gazed at his five centuries. “Take three,” he said. “Harry them!”
“Yes, sir.”
The remnants of Chaldis’s cavalry came galloping down the western slope—no more than thirty men, some of them wounded. An officer rode up to Leofric. “We were ambushed, sir. More than a thousand Highlanders were waiting for us in the woods. They are cutting the infantry to pieces.”
At that moment the archers led by the sprinting Cheops came racing down the slope—pursued by, Leofric gauged, some two thousand Highlanders.
“Son of a whore!” hissed the officer. “Where in Hell did they come from?”
Leofric was momentarily stunned. He had an eye for numbers, and had already estimated there to be around three thousand on the hilltop. Now from nowhere the number of the enemy had risen to six thousand, which was not even within the bounds of possibility.
“God’s blood!” said the lieutenant. “What now, sir?”
Leofric needed a moment to think. Looking up at the shield wall above him, the answer came like a blinding revelation. “There are no men on the hilltop,” he said. “We are besieging the Highland women!”
All around them the infantry was falling back around the Baron. Raising his arm, Leofric led his cavalry in a charge against the enemy’s left. Cutting through to where the Baron stood, Leofric leaped from his mount and ran to him. Swiftly he told him of the Highland deception.
The Baron swore. “How many do we have left?” he asked.
Leofric cast his eyes at the sea of fighting men. “Two thousand. Perhaps less.”
“Advance on the hill!” shouted the Baron. “Formation One!”
“What is the point!” screamed Leofric. “It is over!”
“It will be over when I’ve killed the bitch!”
With a discipline gained during decades of warfare, the Outland troops re-formed into a fighting square one hundred shields wide and ten deep. “Double time!” shouted the Baron, and the men began to run. Leofric, caught in the center, had no choice but to run alongside the Baron. On the outer edges of the battle his cavalry was being cut to pieces trying to protect the exposed right flank of the square. Even so, inexorably the phalanx moved up the hill toward the waiting women.
“I’m coming for you, you whore!” bellowed the Baron, his voice rising above the clashing swords and the screams of the wounded and dying.
A black cloud of arrows slashed into the advancing line and Leofric could see scores of women loosing their shafts. He felt sickened by it all. The finest soldiers in the empire were now charging a force of wives and mothers.
Behind them the Highlanders were assaulting the troops at the rear of the phalanx, slashing their swords at unprotected backs. Many men turned to face the enemy, and this thinned the square. The Baron seemed unconcerned.
The enemy archers fell back behind the shield wall and a volley of iron-tipped spears sliced down into the advancing men. The Highlanders were all around them now, a pack of wolves ripping at their flesh. The square began to break up but the Baron ignored the threat, urging his front line on and up.
The shield wall opened and Leofric saw Asmidir charge out, with a group of men in black and silver armor. They came in a tight wedge that clove through the advancing line. Behind them, bearing spears and swords, the Highland women rushed at the attackers.
The sight of thousands of fighters streaming from the hilltop finally unnerved the advancing men. They broke and ran.
Asmidir leaped at the Baron, his two-handed sword slashing toward the Baron’s neck. The Baron blocked it with his shield and gave a return blow that crashed against Asmidir’s shoulder plate, dislodging it. The black man dropped to one knee and sent a wild cut that thundered against the Baron’s calf, smashing his greave to shards and knocking him to the ground. Rolling to his left, the Baron clambered to his feet and threw aside his shield. Holding his own blade two-handed, he rushed the black man. “You treacherous bastard!” he screamed.
Their swords clashed again and again. A blow from Asmidir smashed the links on the Baron’s neck protector and slashed up to open his cheek. Blood streamed from the cut.
Suddenly weary, Leofric sat down and watched the duel. All around him men were dying, but no one attacked the slightly built spectator who sat quietly with his hands hugging his knees.
Both men were strong and the fight continued at a savage pace. Asmidir was bleeding from wounds in both arms and a cut on his temple. The Baron blocked an overhead cut and, as Asmidir pressed in close, head-butted the black man, sending him staggering back. Dropping his sword, the Baron hurled himself at his half-stunned opponent and both men fell to the ground. The Baron drew his dagger and raised it high.
An arrow punched through his leather eye patch, slicing deep into his brain. Leofric glanced to his right and saw the warrior queen, Sigarni, in armor of bright silver, a winged helm upon her head, a short hunting bow in her hand. The Baron gave a choking cry, and toppled from Asmidir.
Leofric stood and walked over to the black man, kneeling beside him. “Are you all right?” he inquired.
“How is it that you live?” asked Asmidir, surprised.
Leofric shrugged. “Forgot to draw my sword.” He helped Asmidir to his feet and the two men approached Sigarni.
Handing the bow to a dark-haired woman on her right, she surveyed the battlefield. There were still isolated pockets of fighting, but the battle was over.
She swung to Leofric and Asmidir introduced them. “You have a charmed life, Leofric,” she said. “Thousands of men died today, and you have not even been scratched.”
“I’m not much of a soldier,” he said. “I’ve been offered a teaching post at the capital’s University. With your leave, I think I’ll accept it.”
She nodded. “There has been enough bloodletting today. Go from here, Leofric, ride south to your King. Tell him the truth about all that happened here. I fear it will make little difference.”
“It won’t, lady. He’ll come with an army ten times the size of the one you defeated here. It will never end.”
Stepping forward, she placed her hands upon his shoulders and brought her face close to his. “Look into my eyes, Leofric, and hear me well. It will end, for I will end it. Tell him these words from Sigarni, the Queen of the North: Advance against me and I will des
troy you. I will bring fire and death into your kingdom, and I will snatch you from your throne and throw your body to the dogs.”
Sigarni turned away from him and walked down the hillside. Asmidir took the young man’s arm and led him down into the pass. They found a horse and Leofric climbed into the saddle. “Your strategy was masterful,” he said. “I congratulate you.”
Asmidir smiled. “Not my strategy, boy. Hers. All war is based on deception and she learned that lesson well. Go in peace, Leofric, and be sure never to cross my path again.”
“I wish you well, Asmidir,” said the young man, “but I fear there will be no happy ending here.”
“The man who ripped the heart from my country is dead. That is a good enough ending for today. Now ride!”
Leofric touched spurs to the stallion and cantered from the battlefield.
High in the skies above, the crows were already gathering for the feast.
Bakris was dragged before Sigarni. “They captured me,” he said, “but I told them nothing.”
Sigarni sighed. “You told them everything that you were supposed to,” she said. “Kollarin warned me that you were a treacherous cur, who would sell your people for a handful of gold. But know this, Bakris, your treachery helped us. Without it the Baron might have sent out more scouts, and found our hidden forces. As the rope settles around your neck, think on that. Now get him from my sight—and hang him from the nearest tree!”
Fell sat quietly with his back against the tree trunk, Obrin and Torgan beside him. “It was a good day,” he said. “We broke them. By God, we broke them!”
“Aye,” said Obrin softly, his eyes drawn to the black-feathered arrow jutting from Fell’s chest. The clansman’s face was pale, there were dark rings beneath his eyes, and his lips had a bluish tinge that Obrin had seen all too often before.
“Fetch Sigarni,” Obrin told Torgan. The Farlain leader nodded, and loped away. “Maybe if I removed the arrow you would have a chance,” said Obrin, but Fell shook his head.
“I can feel the life draining from me. Nothing will stop it now. We won, though, didn’t we?”
“Aye, we won.”
Fell looked up at the sky and watched the crows swooping and diving. It was a beautiful day. High Druin wore a crown of clouds and the sun was bright behind them.
“It is a Highland custom,” said Fell, “that a man’s son sends him on the swans’ path. I have no children of my blood, Obrin.” He smiled. “But I used the Cormaach to save you, and that means you are my son. I want my best bow beside me, and two knives. Some bread and some wine should be wrapped in leaves. Lastly, two coins should be placed . . . upon my eyes. The coins are for the gatekeeper, who will usher me through. Will you do this for me?”
“I will, man.”
“I want to be buried on the flanks of High Druin. Sigarni will know where. I want to sleep forever beneath the spot where we became lovers. And if I must walk as a spirit, and be chained to any part of the land, it should be there.”
“God’s eyes, Fell, I thought we had made it through together. One cursed archer hiding in the undergrowth.”
“It’s done now. It cannot be undone. I have often said that a man should never dwell on regrets, but I find that hard to maintain now, Obrin. You will need a sword-bearer at my funeral. Choose a good one.”
“I shall.”
Fell closed his eyes. “She’s a wonder, isn’t she? A hilltop defended by women. Who would have considered it?”
“Aye, she’s a wonder, Fell. She’ll be here soon. Hang on, man.”
“I don’t think I can. I can hear the cry of gulls. Can you?”
“No, just the crows.”
Fell opened his eyes and looked past Obrin. He smiled, as if in greeting, but when Obrin glanced back there was no one there. “Come to walk with me, you old drunkard?” said Fell. “Ah, but it is good to see you, man. Give me your hand, for my strength is all but gone.”
Fell reached out, then his hand fell limply into his lap and his head sagged back against the tree. Obrin leaned in and closed Fell’s eyes. “You were a fine man,” he said, “and a true friend. I hope you find what you deserve.”
Obrin rose and turned toward the battlefield as Sigarni came running, with Torgan alongside her. She sped past Obrin and knelt by Fell’s body. Torgan paused beside Obrin and the two men moved away to a respectful distance.
Sigarni had knelt down at Fell’s side. She was holding his hand, and speaking to him. Obrin saw the tears on her face and, taking Torgan’s arm, drew the Farlain warrior away from the scene. “You ought to get that wound stitched,” said Obrin, pointing to the congealed blood on Torgan’s side.
“It’ll mend,” said the Highlander. “A shame he had no sons to speak his name on High Druin.”
“I’ll do that,” said Obrin.
“Ah yes, the Cormaach. I had forgotten. Do you know the ritual?”
“I can learn it.”
“I would be proud to teach you,” said Torgan. “And if you choose, I will stand beside you on High Druin as Fell’s sword-bearer.”
The two men reached the crest of the western slope and looked down over the battlefield. The Outlanders lay dead in their thousands, but many also of the Highland were slain. Women were moving around the pass, tending to the wounded. Later they would strip the Outland dead of their weapons. To the south Obrin could see Grame’s warriors marching to capture the enemy’s supply wagons. “What now, do you think?” asked Torgan. “Will the Outlanders listen to reason?”
Obrin shook his head. “No, they’ll send Jastey and twenty thousand men. They’ll be here by summer’s end.”
“Well,” said Torgan grimly, “we’ll be here to meet them!”
It was dusk when Asmidir and Kollarin found Sigarni. She was sitting alone on a distant hilltop, her red cloak wrapped tight around her.
“Thank you, my friend,” said Asmidir. “I would be grateful if you would leave us alone now.” Kollarin nodded and trudged away back to the encampment as Asmidir moved alongside Sigarni and sat down with his arm across her shoulder, drawing her in to him.
“Dear God, I am so sorry,” he said.
“He was gone when I arrived,” she told him. “Not even a farewell.”
Asmidir said nothing, but held her tightly. “One arrow,” she continued. “A piece of wood and a chunk of iron. And Fell is no more. Why him? Why not me, or you, or a thousand others?”
“In my land we believe in fate, Sigarni. It was his time . . . it was not yours, or mine.”
“I can’t believe that he’s gone. I try to concentrate on it, but I see his face smiling at me. I find myself thinking that if I walk back to the encampment he will be waiting for me. It is so unreal.”
“I never really spoke to Fell,” said Asmidir. “I think he saw me as a rival, and he was jealous of our . . . friendship. But he was a man I was proud to fight alongside. I do not know whether there is a paradise, or a hall of heroes, or a field of glory. But I hope there is, for his sake.”
“There is,” she told him. “Fell will be there now, with Gwalchmai, and Fyon Sharp-axe, and Loran and Mereth, and hundreds of others who died today. But that is of little comfort to the widows they left behind, and the children who now sit crying. I never saw a battle before. It is the most evil sight. Why do men lust after it so?”
“Few soldiers do,” he told her. “They know the reality of it. But your warriors will grow old, and they will remember this day above all others. The sun shining, the enemy defeated. They will remember it as a golden day, and they will tell their children of it, and their children will long to know a day like it. That is the way of things, Sigarni. I wish Fell had lived, for I can feel your sorrow and it pains me. But he did not, and you must put off your tears for another day. Your men are waiting for you. They wish to cheer you, and to celebrate their victory.”
She pulled away from him. “It is not over, Asmidir; you know that. What is there to celebrate? We have won a reprieve until the sum
mer. Before that we will have to take Citadel town, and establish strongholds in the Lowlands.”
“But not tonight. Come, this is your moment, Sigarni. You are their queen, their promised one, their savior. You must walk among them like a queen.”
Sigarni glanced up and saw the shimmering figure of Ironhand standing before her. Asmidir was oblivious to his presence.
“The black man is right,” said Ironhand.
Sigarni leaned in to Asmidir and kissed his cheek. “Go back and tell them I am coming,” she said.
“I will walk with you.”
“No, I will come alone. Soon.”
Asmidir rose and as he walked away, Ironhand’s spirit settled down beside her. “Fell died,” she said.
“I know. I saw him walk the path toward the Light. The old man, Gwalchmai, was beside him. I tried to follow but the way was closed to me. I stayed too long, Sigarni. Now I am trapped.”
“That is so unfair,” she told him.
He smiled. “In all my dealings in life—and subsequently in death—fairness has never seemed apparent. It is not important. My spirit lived to see your day, and to know that my blood, and Elarine’s, ran true in our daughter. The future is fraught with peril, but you will lead your people well. I know this, and my pride soars higher than High Druin. Now it is time for you to meet with your generals. To thank them, and praise them, and promote others to take the place of those who lie dead.”
“I cannot think of that now!”
“You can and you must! You restored Torgan’s pride, and he fought like a lion for you. He should take Fell’s place.”
“He is too headstrong. Harcanan would be better.”
Ironhand chuckled. “You see, you can think of it! Go now, my daughter. And think of me once in a while.”
“You’re not leaving me?”
“It is time. The Path of Light is closed to me, but perhaps there are other paths. Who knows?”
“I’ve lost Fell, and now I am losing you.”
“You will find others, Sigarni. You will never be short of friends and advisors. I wish that I could hug you, but such pleasures are not for the dead. Go back now, my daughter.”
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