Twice was a different tale.
As the swordsman Intosh had pointed out, it could still be stupidity. Maggrig had grunted, dismissing the idea. ‘Any general who needs to rely on his opponent being an idiot is in sore trouble. No, I don’t think he wants a confrontation yet. I think there’s another Aenir force to the west of us. We are between a hammer and a hard rock.’
‘We have limited choices,’ said Intosh, squatting to the earth and sketching a rough map of the terrain ahead. ‘All we can do is react. We are hampered by the presence of our women and children.’
‘According to our scouts,’ said Maggrig, ‘the enemy has two thousand men. We have eight hundred who can fight, and seven hundred women. With older children who can handle a bow, we could muster sixteen hundred fighters.’
‘To what purpose?’ said Intosh. ‘We cannot take them on.’
‘We must,’ said Maggrig sadly. ‘Yes, we can continue to run, but each mile brings us closer to disaster. We must take the initiative.’
‘We cannot win.’
‘Then we’ll die, my friend, and we’ll take as many of the swine along the path as we can.’
Intosh’s eyes focused on Maggrig. The swordsman was also tired of running. ‘It is your decision and I will stand by you. But where do we make this stand?’
Maggrig knelt beside him and together they selected the battle site, tracing the lines of the land in the soft earth.
Dawn found the Aenir under Ongist marching through a wide valley. Ahead was a range of hills, thickly wooded with ancient oaks on the left slope, and to the east a higher hill clear of trees. Upon that hill was the shield-ring of the Pallides, the rising sun glistening on the swords, spears and helms of the clan, and shining into the eyes of the Aenir.
Ongist called his scouts to him. ‘How long before Barsa reaches us?’
‘Another day,’ said a lean, rangy forester. ‘Do we wait?’
Ongist considered it. To wait would mean sharing the glory – and the women. Shading his eyes he scanned the hill, making a rapid count. ‘How many, would you think?’
The forester shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand. But half of them must be women. Vatan’s balls, Ongist, we outnumber them by three to one!’
Drada had been insistant that no major battle should be joined until Barsa’s troops had linked with his, but what would Father say if Aenir warriors merely waited, apparently fearful of attacking a hill defended by women, old men, children and a handful of warriors?
Calling his captains forward, Ongist ordered the advance.
The Aenir swept forward, screaming their battle-cries and racing towards the hill. The slope was steep and arrows and spears hurried amongst them, but the charge continued.
On the hilltop Maggrig drew his sword, settling his shield firmly in place on his left arm. The Aenir were halfway up the hill, the last of their warriors on the lower slopes, when Maggrig gave the signal to the warrior beside him. The man lifted his horn to his lips and let sound the war call of the Pallides.
In the woods behind the Aenir, eight hundred women dropped from the trees, notching arrows to the bow-strings. Silently they ran from cover, kneeling at the foot of the slope and bending their bows. The Aenir warriors running with their shields before them were struck down in their scores as black-shafted death hissed from behind. Ongist, at the centre of the mass, turned as the screams began.
Hundreds of his men were down. Others had turned to protect themselves from this new assault. These only succeeded in showing their backs to the archers above.
Ongist cursed and ducked as an arrow flew by him to bury itself in the neck of his nearest companion. The charge had faltered. He had but one chance of victory, and that lay in charging the women archers below. He bellowed for his men to follow him and he began to run.
But at that moment Maggrig sounded the horn once more and the shield-ring split as he led his fighters in a reckless attack on the enemy rear. Intosh beside him, the burly Hunt Lord cut and thrust his way into the Aenir pack. A sword nicked his cheek before the wielder fell with his throat opened, to be trampled by the milling mass.