“Lord?” said a voice behind Roper. He turned to see half a dozen mounted aides staring at him. Roper nodded at them and turned back to the battle. Almighty god, what now? It did not feel as though there was any way back from here. His Left could not advance; something beneath the water was preventing it. If the rest of the army moved forward, Roper was not even sure that they would be able to climb the slick ridge. They would take many casualties; that much was certain and their Left would be exposed to flanking attacks. But what is the alternative? What if we retreat? He could hardly breathe. Or maybe it was just that his breathing had ceased to be effective.
“Lord?” Again, more persistent. Roper was trembling now. His mouth formed several words but none of them made it past his lips.
What now? Almighty, help me! What now?
“My lord!”
Preserve the legions, Roper.
“We retreat,” said Roper, inflecting the order as though it were a question. “Retreat,” he said again, agitated. “The cavalry are to cover us.” He almost added: I think.
The aides stared at him. “Lord?” said one, confused. “That isn’t …”
“Retreat!” insisted Roper. “Retreat!” A thought struck him. “Keep the cavalry clear of the waters around the Blackstones.” One of the aides nodded and pulled his horse away, signalling to a trumpeter. The others followed suit and the trumpet sounded. The legions juddered into life again. Discipline will save us, thought Roper as the legions about-turned and began to march away, arrows still spitting into the water around them. As the Sutherners saw the forces of the Black Kingdom begin to turn away, there came a great cheer and howl of derision from the ridge. A rumbling began, so deep that at first Roper thought it was distant thunder. Then he realised that the Suthern cavalry had begun to surge after the legions.
Then Uvoren was by Roper’s side. He was on horseback and began snarling orders, sending aides scurrying across the battlefield and a string of trumpet notes blasting out. The cavalry was called into action and rode forward to cover the legions’ retreat. Uvoren glanced at Roper. “You have an arrow in your shoulder, Roper.” Almighty god. Roper swayed in his saddle. Uvoren stared for a moment, seeming fascinated.
Across the waters, behind the Blackstone Legion that was staggering away from the battle leaving behind as many as were able to retreat, Roper saw a familiar flash of steel. Earl William was there on horseback, surrounded by his knightly bodyguard, and he had found a new breastplate, quite as magnificent as the one Kynortas had torn from his chest. His horse stood among the longbowmen who still peppered the retreating Blackstones and he was gesticulating at a trumpeter, who appeared to be pulling the strings of the Suthern cavalry. Bellamus was nowhere to be seen; it seemed Earl William had assumed command of this corner of the battlefield.
Suddenly, there was screaming from Roper’s right. He turned just in time to see a figure bolting through the flooding; a dark blur of striking rapidity. Alone, this warrior was charging for the Suthern ranks, changing direction violently and somehow sprinting right through the first line of soldiers. Sutherners were pushing towards him, trying to stop him but always left swinging at thin air as the figure seared through their loose ranks. Roper’s mouth fell open; the warrior was heading for Earl William. It was a Sacred Guardsman, his ponytail exceptionally long, single-handedly charging the Suthern leader. In his wake he left a trail of spray and bamboozled Suthern warriors and he hurtled right through the enemy ranks and into the clear waters behind.
Uvoren had seen him too. “Make room for your lictor!” The Sacred Guard obeyed, surging forward once more and driving a wedge into the Suthern line. They were evidently seeking to open a return path for the nameless warrior who was now nearing Earl William.
Earl William’s bodyguards had spotted the radical. Half a dozen armoured knights, lances lowered, charged. The guardsman changed tack, heading for the outside of the formation and drawing his sword. It was the work of an instant and a whirl of metal: the figure, dwarfing the riders he faced, had beaten aside two lances and slipped between the knights. He was through, with nothing standing between him and Earl William. The latter had realised the danger he faced and desperately pulled his horse away, attempting to spur for safety.
He had left it too late. The guardsman was upon him before his horse had taken more than a few strides and he had seized Earl William’s boot, dragging him from the saddle to crash into the water. The blade rose high and then plunged into the obscured form in the water; twice. The guardsman straightened up and held up something soaking, turning around to show it to both Suthern and Anakim army.
Earl William’s head.
His long curls were held in the guardsman’s enormous hand and water and blood trickled from beard and neck. The guardsman cast it aside contemptuously and turned back to the knights, who had now turned and converged on him. He disappeared from Roper’s view, hidden behind thrusting horses.
Somebody smacked Roper in the back of the head. He turned and Uvoren rode past him. “Move,” he called over his shoulder. “Pryce has given us some time. We’re leaving.” Pryce? Roper looked back to the guardsman who had slain Earl William and could scarcely credit his eyes when he saw that he had re-emerged. Two horses lay in the water, screaming in pain. Another one had no rider and the remaining
