air above the two meeting lines was suddenly full: blood and fragments of broken spears, mud and grass and splinters from shields. Taim wanted to look away, but could not. The front rank of defenders was already gone, consumed in that first fierce impact, nothing more than a long heap of the dead, wounded and fallen. The ravens came over it, trampling their own as willingly as they trampled their foes, unpausing, and danced their way on into the second and the third.
Out to the west, down the long sweep of ground to the road and across it, the rest of the Haig line was shifting, drawn as if by invisible cords towards the murderous chaos enveloping the hillock. Already, though, the whole host of the Black Road was surging into motion, pressing forwards. Taim experienced a twist of horrified disgust at what he was witnessing: thousands upon thousands of men and women, flinging themselves into full, unrestrained battle. More would surely die this day than had fallen on any since that of Kan Avor Field, when the Gyre Blood was driven into exile, over two centuries ago. A terrible decision would be made, through carnage.
He looked for any sign of the men he had led to An Caman and back, to Kolglas and Glasbridge, but the armies had become great beasts in which all the warriors were only sinews and scales, no longer recognisable. The two hosts seethed across the plain, flung limbs made of horsemen against one another, tore at each other with claws built from swordsmen. A soft, misty cloud rose from the heaving masses: the steam of breath and sweat rising as from the back of a huge, labouring monster.
The smell reached Taim then, of blood and opened guts and broken earth. He knew it too well. He saw a man staggering back from the slaughter, unarmed, with one cheek and ear cut away and his left shoulder and chest drenched in blood, a great thick coating of it. The man reached out as he stumbled, straining with his hands to grasp something only he could see, or imagine. Taim lost track of him as a wedge of spearmen came running up and swept past to throw themselves into the riot of death.
“Cut my bonds,” he shouted at his guard. “I can fight.”
The man did not reply. Taim could see in his wide eyes and open mouth that he was lost in shock.
As anyone might be, on seeing for the first time Inkallim go about their bloody business. The ravens carved holes in the Haig lines with obscene ease. It was more massacre than battle. There was no order in this, no rock for anyone caught in this flood to cling to. There was only the deafening single noise of battle, a constantly changing, constantly identical surging bellow. Men killed and were killed, and it was brutal and brief and mind-numbing.
Taim’s horse stirred beneath him, disturbed by the screams of other animals dying somewhere out in the carnage. He looked around. His guards had gathered themselves, and were muttering together. Men were running now, braving the abuse and even the blades of their own captains; preferring flight to another moment facing the Inkallim. Down where the road ran between the two hillocks, the Haig lines were buckling too. Taim looked the other way, out across the undulating fields to the east. He could see a body of riders, cutting across the face of a long green slope. They were coming from the north, and therefore had to be of the Black Road.
He had guessed that the battle was lost as soon as he saw the Inkallim massing. Now he knew it beyond doubting. As if summoned by that certainty, a black hand of fear descended upon his heart. It was unlike anything he had felt before. The Inkallim came flowing over the hilltop, and he saw in their approach his own doom, the snuffing-out of all hope. It was a potent, almost overwhelming, despair, like a smothering, ill-fitting cloak thrown over him, closing out the light.
Taim looked at his guards and saw in them the perfect reflection of the terror running unchecked through him. They led him away, heading down the reverse slope of the hill at a steady trot. The roar of the battle filled the air behind and above them. Taim could see figures streaming away from the field, down the road back towards Kolkyre: scores, hundreds, of fragments blown free of the army and sent tumbling southwards. And why not? What other response could there be, save flight?
Even as he thought it, Taim felt his own fear receding. As a cloud might uncover the sun, so the veil of horror parted and he glimpsed his true feelings. Whatever the source of that all-embracing fear, it had not been his own heart. It had been a foreign thing, imposed from outwith his mind, and at the slackening of its grip upon him his anger rose up.
“Turn us back,” he cried at his guards. “Rally the lines.”
But they were still beneath the shadow, bereft of all courage. They rode on and took him with them. The horses broke into a canter, bounding on over grassy fields. Everywhere, men were running. Glancing back over his shoulder, Taim could see the hill, dark against the grey sky. The Black Road held the summit now, but they were not content with that. They were coming on, in amongst the fleeing Haig men.
An alarmed shout from one of his escort turned Taim’s head eastward. The company of horsemen that he had seen before, far out on a distant slope, was arrowing in now. Like a falcon stooping for its prey, it came sweeping down upon the flank of the rout. Riders surged through the crowds, stabbing down with spears or simply trampling men under the horses. Two of Taim’s guards peeled away, kicking their mounts into a full gallop and making for safety.
The man who held the reins of Taim’s horse hesitated.
“Give me a blade,” Taim shouted at him, but he saw no comprehension in the warrior’s eyes, only panic. The reins fell loose, and suddenly Taim was alone, carried impotently through the mass of running men by his wild horse.
He seized the animal’s mane with both hands and hauled at it. They barged through a crowd of running spearmen, knocking several of them to the ground. Taim could hear the rumble of approaching hoofs, but did not dare to look around as he wrestled with his recalcitrant mount. A deep ditch yawned before and beneath them at the edge of a field. The horse veered sharply to the right rather than make the leap. Taim lurched sideways, but kept his seat. He saw Haig warriors scrambling across the reed-choked ditch, flailing through black water, clawing at the muddy bank. Everywhere, for as far as could see, the ground was thick with the remnants of Aewult’s army, in full, frantic flight.
He heard the Black Road rider coming, and his body was reacting before his mind had even registered the fact. He kicked himself free of the saddle, twisting in the air to get his arms in front of his face as he arced into the ditch. He crashed down into water and weed, plunging into mud with such force that he was momentarily breathless and lost. He rolled, and water flooded his mouth. He tried to rise, but his feet slid from under him and his bonds made his hands clumsy. When he did manage to haul himself erect, coughing, shedding muddy water and countless fragments of broken reeds, he saw the Black Roader turning her mount, coming back with spear descending slowly. She was hacking at her horse’s flanks with her heels, shouting. She was desperate for his death.
Taim did not trust his footing. Mud had him about his ankles. He stood quite still, and waited for her. She came faster than was wise, leaning out and down, extending her spear to reach him. He twisted sideways. The spearpoint cut a nick into his shoulder, but he got both hands onto its shaft and held on with all the strength he could summon. The horse bore the woman on along the edge of the ditch, and Taim was pulled violently off his feet, thrown forwards into the steep bank. But he did not lose his grip on the spear.
She should, by rights, have been unhorsed, but she was a skilled rider. As the spear twisted in her hand, it almost threw her from her saddle. She swayed wildly. At the last possible moment, she released the spear. She hauled herself upright on the reins. Her horse came to a skidding halt and reared. Taim scrambled up the bank. The sodden earth gave beneath his feet. The spear tangled with his legs and threatened to trip him. Too slow, he thought. Too slow. She was drawing a short sword, wrestling her horse around. Taim had a knee atop the bank. He knew he was too late.
But the horse stole a few precious moments from its rider. It stamped and tossed its head, stepping sideways for a couple of paces before she managed to kick it into another charge. It was not much; just enough for Taim to clamber onto level ground. The spear was the wrong way round in his hands, and with bound wrists he had no chance to turn it. He stabbed its point into the ground and dropped the butt into the horse’s chest just as it thundered down upon him. He heard the horse scream, felt shards of the shattered spear striking his face, saw the horse’s shoulder rushing into his face. The great animal smashed him aside and plunged on into the ditch.
Taim was not sure at first whether he would be able to rise again. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled towards the ditch’s edge. He could hear the horse thrashing down there amongst the reeds. When he looked down, he saw the woman there too, on her hands and knees in the water, dazed and spitting out soil. The sight was enough to put a last flicker of strength into his legs.
He threw himself down onto her and hammered her into the water. He got his legs clasped about her waist, and his hands together on the back of her neck. The fall had shaken her and robbed her of her sword; otherwise it
