“Is this really your idea of heaven, lord?” called Gray through the din.
Roper laughed. “Strangely enough,” he called back. To Roper, heaven should be dynamic and awe-inspiring. His idea of being close to god was not to feel peace, but fear. The lightning was splintering the clouds and wave after wave of thunder was crashing over them. So ever-present were the bolts from the clouds that it looked as though they were the pillars supporting the sky. The legions appeared to freeze as the white light splashed over them, jerking forward again as it dissipated.
They continued their advance and it was not long before an aide returned to Roper, though not the one he had sent out. “Lord! Legate Tekoa says your portion of the battle line is five hundred yards from the knights in the Suthern centre. They are advancing as well.”
“How long ago did he tell you this?”
“Three minutes, lord?” hazarded the legionary. “The Skiritai have cleared away the Suthern skirmishers and they’re now withdrawing.”
“Sound the halt!” Roper bawled at the trumpeter who sent three notes soaring out. How far they made it through the hail, Roper could not tell, but the drums around him changed beat as the line ground to a standstill. A faint, mournful blast sounded from his right, then his left, echoing his orders down the line. “Bows!” A staccato burst from the trumpet, and Ramnea’s Own in front of Roper unslung their enormous yew bows. The drumming was not supposed to respond to orders like that and Roper could not hear any other horns echoing the order. But he trusted the legates: they knew the plan, even if they had not heard the order.
Without a word, Uvoren spurred away into the hail in the direction of the Sacred Guard. Gray glanced at Roper. “I’m going with him, lord.”
“Carry on, Lieutenant.” He left, leaving Roper with Helmec; Sturla, the legate of Ramnea’s Own, and a gaggle of aides. He considered giving the order to open fire into the haze, but in the downpour the arrows would quickly lose their force. “We hold until they are in view,” he said to Sturla. The legate, a man of singular calm, said nothing. He was bareheaded, with the hail collecting in his hair. It must have hurt, but he was expressionless.
“You!” Roper gestured at six of the aides. “Three go left, three go right. I want to know what is happening to the rest of the line. Are we firing on the pikemen? Can we even see them? Have some of the legions engaged? Bring that information to me as fast as you are able.” They scattered. Roper sent another two forward to wait before the front rank of Ramnea’s Own, with instructions to inform him as soon as they could see the enemy. He did not have to wait long; barely a minute later, one of them came tearing back.
“Men-at-arms, my lord! Advancing fast!”
“Volley!” roared Roper, for he could now see their hazy outline solidifying in the hail. Another staccato burst from the trumpet and the legionaries fitted arrows to their bows. In one immense movement, the entire block of men drew and loosed, spitting a volley at the knights who were now clearly visible, charging through the hail. It had no obvious effect and they were closing fast.
“Bows down, charge! Charge!” Three more notes from the horn and Ramnea’s Own Legion had thrown their bows aside and drawn swords. The horn insisted and the legionaries flooded forward.
Men-at-arms: the only soldiers the Sutherners had who could meet the legionaries on equal terms. They were armoured from head to foot in a suit of steel plate, and came from the wealthiest Suthern families. Their lives, while not as harsh or as disciplined, had been spent training for war as surely as the Anakim’s and they were truly skilled warriors. Their weapons were of their own choosing: the mace, the war hammer, the halberd or the great two-handed sword. The Anakim were more mobile in their lighter armour but, thanks to their bone-plates, just as well defended. An Unthank-silver blade was equal to puncturing the steel plate worn by the knights, but it would still take a thrust of considerable accuracy and power to break through.
They were well matched, the Suthern elites and the legionaries of the Black Kingdom and they charged now across Harstathur, through the pounding hail and the flashes of lightning. The two sides met in a great clang of steel on steel, and in the moment of impact it was the superior Anakim muscle that told, hammering the knights back.
Roper heard a second wave of thunder and knew that, to his right, the Sacred Guard had engaged with the enemy. “Drive them back, Legate!” he called to Sturla, turning Zephyr away and towards where he knew the Guard were fighting.
As he rode, an aide galloped alongside him. “I went as far as the Greyhazel, my lord,” he reported. “They have engaged the pikemen in volley fire but will soon have to fight hand to hand.”
“Thank you, Reifnir.”
The Sacred Guard were not far along the line and Roper arrived to find that they had carved out an alcove in the formation of knights, which was bowing in the centre to try and alleviate the pressure that the Guard was exerting. Roper could see Uvoren, who had dismounted and joined the fray in the front rank, duelling with a knight who wielded a bloody-edged great-sword. They twisted this way and that until finally Uvoren took Marrow-Hunter in his right hand, used it to deflect a blow aimed at his neck and then seized his opponent’s sword-arm, holding it still as he brought his hammer crashing down on top of the man’s head. His helmet crumpled, busted open, and the man dropped like a stone.
Right next to Uvoren was Gray. He was on the defensive, blocking thrust after thrust of a halberd that was being aimed for his chest. One
