to fill the air again, and Hector had perhaps thirty men left when he crossed the ford and won a respite. His men drank water, spread out in the trees, and caught their breaths. Those that had shafts left, or who had pulled them from the ground, began to pick their targets carefully – and it began again.
Ranald scratched his beard. He’d taken an arrow in the chest – it hadn’t penetrated his fine mail, but it had cracked a rib, and breathing was hard. ‘That was worth a song, that run,’ he said.
Hector nodded. ‘It’s noon and we’ve led them back a mile, anyway. When they come at us across the stream – well, Donald’s away.’ Hector shrugged. ‘If I’d kept all the boys together, would we have beaten them?’
Ranald spat some blood. ‘Nah. They’re too canny, and we didn’t kill nearly enough of ’em. Hector Lachlan, it’s been a pleasure and an honour knowing you, eh?’ Ranald held out his hand, and Hector took it. ‘Don’t fash yourself, man – I reckon there’s five hundred of the loons out in the woods. This way, if you put a boy in that lass – well, he’s got a fortune and fifty good men to start him off.’
Hector shook his head. ‘Sorry I am I brought you here, cousin.’
Ranald shrugged, despite fatigue and the weight of his chain mail. ‘I’m honoured to die with you.’ He smiled at the sunlit sky. ‘I’m sorry for a certain lass I love, but this is a good way to die.’
Lachlan looked up at the sun. Arrows were flying thickly, and a few were starting to come from their own side of the stream – the savages had found a crossing too.
Despite it all the sky was blue, the sun was warm and golden, and the flowers of the forest were beautiful. He laughed, and held his sword in the air. ‘Let us make a song!’ he roared.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Peter
Peter followed Ota Qwan until his lungs were starved for air, and then he slowed. The black-painted man slowed, too, as if they were attached by a string. They had reached an open field, and there was a small herd of cattle, every head facing them – a single horse, and dozens of sheep.
And no men.
Ota Qwan leaped for joy, dancing on the grass. ‘We have beaten them! All their herds are ours!’ He embraced Skahas Gaho.
The taller warrior didn’t address Ota Qwan, but Peter. ‘Where?’ he asked. He mimed swinging a two-handed axe or sword.
Peter pointed back the way they’d come. He was bone weary, the wound in his leg was now a cold ache, and all the fury of combat had ebbed away to leave nothing behind. But Peter, having started something, couldn’t give it up.
Ota Qwan shook his head. ‘The cattle! We need to get the cattle, or this is for nothing.’
Peter looked at the black-painted man wearily. ‘Have you not seen the numbers of our dead, Ota Qwan? This is already for nothing. Skadai’s death means there is no one to tell the Sossag to stop attacking.’ He shrugged. ‘And this is only a tithe of their herds.’
Ota Qwan looked at him. Understanding dawned slowly.
‘We must stop it. We can shoot down anyone who still stands – take our time.’
But together with their two hands of followers, they turned and began to walk back towards the distant screams that marked the current edge of the battle. No one, not even Ota Qwan, had the energy to sprint, so they ran and walked fitfully.
The sun was just past its height when they scrambled down the last part of the steep glen and crossed the water on rocks slick with blood.
There were still men fighting.
A dozen of the armoured giants stood in a ring, and some two hundred Sossag stood around them in a ring, and between the inner ring and the outer ring was a wall of corpses, some of which still moved. Even as they crossed the stream, a pair of bold youths leaped at the circle of steel and died, one beheaded by an axe, the other spitted on a four-foot sword.
Their bodies were cast on the growing barricade of the dead.
And then the blood-spattered daemons began to sing. They weren’t very good, but their voices rose together, and the Sossag paused a moment in respect. A death song was a great thing – a magic not to be interrupted. Even Ota Qwan was silent.
Their song went on, many verses, and when it was done their faces, which had been lit with passion, seemed to slump.
Ota Qwan leaped up on a stump. ‘Shoot them! Back into the trees and shoot! My curse on any man who tries to rush that circle!’
Some men listened. Arrows began to fly, and when a Sossag arrow hit a mail cote, dust flew, at least, although few shots from their short bows were powerful enough to penetrate.
But there were many arrows.
Peter saw Sossag die from arrows shot from across the circle. The arrows flew faster and faster, striking hillmen and Sossag alike and the hillmen began to sing again, and they charged and the Sossags ran – again.
But not far.
Peter had no arrows. He picked up a spear decorated with feathers, and the next time the enemy charged the circle, he chose his moment and hurled the heavy spear into the back of the charging men. The shaft spun out of control, but the weapon hit the back of the man’s armoured legs and he stumbled. Peter ran for him, a dozen Sossag with him, and they tore the hillman to bloody rags.
Again, the hillmen gathered in a circle, and again the Sossag shot them, creeping closer, emboldened by the hillmen’s obvious exhaustion and despair. One more time, their leader rallied, whirled his sword and led them at the closest Sossag, bent not on escape but on slaying as many as they could – and again they caught the fringe of the circle, killing a dozen painted men and losing two more of their own. Ota Qwan was roaring for them to fall back and shoot, and Peter joined him.
The Sossag fell back to the trees and shot their last shafts.
Another giant fell screaming.
The Sossag yelled, but it was a tired, thin sound.
Ota Qwan looked around. ‘When they next charge, we must charge them in turn, and finish them,’ he said. ‘We cannot let any of them escape. We must be able to tell the matrons we killed them all.’
Peter spat. His mouth was dry, and he had never, in all his life, slave or free, been so tired.
Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Hector Lachlan
Alan Big Nose, Ranald Lachlan, Ewen the Sailor, Erik Blackheart and Hector. The last men left.
Hector was hit again with a shaft that tickled his ribs. He was ready to die. He had no wind left, no joy in battle, and he was in enough pain that simple cessation seemed like a victory.
Even as he thought it, Ewen took an arrow in the throat and went down.
He wracked his memory for a song to end with. He was no bard, but he knew some songs. Nothing came to him but drinking songs, but then he smiled – a free smile – to think of his young wife crooning. She’d sung to him, a lullaby.
He knew it well. Hill folk called it ‘The Lament,’ the song of their loss.
Hector stood straight, took a deep breath, and began to sing. He swung his sword back onto his shoulder and cut an arrow from the air, and Ranald picked up the tune, and Alan Big Nose was there, his voice strong and true on the notes, and Erik Blackheart stepped over Ewen’s corpse and roared into the chorus.
At some point the Sossag stopped loosing arrows.
Hector finished the song, raised his sword – a salute to his enemies, who had given him that gift of peace, right at the end.
A warrior, painted black head to toe, raised a sword – just a short bowshot away. And Hector could see that the Outwallers had gathered in tight while his men sang.
