Hurling aside their bows, the Legend Riders drew their sabres and heeled their mounts forward. In close order battle the long lances were of little use, and the enemy let them fall, drawing their own swords. But the impetus of their charge was lost, and they were now facing grim and deadly opponents, who slashed and cut their way through the enemy centre. Alahir was relieved to find that his borrowed mount — afraid of shadows and swirling cloaks — showed no fear in the battle. It followed his every physical command.
Alahir saw the enemy officer, on a pure white stallion, and heeled his horse towards him. A lancer tried to block his path. Alahir ducked under his slashing blade. The lancer was wearing a heavy breastplate and mail, but his arms were unprotected. Alahir’s sabre flashed out, hacking into the man’s forearm and snapping the bone. The lancer’s sword fell from his hand, and Alahir swept past him. The officer beyond, still holding to his lance, made a feeble stab at the warrior closing on him. Alahir struck the lance with his sabre, diverting it, then, as their horses crashed together, hammered his sabre against the man’s bronze helm. The officer swayed in the saddle. Alahir struck him twice more. The second time the sabre cut through the man’s ear and down through his neck. He pitched from the saddle. His white horse galloped away. Even in the chaos of battle Alahir found himself wishing he had time to catch it. It was a Ventrian purebred, and deserved better than the wretch who rode him.
Pushing thoughts of horses from his mind Alahir swung to find a fresh opponent — but the remaining lancers were fleeing in panic. The younger and less battle-hardened of his men began to give chase.
Alahir bellowed an order, and they drew rein.
Alahir gazed round the corpse-littered battlefield. About seventy lancers lay dead, or wounded. Alahir scanned the area, seeking out fallen Legend Riders. He saw eight bodies, lying unmoving, and nine more men, unhorsed and carrying heavy wounds. Gilden rode alongside. The sergeant had a deep cut on his cheek, almost exactly between the white scars. Blood was flowing freely from it, and running over his mail shirt.
‘What orders?’ he asked.
‘Deal with our wounded first, then find two prisoners who will survive a trip back to camp. Then we’ll push on.’ He pointed up the mountain slopes. ‘There’s a fine view of the south up there, and we’ll see how many troops they are funnelling through the passes.’
Leaning to his left Gilden spat blood from his mouth. ‘Luckily they weren’t great fighters.’
‘They were good enough,’ said Alahir grimly. ‘They just weren’t Drenai.’
Gilden smiled, which opened the wide cut on his cheek. He swore.
‘Get someone to stitch that,’ said Alahir.
‘What do you want to do about the prisoners we don’t need?’
‘Let them go — without their mounts.’
‘Agrias won’t like that.’
‘Do I look as though I care?’
‘No.’
In the distance Alahir saw a huge flock of birds suddenly take to the sky, and his mount reared. A deep groan came from the earth. Alahir’s horse bolted. Several other riders were unhorsed. Alahir kept a firm grip on the reins and let the frightened beast have its head for a while, then he gently steered it to the left, seeking to head it back to his troops. Ahead of him a cloud of dust swirled up from the earth, followed instantly by a tremendous thunderclap. The horse, totally panicked now, galloped on. Alahir saw a jagged black line appear on the flatland some fifty yards ahead, as if a giant, invisible sword was scoring the earth. Then the ground suddenly split and a chasm began to open.
Alahir’s first instinct was to kick his feet from the stirrups and roll clear of the horse. However, the memory of Egar’s paralysing fall still haunted him, his friend lying on the damp earth, unable to move his limbs. If Alahir were to die, it would not be because he fell from the saddle. The horse thundered on. The dust was billowing now, and Alahir had no way to tell how wide the chasm had become.
As the galloping horse closed on the yawning gap Alahir let out a Drenai battle cry. The terrified horse leapt. For a frozen moment Alahir believed they would not survive. It was as if he and his mount were hanging in the air over a colossal drop. Time stood still. Then the horse’s front hooves struck solid ground. It landed awkwardly, and stumbled. Alahir was half thrown from the saddle, but hauled himself back. The horse came to a stop, and stood trembling. Alahir patted its sleek neck, then stared back at the chasm. It was closing behind him. Clouds of dust swirled up once more. In the distance he saw huge trees tumble to the mountainside. Touching heels to the still trembling horse he rode back to where his men were clustered together. Most of them had dismounted and were holding the reins of their frightened mounts.
His young aide, Bagalan, looking shocked and pale, called out to him. ‘What is happening?’
‘Earthquake,’ replied Alahir. ‘Speak calmly. The horses are frightened enough.’ He was surprised to hear that his voice showed no sign of the fear pumping through his body. His legs felt weak, and he decided not to dismount for a while, but sat, staring up at the ruined woods above. Some of the wounded enemy lancers were also standing, alongside their conquerors, all thoughts of war vanished.
For a short while there was silence among the gathered men. As the dust began to settle Alahir rode to where Gilden was sitting on the ground, having the wound to his face stitched by another rider. ‘Forget prisoners,’ said Alahir. ‘Get them to dig a grave for our dead, then let them all go.’
Gilden raised a hand in acknowledgement.
Turning his horse, Alahir rode back to Bagalan. The youngster was still pale, and there was a bloody cut on his forearm. Alahir dismounted. From his saddlebag he drew out a leather pouch. Flipping it open he took out a curved needle. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ll stitch that wound.’
The lad sank to the ground and looked up at him. ‘Why did you leap that chasm?’ he asked. Alahir threaded the needle and took hold of his aide’s arm. At first the question seemed odd, then he realized how it must have looked. He had turned the horse and headed directly at the great split in the earth.
Looking up he saw other men staring at him. He chuckled and shook his head.
‘Because it was there, boy,’ he said, inserting the needle into the torn flesh, and drawing the thread through. Once back in camp, with a few flasks of wine being shared, he would tell them the truth.
Or maybe not.
Alahir supervised the burial of the eight dead Legend warriors. First they removed the armour. The Drenai were a poor people now, and the cunningly crafted chain mail was too expensive to bury. The mail coifs and shoulder protectors alone contained hundreds of hand-fashioned rings, involving months of work. The knee-length hauberks, the ring-mail gorgets, the chain leg mail, the helms, swords and bows, would cost more than the average Drenai land worker would earn in several years. Armour was therefore passed from father to son.
Stripped of weapons, each man had copper coins placed over his eyes, held in place by a black strip of silk. Then they were wrapped in their red cloaks and laid carefully in the mass grave dug out by the enemy lancers. The grave was marked, so that the bodies could be recovered later and taken away for a more suitable funeral, where songs would be sung, and their deeds spoken of.