They weren’t going to break. Ethne slewed the chariot to the side hard, showering the enemy shield wall in sand. Cruibne felt the cart start to turn over and held on for dear life, but Ethne was better than that, forcing the terrified ponies forward through the sand, their speed pulling the cart straight.
Others weren’t so lucky. Some tried, like Ethne, to turn at the last moment but lost control, sending ponies, cart and passengers tumbling sideways into the shield wall. Others, their charioteers unable to believe that the shield wall hadn’t run, ploughed straight into it in a screaming, tangled, tumbling collision of wood, metal, human and horseflesh.
Britha threw herself to one side as a chariot went tumbling past her in an explosion of sand. She pushed herself to her feet. A figure charged her. He slashed his sword down. She caught the blade in the curve of the sickle blade and swung the sword away from her. She brought the sickle back and into his stomach, driving the curved blade up into his chest cavity. He fell back; the sickle slid out red; the expression on his face didn’t even change.
They were galloping along the enemy shield wall now. Cruibne struck out with his longspear again and again. The spear glanced off shields mostly but caught one of them in the head. Cruibne felt the impact in his arm as the spear haft snapped and the man was torn off his feet sideways, his neck broken, head gashed open, skull caved in.
Ahead of Cruibne, Nechtan stood on his yoke and threw casting spear after casting spear at the enemy shield wall. Shields were raised to block, but Nechtan caught more than one of the enemy warriors. A lucky shot took one of them in the face, sending him staggering back out of the line, but the gap was closed quickly by those on either side. At the end of the shield wall, following Nechtan’s chariot, Ethne steered the ponies in a long circle to bring them back into the attack.
Britha watched one of the enemy spearmen stagger back, a casting spear embedded in the ruin of his face. He reached up, pulled the spear out and threw it away. They had to call off the attack. She had to find Bress and kill him. She reached down and took the sword from the dead man’s hand. There was resistance – the red filigree had to be tugged out of his flesh and seemed to come to life. There was a moment of panic as she felt it start to dig into her flesh. She felt heat in her hand, wrist and then arm. Then she felt sick, like a strong fever. Her arm glowed with an inner light. She watched as the filigree on the cursed sword retracted into the blade’s pommel. The feeling of heat and sickness passed.
Sword in one hand, sickle in the other, she started towards the back of the shield wall. She glanced down the line and saw Ettin with the pack straining at its chains. He looked back towards her. Even over the distance she could feel the intensity of his stare, the hatred. Then she heard a crashing sound. The pieces of metal in the hollow brass sphere at the base of every one of the cateran’s spears were being rattled to frighten their foes. Britha couldn’t see it working this time.
The war dogs, massive, powerfully built deerhounds, many wearing their own protective leather jerkins, many of them scarred veterans of other battles, were nearly at the Lochlannach line. Their job was to distract and disrupt the enemy shield wall, make them lower their shields just ahead of the attack of the spearmen. The shield wall took a step forward. Many of the dogs died on the ends of spears, or shields broke their leaps, sent them tumbling back into their own advancing men.
The spearmen hit the shield wall. Britha watched as the force of their charge pushed the enemy back, their feet digging into the sand. The cateran battered against the Lochlannach’s shields, trying to force them up. Some cateran warriors went tumbling over the defenders’ shields, their naked, painted and tattooed bodies dead moments after they hit the sand.
Britha ran towards the back of the shield wall but was intercepted by swordsmen. She felt her blood sing as she ducked and parried blows. The sickle and sword cut through armour as if it wasn’t there and bit deep into flesh. She leaped and spun; she felt like she was dancing between her attackers. She had never fought like this. Never revelled in it like this. She wanted to see wounds. Feel hot blood on her skin, taste it.
The swordsmen dead, she went looking for Bress. He was pretty, she dimly remembered through her battle pleasure, but she wanted to see what his innards looked like. She thought they would be just as pretty.
The cateran had been flung back so hard, many of them had lost their footing and been speared. Now it would be the grind of shield wall on shield wall, Talorcan thought as he looked for a target. The advantage was with the Lochlannach with their large oval shields versus the Cirig’s smaller square ones.
One of the enemy was looking the other way. Talorcan loosed the notched arrow. The man somehow seemed to know. He ducked down behind his shield and the arrow flew over his head. Talorcan cursed. They were so fast.
Ettin released the pack.
Sleek lithe shapes clambered up the backs of the Lochlannach and launched themselves at the cateran. They were so quick that Talorcan struggled to make them out. Demons from the Otherworld, his frightened mind thought. It was easier to think this than acknowledge how much they looked like children. They tore at cateran and war dog alike.
He watched as one of the red-eyed demons threw itself at Feradach. The warrior swung his shield at it, catching it in the head in mid-air with enough force to knock it to the ground. Feradach stepped forward and ran his longspear through the demon, pinning it to the sand, but the creature was still writhing, fighting, screaming. A wild blow snapped the haft of the spear and Talorcan watched in horror as Feradach staggered back screaming, the demon’s hands redder now and dripping. There was a gaping wound where Feradach’s manhood used to be.
There weren’t many of the demons but enough of them to disrupt the cateran line. Talorcan glanced behind him. The landsmen were still too far away. As one, and without any order that Talorcan heard, the Lochlannach line moved forward. Spears thrust out. Pecht died. Spearheads embedded themselves in cateran shields. The Lochlannach stood on the hafts of the spears, forcing the shields down, and with frightening speed drew their swords and opened flesh. With each step more of the skyclad warriors died. To Talorcan their wounds looked worse than they should have been. Wide gaping red gashes and rips in his friends’ flesh.
Talorcan was loosing arrow after arrow, but his targets didn’t even seem to notice. It was when he watched one of them draw an arrow from his neck, toss it away and drive his spear through the head of a Fortrenn warrior that Talorcan knew that not only would they lose but they could not fight these people.
Talorcan dropped his bow and shrugged off the quiver. The small Pecht pulled his dog’s head on, drew his knife and hatchet, then ran towards the fight.
They had circled the entire battle looking for a place to attack where they would not run over their own warriors. Now his chariot was in the lead. Cruibne glanced behind him to see Nechtan following.