“The lines are pulling apart,” advised an aide. “We’ve taken heavy casualties against the pikemen, but they’re pulling back too.” A tideline of bodies was becoming evident as the legions and the Sutherners withdrew, both sides stooped with exhaustion and fighting for breath.
“Tekoa!” Roper shouted. “Find me Tekoa!” But he was there already, at Roper’s side in moments. “Skiritai forward, Tekoa: do not give them one moment’s respite.”
“Exactly, my lord,” said Tekoa, who seemed to have come seeking an invitation to undertake just such a manoeuvre. He rode off, and Roper could hear the higher-pitched horn that gave signals just for the skirmishers blow to send the Skiritai swarming forward between ranks. They would pepper the Sutherners with arrows and try to tempt them out of formation to where they could be slaughtered as individuals.
Meanwhile, Roper spurred Zephyr forward and in front of the legions. He raised his bloody sword and cantered along the line. “Again!” he boomed as he passed them. “Again! Again! Again! Cut them down, cut them down, cut them down, cut them down!” A cheer built and began to travel along the line with Roper as the exhausted legionaries stood up straight. The Skiritai flooded out past him and another great rumble of thunder rolled over the legions. The hail had abated a little and visibility lifted above a hundred yards.
Roper turned Zephyr back in behind the legions and began to ride back towards the centre of the line. The legionaries were gulping down water, field-dressing wounds and washing and drying their hands so that they did not lose grip of their weapons in the melee. Nobody could eat; even drinking was difficult. The break would last no more than another few minutes and then the lines would clash once again.
Roper dispatched more aides to the legates, requesting an update on how the fighting had gone, and reminded them that, above all, they should hold the line. He heard from left and right how the hail had been too thick to release more than a few volleys before the pikemen were upon them, and how the legions had then been forced to fight their way through a thicket of pikes before they could even strike back at their enemy. Casualties had indeed been heavy. It also seemed that he had been fighting just a few yards from where Garrett wielded Bright-Shock’s blade, and that the Suthern champion had killed two Sacred Guardsmen.
Another rider arrived from Tekoa, informing Roper that the Sutherners had begun to advance again and the Skiritai were pulling back. “Legate Tekoa says that the harvest was good,” said the aide at last.
The legions readied themselves once again, trying to recover their bows from where they had been dropped so that they could release another few volleys into the Sutherners before they engaged once again. Roper heard horns blasting from up and down the line as legions began to charge once again and he reached Ramnea’s Own at the centre just in time to see them thrown into battle against the knights. This time, Bellamus’s household guard, the “Hermit Crabs,” as they were becoming known, started arrayed against the Sacred Guard. Bellamus was obviously trying to negate the impact of the Guard by pitting his own crack troops against them.
Tekoa was on horseback next to Roper, and the two watched the battle lines clash amid the constant rattle of hail bouncing off armour. A bolt of lightning pulverised the ground perilously close to where the two sides met. Above the seething horror of armoured flesh, a single figure towered at the front rank of Ramnea’s Own.
Vigtyr the Quick.
Roper rode forward, wanting to see this most feared warrior at work. A knight was assaulting him: a plumed noble magnetised by Vigtyr’s immense size and the esteem he would gain by killing him. He lunged at Vigtyr’s chest with a halberd, teeth gritted and fingers white about the shaft. Vigtyr gave a parsimonious side-step, raising his sword and letting its edge slice deep into the knight’s exposed wrist. The knight sprang back, drawing a curtain of scarlet drops that fell with the hail. The cut was deep and blood dribbled from the knight’s wrist, which seemed to have been weakened, for his next lunge was a gentle prod compared with the heave he had unleashed a moment before. It came unexpectedly close to landing, Vigtyr leaving the parry late. The same thing happened again; and again, Vigtyr content to defend as the knight’s blood drained onto Harstathur and he slowed and weakened. The knight was growing clumsy and on his next lunge he stumbled forward, Vigtyr raising his sword once again and skewering the man’s throat just above the breastplate. The knight toppled aside, fading from actor to stage. Vigtyr did not advance into the space left behind. He lowered his blade and beckoned for the next warrior to come and try his luck.
Roper dragged his eyes back to the Sacred Guard, where he spotted another towering figure in the thick of the action, his shocking blond hair plastered to his head: Garrett, who at that moment cut down a guardsman with Heofonfyr, slicing the inside of his knee to drop him to the ground and then killing him cleanly with a thrust to the neck, eliciting a gush of bright blood.
“I’m going back in,” declared Roper, kicking Zephyr forward. The horse snorted and tossed but did not move. Roper realised that Tekoa was holding on to its bridle.
“Leave the horse,” Tekoa said. “Those spearmen will bring it down in a heartbeat, even with the barding, and you’ll be killed. You fight toe to toe.”
Roper nodded. “Command is yours.” He dismounted once again to force his way into the Guard, Helmec following loyally behind. He could see where
