swords in their scabbards. There was not even going to be a pretence of a parley. The silver daggers sat slouched, from the look of them half-asleep in their saddles – a pose that had cost many a gullible warband dear in the past. As the enemies came closer, Maddyn could see that they were carrying a variety of blazons on their shields: the pale blue ground and golden ram of Hendyr to the north, the green wyvern of the Holy City sure enough, and scattered among them – indeed, in the majority as he counted - the red boar of Cantrae. Maddyn’s stomach wrenched as he wondered how many old friends of his had survived the intervening years of warfare only to face up against his troop now.
As the warband drew up for the charge across the meadow, something else occurred to him with the force of a blow: this warband had been waiting for them, had indeed travelled hundreds of miles to catch them here, had somehow known exactly where to find them. He remembered then the rumours that the Dun Deverry king would be stripping the west of men – a ruse, a trap, to ensure that no loyal Cerrmor men would be within reach as the Boar lured the True King to this meeting of Wyrd. His heart thudding, Maddyn looked wildly around, wondering if he dared ride back to tell Nevyn. As if she felt his agitation, his blue sprite appeared on his saddle peak and grabbed one of his hands in both of hers.
‘Go back to the barges. Get Nevyn. Get the guards. Hurry!’
Just as she vanished, the Boars howled out a warcry and led the charge. Sod flew shredded and dust plumed as they raced across the meadow, their captain pulling ahead to face off with Caradoc as the silver daggers threw their javelins in a flat arc, points winking as they whistled home, crossing paths with the enemy darts, flying just as straight and true. As the two captains met both troops howled out a challenge and broke position: the mobs were joined. Cursing a steady stream of the foulest oaths he knew Maddyn rose in the stirrups and tried to make out what was happening, desperately tried to find the prince in the swirl of rearing horses and shrieking men.
As he watched, he would just spot Branoic, whose height made him stand out above the mob of riders, when some squad or clot of fighting would swarm around him and lose Maddyn the view again, but he could never see the prince, who was one of the shortest men in the pack. He rode this way and that, on the edge of terror, wondering if Maryn had been killed in the first charge, while he struggled to see through the dust and chaos. Suddenly he realized that the fighting was coming to centre on Branoic, that more and more enemies were struggling to cut their way toward him as more and more silver daggers peeled off to stop them. He could only assume that Branoic was desperately guarding Maryn – perhaps even a wounded Maryn – and without thinking he drew his sword.
He was just about to spur his horse down to join in the battle when he heard hoofbeats and shouting behind him. He turned to see the last squad of silver daggers, with Nevyn at their head like a captain, galloping straight for him.
‘To the prince!’ Maddyn yelled. ‘Behind Branno! To the prince!’
Howling a warcry the men swept past him and down the rise to slam into the fighting from the flank. Nevyn pulled up beside him.
‘Look, my lord,’ Maddyn gasped, half-hoarse from screaming. ‘Branoic must be trying to save him – that’s where the fighting’s thickest.’
Dead-pale but as calm as death, Nevyn shaded his eyes with one hand and peered down at the screaming shoving mob.
‘It’s not Maryn they’re after – it’s Branoic! Ye gods, I should have thought of that! Ah by the hells – the ruse is torn anyway, and cursed if I’ll sit here and not use the dweomer the gods gave me!’
With a snarl of rage the old man raised his arm to the sky as if saluting the sun with a sword, then slowly lowered his hand until he pointed straight at the battle below. Under his breath he muttered a few words in some strange language that Maddyn couldn’t understand even though it sounded oddly familiar.
‘Now!’
A thousand Wildfolk swept into manifestation and raced down the hill toward the enemy. When Nevyn shouted, blue and silver flames leapt from his hand and followed. Like bolts of lightning the illusory fire fell among the enemy horses just as the Wildfolk dove down from the air, pinching, clawing, biting beast and man alike. The terrified horses reared and pawed, screamed and danced, and the Boarsmen and their allies could do not one thing about it. Shrieking and bucking they broke. Those horses lucky enough to be on the edge of the mob plunged free and galloped away as if all the devils of hell were behind them; those caught in the middle began kicking and biting anything in their way. Owaen and Caradoc began screaming at the silver daggers to pull back and let them go. As the mob loosened its grip, more and more Boarsmen pulled out of line and fled, the men screaming louder than their mounts as the Wildfolk streamed after, all claws and teeth.
Maddyn heard a strange noise. It was a moment before he realized that he and Nevyn both were laughing.
‘I doubt me if they’ll be re-forming for another charge,’ the old man said in the mildest possible tone of voice.
‘True enough, and look, my lord, there’s the prince, safe and sound and riding to meet you. Here, I’d best go fetch Caudyr and his wagon. We’ll have wounded men down there.’
Maddyn had gone only about a half-mile when he met the chirurgeon trotting his team to meet him. They went to the battlefield together to find Nevyn already supervising as the silver daggers pulled the wounded free of dead and dying horses, while Caradoc, Owaen and the prince held a hasty council of war off to one side. Since the battle had been so brief, the damage was small. A number of men were badly cut, but all in all, as Maddyn coursed the battlefield with a squad to look for prisoners, he found only three dead silver daggers, and a couple of horses so badly hurt that they’d have to be put out of their misery. Maddyn was just congratulating himself on their light losses when he found Aethan.
His legs trapped by his dead horse Aethan lay on his back near the riverbank. A chance thrust had split his mail and gone through his side to catch a lung. Although he was still alive, at every rasped breath he drew a bubble of blood broke on his lips and trickled down his chin. Maddyn dropped to his knees beside him and half-kicked the horse away, half-pulled him free, then slipped an arm around his shoulders to cradle his head against his chest. Aethan stared up at him with cloudy eyes.
‘It’s me – Maddo. Do you want some water?’
‘Don’t leave me.’
‘I won’t. We’ve got to get Caudyr over here.’
‘Won’t do any good.’
Like a spear in his own heart Maddyn felt the truth of it.
‘I’ll make a song for you. Just like you were a lord.’
Aethan smiled up at the sky with bloody lips. It was a long time before Maddyn realized that he was dead. He shut Aethan’s eyes, laid him down, and sat back on his heels, simply sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, trying to put together a proper gorchan for Aethan and wondering why the words wouldn’t come. Out of nowhere, it seemed, Caradoc materialized and knelt down beside him.
‘He was a good lad. I’ll miss him.’
Maddyn nodded. When Caradoc laid a hand on his arm, he shook it off, and after a few minutes the captain went away again – Maddyn never noticed in what direction or why. All at once he was so tired that the world seemed distant and faint, stripped of all colour and sound. He lay down next to Aethan on the blood-soaked earth, threw one arm around him and rested his head on his shoulder. Dimly he heard his own voice in his head telling him that he was daft, that nothing in this world or under it was going to bring Aethan back,
