‘Two days, maybe?’ Aethan joined in. ‘I heard the captain and old Nevyn talking last night. Actually, we’re probably on Cerrmor-held land right now, but we’re still too close to the border to take life easy.’
‘Oh, we won’t be taking life easy for years and years,’ Branoic said. ‘If ever again. The war’s lasted for close to a hundred years already, hasn’t it, and for all we know, it’ll be another hundred before –’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Maddyn snapped. ‘Squad, halt! I hear somewhat.’
Jingling and scuffling the squad pulled up and eventually fell silent. At that point they stood in a twisty lane bordered with a hedge, tangled with grass and burdocks, but by rising in the stirrups Maddyn could see over it. Some hundred yards ahead the lane gave one last twist and debouched onto a wild meadow, where four dismounted riders were standing and holding their horses while they talked, heads together and urgent. Maddyn sat back down fast.
‘Men ahead,’ he whispered. ‘Couldn’t see their blazons clearly, but one of their shields had some kind of green winged beast on it.’
‘Like a wyvern, maybe?’ Aethan said.
‘Maybe. Let’s get back.’
As the squad turned and retreated, Maddyn was cursing the inevitable noise, but if the men he’d spotted did indeed hear them, they never followed. It seemed to take longer than it should to reach the main troop and the barges; when they finally found them, Maddyn realized that the barges had been pulled nose into shore and tied up to hazels. Caradoc came trotting to meet him.
‘Scout came in, Maddo. Looks like trouble ahead. Did you see anything?’
‘We did, and that’s why we’re back. Looked like another point-squad, and one of the men might have been carrying the green wyvern of the Holy City.’
‘The scout said he might have seen a Boar or two.’
Aethan swore under his breath.
‘Bodes ill, bodes ill,’ Caradoc went on. ‘Full arms, lads. We’ll leave the barges here with a token guard.’
‘What about the prince?’
‘He’s safest coming with us. If this warband ahead’s only on the track of the contraband iron, they’ll try to outflank us and strike the barges, so there’s no use in leaving him behind. If they’re after him, as I somehow suspect they are, then they’ll have to fight our whole ugly pack to get him.’
‘We’ll want to circle around ourselves and try for a flank strike. There’s a narrow lane ahead that could trap us good and proper.’
‘All right. Across the fields it is.’
Heading south, they swung out to the east across ploughed land that bore only nettles and dandelions. Since the fields sloped up from the river bed, after a few minutes they were riding along a very low ridge of sorts and could see a reasonable distance ahead of them. To the south, on the same side of the river as they were, a warband was coming to meet them. Swearing under his breath, Caradoc flung up one hand for a halt, then rose in his stirrups to stare and count.
‘About sixty, seventy?’ he said to Maddyn and Owaen. ‘A good enough match, anyway. Well and good, lads. We’ll make a stand and see if they come after us.’
Just across a meadow was another thick hedgerow that would do to guard their rear, and in a shallow crescent they drew up their lines, two men deep, with Caradoc and Owaen in the centre and the prince disposed anonymously in the second rank of the left horn, with Branoic on one side of him and Aethan the other. Even after all these years Maddyn felt faintly shamed as he followed their standard procedure and withdrew, taking shelter in some trees a couple of hundred yards away. For this battle, at least, he would have a crucial role to play as liaison between the troop and the fifteen or so men left behind to guard the barges. The orders were clear: if the scrap went against them, the survivors were to retreat back to the barges and die fighting around the prince.
Straight and purposeful the other warband came jogging along, pulling javelins from the sheaths under their right legs and loosening 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!’