Carac sagged against him. Conn pushed him away, dragging his sword clear of the dying man’s body. The king fell to his knees. Conn raised his sword and brought it down in a terrible sweep that cut completely through Carac’s thick neck. The head fell clear, rolling upon the grass.
Then he turned to the riders. There were some twenty horsemen in the circle around him. ‘Who is next?’ Conn shouted.
One man wheeled his horse and rode away. The others followed.
Conn walked to the fallen chariot and gazed down on the battle. The Perdii were streaming back towards the forest. To the north Conn could see Appius’ Panther marching in battle formation. From the south another Panther was approaching.
At that moment Conn heard a groan. The charioteer was still alive. Drawing his dagger Conn moved to the body, dragged the spear from the man’s back and flipped the body with his boot. Dropping to his knees he raised his dagger – and found himself looking into the frightened eyes of a young boy. ‘Where is my father?’ asked the child.
Conn sheathed his blade. There was blood on the boy’s chest where the spear had plunged through. He looked a little like Braefar. ‘Where is my father?’ he repeated. Then he coughed and blood frothed on his lips.
‘Is your father the king?’ asked Conn.
‘Yes. The greatest warrior of all the Perdii. Where is he?’
‘He’s back there,’ said Conn, sitting down beside the dying boy.
‘Could you call him?’
‘I don’t think he could hear me. What is your name?’
‘Arakar. Is it night already?’
Conn passed his hand over the boy’s face. His eyes did not flicker.
‘Yes it is night. Rest awhile, Arakar. Go to sleep.’
The boy closed his eyes. His tunic was drenched in blood now, but the flow had ceased. His face lost all colour and his head lolled. Conn felt for the pulse in his neck. It fluttered for a few moments. Then it was gone.
Valanus came up and sat down on the other side of the corpse. ‘Well, you have your revenge, Demonblade.’
‘Aye, I have indeed.’
‘You do not seem full of joy, my friend.’
Conn climbed wearily to his feet and gazed around the battleground. Thousands of bodies covered the grass around what had been the fighting square, among them several hundred bronze-armoured soldiers of Stone.
Crows were circling above the battlefield. Conn found himself thinking of the green hills of the Rigante, the towering snow-covered peaks of Caer Druagh, and the gentle pace of life in Three Streams.
‘I have had my fill of slaughter,’ he said.
‘That is a shame,’ said Valanus. ‘For the real slaughter is just about to begin.’
That night Conn’s dreams were troubled. He saw Banouin sitting beside a stream, talking to a youth. They were both smiling, enjoying each other’s company in the sunshine. Conn tried to run to them, but his legs were heavy and he could scarcely move. Banouin saw him, but rose from the stream and, taking the boy by the hand, moved away from him. ‘It is me, Conn. I avenged you!’ he shouted. Banouin looked back once, his eyes filled with sadness. But he did not speak. The youth also glanced back, and Conn saw it was the child charioteer he had killed with the javelin. A mist grew up around them both and they vanished from sight.
Conn awoke in a cold sweat. The stench of burning flesh was clinging to the air in the tent. Jasaray knew that diseases sprang from rotting corpses, and always had all bodies burned at the end of a battle. There were so many dead this time that more than a dozen great trenches had been dug, and the fires burned for most of the night.
Pushing aside his blankets, Conn pulled on his boots and walked from the tent. It was midnight and hundreds of soldiers were still working by torch light, hauling Perdii corpses to fresh trenches and hurling the bodies in.
Conn felt a weight on his heart. It was just a dream, he told himself. Banouin did not really turn his back on you. His mouth was dry, and he remembered their talk back in the cave. Banouin’s voice whispered up from the halls of memory. ‘I am not saying do not fight. I am saying do not hate. It is not war that leads to murderous excesses, but hate. Whole villages, cities, peoples wiped out. Hatred is like a plague. It is all-consuming, and it springs from man to man. Our enemies become demons, their wives the mothers of demons, their children infant demons. You understand? We tell stories of our enemies eating babes – as was done with the people. Our hearts turn dark and, in turn, we visit a terrible retribution upon those we now hate. But hatred never dies, Conn. We plant the seeds of it in every action inspired by it. Kill a man, and his son will grow to hate you and seek revenge. When he obtains that revenge your son will learn to hate him. Can you see what I am saying?’