The deadly storm of arrows had slowed now, for the archers on the slopes were running short of shafts.
Dunild hurled aside his bow, lifting his shield and drawing his sword. His men followed suit. Now was the time to withdraw, for the battle could not be won; the Aenir had not broken.
Three hundred clansmen joined him, swords in hand. Looking across the slopes to where his enemy Patris Grigor had also drawn his sword, Dunild felt a strange calm settle on him. He lifted his sword in silent farewell to his enemy. There would never be peace
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while they both lived, for their hatred was stronger than any desire to beat a common foe.
‘Cut! Cut! Cut!’ yelled Dunild and led his three hundred down the slope to reinforce the Farlain.
Patris Grigor could not believe his eyes. His enemy of twenty years had just surrendered his lands. Patris was now the undisputed lord of the north-west.
‘What does he think he’s doing?’ yelled a man on his left. Grigor shrugged. Twenty years of hatred, and now Dunild was hurling his life away on a futile charge in a doomed battle. Grigor shook his head and dropped his bow.
‘Do we leave now?” asked a clansman.
Grigor laughed. ‘You know what’s happening down there?’
‘The Aenir are about to win through. It’s all over.’
‘That’s right. And that brainless idiot Dunild has gone down there to die.’
‘Then we are leaving?’
‘What do you think?’
The man grinned. ‘If we charge now we might just be able to hack our way through to Dunild and then, while no one’s looking, I’ll cut his throat.”
Grigor chuckled and hitched his shield to his arm. ‘Yes, by damn. Let’s do something noble for a change!’ Raising his sword, he began to run down the slope. Five hundred Grigor warriors took up their swords and followed him.
The front line of the Aenir slipped and slithered over blood-covered rocks and sprawled bodies, only to be cut down by the slashing iron blades of the clansmen. Leofas, his cold blue eyes glinting with battle fever, stood at the centre of the defenders, Maggrig and Lennox on either side. Again and again the Aenir swarmed forward, only to be turned back by the sharp blades and steadfast courage of the defenders.
Drada alone among the Aenir was not surprised by the resolute defence, but he had been a part of many battles and knew what must happen now. The clans would fall back, there was no choice. Their strength was failing fast and their losses were enormous. The two at the centre were both old men and their stamina suspect. Once they had fallen, the line would break.
Beside him Briga was poised for the final rush. He had been a warrior for more than twenty years and always, he knew, there came a point where the fight could be read like a game, where the ebb and flow could be charted like a steady current. They had reached that point now.
And the clans were ready to break. . ..
The feeling swept among the Aenir and the battle-cries began again. Once more the forces clashed. The clansmen fought silently now, leaden-legged and heavy of arm, and inch by inexorable inch they were forced back towards the open pass beyond.
Briga felt joy surge in his veins. No army in the world could hold now. It was over. The clans were finished!
Maggrig felt it too, and he cursed aloud as he clove his sword through an Aenir neck and ducked under a slashing blade. Well, if he had to die he was damned if it would be in the open ground he had fought so hard to defend. Dropping to his haunches he hurled himself forward into the Aenir, cutting and stabbing. Caught up in the frenzy of the moment, Leofas joined him, with Lennox and Intosh.
And the clans rallied, surging forward to join their leaders. The ferocity of the assault stunned the leading Aenir warriors and they fought to pull back. Briga, just behind the front line, turned to Drada. ‘It’s impossible!’ he shouted. Drada shrugged.
As the Aenir front line backed away from him, Maggrig raised his sword defiantly. ‘Come on, you Outland scum. We’re still standing!’