Fearghal’s warriors, caught in a knot, found the enemy all around them, Ardahl, Cullan and their chariot confined near one end.
“Spread out. Spread out!” Dornach bellowed over the instant crash of metal on metal.
“Go. Go!” Ardahl hollered at Cullan. Conall would already have been moving. “There!” He waved to an empty space past Fearghal’s chariot.
The ponies tangled, wheels hit wheels, and their cart rocked violently before it broke free.
Cullan managed to wheel around to face the enemy. Ardahl found himself in the thick of battle.
No time to think, no time to do aught but react, to rely on instinct and the strength of bone and muscle. Opponent after opponent rushed their chariot. It rocked and swayed beneath Ardahl, but he had the advantage, striking down at men afoot.
Face after face, they fell to his blade. He could hear the clang of battle all round him, and Cullan swearing continually as he tried to maneuver the ponies in the tight space.
No matter how many Ardahl felled, others replaced them. Men died everywhere around him. He did not count them.
Suddenly their ponies reared as the chariot went over. Ardahl heard Cullan cry out even as he leaped clear—again by instinct—and found his feet. A man loomed to the right of him, sword raised. He got his blade up in time to meet the one swooping toward him, stopped that blow, another and another. Got in behind his enemy’s weapon with a slash to the man’s throat.
The man fell.
Before Ardahl could draw a breath, another opponent attacked him from the left. He heard Cullan call something from the overturned cart.
Nay, that was Conall’s voice. His friend was still with him.
Have at him, man!
I am going to die.
Nay, no’ ye!
He paused as his opponent fell, miraculously, at his feet. He could no longer feel his sword arm, though it still obeyed his unconscious command. He could not truly feel his body either, nor the rain that crashed down.
It was raining.
The water rinsed the blood from his blade.
He whirled. The battle had spread out from where he stood, some of the chariots trundled away. Men fought in a seething heap. Overhead, thunder boomed and the day had gone dark as night.
A bolt of lightning split the sky and lit the scene garishly. He saw—
Dornach’s chariot far down the line, crushed by enemy warriors, both the war chief and his driver fighting for their lives. Closer at hand, Chief Fearghal, with his face fixed in an agonized rictus, his blade whirling. Not far off from him, Cathair also battled hard against a tide of enemy warriors.
Instinct moved Ardahl again. He was sworn to his chief, and his chief needed his sword. He ran forward and threw himself into the fray.
The rain fell so hard, it was difficult to see. But Fearghal did see him and seemed to take renewed heart.
Cathair sent them a wild, burning look. He’d taken a slash down one cheek, from which the blood ran freely, chased by the rain. So close did they fight, Ardahl could see the desperation in Cathair’s eyes.
But when the chief faltered, when his boot slipped in the sodden grass and he went down, followed by his enemy’s sword, it was Ardahl’s blade that moved fast enough. Ardahl who leaped and interposed his body to guard his chief’s. His blade that took off the head of the enemy.
He hauled Fearghal to his feet. The chief, badly wounded, gave him a hard nod. Shouted something.
Ardahl needed to get him from the field. Where was Cullan? Cursing, he tried to search for his driver and their chariot, forgetting it had been turned over. No sight of them.
“Turning!” Fearghal screamed at him.
Was the battle turning? On his life, he could not tell. But aye, there seemed to be fewer opponents, though the rain still made it hard to see. If the battle had not yet turned, itcouldbe turned.
“My chief, get ye behind me. I will be your shield!”
