Among the first to die was the enemy officer, hit by four shafts, one taking him through his right eye. The horsemen at the rear pulled back, galloping toward the safety of open ground. Torgan blew three blasts on his horn, and a chasing group of Highlanders reluctantly halted and jogged back to the tree line.
Over the hilltop marched a thousand Outland infantry, flanked by a score of archers. They drew up and surveyed the scene of carnage, then locked shields and advanced in broad battle formation, one hundred shields wide, ten deep.
“More than we thought would come,” said Torgan.
“They can't hold that formation within the woods,” said Fell. “Fall back fifty paces.”
Torgan's hunting horn sounded once more, in one long baleful note.
Highland archers continued to shoot into the advancing mass of men, but to little effect. Some fell, but the infantry held their long rectangular shields high and most of the shafts bounced from them.
The lancers had re-formed now, and galloped forward to try an encircling sweep of the woods. Obrin and two hundred riders countercharged them from the left, cleaving into their flank, hacking and cutting. The lances of the Outland riders were useless in such close quarters and they frantically threw aside their long weapons, drawing their sabers. But this second attack demoralized them, and they were pushed steadily back.
The Outland infantry slowed its advance, their leader unsure whether to push into the trees or swing and defend the beleaguered cavalry.
“Come on, you bastard!” whispered Fell. “Come to us!”
The line began to move once more, the formation breaking into a skirmish line as each of the soldiers increased the distance between himself and his fellows by around three feet. Fell was forced to admire the smoothness of the switch from tight ranks to open formation.
These were enemies to respect.
Less able to protect one another in this new formation, however, the Outlanders began to take heavy losses from the retreating archers.
“This is it,” Fell told Torgan. “By God, we'd better get it right!” Torgan gave a wide grin, and sprinted off to the left where his hundred men waited. With a harsh battle cry Torgan led his warriors in a frenzied assault on the enemy's right flank, just as they crossed the tree line. Fell saw the Farlain leader push himself deep into the fray, his claymore rising and falling with deadly skill.
Drawing his own sword, Fell signaled his own hundred and they crept through the undergrowth toward the enemy's left flank. Outnumbered ten to one, Torgan's men were being driven back as the wings of the Outland force pushed out to encircle the defenders.
With all attention on the right Fell charged the left, his claymore smashing through a soldier's helm and scattering his brains over his comrades. The Outlanders fell back but re-formed smoothly, trying to close ranks. The thick undergrowth and the trunks of tall trees prevented them re-forming into a tight single unit and the Highlanders, unencumbered by heavy armor, tore at them like wolves around a stag at bay.
A sword flashed for Fell's face. Swaying aside, he swept up a vicious two-handed cut that glanced from the tip of the soldier's shield and smashed into his cheekbone. The soldier was punched from his feet by the blow.
On the right Torgan had pulled back his men. Some Outlanders had given chase, but Torgan swung back his group and cut them down.
Out on open ground the lancers broke into a full retreat. Obrin made no attempt to give chase, but gathered his men and galloped for the woods. Leaping from their horses, the Highlanders ran to the aid of their comrades. Torgan saw them coming and blew on his horn. Highland archers dropped their bows, drew their swords, and joined him.
Again he charged the enemy right, and such was the ferocity of the charge that the Outlanders buckled and broke, losing formation. Beside him the giant Mereth, wielding a club of oak reinforced with iron studs, hammered his way forward with Loran beside him.
“Pallides! Pallides!” roared Mereth.
Torgan hurdled a fallen tree and shoulder-charged an Outland soldier. The man staggered back, falling into his comrades. Torgan's claymore sang through the air as three men hurled themselves at him. He blocked the lunge of the first, all but decapitating him with a reverse cut. The second man's sword cut into Torgan's side, the third aimed a blow at his face. It was blocked by an upraised sword, and Torgan saw Obrin smash the man from his feet.
Ignoring his own wound, Torgan leaped once more into the action. To his right Mereth was surrounded by swordsmen, but was holding them at bay with great sweeps of his murderous club. “Farlain!” shouted Torgan, rushing to his aid. Several men followed him, including Loran. An arrow sliced by Torgan's cheek, taking Loran in the side of the neck; the handsome Pallides staggered to his right and fell. Ignoring the bowmen Torgan raced into the fray, ducking beneath a wild sweep and slashing his sword through the knee of the wielder; the leg broke with a sickening snap and the swordsman fell, screaming. Mereth bellowed a war cry and ran at a second group of men. One of them rammed a spear through the giant's belly and Mereth staggered to a stop. Then his club swept up and across to smash the skull of the spear-wielder. A sword clove into Mereth's bull neck. Blood spurted from the severed jugular as Torgan stabbed his own sword into the killer's belly.
On the left Fell was battling furiously. Here the Outlanders retained at least a semblance of order, and were pulling back toward open ground. Again and again Fell led his men in increasingly desperate charges.
But there were fewer of them now. Obrin and twenty Highlanders ran to his aid. Fell had been cut on the right cheek, and blood was flowing from a deep wound in his thigh. His claymore, though, felt light in his hand as he charged again, Obrin beside him.
“Don't let them re-form!” he bellowed.
The archer captain Cheops reached the crest of the eastern slope and glanced across at the enemy defensive wall. Beyond that he could see the cavalry charging the woods. It was all going well; the range from his position to the enemy was less than two hundred yards, well within killing distance. It was hot, and today would be thirsty work. Glancing behind him he saw a heavy stand of gorse, and beyond it a grove of trees.
“You!” he shouted to a young recruit. “Go back into the trees and see if there's a stream or a pond. If there is, you can refill our canteens.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy called out, setting off at a run.
Cheops strung his longbow. He had made it himself five years ago, a splendid weapon tipped with horn. Pulling his shafts from his quiver, he pushed them point first into the earth. For some reason that Cheops had never been able to fathom, arrowheads with a little clay stuck to them pierced armor all the better.
Selecting his first shaft, he notched it to the bow. There was little point in trying to select a target, since he would have to arc the arrow over the shield wall. Still, the Highlanders were densely packed on the hilltop, and any hit would be an advantage. Cheops drew back on the string and sent the shaft in a long, looping flight.
This was going to be a good day. No sign of rain to warp the arrows. Not much wind.
His archers gathered on both sides of him, selecting their arrows and removing their cloaks.
It was all so easy . . .
Idly he wondered why the Highland bitch had decided to make a stand here.
Cheops did not have long to wait for an answer. From behind there came a scream and he swung around to see the boy he had sent looking for water running for all he was worth. The lad had discarded his longbow, which amazed Cheops, for the loss of a weapon meant a thirty-lash flogging. What had he seen? A bear?
The boy glanced back as he ran and tripped, rolling headlong. Gripped by panic, he scrambled to his feet. From the gorse and the undergrowth came thousands of Highland warriors.
Cheops stood transfixed. It was not possible. They had an army of three thousandâand there were at least that many on the hilltop opposite.
Impossible or not, they were here!
“Back! Back!” yelled Cheops. His men hardly needed the order. Lightly armed with bow and knife, they were no match for sword-wielding warriors and began to stream back down the hill, leaving their arrows stuck in the soft earth. The Highlanders poured after them.
Cheops hurled aside his longbow and pumped his arms for extra speed. Ahead he could see the Baron, directing an attack on the western side of the hilltop.
The Baron swung around, and stood openmouthed as his archers hurtled down into the pass. The thin circle of soldiers around the hill also glanced up. Cheops knew that his dignity was fleeing ahead of him, but he didn't care. Dignity could be regained. Life was another matter entirely. He reached the foot of the pass just ahead of the fastest of his men, and slipped through the infantry to what appeared the relative safety behind the infantry lines.
There he stopped and looked back.
The Highlanders were pouring down the hillside, screaming some incomprehensible battle cry. They struck the infantry like a hammer.
Then they were through.
With nowhere left to run, Cheops drew his dagger. As a burly white-bearded warrior carrying a battle-axe charged him, Cheops ducked under the swinging blade and thrust his knife at the man. The blade was turned by a breastplate and Cheops stumbled and fell. The axe clove him between the shoulder blades.
On the hillside the Baron shouted orders to the infantry to form a defensive square and retreat down the pass. With fine discipline they gathered, the Baron at the center.
The Highlanders beat ineffectually against the shield wall, and the withdrawal began.
Leofric had never wanted to be a soldier, or any kind of fighting man. His loves were numbers, logistics, and organization. As he sat his gelding on the north side of the hill he found himself contemplating his future. Never having seen a battle, he was unprepared for the ferocity, the screams, and the cries. It was all so . . . barbaric, he realized.
Once it is over I will return to the capital, he decided. The University had offered him a teaching post in languages. I will accept it, he thought.
“Do we attack, sir?” asked the lieutenant at his side. The man had drawn his sword, and seemed eager to lead the five hundred cavalrymen up the steep slope. Leofric glanced up at the shield wall above.
“I suppose so,” he said. “The Baron ordered us to make probing assaults.”
“I understand,” said the officer. “Wasp formation, sting and run. How many should I take, sir?”
Leofric swung in the saddle and gazed at his five centuries. “Take three,” he said. “Harry them!”
“Yes, sir.”
The remnants of Chaldis's cavalry came galloping down the western slopeâno more than thirty men, some of them wounded. An officer rode up to Leofric. “We were ambushed, sir. More than a thousand Highlanders were waiting for us in the woods. They are cutting the infantry to pieces.”
At that moment the archers led by the sprinting Cheops came racing down the slopeâpursued by, Leofric gauged, some two thousand Highlanders.
“Son of a whore!” hissed the officer. “Where in Hell did they come from?”
Leofric was momentarily stunned. He had an eye for numbers, and had already estimated there to be around three thousand on the hilltop. Now from nowhere the number of the enemy had risen to six thousand, which was not even within the bounds of possibility.
“God's blood!” said the lieutenant. “What now, sir?”
Leofric needed a moment to think. Looking up at the shield wall above him, the answer came like a blinding revelation. “There are no men on the hilltop,” he said. “We are besieging the Highland women!”
All around them the infantry was falling back around the Baron. Raising his arm, Leofric led his cavalry in a charge against the enemy's left. Cutting through to where the Baron stood, Leofric leaped from his mount and ran to him. Swiftly he told him of the Highland deception.
The Baron swore. “How many do we have left?” he asked.
Leofric cast his eyes at the sea of fighting men. “Two thousand. Perhaps less.”
“Advance on the hill!” shouted the Baron. “Formation One!”
“What is the point!” screamed Leofric. “It is over!”
“It will be over when I've killed the bitch!”
With a discipline gained during decades of warfare, the Outland troops re-formed into a fighting square one hundred shields wide and ten deep. “Double time!” shouted the Baron, and the men began to run. Leofric, caught in the center, had no choice but to run alongside the Baron. On the outer edges of the battle his cavalry was being cut to pieces trying to protect the exposed right flank of the square. Even so, inexorably the phalanx moved up the hill toward the waiting women.
“I'm coming for you, you whore!” bellowed the Baron, his voice rising above the clashing swords and the screams of the wounded and dying.
A black cloud of arrows slashed into the advancing line and Leofric could see scores of women loosing their shafts. He felt sickened by it all. The finest soldiers in the empire were now charging a force of wives and mothers.
Behind them the Highlanders were assaulting the troops at the rear of the phalanx, slashing their swords at unprotected backs. Many men turned to face the enemy, and this thinned the square. The Baron seemed unconcerned.
The enemy archers fell back behind the shield wall and a volley of iron-tipped spears sliced down into the advancing men. The Highlanders were all around them now, a pack of wolves ripping at their flesh. The square began to break up but the Baron ignored the threat, urging his front line on and up.
The shield wall opened and Leofric saw Asmidir charge out, with a group of men in black and silver armor. They came in a tight wedge that clove through the advancing line. Behind them, bearing spears and swords, the Highland women rushed at the attackers.