‘It’s as well you don’t hold with the old Tarbain symbols,’ said Ragnor. ‘On a day such as today, that might look an ill omen to those inclined to see it that way: presaging the death of a great lord, or changing times or some such nonsense.’ He turned and marched on towards Castle Hakkan, laughing to himself.
The master of the Lore Inkall did not follow at once. He watched as the shieldman drew his blade across the thick fur of the corpse to clean away the blood. When he did follow in the footsteps of the High Thane, he bore a thoughtful expression. He drew his grey hood up once more to shelter his face from the elements. The snow was getting heavier all the time.
A black line emerged out of the drizzling mist. More than three thousand, Kanin estimated as the companies fell into position facing his own. Some of them looked to be common folk: farmers, fishermen and villagers gathered from the southern Lannis-Haig lands. Many, though, were fighting men. The two lines were not far apart, and despite the leaden air he could hear shouts running to and fro along the enemy ranks, and the stamping of horses and the clatter of their harnesses. He saw a few banners hanging limply. He could identify only a few of them. At the centre amidst a mass of horsemen stood one that bore the insignia of Kilkry-Haig. Kanin sniffed and shook raindrops from his hair. He glanced across to Wain. She sat astride her horse close by, the half-dozen warriors of her Shield in attendance.
‘It seems we have the chance to make a name for ourselves,’ Kanin said. ‘That’s the Kilkry Bloodheir, isn’t it?’
His sister grinned. ‘It would be sweet-tasting to win this one.’
‘As fate falls,’ murmured Kanin. ‘We can hope.’
The waiting was a torment. The rain eased off, leaving wet clothes plastered to bodies. Kanin could feel his muscles growing stiff in the saddle. The Tarbain men before him were becoming restive, shifting about, muttering and shouting at one another in their barbarous tongue. Kanin rode down the line, quelling them with a fierce glare. The Horin-Gyre warriors amongst the tribesmen were still, quiet. He saw some of them murmuring under their breath as they stared fixedly ahead. He found his lips moving of their own accord, the whispered words coming without thought: ‘My feet are on the Road. I go without fear. I know not pride.’ Again and again, over and over. The Hooded God would hear and approve, if the words were spoken with true belief. And if that belief was still in the heart when the moment of death came, he would gather the fallen in to him to rest until the renewal of the world.
Finally, after an hour or more, there was movement. Horsemen began to stream across behind the opposing army, gathering on its left flank. They milled about there as minute by minute their numbers swelled: a hundred, two hundred, and more. At the same time, a line of archers were coming forwards, strung out across the field. They advanced to within a long bowshot before kneeling. Kanin felt his pulse speeding, the sense of impending release building within him. Now the answer would come. Whatever happened, it was better than the waiting.
A hissing flight of arrows arced up and over. They pattered down, many falling short, others rattling against uplifted shields or smacking home in thigh or chest. It was a sound unlike any other, the thudding of an arrow into yielding flesh. Kanin’s horse skittered sideways as the first cries rose up and it caught the scent of battle. He patted its neck. There was a second volley of arrows, and a third.
‘More crossbows to face the horsemen,’ he called to Wain, and she nodded and cantered off. A few shouted commands sent crossbowmen scurrying from left to right to take up positions opposite the Kilkry horsemen. There was barely time, for a great clamour and blowing of horns rose up amongst the riders, and they wheeled their mounts about and began to advance across the field. Another shower of arrows came in. A stray one passed well over the line and felled a Tarbain warrior standing close by Kanin. He looked up at Kanin with a fixed expression of shock on his face as he died.
The riders came slowly at first, holding their horses on tight reins. Their speed picked up until, in a thundering burst of hoofs and flying clods of earth, they broke into a gallop. And here was another sound that had but one meaning: the visceral, swelling rumble, felt through ground and air, of the charge. It touched upon some leashed part of Kanin, shivering through his breast-bone, and he felt it raising him up, bearing him in wild anticipation towards the clash that must follow. A volley of bolts flashed out to meet the charge. Horses crashed down, ploughing into the soft ground, flinging their riders beneath the stamping feet of those who came behind. The crossbowmen stepped back, hurrying to reload, and spears sprouted along the front rank. When it came, the impact was like the wordless roar of a thousand voices.
The spear wall was not dense enough to deter all the horses, and the charge swept up and crashed against the footsoldiers. In moments, the right flank of the line was in chaos. Horses lunged through the mud and over bodies as their riders slashed around them. Tarbain tribesmen were already beginning to stream away in terror, flying back past Kanin’s position. Knots of Horin-Gyre warriors formed, the cavalry swirling about them. Swordsmen and spearmen hacked and stabbed at the horses, while crossbowmen struggled to pick off the riders. The screams of animals and men flowed together into a single, high cacophony.
Kanin glanced along the rest of his line. Everywhere the Tarbains were wavering, groups of them edging back from their positions, jostling and arguing with the Horin-Gyre troops alongside them. They had been taught to fear cavalry charges by the Gyre Bloods themselves and, unlike the mail-shirted warriors of the Black Road, had only small wicker shields for protection against the arrows that were still cascading down. Kanin swore.
Wain came cantering up. Her face was spattered with dirt, but there was a kind of exultation in her eyes.
‘They’ll turn our flank soon,’ she shouted above the din.
‘Get down the line,’ the Bloodheir cried, gesturing to his left. ‘Keep the savages in their places. I’ll hold the right.’
Kanin turned his horse about. Behind him, his Shield—a score of his Blood’s finest warriors—were waiting in motionless, silent ranks. Igris, their captain and the most stony-faced of them all, was gently stroking his horse’s mane. His eyes were fixed upon Kanin. Beyond the Shield, Kanin’s few precious cavalry were watching him expectantly. They wanted blood and, in the way it often was with warriors of the Road caught up in the fierce anticipation of battle, it mattered little to them whether it was their enemy’s or their own. Fate called for a host of deaths today; those who fell would be answering a call that had been sounded at their birth.
‘With me,’ was all Kanin cried, and then he was off, galloping at their head towards the raging battle on the right flank. A wild freedom filled him as he pounded into the melee. Here, he was just one amongst the many, and this would be a good way for his first life to end. The Horin-Gyre riders plunged in amongst those of Kilkry-Haig, the weight of their charge carrying them on and on. Horse lurched against horse, blade clashed with blade. Crossbow bolts hissed through the air. There was, for long minutes, only blood, and tumult, and death. Then Kanin found there was no enemy before him. The Kilkry horsemen were streaming back towards their own lines. The footsoldiers spilled out from their little clusters, falling upon the wounded and unhorsed. Kanin brought his mount to a protesting, rearing halt. He looked around. The ground was black with bodies. Here and there a crippled horse struggled to rise from the mud. There were despairing cries for help from amongst the corpses. Kanin almost laughed out loud.
He made his way back to where Wain was waiting, his jubilant company of horsemen following behind. Many of them had fallen. The survivors did not care.