„As you command, Sire." Gjerdrum strode away.
Bragi ducked into his tent, collected his personal bow and arrows, signalled his bodyguard to follow him. He marched down the hill, selected a good vantage, loosed shafts careful ly. Each found a mark. The damage stalled the enemy in that sector. During the disorganization he forced his way into the battle line. A ragged cheer arose. It rolled round the line and came back, and began rolling again. „Remember Baxendala! Remember Palmisano!" The enemy troops wouldn't know what the shout of defiance meant, but the Tervola below would hear it and be piqued.
Shield smashed against shield. Swords clanged. Bragi used every vile trick he knew. He sent an eastern soldier to his knees. Another took his place. The tides pushed them apart. Bragi faced a third opponent. The man on his right fell with a cry. Another bodyguard took his place.
The shout went up again. „Remember Palmisano!"
Bragi hardly noticed. His mind had gone on pure auto matic. Stroke. Heave shield. Kick. Parry. Stab. Howl. Curse. Sweat. Especially sweat. Curse again as a vicious blow hit his shield so hard his arm went numb.
He had been here a thousand times. All the battles of his life melded into this one. He no longer knew or cared whom he fought. Time stood still.
But time hadn't stood still for his flesh. He was a man in his forties. He didn't have the stamina of decades past. His legs were pillars of stone, his arms limp bars of lead. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. And still! he fought, lost in the dust and stink and bang and clang.
He did not hear the trumpets sound Sir Gjerdrum's charge. He did not witness it, either. Sir Gjerdrum led his charge down the nether face of the hill. He did respond when neighboring companies began backpedaling, drifting toward the opening Gjerdrum rent.
The shouting and cursing redoubled. Horses without riders screamed and reared and tried to flee through the press. Wounded men and animals carpeted the earth.
Bragi's bodyguards shouted at him to back off, to let them surround him. He flung a wild stroke at an enemy soldier, ducked back.
Something like a god's hammer hit his ribs on his left side. The breath exploded out of him. He couldn't groan. He felt his broken ribs grating. His bodyguards seized him, kept him upright. Red swirled around him, became black ness.
Gjerdrum was disappointed. Too many of the horsemen had fallen already, and he'd been able to extricate only a portion of the survivors. He guessed he had at most five hundred with which to attempt the breakout. He formed them with knights at the shock point, light horse behind and on the flanks, charged with keeping the aisle open once the knights broke through.
„Ready?" he asked.
„Ready, sir," the officers replied. They were pale, unsure. They too knew the ditches would be bad.
Gjerdrum scanned the fighting. The lines were holding. The ragged Palmisano cheer ran round and round the circle. Maybe it would be better to stand here. He had his orders. „Sound the advance."
Horns blared. Gjerdrum started forward at a walk. The infantry had been warned. He hoped they were paying attention.
They were. They began forming aisles. Gjerdrum spurred his mount.
There wasn't much room, but he did get up a little speed. He drove his lance into the eye of an enemy, yanked it free, struck at another. His mount ploughed into the line. Enemy soldiers flew away. His lance snapped. He drew his sword, flailed about himself. His companions pressed from behind, driving him through. His animal lurched forward, toward the ditch.
He glanced back. A rent a hundred yards wide had been torn through the circle. Already the army was pouring through.
He looked forward again, estimating the ditch, trying to decide where to form up once he reached the plain. He had to hit the enemy headquarters... .
A shadow caught his eye. He glanced up. Already the crows were circling.
The ditch! He reined in frantically. He could negotiate it by walking his mount.
Someone ploughed into him from behind. His mount tripped over a corpse, went down in front. He tumbled forward.
„Oh, damn!" The earth came up to meet him. The wind burst out of him. Feebly, he fought to regain his feet. The weight of his armor was too much for his weakened muscles.
He did make it to his knees.
A knight plowed into him. He went over backward, tumbling into the ditch. His helmet flew off. He lost his sword. He came to rest on his back.
He saw a screaming horse and flailing rider falling side ways toward him. A wild, ironshod hoof drove toward his face. He flung up an arm. Too late.
There was but an instant of pain before the Dark Lady gathered him to her bosom.
When consciousness returned Ragnarson found himself at the top of the hill, supported between two bodyguards, in plain view of friend and foe. The battle continued, but the third line had broken. The enemy had forced a melee. He swore. Bloody spittle dribbled into his beard. „Sir Gjerdrum?" he croaked.
„Dead," a bodyguard replied. „Some of them broke out, Sire. Eight hundred or a thousand. Most just ran for it. A few tried to attack Hsung. He drove them off." The man's voice was shaky. His face was pale and sweaty. He was terrified.
Bragi tried to support his own weight. Pain stabbed through his left side. He nearly went down.
„Stand up, Sire. Stand up. You have to stay up. They'll keep fighting as long as you're standing."
„No," he gasped. „Let them stop. Don't let them throw their lives away."
„They're taking no prisoners, Sire. No prisoners. They're killing anybody who tries to surrender."
„That's stupid." Ragnarson tried to curse Varthlokkur, Hsung, Mist and himself. Especially himself. No words would come. Not till, looking one bodyguard in the eye, he managed to gasp, „I'm sorry."
„Stand up, Sire," the man said as he sagged again. „You have to stand up."
A remote spark of will forced stiffness into his legs. He stood, ignoring the pain, closing his eyes to what was happening to the finest army the west had ever produced.
From far, far away he heard the clang of sword upon sword as eastern soldiers reached the ring of men surround ing him. He lost consciousness.
A soldier heaved at Baron Hardle's shoulder, trying to obtain his attention. „My Lord. My Lord!"
Hardle whirled, blade slashing. The soldier ducked, hav ing anticipated the stroke. Hardle recognized him. „Sorry, man. What is it?"
„We need you up top. The King is down. Sir Gjerdrum is dead."
Hardle eased out of the fighting, looked uphill. The royal guard had formed for a last stand. He saw the King sagging in the arms of his men. „How bad is he?"
„Smashed up, but not mortally. He passed out. Ribs stove in."
Hardle strode uphill. „Get that standard straightened up, soldier," he bellowed. „Let's see some pride." He attained the crown of the hill, surveyed the situation.
It did not look good. Those who had managed to break out were still running, not turning to help their comrades. „A curse on the lot of you," Hardle thundered. „May your cowardice be remembered forever. May they write songs of scorn naming your infamous names. May your children spit upon your graves." He almost enjoyed himself once he got going.
„A pity Prataxis isn't here to record this," he muttered. „The great last words of the rogue Nordmen. Talison! You yellow-livered son of a bitch, get back down there with your men and get a line formed." In a softer voice, „Got to break this melee somehow. You. You. You. Get over there and spook the rest of those horses. Run them down the hill."
„My Lord, if we run them off, how will we... ."
„Don't worry your pretty head about how you're going to get away, darling. You're not going to. Not unless we whip these bastards. If you try, I'll cut you down myself. I make myself clear? Anyone else in the dark?"