MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

‘Many men need a woman the night before a battle,’ said Fiallach. ‘It helps to relax them.’

‘I think he was planning to meet Braefar.’

‘For what purpose?’

Govannan had shrugged. ‘To forgive him, perhaps. Hell’s teeth, Fiallach, I don’t know. What worried me was that it sounded like a farewell.’

‘You must be mistaken,’ said Fiallach. ‘Conn would never leave us at such a time. Gods, man, this is Jasaray we are facing!’

‘I hope you are right, my friend,’ said Govannan, ‘because without him we’ll not succeed. Don’t misunderstand me – Bran is a great planner and you are a fighter beyond compare. But Conn brings his own personal magic. Every man fights harder when he is close. He inspires the men just by his presence.’

‘He’ll be with us,’ said Fiallach.

But now the battle was under way, and there was no sign of the king. On the slopes far ahead the Stone advance had pushed halfway to the crest. Several thousand Rigante had been killed. Fiallach hefted his shield and slipped it over his arm. Signal or no signal, he would not wait much longer.

A huge cry went up from the right. The heavy infantry on the hillside were cheering wildly. Fiallach swung in the saddle. The lines parted and Connavar the King came riding through, his golden armour ablaze in the sunlight, his full-faced helm in place, his patchwork cloak streaming in the wind. Upon his arm was a shining shield of gold, that glittered so brightly it seemed the sun itself was riding with him.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Fiallach, relief flooding him.

Jasaray, hearing the roar from all sides, looked round to see Connavar riding his white horse across the battlefield. He shivered suddenly, even though the sun seemed to shine brighter in the sky for a moment. The feeling was exquisite. Jasaray thought about it for a moment, analysing the sensation. This was fear, he realized. How excellent it was. Jasaray’s whole body felt alive.

Ahead the advance slowed as the Rigante hurled themselves with renewed vigour at the soldiers of Stone. One Keltoi, half his face sheared away, grabbed at a soldier’s shield, dragging it down. A second Keltoi warrior leapt forward, plunging his sword through the face of the shield-bearer. The man fell back and the Rigante thrust himself into the opening, slashing his blade through the throat of a second soldier, even as he himself was cut down. The line closed, but the advance had halted. All along the line the Rigante fought with terrifying ferocity.

Heltian moved alongside Jasaray. The emperor glanced at him, and both men stared back at the Iron Wolves, and the golden figure riding towards their centre.

‘A magnificent sight,’ said Jasaray. ‘Gaudy, but magnificent none the less.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Heltian, ‘it makes the flesh crawl.’

‘He’s a throwback to more ancient times,’ said Jasaray, ’embodying the principle of heroic leadership, and the days when kings and generals fought in the front line with their men. See how much better they fight now they see him with them?’

Heltian gave a tight smile. ‘I’m not so anxious to see them fight better, lord.’

Wounded men were being carried back from the front line and laid in the open square behind, where surgeons tended them. ‘They are still losing two – perhaps three – for every one of ours,’ said Jasaray. ‘They cannot sustain such losses for long.’

Clasping his hands behind his back he turned once more to survey the fighting. Because of the slope he could see Bendegit Bran some way above. He was standing beneath the blue and white banner. Now that he was closer Jasaray noted that the white motif on the banner was a fawn trapped in brambles. How odd, he thought, that a fighting race should have such a motif. Then he recalled having seen it once before. It was in his tent before the first battle with the Perdii, when he had summoned the young Connavar to meet with him. The fawn in brambles had been fashioned both on his cloak brooch and the hilt of his sword. Curious, he thought. If we do take him alive, I shall ask him about it.

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