The Valentian Campaign Page 6

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hut was finished now. Not that it looked that well made. Frankly it looked as if a good stiff wind, like a wind back up North, would blow it over. But it would suffice. Just about. Drest looked across the camp at the great double crag that was Alt Clud. It was a strong fortress. Very strong indeed. But not strong enough, not against their numbers.

  He looked around at the campfires around the base of the hill and the former fields that lay in front of Alt Clud. A lot of their people were here now. As many as they could rally and send South. The fighters, the young ones, the worriers, everyone he could get.

  Clenching his eyes closed for a long moment he thought what had brought them here. What he had done to come here. His father, old Galam who had died two years before, had been the son of Cailtram. Who had been a great chief. A respected chief. A warrior. But Cailtram had made some bad decisions here and there and so his star had waned amidst the Clan and he had ended his days… well something of a joke. Galam had done his best to build the family back up again, but it hadn’t been easy and he’d died a little more respected than his father.

  And then had come this year. The Year of Death the crones had taken to calling it. Storm after storm after storm. Crops ruined, ships ruined, no harvest likely, no meaningful catch being brought in and every hut and every building needing to be repaired.

  Famine had followed the storms, with pestilence riding in next to the wizened old bitch. He didn’t want to think what the village back home was like.

  No, joining Erip had been a good idea. Or rather the best option at that time. He wasn’t so sure now.

  He sighed and then walked into the hut, closing the door carefully. “Is he any better?”

  Eithne, the daughter and current nursemaid to Erip, looked up. She still looked weary, her lank hair hanging by the sides of her face and her forehead smeared with ash. “No. Still the same. Whatever he saw in that vision of his… it still has him.”

  Drest looked at the old man. He was lying on his back, his eyes still wide open. Occasionally and with great slowness he would blink. And the look of utter and complete terror was still on his face – which was why no-one else could be allowed to see him. The tale he’d been telling people was that Erip was ill. He hadn’t told anyone that the old fool had had a real vision for possibly the first time in his life and that apparently they were all going to die. Well that would turn the hearts of the men outside to stone in an instant wouldn’t it?

  “He hasn’t said anything then?”

  “Just that the Eagles were coming. Along with the Dragon. That was it. I’ve never seen him like this.”

  He leant over and gripped her shoulder. “Don’t lose hope,” he said, hoping that she wouldn’t recognise the despair in his own heart. “This is a good land. The Damnonii are weak, half-Roman fools. We’ll take Alt Clud, secure the food and make these our lands here in the South. And-”

  He paused. He could hear horns to the East, blowing faintly. Straightening up he hurried to the door and opened it. Yes. He could hear horns. Odd-sounding ones. He could see people stirring in the camp now and Garthnac was running up the hill towards him, his spear in his hand.

  “Horsemen to the East!” Garthnac shouted as he approached. “Many horsemen!”

  Damn it. Drest ran to the other side of the hut and stared, one hand over his eyes as he glared at the hills to the East. Yes. He could see movement there. Horsemen. A lot of the bastards. Then his mouth went dry. Some were wearing red cloaks. Romans. Those cowards from the South. They were here?

  And then his mouth went even dryer. The Romans. Their standards were Eagles. Oh by the Crone herself… He licked very dry lips. “Shake spears!” He bellowed. “Rally to the prophet! Form ranks!”

  But as he ran down the hill his heart was colder than ice. A lot of men were going to die today. At least there was no sign of any dragon though.

  Cato drew rein at the top of the rise and then gazed Westwards assessingly, his eyes flickering to the menacing sight ahead of them. “Nasty,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aurelianus to hear him. Catching sight of his puzzled look Cato pointed down at the seething mass of Painted People ahead of them.

  “We’ll have to hit them from just the right angle. We can’t hit them from the North, because there’s a chance that they’ll mass backwards and overwhelm the defences of Alt Clud as they try to get away from us. Nasty business, taking cavalry into a fortress. No, we have to drive them away from the walls whilst giving the Damnonii a chance to sortie against them and add their spears to ours. The river to the South and the other River to the West limits our options as well.

  “Give them a chance to retreat and they’ll do that. We just need to make sure that they have their eyes on the North.” He scowled for a long moment and then he turned in his saddle. “Messenger! I need a messenger!”

  Drest ran down the hill, gathering men as he did so and even a few horsemen on their shaggy steeds. “Form a shield wall to the East,” he bellowed yet again, starting to sound hoarse from the effort of making himself heard above the shouts and general panic of the encampment. As he ran others passed him, heading in the opposite direction, women and children for the most part, along with some of the older men who could no longer fight.

  He could see more damn Romans on the hills to the East now, more than he liked by the look of them. The sunlight was glinting off not just spear tips but also off armour and helmets, things that the Painted People did not have a lot of.

  “Form a wall to the East! A shield wall! Rally to me and form a shield wall! We can stop those motherless sons of mangy bitches! Rally to me and form a shield wall!”

  More men were rallying to him now, running up with spears and shields and swords. Old Nechtan was by his side now, clutching his axe in one hand and his sword in the other. “Ochtar is coming with the holy relic,” he shouted at Drest. “The men will need something to rally around.”

  Drest felt his heart skip a beat for a moment. Yes, the holy relic would give them something to fight for. And it might make the Romans pause. It had long been a sign of the power of the Painted People, what they could all achieve when they were united.

  “Good!” He shouted back. “Rally to me! Shield wall! Form a shield wall!”

  He looked back East and then bit back a curse. He could see horsemen forming up on the hills to the East. And more horsemen pouring over the ground to the North-East, vanishing behind the hill there. “Damn them, they won’t catch us on our open flank, not if I can help it. Shields North as well! Nechtan, They’ll be coming from the North as well – form a wall up there as well.”

  The older man nodded and then ran off with the slightly crabbed gait of a man who was tired and strained.

  Drest stared North after him. They had to protect the way out. The only other way to escape was over the river at their back and that was a death trap. Few amongst them could swim.

  When he looked back East again he clenched a fist around his spear. Time to fight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time that he had three Turmae lined up along the hill Cato was peering at the sun and calculating times and distances in his head. This was going to be a tight one. They had just enough time – perhaps – to get things organised. There were another two Turmae on the road to the South who were scheduled to start their charge in a few minutes and then there was the force to the North. Timing was critical when it came to a lashed-together plan like this and such plans made him instinctively nervous.

  Hearing hoof beats approaching he looked to his left to see Poplicala and Aurelianus approaching at a fast trot. As they reined in the older man nodded at Cato. “They’re ready, Legatus Legionis. Or at least as ready as we can make them.”

  “Good,” he said, easing his sword in its sheath. “Bowmen to the front?”

  “They’re ready,” Poplicala nodded. “Just as you ordered.”

  “Very good,” he muttered and then he squinted down at the hill. The
Painted People were forming a ragged line of shields and spears in front of them. It was a long line but it was a thin one – they had to guard against a sortie from Alt Clud as well as a possible outflanking move to the North and their lines were stretched very thin indeed. And behind that line… the camp followers. The women and children and old men. He hid a wince. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. It had to be done, but there would be a bad bill for the carnifex-men afterwards.

  Then he narrowed his eyes slightly. There was a ragged clump of men just behind the main line. They seemed to be cheering the arrival of a horseman who was holding something on a pole. It was too far for him to see what it was but the Painted People were cheering and shouting and banging their swords against their shields in acclamation. Some kind of holy relic. Well good for them. He had a symbol too.

  “Bannerman?”

  “Sir?”

  “Release the standard. The Legion will advance! Buccinamen – send the signal!”

  The men holding the Buccinas lifted the mouthpieces to their lips and started to blow, sending their harsh brassy calls echoing Westwards in challenge – and to the South and North in signal. And as the horsemen started to trot down the hill the wind caught the red dragon banner and it inflated, sending out its terrible low drone.

  Down the hill they road, heading faster and faster and then Cato threw his hand up and pointed South. The Turmae that were with him changed direction, galloping south now and he could see out of the corner of his eye the reaction of the enemy. The group of men around the mysterious thing on its pole – he could see that whatever it was it was draped in something – were hurrying South in consternation, whilst the archers amongst the Painted People were loosing futile arrows at the horsemen who were just out of range.

  And then he saw the Southernmost two Turmae, who had been out of sight but not out of earshot of the Buccina, as they galloped along the coast road. The Painted People there reacted with cries of alarm and dread, especially when the Turmae stopped abruptly and every archer who could ride a horse that Cato had sent South let loose three swift volleys.

  Screams erupted from the shattered line of Northerners and then the two Turmae were on them, hacking their way through the line.

  Horns were blowing in Alt Clud now and the bannermen on the craggy heights of the fortress were waving the blue and white colours of the Damnonii. Someone with a head on his shoulders was in charge there and now arrows were pouring from the wooden walls on the land between the crag and the sea, arrows that were ripping great holes in the ranks of the Painted People.

  The entire Painted People line was in tatters now. They could see what was happening to their South and they could see that more horsemen were about to turn that chaos into disaster. Holes were appearing in the line as they reacted. They weren’t trained troops, they were warriors who were desperate and they lacked the discipline that would have kept them in line. Hell, the Sea Wolves wouldn’t have panicked, or at least not that much.

  More horns from Alt Clud and then the gates opened and a surge of Damnonii, almost half a thousand of them by the look of it, with more behind them, sallied out. Cold spears gleamed in the late afternoon sun and he could see the light glint off helmets. Excellent. He’d hoped for a sally and now he had it.

  The Painted People were reacting now, but in the wrong way. The line was shivering, breaking apart, some men were hurrying South to try and stop the Damnonii whilst others were clumping together protectively. He cast a hurried eye and then spotted the perfect spot. There!

  His right hand shot upwards and then he pointed at a gap in the line. It was large and widening by the minute, but he could see the clump of riders and men on foot heading towards it. He twitched the reins and then urged his mount on, heading straight for that gap. By the thunder of hooves to either side of him the men were with him – not that he doubted them – and he could hear the drone of the banner, its tempo higher and more urgent as they galloped.

  He could hear the shouts of alarm from the Painted People and some brave fools even tried to close the gap. But there were far too few of them and he drew his sword and headed straight for the nearest one. He was a thin, painfully thin in fact, young man with a leather helmet that was too large for him, a spear that was more of a pointed stick and a shield that looked like something made by a child. Cato didn’t hesitate – a slash down as he thundered past and he heard the strangled gurgling shriek of a man who no longer had a face or indeed much longer to live.

  And then he was in. Behind the shield wall. And now he had a fight on his hands. “Roll them up! Roll them up! Turmae – with me!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Drest panted as he leant on his spear and then he swore bitterly. The Southern part of the force that he’d helped to shepherd down under the ‘guidance’ of Erip was lost. They were being slaughtered between the swords of the Roman cavalry and the spears of those Damnonii cowards. But the main body was still intact and he still commanded them. And he’d kill anyone who crossed him right now.

  “We need to form a new line to the South,” he called out to Garthnac, who had arrived with a knot of his own spearmen. “Reform the line to the South!”

  “No, we have to drive South ourselves, our lads are being slaughtered down there!”

  Drest glared at the older man. “They are dead,” he said savagely. “We cannot stop that. We cannot save them. We have to save ourselves. Form a line from here to the river and then hold the line.”

  Garthnac’s lips rippled upwards as he snarled at him. “Those men are dying, boy!”

  “And there’s nothing we can do to stop that! We have to-”

  The sound of cloth ripping interrupted him and he pulled his shield up hastily as he recognised it for what it was – arrows. Screams split the air around him and he felt something splash on the earth behind him and he resisted the need to look around and see what it was. He didn’t want to know. When he turned back again there was a gap where Garthnac had been. Along with his men.

  Drest looked Southwards. And then he swore again. “Back here! Come back here you fool!”

  The only response he got was a rude gesture. He groaned and then looked back at he heard footfalls behind him. Ah. Ochtar was here with the relic. He looked up at it in awe. “Will you display it now?”

  The thin-faced wiry old man looked at him solemnly and then nodded sharply. “Behold!” The wrappings fell off and Drest looked up at the gleaming golden relic with tears in his eyes. “Rally to the relic!” He shouted it as loudly as he could. “Rally to it! Form a shield wall and head South!”

  He looked South again as the men started to chant and then he stopped and went white. He could feel the blood drain from his face. He could see a group of horsemen to the South. They were heading straight towards Garthnac and his men. And there was a banner over them. Of a red dragon.

  “Rally here,” he shrieked, his voice rising in panic. He could see startled glances being directed at him but he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help it. Death was here. Death on red wings. “Rally here!”

  Cato slashed right and left, listening absently to the screams of the two fools who had been stupid enough to come at him with what looked like rusty daggers in their hands and then he looked around at the battlefield. The Painted People to the South were lost, the few remaining clumps of them being overwhelmed even as he watched.

  To the North he could see that the enemy was trying to rally and form a new shield wall, but there were far too few of them. At least at the moment. If they had the time they could shift their forces further South. He heard the thin, tinny sounds of Buccina being blown from the North and he smiled thinly. Aha. That should keep the bastards looking North just as nervously as they were now looking South.

  And then he stopped for a moment, something that he realised later was a supremely stupid thing to do on a battlefield. He could see the group of men to the North. He could see the thing on the end of the pole clearly for the first time, as they’d
stripped it of its covering. No. It couldn’t be.

  A hundred, no, a thousand tales crashed down upon his head and he felt his face flush with blood. So it was true. They did have it. The Hispana had really been mauled as badly as the whispers had said, before their disbandment. Eagle lost – honour lost. Honour lost – all lost.

  He forced the fury down from his brain and then looked around. “Archers! Bring me archers! Hammer me a hole there! Cut them down! The Eagle! The Eagle of the IX Hispana! Retrieve the Eagle!”

  Drest looked over his shoulder nervously. The sound of horns was still echoing down from the North and he shuddered at the thought of more horsemen coming South and catching them between two fires. Especially when the fire to the South was bad enough.

  He looked South and his throat dried. The bloody banner made his head swim with fear and that wasn’t a sensation that he liked the thought of. Death was riding down on him and he didn’t know what to do, other than fight. Garthnac was dead, having been ridden down and killed, almost in front of his eyes.

  “Hold here!” He shouted with more assurance now. “Form a shield wall and hold here!” He could see more men running in and he winced slightly. The shield wall was getting thin in places, even though he could see some of the younger old men hobbling in from the East with whatever they could get their hands on in terms of weapons.

  And they had the Holy Relic. The symbol of their strength that had been in their hands since the days of his grandfat5her’s grandfather’s grandfather. And they would not – could not – lose under it.

  “Hold here!”

  Belerix reined in and then scowled at the chaos around him. He’d killed five men so far that day and he didn’t regret any of the bastards. They’d gotten in his way or had been trying to kill him and he valued his skin too much to take any chances. Besides, they were just Painted People.