Strange, thought Shard, how an army always reflects the personality of its leader. These young tribesmen were brave enough, but they followed a nervous man, and that, by some indefinable magic, had transferred itself to the warriors under his command.
Let them attack the hillsides, he thought. Whether they take them or not is a matter of small importance. Once we have crushed the centre, and taken Connavar, the rest will run. They will flee to the temporary sanctuary of Old Oaks. And I will burn them out.
He wandered back to where the Laird stood staring malevolently at the Rigante ranks some half a mile away. ‘Today you will have your vengeance,’ said Shard, amiably.
‘Aye. He will pay for the murder of my brother laird. He will suffer for the children he slaughtered and the women he raped.’
Shard had heard the tale of Connavar’s revenge. He could not remember rape being part of it. ‘He must have been a busy man that night,’ he said. ‘To kill all those people, burn the village and still have time for sport.’
The Highland Laird was not listening. Shard’s huge hand descended on the man’s shoulder. ‘It is two hours after dawn. Time, I think, to make war.’
He saw the Laird swallow hard, then the little man marched down the hillside to join his men. Shard took one last look at the Rigante. They were waiting quietly. Some were sitting down. There was no feeling of panic among them, or at least none that he could detect from this distance.
Shard strolled down the hillside to where his captains waited, grim and fierce-eyed men. Taking up his sword and helm Shard strode to the centre of his army, and bellowed: ‘Are you ready for the Crows’ Feast?’ A great, bloodthirsty cry went up from the thousands around him. He waited for it to die down. ‘Let the gods drink their fill!’ he yelled, brandishing his sword and waving it in the direction of the enemy.
The army began to move: slowly at first, then, feet pounding the hard earth, the Sea Wolves ran towards the enemy lines.
Fiallach stood impassively on the western hilltop as the Sea Wolves charged. Beside him Govannan cleared his throat. ‘I think there’ll be a frost tonight,’ he said, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘You can feel it on the wind.’
Fiallach laughed. ‘Then I shall wrap up warm in a Sea Wolf’s cloak.’
The Pannones were charging now, coming straight at Fiallach’s position. ‘Bring out the horses,’ he called. ‘Hold them ready.’
Govannan leaned in. ‘I think Conn will be hard pressed to hold the Vars. That’s a ferocious-looking bunch of bastards.’
Hundreds of archers moved from the shadows of the trees, leading Gath warhorses. Fiallach’s five hundred Iron Wolves drew back from the crest of the hill and mounted. The archers loped forward, strung their bows, and sent volley after volley of arrows into the advancing Pannones. Fiallach stepped into the saddle and cast a glance to the eastern hilltop. From here he could see Maccus following a similar strategy. Scores of Pannones fell, then scores more.
The eastern hill was very steep and the enemy charge had slowed almost to a standstill. Within moments hundreds of Pannone fighting men were hit. Bodies rolled down the hill, impeding the advance still further, knocking men from their feet.
On the valley floor the Sea Wolves were within two hundred paces of the Rigante line. Fiallach edged his horse forward. The archers on the hilltop ran back, passing between the horses. Fiallach drew his sabre. ‘Now!’ he shouted, kicking his horse into a run.
Five hundred heavily armed riders swept over the brow of the hill, smashing into the Pannone ranks, cutting and killing. Stunned by the charge the enemy fell back, trying to regroup. But the horsemen followed them, harrying them mercilessly. Panic followed as the Iron Wolves continued their attack, and the battle on the hillside swiftly became a massacre.
Fiallach spotted the Highland Laird fleeing towards the north. He longed to ride after him, but Conn’s orders had been clear. Once the Pannones had been scattered Fiallach should turn his attention to the flanks of the main Vars force.