ramparts, signifying the abundant presence of the Dead and Unborn occupying the fortress.
And yet: once again, the main gates were open.
Without hesitation, Kymon in the lead chariot—his charioteer was the bombastic Iala, known proudly as ‘the savager’—sped through the long grass, which was whipped by the flailing withies attached to the car’s sides. He cut a furrow through the field and positioned himself beyond slingshot range of that open main gate. We had formed into three small squads; Kymon’s eight foedori followed him and spread out in an arc. I took my chariot and squad to the north, Cethern drove his to the south. Our foedori trampled down the pasture, clearing a battle area. Nadcrantail, from Eriu, and Larene of the Parisii, used lengths of chain, slung between them as they galloped, to uproot the thorn and oak thicket that was springing up as the plain was reclaimed by the Scatterer of Forests, Iernos.
We made a loud din, with voices and clashing weapons, and waited there in the cool day, watching the clouds carefully to make sure we would not be blinded by the sun should the sky clear suddenly. Cimmenos, on heavy horse with a retinue of six men, waited with calm aggression before the gate, challenging the Dead to come and fight.
Kymon’s chariot wheeled up to mine. He had been racing the horses along a length of land on the plain, facing the eastern ramparts, a restless, angry action. The boy had made himself look fierce and let his long hair flow. ‘I hate this waiting! Give us eyes to see them, Merlin. If you can’t do that, tell us what you see.’
I see it bleached; I see it bone …
I shivered slightly at the memory of Munda’s words. The hill was silent, but that open gate was like the entrance to a trap. I sensed the snare, but when I summoned the hawk and flew into the sky, I saw only the empty road, the deserted enclosure, the ruined houses.
The hawk wheeled. I didn’t want to lose my senses for too long, but in the last moment of its shadowy existence it saw— I saw —the rippling in the grass behind us.
I shouted to Kymon and his spearman Iala, ‘To the rear!’ and wheeled the small car round to face the ambush, thirty tall men in rusting chain-link mail and tarnished helmets running at full speed through the waist-high grasses. I had seen armour like this in many lands, simple, old, heavy. These were Dead—once-great heroes, reduced to butchers. Their swords were simple, long and bright, and used with grim efficiency. They launched a sudden volley of light spears, which caught the whole rank of us off-guard. I saw several of our number thrown backwards. Kymon had urged his chariot forward, gripping the reins with one hand and stabbing furiously with his long spear with the other.
I heard Kymon shouting, ‘Man against man! I will take the combat!’
But single combat to decide this issue, now, was no more than a dream.
Munremur was cut down as he charged on foot, then Iala, in Kymon’s chariot, was hurled from the car by a spear through his throat. The enemy host started to close on the boy, but Drendas leapt from my car, driving his shield and spear ahead of him as he went to Kymon’s defence. He was surrounded by the enemy and quickly felled and impaled, though I saw him crawl away through the grass, looking for safety. Kymon whipped the reins and turned the chariot, kicking gymnastically at a man who leapt into the car and tried to grab him. The man tumbled backwards; my own spear went into him as I turned my horses and went in pursuit of Urtha’s son.
Kymon had gone into the long grass and turned, ready for the charge. His mouth frothed with fear and exhilaration. He had drawn his sword. The man called Larene, seeking to guard the king’s son, had leapt into the chariot, holding his fistful of thin javelins.
Kymon hardly saw me, but when he caught my presence he shouted, ‘We can take them, Merlin.’
‘We cannot!’ I assured him. ‘The trap is baited;
And yet: once again, the main gates were open.
Without hesitation, Kymon in the lead chariot—his charioteer was the bombastic Iala, known proudly as ‘the savager’—sped through the long grass, which was whipped by the flailing withies attached to the car’s sides. He cut a furrow through the field and positioned himself beyond slingshot range of that open main gate. We had formed into three small squads; Kymon’s eight foedori followed him and spread out in an arc. I took my chariot and squad to the north, Cethern drove his to the south. Our foedori trampled down the pasture, clearing a battle area. Nadcrantail, from Eriu, and Larene of the Parisii, used lengths of chain, slung between them as they galloped, to uproot the thorn and oak thicket that was springing up as the plain was reclaimed by the Scatterer of Forests, Iernos.
We made a loud din, with voices and clashing weapons, and waited there in the cool day, watching the clouds carefully to make sure we would not be blinded by the sun should the sky clear suddenly. Cimmenos, on heavy horse with a retinue of six men, waited with calm aggression before the gate, challenging the Dead to come and fight.
Kymon’s chariot wheeled up to mine. He had been racing the horses along a length of land on the plain, facing the eastern ramparts, a restless, angry action. The boy had made himself look fierce and let his long hair flow. ‘I hate this waiting! Give us eyes to see them, Merlin. If you can’t do that, tell us what you see.’
I see it bleached; I see it bone …
I shivered slightly at the memory of Munda’s words. The hill was silent, but that open gate was like the entrance to a trap. I sensed the snare, but when I summoned the hawk and flew into the sky, I saw only the empty road, the deserted enclosure, the ruined houses.
The hawk wheeled. I didn’t want to lose my senses for too long, but in the last moment of its shadowy existence it saw— I saw —the rippling in the grass behind us.
I shouted to Kymon and his spearman Iala, ‘To the rear!’ and wheeled the small car round to face the ambush, thirty tall men in rusting chain-link mail and tarnished helmets running at full speed through the waist-high grasses. I had seen armour like this in many lands, simple, old, heavy. These were Dead—once-great heroes, reduced to butchers. Their swords were simple, long and bright, and used with grim efficiency. They launched a sudden volley of light spears, which caught the whole rank of us off-guard. I saw several of our number thrown backwards. Kymon had urged his chariot forward, gripping the reins with one hand and stabbing furiously with his long spear with the other.
I heard Kymon shouting, ‘Man against man! I will take the combat!’
But single combat to decide this issue, now, was no more than a dream.
Munremur was cut down as he charged on foot, then Iala, in Kymon’s chariot, was hurled from the car by a spear through his throat. The enemy host started to close on the boy, but Drendas leapt from my car, driving his shield and spear ahead of him as he went to Kymon’s defence. He was surrounded by the enemy and quickly felled and impaled, though I saw him crawl away through the grass, looking for safety. Kymon whipped the reins and turned the chariot, kicking gymnastically at a man who leapt into the car and tried to grab him. The man tumbled backwards; my own spear went into him as I turned my horses and went in pursuit of Urtha’s son.
Kymon had gone into the long grass and turned, ready for the charge. His mouth frothed with fear and exhilaration. He had drawn his sword. The man called Larene, seeking to guard the king’s son, had leapt into the chariot, holding his fistful of thin javelins.
Kymon hardly saw me, but when he caught my presence he shouted, ‘We can take them, Merlin.’
‘We cannot!’ I assured him. ‘The trap is baited;
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