Ranaud tried to rise, but he had no strength. His face was resting against the hard earth, and he could smell the mustiness of the soil.
‘You are a worm, Banarin,’ he heard his mother say, ‘and worms live in the dark.’
The surviving cavalry fled towards the north. The musketeers tried to follow, but they were pursued by clansmen, their blades hungry for blood. What had begun as a battle had become an instant rout. Now it was a massacre.
Call Jace strode across the corpse-littered area, Arik Ironlatch beside him. The older man’s clothes and hair were blood-spattered, but his face was calm. They came across the body of Colonel Ranaud. Call flipped him to his back. ‘I’d like to have killed him myself,’ he said.
Rising to his feet Call stared out towards the north. Clansmen had reached the far hill, and were still pursuing the remnants of the musketeers. The Rigante chief swung round. Arik Ironlatch was kneeling beside Kaelin Ring. Fear touched Call then and he ran to them.
‘Is he dead?’ he asked.
‘Close to it,’ said Arik. ‘He has two wounds, one above the hip and one high in the back.’
Call swore. ‘Plug them as best you can. We’ll have him carried back to the valley.’
Arik nodded. ‘Best you summon the men back, Call,’ he said. ‘Them cavalry might turn again and catch our boys in the open.’
Call walked away. Bael was standing with Rayster by one of the captured cannons. ‘Sound the recall,’ said Call. A long, black horn was hanging from Bael’s shoulder. He swung it to the front and lifted it to his lips. A single eerie, melancholy note echoed through the hills. Bael repeated it three times.
When the last note faded away Bael looked at his father and grinned. ‘We won,’ he said.
‘Aye, now let us count the cost,’ replied Call. ‘Arrange stretcher parties to carry our wounded back, and number the dead.’
Both young men moved away. Call gazed around the battlefield. Hundreds of musketeers lay where they had fallen, but the chieftain saw few Rigante corpses. Even so his mood was dark. This victory would merely delay the inevitable. With five thousand of the king’s soldiers on their way, and another two thousand men at the second pass, there was little hope of sustained success. Ranaud had seen to that with the murder of Linax. A few thousand Rigante could never stand against the full might of the Varlish.
Several men came by, leading captured horses. The men were laughing and joking with one another. Call moved past them. The tents of the Varlish were still standing, and Call could smell soup. He strolled to one of the cook fires. A cauldron of broth was bubbling there.
An hour earlier, men who were now dead had been looking forward to breakfast. Now it was the crows and the foxes who would feast. Aye, and later the worms, thought Call darkly. To the rear of the camp was a picket line and a group of wagons. Some twenty ponies were tethered there.
Call’s broken arm was paining him as he turned back towards the cannons. As he picked his way through the bodies he heard someone moan. Glancing down he saw a young musketeer, barely more than a boy, who had been stabbed in the belly, his entrails beside him on the ground. Call drew his dirk and cut the boy’s jugular. ‘Should have stayed home a while longer with your mam,’ he said, heaving himself to his feet with a sigh.
Rayster and Bael returned. ‘We lost just seventeen men,’ said Bael. ‘Another thirty-three wounded, only six badly. It was a great victory, Father.’
‘Aye, it was,’ said Call, forcing a smile. He had no wish to dent their pride, nor let them know how hollow this victory would feel in a month’s time. He looked at Rayster. ‘Gather some men and collect the Varlish stores and weapons. Get them back to the valley. I doubt the enemy will march against us today. But they might. So do it swiftly. Bael, you organize the movement of the cannons. Use the captured horses to haul half of them back into the pass. The other ten should be taken to bolster our northern defences.’