Orgull and Tahir had found mounts and caught up with Maquin as he reined his horse in at the bottleneck of warriors massed at one side of the bridge. Jael’s men had gathered at the far side, had turned and were battling fiercely. Maquin saw Jael amongst them, his white plume snapping in the wind.
‘Need to catch him here, or he’ll be gone,’ Orgull said.
‘Aye. It’s just getting to him that’s a problem,’ Maquin replied. The bridge was thick with fighting men.
‘Soonest started, soonest finished, as my mam used to say,’ Tahir said.
The three of them shared a look and kicked their mounts forwards into the battle on the bridge. They passed Gerda, a handful of shieldmen about her and her sword stained red as she harried the fleeing warriors attempting to regroup with their comrades on the other side. Orgull spurred his horse forwards, swinging his axe in great sweeps to either side. Men screamed, trying to get away from him. Maquin and Tahir guided their mounts to fill the gaps, stabbing and hacking, and they slowly carved their way across the bridge.
Jael’s men blocked the end of the bridge, four or five ranks deep. They fought with a desperate ferocity. They know that if they break here they’re dead, Maquin thought. Jael was screaming exhortations, his shieldmen gathered close about him. Maquin recognized one of them – Ulfilas – he had fought beside the man against bandits on the journey back from Aquilus’ council. Ulfilas saw Maquin and stared at him, squinting. He called to Jael, gesturing towards Maquin. Jael gaped, recognition dawning in his eyes and a look of fear sweeping his face.
Maquin pointed his sword at Jael and gave him a bloody-mouthed snarl. He was so close! He felt fresh energy fill his limbs and renewed his efforts to break Jael’s lines. Soon, Kastell. Soon we will have our vengeance.
Then suddenly voices filtered through the sounds of battle. There was shouting spreading through the ranks on the bridge. Jael looked back towards Maquin with triumph in his eyes and spat on the ground.
Around a bend in the river, ships had appeared, lots of them, long, shallow-draughted, painted with black tar. The sails were black, a silver eagle upon them.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LYKOS
‘Prepare to land!’ Lykos yelled. In response, the drummer beating time increased his rhythm, the rowers put a last spurt of fire in their limbs and men clashed weapons on shields. Lykos felt his spirits soar. He was looking forward to this. No more ferrying other men to battle, watching them disembark for greater deeds. Time to do something that would be remembered in this era when the world was changed. In a hundred years songs would be sung about these days, about this battle. If there is anyone left to sing them.
Time to win a nation for Nathair. He gave the runner beside him fresh orders, a young lad, not more than twelve summers, but quick and wiry, who climbed like a monkey. He scurried away and soon Lykos heard the horn blasts, felt his ship steer for the north bank. He looked back and saw the thirty sleek-bottomed war-galleys he had brought with him from Dun Carreg do the same, deadly as hunting wolves. It had been a back-breaking trip, most of it up the river Afren, through the Darkwood that split Ardan and Narvon, through the stinking marshes beyond and then into Isiltir. There had come a point where the river Afren shrank to little more than a stream in the marshlands as it neared its source. There was a wide stretch across the marshland to the banks of the river Rhenus in Isiltir where there had been no choice but to travel by portage, taking the masts down, dragging the ships onto land and rolling them over the masts for a league or more. Then it had been back to the rowing. His back still ached. He might be lord of his cut-throat nation of pirates, but he would not sit back and grow soft, let some other man hungry for power take what he had spent years in the making.
He looked along the riverbank. There were scores of quays and jetties lined along it. Most helpful, Lykos thought, pushing his way to the front ranks gathered on the ship’s deck. Further ahead was a wide stone bridge, looking to be the focal point of the battle, and there he could see the banner that had been described to him raised at the southern end, a lightning bolt with a white wyrm coiled about it. My allies. They didn’t look to be doing so well. Looks as if we’ve arrived just in time. Perhaps we’ve had divine help. He snorted at that, liking his own joke. If divine meant nightmares, sleepless nights and yellow eyes boring into you every time you closed your own eyes, then he was blessed beyond all men. Nothing is ever as you imagine it; even consorting with a god.