“He thinks we’ll win?” Mereth asked sourly.
“Slaol is with us,” Saban said, and the sun had indeed broken through the remnants of mist to green the valley and spark shimmering light from the stream between the armies.
“Slaol had better be with us,” Mereth muttered. The enemy outnumbered Ratharryn’s men by two to one.
“I want their chief dead!” Camaban was calling to his men. “Him and his children! Find his children and kill them! If his wives are pregnant, kill them too! And kill the sorceress’s whelp, kill it! Kill her, kill her child, kill them all!”
Rallin was walking along his own line, doubtless encouraging his own spearmen to a similar slaughter. The priests of both sides had advanced to the stream’s banks, almost within spitting distance of each other, and there they hissed insults and spat curses at each other, leapt in the air, shook as though they were in the grip of the gods and shrieked as they summoned the invisible spirits to come and eviscerate the enemy. Haragg alone had not gone to the stream. Instead he was standing a few paces in front of the line and holding the skull pole toward the sun.
The braver warriors had gone close to the priests to shout more insults, but neither battle line moved forward. Groups of men danced in a frenzy as they summoned the courage to advance, others sang war hymns or chanted the names of their gods. The mist was all gone now and the day was growing warmer. Mereth stepped back into the wood which stood just behind Camaban’s line and began picking blackberries, but Camaban, returning from the left wing of his forces, pulled him out of the bushes and back into the line. Camaban said, “Every man who has a bow is to go back into the trees and make his way to the center of the line. You hear me?” He walked on, repeating the instruction, and the archers slipped back into the trees and, unseen by the enemy, ran to the center of Ratharryn’s loose line. Saban alone disobeyed, reluctant to abandon Mereth’s companionship.
A drum began to beat from Cathallo’s line and the heavy pounding gave Rallin’s men courage so that small groups of them darted forward to taunt Camaban’s forces. The most courageous splashed through the stream, then stood baring their blue-smeared bodies as if inviting Ratharryn’s bowmen to loose their arrows. Vakkal and some of his Outlander spearmen ran to challenge those bolder enemies who quickly retreated, provoking jeers from Ratharryn’s men. The priests stood in the center of these rushes and counter-rushes, ignoring and being ignored by the spearmen.
Scattered archers ran from Cathallo’s line to loose their arrows across the valley. Most fell short, though a few hissed overhead to rattle through the leaves in the wood. Small boys ran to retrieve the arrows and carry them to Ratharryn’s own archers, a handful of whom advanced from the center of the line to drive the enemy bowmen back. No one had been injured yet, let alone killed, and though the insults flew thick, neither army seemed inclined to cross the stream and begin the bloodletting. Rallin was walking up and down his line again, exhorting and shouting, and women were carrying pots of liquor to their men.
“We’re going to let them come to us,” Camaban was walking behind his line again. “We stay here,” he said, “and let them attack us.” He sounded cheerful. “When they advance, just stand still and wait for them.”
The whole of Cathallo’s line was chanting now, the strong voices joining in the battle verse of Lahanna. “They’re working themselves up to it, aren’t they?” Mereth observed, his lips stained with blackberry juice.
“I’d rather be making boats in Sarmennyn,” Saban said.
“I’d rather be making boats anywhere,” Mereth said. He did not have even one kill scar on his chest. “I reckon if they come over that stream,” he went on, “I’m going to run back and keep running till I reach the sea.”
“They’re just as frightened of us,” Saban said.
“That might be true,” Mereth observed, “but there’s two scared fellows over there for every ohe of us.”
A great shout sounded from Cathallo’s line and Saban saw that a large group of warriors had started toward the stream. They came from the center of Rallin’s line and they called Lahanna’s name as they advanced, but after a few paces they looked left and right and saw that the rest of their line had stayed rooted and so they themselves stopped and were content to shout insults at Camaban who had returned to the center of Ratharryn’s line. Derrewyn, Saban saw, had come down from the Sacred Mound and was now striding along the front of Cathallo’s reluctant battle line. Her long black hair was unbound and, like the pale cloak she wore, was lifted by the small wind. Saban could see she was shouting, and he could imagine that she was reviling her men’s courage, insulting Ratharryn and urging the spearmen forward. More liquor pots were brought to Rallin’s men. The drummer was beating his goatskin drum with redoubled force and men were shuffling in a grotesque dance as they summoned their nerves. The priests of both sides, their throats sore from so much shouting, huddled together by the stream where they drank from cupped hands, then talked with each other.
“This isn’t how Lengar would have fought,” a man near Saban grumbled.
“How would he have done it?” Saban asked.
“Your brother was always one for attacking,” the man said. “None of this waiting. Just scream loud, then run at the enemy in a howling rush.” He spat. “They always broke.”
Saban wondered if that was what Gundur was now planning for he had assembled his best warriors at the line’s center where Ratharryn’s skull pole was displayed. The gathered men had been Lengar’s best, the spearmen with the most kill scars who had foxes’ brushes woven into their hair and dangling from their spear shafts. Gundur was haranguing them, though Saban was too far away to hear what he said. Vakkal and his picked Outfolk warriors joined them, and just behind that fearsome group were Camaban’s massed archers.
The sun climbed. Rallin and Derrewyn walked up and down their line, and still neither side attacked, though some bowmen from Cathallo became bold and dared to cross the stream to loose some arrows. They struck one man in the leg and the enemy cheered that wound, then Camaban sent a half dozen of his own archers forward to chase the enemy away and it was Ratharryn’s turn to jeer.
“Maybe there won’t be a battle,” Mereth said cheerfully. “Perhaps we just stand here all day, shout ourselves hoarse, then go home and boast about how brave we’ve all been. That would suit me.”
“Or perhaps Rallin expected us to attack like Lengar,” Saban suggested.
“He thought we’d charge?”
“Probably,” Saban guessed, “and now that we’re not doing what he expected, he has to come to us if he’s to win.”
Rallin had evidently reached the same conclusion for he and Derrewyn now exhorted their army to advance, claiming that the vermin of Ratharryn were too timid to attack and too stubborn to retreat without a fight, and so were just waiting to be slaughtered. Rallin shouted that glory waited for Cathallo and that any man killed this day would go straight to Lahanna’s bliss in the sky. The first men into Ratharryn’s line, Cathallo’s chief promised, could take their pick of the enemy’s women and herds, and that encouragement was emboldening his men. The liquor was also having its effect and the drumbeat was filling the sky and the women who watched from the hills were shouting at their men to go forward and kill. The noise was constant, shouting and screaming, drum and chanting, singing and foot stamping. Rallin’s war captains had spread along the line and kept dragging men forward and their example and Rallin’s promises at last succeeded in urging the whole excited mass into motion.
“Just stand and wait!” Camaban shouted. “Stand and wait!”
“The gods help us,” Mereth said, touching his groin.
The enemy came slowly. None was willing to be the first to reach Ratharryn’s line and so they edged forward, calling encouragement to each other, and the archers were the only ones who ran ahead, but even they took care not to get too far in front. Rallin was at his line’s center where he did succeed in quickening his best warriors. He wante
d the rest of his army to see those heroes smash through the center of Ratharryn’s line and start the slaughter which would turn into massacre when Camaban’s men broke and fled. The warriors shouted their war cries, shook their spears and still none of Ratharryn’s men stepped forward to meet the attack.
“Stand and wait!” Camaban called. “Slaol will give us victory!”
The enemy archers had reached the far bank of the stream now and they hesitated for a heartbeat amid the thick willow-herb before jumping into the water. “Watch for the arrows!” a man shouted close to Saban.
The first arrows were loosed and Saban watched them flicker in the sky. None came at him, though in other places men skipped aside when they saw an arrow diving straight toward them. Cathallo’s archers were spread all along the line and so their arrows were few in any one place, though they did succeed in hitting a handful of men and those injuries encouraged the spearmen advancing behind the bowmen. They splashed through the stream, avoiding the priests who still talked placidly. “Are you going to use that bow?” Mereth asked Saban, and Saban took an arrow from his quiver and laid it on the string, but he did not pull the string back. There had been a time when all he had dreamed of being was a hero of his tribe’s songs, but he felt no bloodlust here. He could not hate Derrewyn or her people and so he just stared at the advancing enemy and wondered how Camaban planned to repel such an onslaught.
“Let them come!” Camaban called.
None of Ratharryn’s archers had replied to the enemy’s arrows, which emboldened Rallin’s bowmen, who stepped even closer so that now their arrows were driven flat and fast, too fast to avoid, and men shouted as they were hit, staggered and fell backward, and the sight of the wounded men provoked Rallin’s group of experienced warriors to break into a run and scream a challenge as they raced up the gentle slope.
“Now!” Camaban cried, and his own prime spearmen stepped aside to let the massed archers release a stinging cloud of arrows straight into the face of Rallin’s charge. A dozen of the enemy were down, one with an arrow through an eye, and the rest of Cathallo’s spearmen stopped, astonished at the sudden hail of flint-headed shafts, then another black-fledged flight whipped into them, then a third, and it was then that Gundur shouted Ratharryn’s war shout and his picked warriors, fox tails flying, screamed and charged. Camaban’s bowmen were scattering now, going left and right to drive the enemy archers back. Ratharryn’s men had seemed to be waiting placidly and their sudden counter-strike, swift as a viper’s attack, stunned the enemy.
Gundur and Vakkal led the charge into Rallin’s injured men. Vakkal, swan feathers bright in his hair, hacked with a long-handled axe while Gundur used a heavy spear with sickening efficiency. For a brief while the center of the field was a tangle of men stabbing and hacking, but Camaban’s archers had hurt the enemy grievously and now Ratharryn’s picked warriors broke through Rallin’s center. They killed Cathallo’s greatest heroes in the stream where Rallin tried to rally them until Vakkal hurled his axe and the heavy blade struck Rallin on the head and the enemy chieftain fell among the willow-herb. Gundur screamed and splashed through the stream to stab his spear down into Rallin’s chest, then Camaban was past him, swinging his sword in huge slashes that were as much a danger to his own side as to the enemy. Camaban’s wild appearance, his striped face, bone-hung hair and bloody skin, terrified Cathallo’s men who stepped back and stepped back again, and then stepped back faster as the fox-tailed warriors attacked in a howling rush.
“Now!” Camaban shouted at the rest of his line. “Come and kill them! Come and kill them! Their lives are yours!” And the men of Ratharryn, as astonished as the enemy by the success of their line’s center, and seeing that Cathallo’s men were fear-racked and retreating, gave a great shout and charged toward the stream. “Kill them!” Camaban howled. “Kill them!” His howling rallied his victorious center, which he led in a wild screaming charge that turned into a pursuit of an enemy which still outnumbered Camaban’s forces, but which had been panicked by their chief’s death. Ratharryn’s men whooped their victory as they cut the fleeing enemy down from behind. Axes and maces crushed skulls, shattered bones, came back bloody. Men killed in a frenzy of released fear, shrieking and stabbing, slashing and battering, and the panic became a rout when Cathallo’s skull pole was taken by Vakkal. He hacked blind Morthor down with a sword, seized the pole and smashed the skull with his blade, and the sight of the skull’s destruction caused a great wailing in the enemy’s disordered ranks. Cathallo’s women fled toward the great shrine and the fugitive spearmen followed in panic. It was chaos now, with Camaban’s men hunting and herding the fleeing mass. Cathallo was beaten, Cathallo was running and Ratharryn’s men were drenching their weapons with slaughter.
Saban alone did not pursue the enemy. Mereth had taken his great axe to the wild killing that soaked the avenue between the sacred stones, but Saban had been watching Derrewyn, who had been at her line’s western end when Gundur and Vakkal struck Rallin’s men, staring appalled as her tribe collapsed. Saban saw two of Cathallo’s warriors try and pull her back toward the settlement, but Derrewyn must have known that was where Camaban’s army would aim their pursuit and so she ran a few paces west and, when she saw the screaming charge of Cathallo’s men cross the stream and converge on the sacred avenue, she headed for the trees that had stood behind Camaban’s battle line. There was nowhere else to hide. Saban thought she must reach the trees safely, but then two of Ratharryn’s archers saw her hurrying southward and loosed their arrows. One of the missiles thumped into Derrewyn’s leg, making her stumble, but her two spearmen picked her up and half carried her into the trees as the archers, eager for Camaban’s reward of gold, ran after her.
Saban followed the archers into the wood. He could not see Derrewyn or her pursuers, but then he heard a bowstring being released and Derrewyn screaming an insult. Saban twisted toward the noise, plunging through a thicket of hazels into a small clearing where he saw that one of the Cathallo spearmen was lying dead with a black-fledged arrow through his throat. Derrewyn, her face pale and drawn with pain, was sitting against the moss-covered bole of an oak while her last protector faced the two bowmen of Ratharryn. They were grinning, pleased at the ease of their expected victory, but frowned as Saban burst into the clearing. “We found her,” one of the archers said emphatically.
“You found her,” Saban agreed, “so the reward is all yours. I don’t want it.” He knew neither of the young men, who were scarce more than boys. He smiled at the nearest man, then placed an arrow on his bowstring. “Do you have a knife?” he asked them.
“A knife?” one of them asked.
“You’ll have to cut off the sorceress’s head,” Saban explained, drawing back the arrow and aiming its long flint head at the enemy spearman. “Remember the reward for her death? It is her skull filled with gold, so you must take my brother her head if you want to become wealthy.” He glanced at Derrewyn who was watching him with an expressionless face. “But do you know how to ward off her dying curse?” Saban asked the two archers.
“Her curse?” the closest man asked in a worried tone.
“She is a sorceress,” Saban said ominously.
“Do you know?” the archer asked.
Saban smiled. “You kill the curse like this,” he said, then turned fast so that his arrow was pointing at the nearest archer. He loosed it, saw the blood spurt bright in the green shadows, then threw the bow aside as he leaped the body of the dying man to drive the second bowman down into the leaf mold. He hammered the man in the face, grunted as his opponent punched back, then he saw the man’s eyes widen in agony and heard the crunch of rib bones as Derrewyn’s spearman thrust his bronze blade into the bowman’s chest.
Saban stood. His heart was beating fast and sweat was stinging his eyes. “I thought that I would go through this whole battle without killing anyone.”
The first bowman, who had Saban’s arrow through his throat, heaved against the pain and then lay still.
“You didn’t want to kill?” Derrewyn asked scornfully. “Has your Outfolk woman turned you against killing?”
“I have no quarrel with you,” Saban said. “I have never had a quarrel with you.”
The surviving spearman was holding his bloody spear threateningly, but Derrewyn waved the weapon down. “He means no harm,” she told her protector. “Saban blunders through life meaning no harm, but he causes plenty. Go and guard the end of the wood.” She watched the spearman go, beckoned Saban forward, then crooked her wounded leg and hissed with pain. The arrow had gone clean through the muscle of her right thigh and its flint head stood proud at one side and the raven-black feathers of Ratharryn showed on the other. She broke off the feathered end, grimaced, then snapped off the head. There was not much blood, for the flesh had closed about the shaft.
“I can take the rest of the arrow out,” Saban said.
“I can do that for myself,” Derrewyn said. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat and listened to the faint screams that sounded from the north. “Thank you for killing them,” she said, gesturing at the two dead bowmen. “Did your brother truly promise a reward for me?”
“For your corpse,” Saban said.
“So now you can become rich by killing me?” she asked with a smile.
Saban returned the smile. “No,” he said, crouching in front of her. “I wish none of this had ever happened,” he said. “I wish everything was as it used to be.”