A young dark-haired officer stepped in front of Bane. It was Cara’s husband, the young Maro. Maro’s sword slashed towards him. Bane swayed back, deflecting the blow with ease. Fiallach’s sword smashed through the young man’s skull, sending blood and brains splattering over Bane’s golden armour.
On the hillside at the north of the square Jasaray drew back his front lines, ordering Heltian to reinforce the rear with another two Panthers. ‘Oh, and forget what I said about taking Connavar alive. I rather feel that his death would be advantageous at this point.’
Jasaray stood calmly, arms clasped behind his back. The charge of the Iron Wolves had been well executed, the use of fire wagons quite brilliant. But the charge was over now, the battle still to be decided. Jasaray’s expert eyes scanned the scene. More than half the Rigante army had been killed or wounded, whereas he had lost around a third of his force. The death of Connavar would turn the tide. It was always the problem with heroic leadership. Yes, the men would be inspired by the golden figure at their head. But when that man died, so too did the inspiration, and in its place came despair. Connavar was the pumping heart of the Rigante. Every tribesman fighting here was performing above his abilities as a result of his presence. They would break and run when they saw him fall, Jasaray knew.
The emperor watched dispassionately as Heltian led another six thousand men into the fray. They charged into the Iron Wolves who had made it to the rear of the reserve square, killing the horses, toppling the riders and stabbing them to death. Then, forming a fighting wedge, they began to push back at Connavar and the men with him. Connavar – as Jasaray expected – gave no ground and the Stone Panthers surged around the Iron Wolves. Now Connavar was fighting within his own defensive ring. The losses suffered by the Panthers were very high, for they were fighting not lightly armoured tribesmen, but Connavar’s elite warriors, picked for their courage and strength. Even so they were cut off from the main force of Iron Wolves, and outnumbered some six to one. It was, Jasaray considered, but a matter of time before the golden-garbed warrior fell beneath the stabbing iron of Stone.
On the outside of the square Govannan saw Connavar’s plight. ‘The king! The king!’ he shouted.
The heavy infantry – having already lost more than half their number – tore into the shield wall ahead of them, fighting like demons now. Govannan rammed his shield at the line, which suddenly gave. Moving into the breach he killed two startled soldiers. A third dealt him a terrible blow to his helm, which shattered. The sword smashed his skull and Govannan half fell, righted himself, and sent a vicious cut into the man’s shoulder, half severing his arm. With a cry of pain the soldier fell. Govannan’s men poured through the breach after him. It was as if a dam had burst. The soldiers of Stone peeled back in disarray and the wall broke in a dozen places. Govannan staggered forward, bright lights exploding around his eyes, blood pouring to his neck. He knew he was dying, but hung on grimly, staggering towards the men surrounding his king. Several hundred infantry warriors followed him, and fell upon the rear of the force surrounding Connavar. Surprised by the suddenness of the assault the Stone soldiers had no time to regroup. Some tried to turn to face this new attack, others shuffled back in an attempt to make a shield wall.
At the centre of the fighting Bane, his armour soaked in blood now, cut a path through to Govannan, Fiallach beside him. Just before they met Bane stumbled. Two men stabbed out at him. Fiallach leapt to shield Bane. A sword plunged into his shoulder. He killed the wielder, then a second blow slashed into his side. Fiallach fell. Bane plunged his sword into the heart of the soldier, dragging it clear to hack through the skull of a second man. As he reached Govannan he saw the general slump to the ground, blood bubbling from a split in his skull. The soldiers of Stone fell back. Bane crouched down beside the kneeling Govannan. ‘Getting . . . to be . . . a habit. . . saving you, Conn,’ whispered Govannan. ‘But that damned . . . bear was . . . less troublesome.’ He pitched forward. Bane caught him, but he was dead.