‘Ready now,’ Veradis said to those around him. He drew his short sword, looking out through a gap in the shields. Three hundred paces away. Two hundred paces. One hundred paces now, warriors screaming, weapons raised. He widened his stance, lowered his shoulder, bracing for the impact. Then it came, a bone-numbing crash into his shield, shivering through his body, a myriad of successive blows as body after body piled into a claustrophobic crush on the far side of his shield.
The shield wall weathered the impact; the weight upon it grew and Veradis grunted with the strain. The noise was deafening, all along the shield wall, and further off as well, a distant roar as Geraint’s warband entered the battle. Then the stabbing began. He plunged his sword through the small gap between shields, felt it punching through leather into flesh, felt blood wash over his hand. He stabbed again and again, the same happening all along the line. Battle-cries turned to screams. Fingers grabbed at the rim of his shield and he chopped at them. Swords and spears slid beneath his shield, stabbed at his legs. They were turned by the strips of iron on his boots. Hands clutched underneath and he severed them with his short sword, or stamped on them. Blows rained on his shield, the wood creaking, but he just kept on stabbing. Bodies began to pile along the line.
The weight on Veradis’ shield lessened. It is coming. He kept stabbing, sweat stinging his eyes. He heard Bos grunt in pain but could not look. Two hands grabbed the top of his shield and yanked it down, almost tearing it from his grip. A red-haired warrior stared at him, fumbling with a longsword in the crush of men. Veradis stabbed out, his short sword biting into flesh just below the man’s jaw line. He staggered backwards, blood jetting from the wound, bubbling crimson from his mouth; the press of warriors behind him kept him upright until the strength went from his legs and he sagged slowly to the ground. Veradis brought his shield back up.
He yelled over his shoulder, heard the cry ripple back through the rows behind him, then horn blasts rang out. He took a step forwards, the whole front row moving with him, shoving forwards. Another horn blast, another step. He slipped in a pool of blood, stumbled over a body, but the men behind and beside him kept him upright. Then more death-dealing, his sword snaking out. Another horn blast, another step, the weight on their shields lessening each time, then they were moving forwards steadily, no pause between steps, just a steady, grinding momentum as they carved their way through Domhain’s warriors.
Occasionally he would feel a ripple pass through the shield wall as a man was pulled out of formation and killed, his position being taken by the man behind. Veradis’ arm grew numb, his grip slipping, and he called out another order, the message moving back until horn blasts sounded. A space opened behind him; every other man in the front row stepped back, replaced smoothly by the man behind. Veradis moved back through the shield wall until he took his position in the last row, still lending his weight to the march, but having a chance to rest his burning lungs and aching muscles. Soon the horn sounded again and the other half of the original front row filtered back through the ranks, others moving forwards. Veradis saw Bos fall in beside him. His head was bleeding, his iron cap missing.
‘I’m too tall for this shield wall,’ Bos muttered, wiping blood from his eyes.
‘Maybe you need a bigger shield,’ Veradis said, taking a swig from his skin of water, then passing it to his friend.
The sun was warm, the only way of reckoning the time. Halfway to highsun. The roar of battle sounded. Through the shields Veradis caught glimpses of warriors locked in combat, blood on the grass, faces snarling, cursing, bodies still, twisted unnaturally. Thuds and blows crashed against their flank, but never in a concerted attack. Geraint is keeping them off us.
Slowly they moved forwards, as the sun rose and then fell, until Veradis found himself back in the front row again. He hefted his shield and gritted his teeth, began stabbing into the constant press of men beyond the wall of wood and iron.
Is Corban out there, or has he been slain already, one of the anonymous many who have been killed and trampled like so much meat on the butcher’s table? The thought didn’t bring him joy. He wanted to see this Corban again, to talk to him, work out for himself if he was really who Calidus claimed he was. How could the Black Sun be a mere boy? It just didn’t make sense.
And he wanted to see Cywen again. He found that he missed her, missed her voice, her smile, her sharp words.
A thud on his shield dragged him from his thoughts. A crack had appeared, the wood beginning to splinter. He pressed his shoulder tighter to it, stabbed high and low.
Then the weight pressing against him was diminishing. He heard horns blowing wildly, heard shouting, running. He risked a glance through the gaps in the wall and saw that the line had broken and the warriors of Domhain were in full retreat, here and there Geraint’s men pressing after them, though he no longer had the numbers to finish the retreating men decisively. Already Veradis saw him pulling his warriors back, not allowing them to become too stretched over the land.