On the far side of the square Osta’s Horse Archers, dismounted now, clove through the Stone lines, linking up with the heavy infantry beyond. Jasaray’s square was in ruins.
The dawning awareness of defeat permeated the Stone lines. At first a few men started to run towards the south and the transient safety of the night fortress. Then a few score threw down their shields and took to their heels. The trickle became a stream, then a flood, as the army of Stone crumbled and fled.
Heltian tried to gather a wall around Jasaray, but Bane rushed at him, slashing his sword through the officer’s throat. Heltian fell at Jasaray’s feet, and even in death tried to raise his shield to protect his emperor.
Jasaray stood, calm as ever, his hands behind him. ‘I take it you haven’t come to surrender?’ he asked the man he believed to be Connavar.
Bane pulled clear the full-faced helm, and saw the shock register on the emperor’s face. ‘Where is Connavar?’ asked Jasaray.
‘Murdered by his brother,’ Bane told him.
Jasaray suddenly laughed, the sound full of humour. ‘So, in the end, I have been defeated by a boy with no understanding of battle strategy. How droll!’
‘You are a brave man,’ said Bane, ‘and I wish I could let you live. You have any gods you would wish to pray to?’
‘No,’ said Jasaray.
The Seidh sword flashed in the morning sun, slicing through Jasaray’s thin neck. The head fell to the floor and rolled for a few feet. The body sagged sideways and sprawled to the grass.
Bane walked back to where Fiallach lay on the ground. The big man was still breathing, though his face was pale.
‘They . . . lanced my boil,’ said Fiallach, forcing a smile. ‘I knew . . . you were not Conn.’ Arrow heads had pierced the rings of the chain mail, and lodged in the flesh beyond. The shoulder wound was deep, but the mortal blow had been struck against Fiallach’s left side, where the chain mail had parted.
‘You fought well, big man,’ said Bane.
Fiallach gripped his arm, drawing him in close. ‘Where is the king?’ he whispered.
‘Dead. Killed by his brother, Braefar.’
‘I misjudged you, Bane. Always been too quick with my temper. Damn, but we beat them, eh?’
‘Aye, we beat them.’
‘Wish . . . I could . . . be there when we march on Stone . . .’
Fiallach’s head sagged back. His eyes closed. Bane rose to his feet.
All around now the Rigante were moving among the wounded Stone soldiers, hacking them to death where they lay. Bane saw Bendegit Bran making his way through the warriors. Bane took up the reins of a wandering chestnut horse. Stepping into the saddle he rode back across the battlefield. Far to the left he could see Connavar’s gelding, Windsong. It was standing now, reins trailing. Bane was glad it had survived. He touched heels to the chestnut and rode past Bran.
‘Wait!’ called Bran, but Bane had kicked his horse into a run.
As he moved across the battlefield soldiers stood and cheered him, waving their swords in the air, and chanting his name. He rode to the top of the hill and swung his mount to stare back at the blood-covered field of the fallen.
‘Proud of you, boy,’ came the voice of Connavar in his mind.
Epilogue
Throughout the long afternoon brother solstice, Banouin and twenty other druids moved among the wounded men. They were aided by a hundred more warriors who had experience of battle injuries. Even so, many died before they could be reached and helped.
In all some seventeen thousand Rigante, Norvii and Pannone tribesmen had given their lives to protect the land, and more than twenty-five thousand soldiers of Stone had surrendered their souls to feed Jasaray’s ambition.
The injured among the Rigante numbered in their thousands. Among the dead were the generals Govannan, Ostaran the Gath, and Fiallach. A little way from Fiallach lay the bodies of the former outlaws Wik and Valian, and Furse, the son of Osta. Finnigal survived, despite having his left hand cut from his body. Four thousand five hundred Iron Wolves and Horse Archers had died following the charge, with another thousand carrying wounds.