The road narrowed, and the Guard came into range. They knew what they were facing, but they did not hesitate. Skilgannon found himself admiring these brave men, and a heaviness settled on his heart.
Good, brave men were going to die today, robbing the world of their courage, their spirit and their passion.
‘Now!’ yelled Alahir.
Hundreds of barbed shafts tore into the ranks of the marching men. Most thudded into shields, or ricocheted from iron armour. Many others sliced into flesh. Soldiers fell — but still the Guard came on. A shouted order came from within their lines, and they broke into a run. More volleys struck them, thinning the ranks. Then, when they were less than twenty paces from the waiting Legend Riders, Alahir raised his sword. The front line of the defenders passed their bows back to the men behind, drew their sabres, and, with Alahir, Skilgannon and Decado in the lead, charged into the fray.
Skilgannon blocked a wicked thrust, shoulder-charged the soldier, hurling him back. The Swords of Night and Day flashed in the sunshine, cutting left and right. Alongside him Alahir clove into the ranks of the Guards, the golden sword stained now with crimson.
Behind them, higher up the hill, a hundred bowmen continued to rain arrows down on the Guards trying to join the fight. As Skilgannon had predicted the men were close packed, and unable to raise their shields. Sharp arrows ripped into flesh, and the sound of clashing arms was interspersed with the screams of dying warriors. Greater weight of numbers began to force the Drenai line back.
Another fifty archers dropped their bows and rushed forward to reinforce the line. Skilgannon blocked a thrusting sword, and sent a lunging riposte through the face of the attacker. The man fell back. Another took his place. Skilgannon was fighting now with a cold, remorseless fury, hacking and cutting, his swords always in motion, glittering and flashing as they clove through armour and bone. Alongside him Decado and Alahir were holding their ground, but on both flanks the Guards were pushing ahead. Soon the three warriors would be surrounded.
Gilden hurled himself forward, seeking to link up with Alahir. A sword blade gouged into his thigh.
Another clattered against his helm. Ducking down he threw himself at the men ahead of him, knocking one man from his feet, and forcing another back. His sabre slashed out, and the dagger in his left hand slammed into the unprotected neck of an oncoming guardsman. Other defenders surged after Gilden, and for a while the line held.
But the Guards did not break. Slowly, inexorably, they were winning.
Like all great war leaders Skilgannon, despite being at the centre of the fight, could feel the ebb and flow of the conflict. The Legend Riders were battling bravely, but he could sense their growing uncertainty. The Guards were fighting now with more vigour as they caught the scent of victory. A sword hammered into Skilgannon’s hauberk. The chain mail stopped the blow from cutting flesh, but the bruising force almost knocked him from his feet. Surging up he killed the attacker. Then another — creating a brief space around himself. Alahir, his face smeared with blood, was trying to push forward into the enemy ranks, but the shields closed against him, and he too was forced back.
Guardsmen surged past Skilgannon on both sides as the Drenai line behind him gave way. There was nothing he could do now, save fight on.
Suddenly the air was filled with snarling screams. The body of a guardsman came hurtling past Skilgannon. Then Shakul appeared. His huge fist crashed against a wooden shield, splintering it. The great beast grabbed the warrior holding it, hauling him high into the air, and flinging him into the ranks of the oncoming guardsmen.
Another figure loomed. It was Harad.
Skilgannon — for the moment having no foes to face — saw the axeman hurl himself into the fight. Snaga rose and fell, cleaving and killing. Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. Harad had always been powerful, but he lacked experience. That deficiency could not be seen now. The axeman powered forward in perfect balance, and the guardsmen were falling back before the ferocity of his assault.
Yet still the Eternal Guard did not break. Skilgannon charged in, Alahir alongside him. The Legend Riders surged forward, pushing the Guard back towards the narrowest point of the road. The battle became ever more chaotic, the dead and dying trampled underfoot.
A trumpet sounded — and the Guard pulled back. Even in retreat they kept their discipline.
Some of the Legend Riders began to give chase. Alahir called them to order. ‘Re-form!’ he shouted.
Smoothly they pulled back to their original fighting line. Harad walked over to stand before Skilgannon.
‘Is it you?’ asked the warrior softly.
‘Aye, laddie. I’m back for a time.’
Skilgannon wanted to say more, but two men appeared at the narrowest point of the road. Both were slim and young, and they wore no armour. They approached Alahir, and bowed. The first, stoop-shouldered and balding, spoke. ‘I am Warna Set, surgeon to the First. This is my assistant, Anatis.
By your leave I will attend the Guard wounded. Do you have a surgeon with you?’
‘We do not,’ Alahir told him.
‘If it is agreeable to you, my general offers the assistance of Anatis for your own wounded. He also requests you allow us to remove the dead from the battlefield.’
Alahir gazed back along the road at the fallen men, some of them writhing in pain. Then he glanced at Skilgannon.
‘How long will this truce last?’ Skilgannon enquired.
The sun was already beginning to fall. Warna Set turned to Skilgannon. ‘The general says that he will hold off the next attack until sunrise.’
‘You may signal our agreement,’ Skilgannon told him. The surgeon bowed and returned to the Guard.
Anatis remained. He was a small man, sandy-haired, with large brown eyes. His features were soft, almost feminine.
‘Might I begin my work, sir?’ he asked Skilgannon.
‘Of course. We are grateful for your assistance.’
Anatis smiled wearily. ‘My talents would be better employed among people who did not seek to cut each other to pieces. Assign me some men, for those wounded who can be moved to a safer place. I understand there is water close by.’
‘Yes.’
‘The wounded should be carried there, and those without stomach wounds encouraged to drink.’
Then he moved back to walk among the fallen riders. Alahir told Gilden to assist him.
‘I don’t know who their general is,’ he said to Skilgannon, ‘but I must say I warm to him.’
‘Aye, it is a fine gesture, but it also has strategic merit. His own men know they will receive treatment if wounded, and will not be merely cast aside. Allowing us a surgeon also means we are less likely to butcher wounded guardsmen. The man is a thinker.’
The sound of a horse’s hooves upon stone broke through the conversation. Skilgannon swung to see Decado riding out from the entrance to the pool. He strolled back to where the dark-haired young swordsman sat his mount. ‘Leaving us so soon?’ he asked.
‘I am afraid so, kinsman. This never was my fight. It pleased me to stay while I thought it might be won.’
‘Well, good luck to you, Decado.’
The man smiled. ‘No pleas for me to stay? No appeal to my loyalty?’
‘No. I thank you for your help today. You are a fine warrior. Perhaps we will meet again, in happier times.’
With that Skilgannon turned away from the man and walked over to where Druss was standing, apart from the other men. ‘Not looking good,’ said the axeman.
‘No,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Skills on both sides are even, but their numbers will win the day. I think we can resist two, maybe three attacks.’
Druss nodded. Skilgannon saw the blood on the axeman’s temple, and the huge bruise beneath it.