Briefly a surge of self-reproach washed over him. Would this venture prove to be no more than the reckless loss of Ibris's famous bodyguard? The finest of Serenstad's troops massacred under the command of his bastard son?
He had a vision of the endless disastrous consequences of such an outcome and once more his wife's face appeared to him.
But the relentless sounding of the horn kept him anchored firmly to the present and the vision of his wife merely served as a centre around which he formed a stern resolve.
'Shout,’ he cried to his men. ‘They can't see us as well as we can see them. Shout! Swords and shields!'
The men obeyed, banging their swords on their shields and roaring fiercely. The advancing Bethlarii hesitated slightly, their leaders crouching slightly and peering into the gloom.
The horn blew.
'The charge chant!’ Arwain shouted to his men.
The shouting faded suddenly and was replaced by a rhythmic chanting punctuated by equally rhythmic tattoos of foot stamping and swords against shields. At this change, the Bethlarii halted and some of them began to edge back a little, though others, Arwain noted, began to close ranks.
As the chanting increased in intensity, Arwain desperately looked again into the darkness behind him. For the most part, the Bethlarii were still only a loose-knit crowd; they might scatter at the climax of the chant in anticipation of a solid line of shields and spears emerging out of the darkness towards them, but …?
Should he risk a short charge? Line abreast, he and his few men would look more numerous than they were.
The decision, however, was made for him. The Bethlarii might only have been a loose-knit group, but they were an angry one and their anger was growing in proportion to their hesitation. They needed only the slightest touch to release their building energy.
It came in the form of a tall figure who broke through to the front of the crowd and began haranguing them. Arwain noticed that he was dressed differently from the rest.
One of their damned priests, he thought.
But scarcely had the thought formed than the priest let out a great shriek, full of hatred and fury, and began to charge. Without even the slightest hesitation, the Bethlarii followed him.
'Lock shields! Hold the circle!’ Arwain shouted.
Cries of ‘Hyrdyn! Hyrdyn! Hyrdyn!’ reached him as his own men fell silent.
His legs began to shake.
'Hold,’ he said, commandingly. ‘The others will be retreating back towards us. We mustn't fail them.'
He braced himself for the impact.
Then, to his horror, he was aware of the circle breaking; space at his back. Before he could turn to confirm this, however, a spear flitted across his vision and struck the Bethlarii priest full in the mouth. His shrieking battle cry stopped in a stomach-churning squeal and the impact of the spear coupled with his forward movement sent him crashing backwards, his legs flailing in the air.
Two more spears followed, one striking another Bethlarii, the next narrowly missing a third. Just as the priest's arrival had ignited the crowd, so his abrupt demise doused it, and the Bethlarii began to retreat.
'They're back,’ one of Arwain's companions said, looking over his shoulder.
The remark was unnecessary.
'Retreat,’ Arwain ordered. That too was unnecessary.
But in the darkness the retreat proved more dangerous than the advance even though there was no immediate pursuit. Then, they had approached quietly and carefully in close formations, placing each foot with care. Now, they were carrying their dead and wounded. And with hatred and anger howling behind them, and retribution waiting in the near future, they were all fighting an almost overwhelming urge to flee. Despite the best efforts of the officers, they did not maintain a pace slow enough to be safe in the difficult terrain and several were injured in falls.
Eventually, as the dull grey dawn began to etch out figures and landscapes, they gathered on a level area some way from the road that meandered down the centre of the valley.
They were greeted by the battalion's companies of archers. The assault on the camp had been too scattered for them to be used effectively, and they had been left to try to establish ambush positions to deal with the inevitable Bethlarii response.
While the returning infantrymen tended their injured, Ryllans sent scouts forward to report on the movement of the Bethlarii and conferred with the archers about their dispositions.
Arwain joined him. ‘How many dead?’ he asked.
'I don't know yet,’ Ryllans replied. ‘But not many I think. We were lucky. I never expected that we'd come so close to breaking through the line like that. A little later with the retreat and it would've been a very different tale.'
But there was little time for either reminiscence or analysis. The attack had nearly foundered by virtue of its success. Many Bethlarii had been slain and no small amount of damage done. Whatever their intention had been for this day, it would now be radically different. Arwain still could not fault the original surmise; it would be a small force quite soon, or a large one much later. But, that was surmise, and until it became reality, Ibris's bodyguard must be prepared for any outcome.
Arwain sent another galloper back towards his father's approaching army with details of the outcome of the attack, then returned to his men.
There was a strange quietness about the cold field. Some of the men were talking softly. Some were resting, as well as they could on the rocks littering the dew-sodden turf. Others were comforting or being comforted. Many were at the edge of a nearby stream washing blood from their weapons and themselves with its icy water. Arwain moved through them all, encouraging, sustaining, quietening; an unwitting copy of his father when himself a young commander.
Finally he came to the lee of a large rock where the battalion's physician was doing what he could for the seriously wounded.
As he drew near, his eye was caught by several lines of hummocks in the grass by the rock. It was not until he was almost upon them that he identified them as bodies.
Even as he watched, two men helping the physician brought another and laid it gently by the others. One of them wrote something on a piece of paper.
Against the rock-face, several lamps and a small fire etched out a bright, colourful tableau in the morning greyness. At its edges were the wounded, lying and sitting, some alone, some with companions to sustain them, while at its centre was a huddle of kneeling men. Arwain wanted to turn away, but forced himself forward.
The physician, his face strained and gaunt in the cold, unnatural light of the lamps and the burgeoning daylight, was routing into an open wound in a man's leg from which protruded part of an arrow shaft. The man was struggling desperately.
Catching sight of Arwain silhouetted in the half light, the physician snapped, ‘Don't just stand there, man, help hold him down.'
For a moment, and, to his immediate regret, Arwain found he was looking for an angry rebuke for the physician for this insolence. Then, in atonement, he did as he was told and seized the man's legs which were coming free from the ropes that had been used to secure them to two posts driven into the ground.
The man's eyes were wide with terror and agony, though he did not make any attempt to relinquish the heavy leather belt that his teeth were biting into.
There was a sudden grunt of effort and then a sigh of relief from the physician and the arrow's barbed head was drawn reluctantly from the wound. Then, briskly, the physician snapped his fingers at one of his assistants by the fire. Almost before Arwain realized what was happening, the assistant, his hand protected by a thick cloth, had drawn a metal rod from the fire and given it to the physician who plunged its red-hot end resolutely into the wound.
The sound and the smell turned Arwain's stomach, but clenching his teeth, he clung to the still struggling legs, focusing his gaze on the round hammer marks in the splayed and split top of one of the posts to which the man's legs had been bound. He seemed to feel every blow that had been struck to drive the post into the hard ground. Then, at last, the injured man gave a convulsive heave and then went limp. After a moment, Arwain
