Banouin withdrew once again to a great height. Better not to see faces, he thought. Better not to think of the thousands of individuals on both sides who were moving inexorably towards pain, mutilation or death.
The young druid estimated the size of Jasaray’s force, then flew back to his body. He opened his eyes. Brother Solstice was sitting quietly nearby, dozing, his back against a tree. He awoke as Banouin sat up. ‘How far?’ asked the older man, yawning and stretching.
‘Just over twenty miles. There are twelve Panthers, but few mounted scouts.’
‘Twelve? That’s not good,’ said Brother Solstice.
Banouin rose and walked to his horse. During the past thirty years Stone armies had defeated enemies boasting ten times their number. Their victories had been won by awesome organization, discipline, and the fact that the soldiers of Stone were not militia, drafted into battle from their farms to fight, but professional soldiers who trained daily, obeying orders instantly without question. Their close-order skills were legendary, and previous Keltoi armies had been crushed by them with ease. Jasaray himself had destroyed the Perdii across the water using only five Panthers, fifteen thousand men. And the Perdii army had mustered more than a hundred thousand warriors.
Connavar would take the field with around half that number – facing thirty-six thousand battle-hardened Stone veterans led by the greatest general of them all. Banouin shivered at the prospect.
Heeling his horse forward he rode from the wood to make his report to Connavar.
Chapter Fourteen
Brother Solstice was a big man. in his youth, it was said, he had been a bonny fighter, wide-shouldered and immensely powerful. Now in middle age he had added weight to the hips and belly, which made his choice of mount all the more unusual. Brother Solstice rode a fat donkey, and had to lift his legs to avoid his feet dragging on the ground. He did not mind the jokes of the men in marching columns as he rode past, but gave them a cheery wave and a smile. ‘Horses’, Brother Solstice was fond of saying, ‘make a man proud. Druids should avoid such temptations.’
‘You don’t avoid ale,’ Banouin had once pointed out. ‘Or uisge, or fine food.’
‘Ah, but then no-one is perfect,’ Brother Solstice had told him.
As he rode now behind Banouin’s tall horse Brother Solstice was in more sombre mood. It was not just the news of Jasaray’s army, though this was enough to make most sane men sombre. Rather it was the demeanour of the two principal generals of the Rigante, Connavar the fighting king, and Bendegit Bran the strategist. Conn had always been a serious man, deep-thinking and focused. Now he seemed strangely withdrawn, as if he carried a burden he could share with no man. And Bendegit Bran, well loved by the men for his good humour and his lack of arrogance, had become moody and short-tempered. The death of his son had hit him hard. Like his father before him Bendegit Bran was a family man, and by that Brother Solstice meant a man to whom family was everything. Bran had adored his son. Brother Solstice felt for him, but there were larger issues at stake here.
One distracted general could result in a costly mistake. Two distracted generals spelt disaster – and not only in issues of strategy. Brother Solstice could feel the growing unease in the army. Many among the Keltoi had misinterpreted Bran’s grief as fear of the advancing Jasaray. This, in itself, would not affect the outcome of the battle, for the army looked to Connavar for overall leadership. He was their talisman, the undefeated warrior king who had already smashed one army of Stone. This was the man who carried the magical Seidh sword, which could cut through armour. As long as he rode at the head of the army the hearts of the fighting men would be inspired.
Connavar had always been somewhat withdrawn, and therefore the men had not noticed the subtle change that had come over him. But Brother Solstice had.
He followed Banouin through the ranks of marching men, cracking jokes with a few who mocked his donkey. By the time the two druids reached the front of the line the Iron Wolves had already picketed their horses, and the king’s tent had been erected. Inside Connavar was seated upon a rug at the centre of the tent, his senior generals around him. Govannan, his hair prematurely silver, sat to his right, and beside him was Ostaran, the Gath warrior who had joined Connavar twenty years ago, following the fall of his homeland across the water. Bendegit Bran sat to the king’s left. Only Fiallach was missing. He and his men were ranging far to the south, attacking the enemy supply lines.