Regrouping his riders, Fiallach swung them and launched an angled charge. The plan was for the Iron Wolves to strike the enemy like a knife whittling wood, at an acute angle. That way they would not be sucked into the centre of the enemy army, where the crush of bodies would take away their mobility.
On the far side Maccus was riding his Horse Archers along the enemy’s right flank, arrows slicing into their ranks.
Twice Fiallach led charges. On the second he was almost unhorsed by a young axeman, who leapt at him, grabbing at his chainmail and trying to haul him from the saddle. Fiallach struck him in the face with his shield. As the man fell back Fiallach’s horse stumbled, pitching him forward. Losing his grip on his sabre he grabbed at the gelding’s mane. The axeman hit him a blow on the left shoulder, above his shield. Fiallach felt his collarbone snap. The gelding righted itself. Fiallach drew his stabbing sword, swung the gelding and thrust the blade through the axeman’s throat. Then Govannan appeared alongside him, scattering the enemy, and Fiallach managed to gallop clear.
In terrible pain he rode away from the enemy, then turned, his pale eyes scanning the battlefield. The Pannones had fled, but the Sea Wolves had pushed Conn further back into the land between the hills. Conn’s centre was now looking concave, curved in like a bow. Sweat dripped into Fiallach’s eyes.
‘What now?’ asked Govannan, as the Iron Wolves gathered around Fiallach.
‘Time … I think … to ignore our orders,’ said Fiallach, gritting his teeth against the grinding agony of the broken bone below his throat. ‘We must get back to the hilltop and charge in across the fighting lines. Too . . . much pressure on Conn. The line is ready to give. Follow me!’ Fiallach urged his gelding up the hillside. The pain was so great now that the Rigante warrior almost passed out. With great difficulty he slid the shield from his left arm, allowing it to drop to the ground. Then he tucked his left hand into his belt.
Glancing down he saw the ferocious fighting between the hills. Conn and Ruathain were side by side now, the enemy set to sweep around them. Hundreds of Rigante warriors were dead. Even through his pain Fiallach could admire the power of Ruathain and Conn. They were immovable, standing firm against the horde, their swords slashing left and right. Fiallach rubbed sweat from his eyes.
‘Straight through the middle,’ he told Govannan. ‘Then dismount and form a fighting line with Conn.’
‘We’re going to lose the horses,’ said Govannan. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces.’
‘Better that than our men,’ grunted Fiallach. ‘Forward!’
And the Iron Wolves charged down the slope.
For the first time in more than a year Ruathain felt no pain in his chest, no weakness in his limbs. He was, he realized, as he watched the Sea Wolves advance, a man again, the First Swordsman of the Rigante, ready to oppose the enemies of his people.
His silver-streaked fair hair bound into a ponytail, his old, round iron helm upon his head, Ruathain stood beside his son, his double-handed longsword plunged into the ground before him.
‘Stay close to me, Conn!’ he heard himself say. Conn did not reply. A round shield of bronze upon his left arm, the Seidh blade in his right hand, he was waiting calmly, his odd-coloured eyes focused on the screaming wall of men bearing down upon them.
Ruathain hefted his blade, his large hands closing around the leatherbound hilt. The Sea Wolves were close now: tall men, fair haired and blue eyed. Hard and tough, raised in the barren lands of the fjords, they were born to be warriors. Ruathain could feel their arrogance, and their belief that they would sweep these tribesmen before them. He glanced at his son, remembering the last time he had stood beside a loved one and faced the rage of the Vars.
The first ranks of the Rigante line leapt to meet the Sea Wolves, bright blades glittering. The speed and weight of the charge swept them aside. Ruathain gave a great battle cry and rushed forward, his sword splitting the skull of a tall, axe-bearing Sea Wolf. Conn was at his side, the Seidh blade cleaving through chainmail as if it were linen. The fifty Iron Wolves formed up on both sides of their laird, strong men with no give in them…