DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

The Vars charge faltered, like an angry wave striking a great rock. Ruathain kept close to Conn, always watching. Three times he leapt in to block men coming at Conn from the side.

His strength had returned, and deep in his heart he blessed Meria for forcing this day upon him. Yes, it would have been good, he thought, to spend quiet years with his family, waiting for his diseased heart to fail as he sat in his chair staring at the mountains. But this was better. This was life! Not the killing and the terrified screams of dying men suddenly facing the awesome spectre of their own mortality. No, but to face his fears as a man, to stand at the brink of the abyss and refuse to be cowed or beaten down.

The Sea Wolves surged again, sweeping around Conn and pushing back his guards. Ruathain spotted the danger and hurled himself forward, shoulder-barging one warrior aside then leaping high to kick another in the chest, powering him back into his fellows. Then he was beside his son. ‘Back to back!’ he shouted. Conn heard him, and the two men stood close, their swords slashing into the enemy warriors surging around them. Ruathain took several blows to his upper body, but the chainmail held. A knife blade sliced into his calf, cutting deep. Ruathain glanced down and saw that a mortally wounded Vars had crawled in to stab him. The Big Man sent a scything cut across the man’s throat, then raised his sword swiftly to block a wild sweep from a second warrior.

Conn’s Iron Wolves surged forward again, pushing back the Vars momentarily, and giving Conn and Ruathain the chance to retreat further into the line. Some of the Vars were climbing the eastern hill now, seeking to encircle the defenders. Ruathain saw Maccus and his Horse Archers thunder up the slope to cut them off.

He glanced again at Conn. His son was covered in blood, his face and beard splattered with crimson. Conn stepped back, swiftly glancing left and right, then back towards the rear, gauging the strength of his remaining fighters. A Vars swordsman ran at him. Ruathain blocked him, killing him with a terrible stroke that swept through his shoulder and down into his heart.

The battle had reached a crucial point now. If the Vars continued to push on they would breach the line, cutting Conn’s forces in two. This would give them greater heart, and sap the morale of the Rigante. If they could be held for a little while longer their arrogance would start to fade and they would begin to know fear. The entire outcome of this blood-drenched day might, Ruathain knew, rest on the events of the next few minutes. Conn knew it too, and recklessly charged into the opposing line, trusting his men to follow.

The remnants of the Iron Wolves, no more than twenty men, led by Ruathain, rushed in with him. Conn’s battle fury was such that he cut his way deep into the enemy ranks. Ruathain battled desperately to join him. A spear took Conn in the chest, throwing him from his feet. Ruathain bellowed a battle cry and surged forward, his sword chopping through the arm of the spearman, who fell back screaming to be trampled by his comrades.

Ruathain’s huge form stood over the fallen Conn, his two-handed sword slashing and cutting. Conn rolled to his knees, gathered up his blade and rose alongside his father. A sword clanged against Ruathain’s helm, dislodging it. The Big Man staggered. A second blow slashed towards his unprotected head. Conn parried it, giving Ruathain time to cut the swordsman from his feet.

They heard the thunder of hooves and Ruathain risked a glance to his right.

Fiallach’s warriors speared into the Vars ranks, scattering men before them. The pressure at the centre eased, as the Sea Wolves swung towards this new enemy. The horsemen ploughed on. Several horses fell, pitching their riders into the Vars ranks, where they were hacked to death. But then Fiallach reached the centre and jumped from the saddle, wincing as he hit the ground. The Iron Wolves dismounted around Conn, allowing the horses to run free.

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