MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

‘I am with you for a little time. Ride to the centre and wait for the right moment.’

‘How will I know it?’

‘You’ll see the wheels of fire. Now, I think Fiallach is suspicious. Our eyes may be the same, but I am a little weightier than you.’

Bane turned to the silent Fiallach. ‘Did you get that boil lanced?’ he asked.

Fiallach laughed. ‘Thought I’d wait and ask some Stone soldier to do it for me. Are you all right, Conn? Your voice sounds strange.’

‘Never better, my friend,’ said Bane, touching heels to the white gelding and moving into position.

High in the sky, just below the scudding white clouds, Banouin’s spirit watched the battle. The great square of the Stone army was moving inexorably up the hillside, and already some three thousand Keltoi had died.

The arrival of Connavar stunned the young druid, and he sped instantly to the Circle of Balg. There he saw the body of the king, a young, yellow-haired boy sitting beside it. Returning to the battlefield he knew instantly that only one person could be impersonating the king – the son who despised him, and who had refused to fight alongside the Rigante.

Banouin floated above the carnage, high enough so that he did not see the horror of blades cleaving flesh. From here the battle was bloodless, the giant square of Stone, moving slowly northward, pushing the Rigante back towards the river.

Once more the Rigante banner was waved from side to side.

On the hillsides to left and right of the square horsemen appeared, hauling wagons onto the crest. Flaming torches were thrown into the wagons, and oily black smoke drifted up into the sky. There were three wagons on each hill, and the horsemen pulled on the ropes, dragging the burning vehicles out onto the slopes. Slowly they gathered pace. The horsemen loosed their ropes and rode clear of the blazing wagons as they hurtled towards the Stone square.

The soldiers below, seeing the wagons bearing down upon them, tried to break lines, allowing them to pass through. Not everyone managed to escape, and several soldiers were crushed beneath the wheels. Inside the wagons the huge pottery jars of lantern oil cracked in the heat, spilling their contents to the damp straw which surrounded them. Other jars exploded, spraying burning oil over soldiers nearby, setting fire to cloaks and leggings. Two of the blazing wagons smashed into the ranks of bowmen, scattering them. Smoke and flames belched out in a roar of thunder.

Standing with his unit among the men of the reserve Panthers young Maro tore off his red cloak as flames licked at it. Throwing it to the ground he stamped out the fire. His eyes were stinging with heat and smoke. Around him several of the men were also trying to beat out flames upon their clothing.

The northerly breeze sent the smoke drifting towards the south. Maro saw that very few men had been injured by the attack. The wagons had come to a stop now, and were burning brightly, but the line had closed once more. The archers were regrouping, and all was returning to normal.

Then he heard the thunder, and glanced at the sky, expecting to see storm clouds. But there were none, and in that moment he realized the truth. There was no storm. The thunder was coming from the south, and it was not emanating from the sky. The ground was shaking beneath his feet.

From out of the smoke came the charging horsemen of Connavar’s Iron Wolves, and at their head a figure in gold, with a shining shield.

It seemed to Maro at that moment that time slowed. He saw the Stone archers, still trying to regroup, string their bows and send a ragged volley towards the charging horsemen. The arrows seemed to hang in the air for ever. Then they slashed home, and scores of horses fell. Not one shaft struck the golden rider, though many were aimed at him. They bounced from his shield, or sailed past him, plunging into the riders close by. Smoke billowed back over the archers, causing many of them to cough and splutter, their eyes streaming.