He did not hear the trumpets sound Sir Gjerdrum's charge. He did not witness it, either. Sir Gjerdrum led his charge down the nether face of the hill. He did respond when neighboring companies began backpedaling, drifting toward the opening Gjerdrum rent.
The shouting and cursing redoubled. Horses without riders screamed and reared and tried to flee through the press. Wounded men and animals carpeted the earth.
Bragi's bodyguards shouted at him to back off, to let them surround him. He flung a wild stroke at an enemy soldier, ducked back.
Something like a god's hammer hit his ribs on his left side. The breath exploded out of him. He couldn't groan. He felt his broken ribs grating. His bodyguards seized him, kept him upright. Red swirled around him, became black ness.
Gjerdrum was disappointed. Too many of the horsemen had fallen already, and he'd been able to extricate only a portion of the survivors. He guessed he had at most five hundred with which to attempt the breakout. He formed them with knights at the shock point, light horse behind and on the flanks, charged with keeping the aisle open once the knights broke through.
„Ready?" he asked.
„Ready, sir," the officers replied. They were pale, unsure. They too knew the ditches would be bad.
Gjerdrum scanned the fighting. The lines were holding. The ragged Palmisano cheer ran round and round the circle. Maybe it would be better to stand here. He had his orders. „Sound the advance."
Horns blared. Gjerdrum started forward at a walk. The infantry had been warned. He hoped they were paying attention.
They were. They began forming aisles. Gjerdrum spurred his mount.
There wasn't much room, but he did get up a little speed. He drove his lance into the eye of an enemy, yanked it free, struck at another. His mount ploughed into the line. Enemy soldiers flew away. His lance snapped. He drew his sword, flailed about himself. His companions pressed from behind, driving him through. His animal lurched forward, toward the ditch.
He glanced back. A rent a hundred yards wide had been torn through the circle. Already the army was pouring through.
He looked forward again, estimating the ditch, trying to decide where to form up once he reached the plain. He had to hit the enemy headquarters... .
A shadow caught his eye. He glanced up. Already the crows were circling.
The ditch! He reined in frantically. He could negotiate it by walking his mount.
Someone ploughed into him from behind. His mount tripped over a corpse, went down in front. He tumbled forward.
„Oh, damn!" The earth came up to meet him. The wind burst out of him. Feebly, he fought to regain his feet. The weight of his armor was too much for his weakened muscles.
He did make it to his knees.
A knight plowed into him. He went over backward, tumbling into the ditch. His helmet flew off. He lost his sword. He came to rest on his back.
He saw a screaming horse and flailing rider falling side ways toward him. A wild, ironshod hoof drove toward his face. He flung up an arm. Too late.
There was but an instant of pain before the Dark Lady gathered him to her bosom.
When consciousness returned Ragnarson found himself at the top of the hill, supported between two bodyguards, in plain view of friend and foe. The battle continued, but the third line had broken. The enemy had forced a melee. He swore. Bloody spittle dribbled into his beard. „Sir Gjerdrum?" he croaked.
„Dead," a bodyguard replied. „Some of them broke out, Sire. Eight hundred or a thousand. Most just ran for it. A few tried to attack Hsung. He drove them off." The man's voice was shaky. His face was pale and sweaty. He was terrified.
Bragi tried to support his own weight. Pain stabbed through his left side. He nearly went down.
„Stand up, Sire. Stand up. You have to stay up. They'll keep fighting as long as you're standing."
„No," he gasped. „Let them stop. Don't let them throw their lives away."
„They're taking no prisoners, Sire. No prisoners. They're killing anybody who tries to surrender."
„That's stupid." Ragnarson tried to curse Varthlokkur, Hsung, Mist and himself. Especially himself. No words would come. Not till, looking one bodyguard in the eye, he managed to gasp, „I'm sorry."
„Stand up, Sire," the man said as he sagged again. „You have to stand up."
A remote spark of will forced stiffness into his legs. He stood, ignoring the pain, closing his eyes to what was happening to the finest army the west had ever produced.
From far, far away he heard the clang of sword upon sword as eastern soldiers reached the ring of men surround ing him. He lost consciousness.
A soldier heaved at Baron Hardle's shoulder, trying to obtain his attention. „My Lord. My Lord!"
Hardle whirled, blade slashing. The soldier ducked, hav ing anticipated the stroke. Hardle recognized him. „Sorry, man. What is it?"
„We need you up top. The King is down. Sir Gjerdrum is dead."
Hardle eased out of the fighting, looked uphill. The royal guard had formed for a last stand. He saw the King sagging in the arms of his men. „How bad is he?"
„Smashed up, but not mortally. He passed out. Ribs stove in."
Hardle strode uphill. „Get that standard straightened up, soldier," he bellowed. „Let's see some pride." He attained the crown of the hill, surveyed the situation.
It did not look good. Those who had managed to break out were still running, not turning to help their comrades. „A curse on the lot of you," Hardle thundered. „May your cowardice be remembered forever. May they write songs of scorn naming your infamous names. May your children spit upon your graves." He almost enjoyed himself once he got going.
„A pity Prataxis isn't here to record this," he muttered. „The great last words of the rogue Nordmen. Talison! You yellow-livered son of a bitch, get back down there with your men and get a line formed." In a softer voice, „Got to break this melee somehow. You. You. You. Get over there and spook the rest of those horses. Run them down the hill."
„My Lord, if we run them off, how will we... ."
„Don't worry your pretty head about how you're going to get away, darling. You're not going to. Not unless we whip these bastards. If you try, I'll cut you down myself. I make myself clear? Anyone else in the dark?"
In fifteen minutes of frenzied order-giving he almost regained control. Almost. The absence of the men who had run made the difference. Once he was certain it was too late, he looked down on the enemy headquarters and murmured, „You know not what all you kill today, Tervola. Kavelin, we mourn thee before thy passing." He punched the men nearest him, demanding their attention. „You. You. All of you. Start chanting. Baxendala. Palmisano. So they never forget."
The end came slowly but inexorably. The madness of their overlords drove the eastern soldiers to needless death. Those great fools wanted so much more than victory. Nothing could satisfy them.
One by one, Kavelin's best went down.
Hardle was among the last. He died with a curse upon his lips, not for his enemies but for his brethren, those of his own class who would now have a free hand with the kingdom.
24
Year 1016 AFE
The short, wide Tervola in the boar mask walked slowly round the hilltop, stepping over torn bodies and mangled limbs. The setting sun cast long shadows across the battle ground. Crows leapt up swearing as he disturbed them. Flies buzzed, rising and falling in dense clouds. They masked the eyes of the dead, filling them with their eggs. „Where do they come from?" he murmured. „Why doesn't the wind blow them away?"
„Lord Ssu-ma?"
„Nothing, Lord Lun-yu. Nothing. Tell me. Will you report this as a great day in the history of imperial arms?"
„You sound displeased, Lord Ssu-ma."