The Stone line began to bulge inwards at the centre, as the Rigante not only held their ground, but pushed back against their enemies. Jasaray signalled for another three sections of reserve warriors to bolster the line. The three hundred men hefted their shields, drew their swords and marched into place smoothly. The line straightened. Jasaray swung his gaze to the heavy infantry on both sides of his force. It would be soon now, he thought. They cannot compress us, and they cannot hold the centre. Connavar would be forced to signal the heavy infantry to advance in order to take the pressure away from his brother.
He turned to Heltian. ‘Drop back to the reserves and be ready to bolster the flanks. Leave two Panthers to close the rear of the square once the Iron Wolves charge.’
‘Yes, lord,’ said Heltian.
Even as the general moved back Jasaray saw the man next to Bendegit Bran hoist the Fawn in Brambles banner and wave it from side to side.
The heavy infantry began to move. Jasaray had expected them to charge down the slope in the Keltoi manner, racing to their doom with all the enthusiasm of young men pursuing comely maidens. Instead they came slowly, shields at the ready. He saw then that they were not carrying the long-bladed swords so popular among the tribes, but short stabbing swords like those of his own soldiers. This was cause for concern, for the Keltoi longsword was an inadequate weapon for close-quarter fighting, since the tribesmen had to open their ranks in order to swing the swords. Short swords meant they could fight shoulder to shoulder with their comrades, putting more pressure on the Stone line. They have the weapons, and they are mimicking our discipline, he thought. It is a compliment of a kind. How long that discipline will last is quite another matter.
The heavy infantry came down the slope, then broke into a run. Not a headlong charge, but a steady lope. At the last moment, just before their shields crashed against those of the Stone soldiers in the front rank, they let out a ferocious battle cry. The Stone line bulged inwards on both sides, then steadied. The noise of clashing shields and slashing swords was thunderous. And Jasaray loved it.
Ahead the advance up the hill had started once more, and Bran had been drawn into the fighting. Jasaray swung and stared back at the golden figure on the white horse. ‘Come,’ he said softly. ‘Pay a visit to your old friend.’
Bane had ridden through the night, using two of the rebels’ horses to conserve the energy of Connavar’s white gelding. Leaving the spare horses behind the lines he rode through the heavy infantry, their cheers washing over him, and then onto the slope. From here he could see Fiallach riding down from the hillside, leading ten thousand Iron Wolves. Slowly they filed across the field, just out of bowshot of the enemy rear, forming up into five well-spaced lines, ready for the charge when the signal came. As Fiallach drew rein he grunted, the swollen boil just below his belt sent a stab of pain into his back. Should have had it lanced yesterday, he thought. It was throbbing mercilessly now. Fiallach absorbed the pain, allowing it to fuel his battle fury.
Bane galloped the gelding down the hillside and out onto the flat land beyond. The Iron Wolves drew their swords and sent up a welcoming roar as he approached. Fiallach rode to meet him. The big man came close and Bane – despite the full-faced helm of bronze that showed only his eyes – felt nervous under his scrutiny.
‘By heavens, Conn, you had me worried,’ said Fiallach.
‘I am here now,’ said Bane, deepening his voice, and hoping that the metallic echo of the helm would disguise it sufficiently.
Fiallach looked at him closely for a moment. ‘Well, Bran is in trouble. Do we charge?’
Bane was about to agree. Laying his hand on the hilt of Connavar’s sword he drew it. As his fingers touched the weapon he felt a cold breeze whisper into his mind. ‘Not yet, my son.’
The shock was so great he almost dropped the sword.