‘Here they come,’ Bos said.
‘Remember, we will not attack, only defend ourselves.’ Those had been Nathair’s orders. They would aid Rhin indirectly, by thwarting Owain’s movement on the field, by keeping his forces separated. Veradis drew his short sword and braced his feet.
Owain’s men were coming up the hill, a little hesitantly. The shield wall had never been seen by these warriors before, and it was not the traditional method of battle. Veradis saw Owain and his mounted shieldmen behind them. The King of Ardan was grim faced. He is no fool – can see he has been betrayed. Defeat is a knife-edge away for him now. Veradis felt a moment of sympathy for the man, a flash of guilt for the part he was playing here. He buried it.
Owain called out behind his men, urging them on. The bulk of them ran at the shield wall, clearly preferring that to the mounted Jehar who stood calmly waiting to either side of Veradis’ warband.
The first ranks slammed into the shield wall, the impact shivering through Veradis’ whole body. A series of jolts and thuds followed as Owain’s warriors piled into one another, the weight quickly becoming immense. Veradis bent his legs, pressed his shoulder into the curve of his shield and held on. Screams rang out along the line. My men are striking back. It was inevitable, he knew. They could not just stand here – eventually shields would be pulled down and his own men would start dying. He raised his sword, slid it into the gap between shields and thrust. He felt resistance, then his blade was cutting into flesh; someone screamed. He pulled his blade back, stabbed again. And again, kept on stabbing until the muscles in his arm burned. Fingers grasped the rim of his shield and he headbutted them, his iron helmet breaking bones. A sword swiped at his ankles, sliding underneath his shield, but he saw the blow coming, managed to block it, trod on the blade with his iron-shod sandals.
A horn blast filtered through the din of battle, a high, keening sound that he recognized. The Jehar. He risked a glance over his shield rim, saw the Jehar joining the battle, their longswords slashing from horseback, cutting great swathes through Owain’s men. In heartbeats the assault on the shield wall was over, Owain’s men breaking away, running for their lives. They only had one way to go. The battle in the vale was continuing. Rhin seemed to be gaining the upper hand as Owain’s men started to try to escape the combat, panic spreading from the disaster on the hill like a disease. Rhin’s main host blocked the way through the vale, the marshland denied any flight westwards and Nathair’s forces were an immovable object along the ridge of the hill, removing any hope of a retreat to the south. The only way left was west, into the broken woodland that fringed the vale, and that is where Owain’s men ran.
Screams rang out behind Veradis and he turned to see the Jehar joining the battle about the giantsway, too. Owain’s rearguard was now caught between Rhin’s reinforcements and a group of the Jehar. Even Alcyon was striding into the fray, swinging his axe and taking lives like the angel of death. Owain’s men broke apart, most of them on horseback, scattering in countless directions. The Jehar rode them down.
So many dead. Just warriors obeying their lords. He shook his head, surveying the corpses sprawled all about them. All for the ambitions of kings and queens. He looked along the ridge, eyes searching for Nathair, and spotted him sitting tall on his draig. Relief swept him that his King had survived the battle – indeed, their entire force seemed to have sustained few casualties. And the battle was won, Nathair’s plans furthered. Warfare is strategy, Nathair had said to him, and strategy had certainly won this battle. It just did not feel very honourable.
It is for the greater good, he reminded himself.
‘What now?’ Bos asked him.
‘We’ll hold our position until Nathair orders differently,’ Veradis answered.
The battle in the vale was chaos now, most of Owain’s warband realizing that the fight was lost. Owain himself was on the slope, a few dozen of his mounted shieldmen about him, others on foot still rallying to him. The King of Narvon pulled his horse in a circle, surveying the chaos about him, then spurred his horse west, towards the woodland. He did not gallop or leave in wild panic; his passage was orderly, controlled, and he still gathered men to him as he passed, his presence bringing an edge of calm. He rode into the shadow of the woods.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CYWEN