Stonehenge (45 page)

“What is it?” Camaban called up to him.

“Come here,” Saban said, and Camaban went round to the ridge’s flank and scrambled up its steep turf slope.

The far figure dropped her cloak and began raising and lowering her arms. “Curses,” Camaban said, and he spat toward her.

“Is it Derrewyn?” Saban asked.

“Who else?” Camaban asked. Derrewyn was standing on Lahanna’s hill, summoning the goddess to hurt Cathallo’s enemies.

Saban touched his groin. “So they know we’re coming?”

“They brought the fog,” Camaban said, “hoping we would get lost in it. But we are not lost. I know the way from here.” He raised a fist to the distant figure, then dragged Saban down from the mound. “We follow a path north,” he said, “and the path goes through a wood, then crosses the stream before joining the sacred way.” And the sacred way would lead them into Cathallo’s shrine.

The drenching of the bones had restored the war band’s spirits so they were now eager to follow Camaban north. He went fast, following a path that had been beaten into the grassland by countless feet. The path led gently downhill through a thick stand of oaks and, as the spearmen threaded the trees, a wind rustled the leaves and the same wind swirled the mist and thinned it so that Ratharryn’s leading warriors could see the sacred path across the small valley and there, waiting in a strong line by the gray boulders, was Cathallo’s army.

Rallin, Cathallo’s chief, was waiting for them. He was ready. All Cathallo’s warriors were there, and not just Cathallo’s men, but also their allies, the spearmen from the tribes that hated Ratharryn because of Lengar’s raids. The enemy host filled the avenue and they gave a great shout as they saw Camaban’s men come from the oaks and then the mists thickened again and the two armies were hidden from each other.

“They outnumber us,” Gundur said nervously.

“They are as nervous as we are,” Camaban said, “but we have Slaol.”

“They let us come this far because they would crush us here,” Gundur explained, “then follow our survivors back across the hills and slaughter us one by one.”

“What they want,” Camaban agreed, “is a battle to end the war.”

“They do,” Gundur said, “and they will win it. We should
retreat!” He spoke fiercely and Vakkal nodded his agreement.

“Slaol does not want us to retreat,” Camaban said. His eyes were bright with excitement. “All our enemies are gathered,” he said, “and Slaol wants us to destroy them.”

“They are too many,” Gundur insisted.

“There are never too many enemies to kill,” Camaban said. The spirit of Slaol was inside him and he was certain of victory, and so he shook his head at Gundur’s advice and drew his sword. “We shall fight,” he shouted, then his whole body shuddered as the god filled him with power. “We shall fight for Slaol,” he screamed, “and we shall win!”

The mist shredded slowly, swirled by a fitful wind and reluctantly yielding to Slaol’s rising power. Two swans flew above the stream, their wing beats suddenly the loudest noise in a valley edged by two armies. The aurochs had long disappeared, gone, Saban assumed, into the deeper forests to the west, yet he clung to the belief that the beast’s appearance had been a good omen. Now every spearman in the opposing armies watched the swans, hoping they would turn toward their side, but the birds flew steadily on between the two forces to vanish in the eastern mists. “They have gone to the rising sun!” Camaban shouted. “It means Slaol is with us.”

He could have been speaking to himself, for no one on Ratharryn’s side reacted to his shout. They were staring across the shallow valley to where the forces of Cathallo made a formidable line armed with spears, axes, bows, maces, clubs, adzes and swords. That battleline began near the small temple on the hill, followed the path of paired stones westward and then went on toward the Sacred Mound. On the low hills behind the battle line were groups of women and children who had come to watch their menfolk crush Ratharryn.

“Four hundred men?” Mereth had been counting and now spoke softly to Saban.

“Not all men,” Saban said, “some are scarce boys.”

“A boy can kill you with an arrow,” Mereth muttered. He was armed with one of his father’s precious bronze axes and looked formidable, for he had inherited Galeth’s height and broad chest,
but Mereth was nervous, as was Saban. The men of both armies were nervous, all except the hardened warriors who dreamed of these moments. Those were the men about whom songs were sung, of whom tales were told in the long winter nights; they were the heroes of slaughter, fighters like Vakkal the Outlander who now strutted ahead of Camaban’s force to shout insults across the valley. He called the enemy worm dung, claimed their mothers were goitered goats, reviled them as children who wet their pelts at night and invited any two of them to come and fight him on the stream bank. Similar taunts and invitations were being shouted by Cathallo’s leading warriors. Hung with feathers and fox tails, their skins thick with kill marks, they strutted in bronze. Saban had once dreamed of being such a warrior, but he had become a maker instead of a destroyer and a man who felt caution, if not outright fear, at the sight of an enemy.

“Spread out,” Gundur shouted at Ratharryn’s men. Gundur had not wanted to fight this morning, fearing that Cathallo and its allies were too numerous, but Camaban had taken him aside and Gundur’s confidence had been miraculously restored by whatever Camaban had told him, and he now tugged men into line. “Spread out!” he shouted. “Make a line! Don’t bunch like children! Spread out!”

The war band reluctantly scattered along the edge of the oaks to make a line which, like the enemy’s line, was not continuous. Men stayed close to their kin or friends and there were wide gaps between the groups. The priests of both sides were out in front now, shaking bones and shrieking curses at the enemy. Haragg carried Ratharryn’s skull pole so that the ancestors could see what was being done in the thinning mist and Morthor, Cathallo’s blind high priest, carried a similar pole. He shook it so threateningly that Cathallo’s skull toppled clean off its staff, raising a cheer from Ratharryn’s men who reckoned the fall of the skull was an ominous sign for the enemy. Derrewyn was still on the Sacred Mound where, attended by a half-dozen spearmen, she was spitting more curses at Camaban. “I want the sorceress killed!” Camaban shouted at his army. “A gift of gold to the man who brings me the bitch’s head! I shall fill her skull with gold and give it all to the man who kills her!”

“He thinks we’ll win?” Mereth asked sourly.

“Slaol is with us,” Saban said, and the sun had indeed broken through the remnants of mist to green the valley and spark shimmering light from the stream between the armies.

“Slaol had better be with us,” Mereth muttered. The enemy outnumbered Ratharryn’s men by two to one.

“I want their chief dead!” Camaban was calling to his men. “Him and his children! Find his children and kill them! If his wives are pregnant, kill them too! And kill the sorceress’s whelp, kill it! Kill her, kill her child, kill them all!”

Rallin was walking along his own line, doubtless encouraging his own spearmen to a similar slaughter. The priests of both sides had advanced to the stream’s banks, almost within spitting distance of each other, and there they hissed insults and spat curses at each other, leapt in the air, shook as though they were in the grip of the gods and shrieked as they summoned the invisible spirits to come and eviscerate the enemy. Haragg alone had not gone to the stream. Instead he was standing a few paces in front of the line and holding the skull pole toward the sun.

The braver warriors had gone close to the priests to shout more insults, but neither battle line moved forward. Groups of men danced in a frenzy as they summoned the courage to advance, others sang war hymns or chanted the names of their gods. The mist was all gone now and the day was growing warmer. Mereth stepped back into the wood which stood just behind Camaban’s line and began picking blackberries, but Camaban, returning from the left wing of his forces, pulled him out of the bushes and back into the line. Camaban said, “Every man who has a bow is to go back into the trees and make his way to the center of the line. You hear me?” He walked on, repeating the instruction, and the archers slipped back into the trees and, unseen by the enemy, ran to the center of Ratharryn’s loose line. Saban alone disobeyed, reluctant to abandon Mereth’s companionship.

A drum began to beat from Cathallo’s line and the heavy pounding gave Rallin’s men courage so that small groups of them darted forward to taunt Camaban’s forces. The most courageous splashed through the stream, then stood baring their blue-smeared bodies as if inviting Ratharryn’s bowmen to loose their arrows.
Vakkal and some of his Outlander spearmen ran to challenge those bolder enemies who quickly retreated, provoking jeers from Ratharryn’s men. The priests stood in the center of these rushes and counter-rushes, ignoring and being ignored by the spearmen.

Scattered archers ran from Cathallo’s line to loose their arrows across the valley. Most fell short, though a few hissed overhead to rattle through the leaves in the wood. Small boys ran to retrieve the arrows and carry them to Ratharryn’s own archers, a handful of whom advanced from the center of the line to drive the enemy bowmen back. No one had been injured yet, let alone killed, and though the insults flew thick, neither army seemed inclined to cross the stream and begin the bloodletting. Rallin was walking up and down his line again, exhorting and shouting, and women were carrying pots of liquor to their men.

“We’re going to let them come to us,” Camaban was walking behind his line again. “We stay here,” he said, “and let them attack us.” He sounded cheerful. “When they advance, just stand still and wait for them.”

The whole of Cathallo’s line was chanting now, the strong voices joining in the battle verse of Lahanna. “They’re working themselves up to it, aren’t they?” Mereth observed, his lips stained with blackberry juice.

“I’d rather be making boats in Sarmennyn,” Saban said.

“I’d rather be making boats anywhere,” Mereth said. He did not have even one kill scar on his chest. “I reckon if they come over that stream,” he went on, “I’m going to run back and keep running till I reach the sea.”

“They’re just as frightened of us,” Saban said.

“That might be true,” Mereth observed, “but there’s two scared fellows over there for every ohe of us.”

A great shout sounded from Cathallo’s line and Saban saw that a large group of warriors had started toward the stream. They came from the center of Rallin’s line and they called Lahanna’s name as they advanced, but after a few paces they looked left and right and saw that the rest of their line had stayed rooted and so they themselves stopped and were content to shout insults at Camaban who had returned to the center of Ratharryn’s line. Derrewyn, Saban saw, had come down from the Sacred Mound and was now striding
along the front of Cathallo’s reluctant battle line. Her long black hair was unbound and, like the pale cloak she wore, was lifted by the small wind. Saban could see she was shouting, and he could imagine that she was reviling her men’s courage, insulting Ratharryn and urging the spearmen forward. More liquor pots were brought to Rallin’s men. The drummer was beating his goatskin drum with redoubled force and men were shuffling in a grotesque dance as they summoned their nerves. The priests of both sides, their throats sore from so much shouting, huddled together by the stream where they drank from cupped hands, then talked with each other.

“This isn’t how Lengar would have fought,” a man near Saban grumbled.

“How would he have done it?” Saban asked.

“Your brother was always one for attacking,” the man said. “None of this waiting. Just scream loud, then run at the enemy in a howling rush.” He spat. “They always broke.”

Saban wondered if that was what Gundur was now planning for he had assembled his best warriors at the line’s center where Ratharryn’s skull pole was displayed. The gathered men had been Lengar’s best, the spearmen with the most kill scars who had foxes’ brushes woven into their hair and dangling from their spear shafts. Gundur was haranguing them, though Saban was too far away to hear what he said. Vakkal and his picked Outfolk warriors joined them, and just behind that fearsome group were Camaban’s massed archers.

The sun climbed. Rallin and Derrewyn walked up and down their line, and still neither side attacked, though some bowmen from Cathallo became bold and dared to cross the stream to loose some arrows. They struck one man in the leg and the enemy cheered that wound, then Camaban sent a half dozen of his own archers forward to chase the enemy away and it was Ratharryn’s turn to jeer.

“Maybe there won’t be a battle,” Mereth said cheerfully. “Perhaps we just stand here all day, shout ourselves hoarse, then go home and boast about how brave we’ve all been. That would suit me.”

“Or perhaps Rallin expected us to attack like Lengar,” Saban suggested.

“He thought we’d charge?”

“Probably,” Saban guessed, “and now that we’re not doing what he expected, he has to come to us if he’s to win.”

Rallin had evidently reached the same conclusion for he and Derrewyn now exhorted their army to advance, claiming that the vermin of Ratharryn were too timid to attack and too stubborn to retreat without a fight, and so were just waiting to be slaughtered. Rallin shouted that glory waited for Cathallo and that any man killed this day would go straight to Lahanna’s bliss in the sky. The first men into Ratharryn’s line, Cathallo’s chief promised, could take their pick of the enemy’s women and herds, and that encouragement was emboldening his men. The liquor was also having its effect and the drumbeat was filling the sky and the women who watched from the hills were shouting at their men to go forward and kill. The noise was constant, shouting and screaming, drum and chanting, singing and foot stamping. Rallin’s war captains had spread along the line and kept dragging men forward and their example and Rallin’s promises at last succeeded in urging the whole excited mass into motion.

“Just stand and wait!” Camaban shouted. “Stand and wait!”