Back at the crest of the hill the fighting was chaotic and furious. Of the two hundred Vars who had made the charge only around a hundred and ten had made it to the crest. Of these more than half were down. But so were many of the defenders. Gryffe, blood-covered now, was still fighting furiously, as was Finnigal. But they had been pushed back. Bane charged into the fray, his gladiatorial skills raising the spirits of the defenders as he cut down Var after Var.
Finnigal went down. A Sea Wolf carrying a battle axe loomed over him. Bane leapt at him feet first, hurling him to the ground. Finnigal rolled and smashed his sword across the man’s face. The captain climbed to his feet, to see Bane launch himself at three Vars. Half stunned, Finnigal staggered to his aid.
At that moment men began to rush past the dazed soldier, throwing themselves upon the Vars, stabbing them with hunting knives and daggers. It was the bowmen who had fled the field earlier. Catching his breath Finnigal watched as they ripped into the exhausted Sea Wolves. He glanced round to see the outlaw leader Wik draw back on his bowstring. The shaft tore through the chest of a tall, wide-shouldered Var, his body pitching back over the hill and sliding all the way to the bottom. More arrows followed – and some of the surviving Vars began to run back down the hill. On the hilltop the remaining Vars were still fighting furiously. Bane ran at them, Gryffe and Valian just behind him. Finnigal tried to follow, but a great weariness settled on him and he sat down heavily.
The fighting was over within a few minutes, his sergeant Prasalis knocking the last Var to the ground before braining him with several vicious blows. Prasalis looked round, saw Finnigal sitting alone and ran over to him.
‘Are you hurt, sir?’ he asked, kneeling down.
‘Aye, but I’ll live . . . I think,’ said Finnigal. Blood was streaming from several cuts to his legs and upper arms, and there was a gash on his brow that was dripping blood into his eyes. Prasalis pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped the gash.
‘There’s nothing too deep, and your skull isn’t cracked.’
‘How many did we lose?’ asked Finnigal.
‘I’ll find out, sir,’ said Prasalis, moving away.
Bane, his swords sheathed, his helm discarded, walked over to where Wik was standing, staring down over the settlement. The outlaw had an odd expression in his face that Bane could not read.
‘Good to see you,’ said Bane, with a smile. ‘Thought you might have left us.’
‘I did leave you,’ said Wik. ‘I was pissing myself with fear.’
‘Then why did you come back?’
Wik shrugged. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same thing. The other five gold pieces, I expect.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Bane. ‘You came back because you’re a man. Don’t belittle yourself. How do you feel?’
‘Truly? I feel sad, and I can’t tell you why.’
Bane placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘We saved hundreds of lives today. We stood our ground and we won. But I feel sad too.’ He smiled. ‘And I don’t know why either. We’ll talk later. For now let’s see to the men.’
Prasalis returned to Finnigal, and helped the captain to the wagon. ‘We’d better get those wounds stitched,’ said the sergeant, ‘or you’ll bleed to death.’
‘What are our losses?’
‘Eleven of our men and sixty of the outlaws dead or dying. The Vars lost one hundred and sixty-four men. The survivors fled to the east.’
Finnigal leaned against the side of the wagon. He saw Bane walk over and stand beside the body of a dead outlaw. ‘Who was he?’ called out Finnigal.
‘His name was Grale,’ said Bane. ‘I almost killed him two years ago. A friend of mine told me he was once a hero – that he had fought bravely at Cogden Field.’ Bane glanced across at the silent figure of Meria. ‘He died for you, lady,’ he said. ‘I hope you have the grace to remember his name.’
From the hills to the west came the refugees from Three Streams. Vorna and a group of the women began to move among the wounded, tending them.