David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Then had come a charge of horsemen. Kalliades had ordered his men to stand firm, locking shields. No horse would willingly ride into a wall.

Instead the Idonoi riders leaped them up and into the massed ranks, scattering the defenders. The fight was short and bloody, the riders lightly armored. Even so, the losses among the Thrakians were high: broken bones from the kicking horses and wounds from lances that had driven through helms and breastplates.

By the fifth attack the Thrakian bowmen were running out of shafts, and the enemy advanced with great confidence.

More than half the Thrakians were dead, and now there were barely enough to hold the narrow pass.

Kalliades gazed at the hundred or so fighting men. He wanted to join them, but there was no strength left in his limbs. A great tiredness settled on him, and he found himself leaning back and staring up at the sky. The clouds above the mountains were streaked with gold from the dying sun. He saw a flock of birds flying there. It was a beautiful sight. How fine it must be, he thought, to spread your arms and take to the skies, soaring and dipping high above the worries of the world.

The pain in his chest flared again. Glancing down, he saw that his breastplate was torn and blood was seeping over the scales. He couldn’t remember the wound at first. Then he recalled the leaping horse and the lance that had struck him, knocking him back.

From where he sat he could see the complete fighting line. It was becoming more concave, almost ready to burst inward. At that point the battle would be over. The line would fragment into groups of skirmishers, the warriors surrounded.

Instinctively Kalliades looked around for somewhere to hide. What are you doing? he asked himself. There is no escape.

And he saw again the child he had been, hiding in the flax field.

Red was right. There was a part of him that had never left it. His sister had been the sun and the stars to him, her love a constant on which he could rely. Her death, so sudden and violent, had scarred him more than he could have known. The little boy in the flax field had decided never to allow love into his life again, with its terrible pain, its awful anguish.

Do you want to live? he asked himself.

In that moment, with the last of the sunlight bathing the pass, he knew that he did.

Then get out of the flax field!

With a cry of rage and pain Kalliades took up the sword of Argurios and forced himself to his feet. Then he staggered forward into the fray.

As he did so, he heard the thunder of hooves on stone. Turning, he saw a force of some fifty horsemen galloping down the pass.

At the center, swords raised, rode Banokles.

The Thrakian defenders cut away to the left and right, allowing the cavalry through. The lancers tore into the Idonoi warriors, cutting them down. Panic swept through the enemy ranks, and they turned and ran back down the pass, pursued by the cavalry.

Kalliades tried to sheathe his sword, but his arm was too weary, and the blade clanged to the ground. He sank down to sit on a boulder. Curiously, he could hear the sounds of the sea in his ears.

Then he slid from the boulder.

When he finally awoke, he found he had been stripped of his armor and the wound in his chest had been stitched tight. Fires had been lit. Banokles was beside him.

“Good to see you,” Kalliades said.

“A pox on you, dung brain,” Banokles told him. “You might have said you were waiting to die.”

“Would you have gone if I had?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. That’s what I’m saying. Sword brothers stand together.”

Taking hold of Banokles’ arm, Kaliades drew himself up to a sitting position. “Where did you find the cavalry?”

“Down on the plain. They fled the fall of the city. I thought they were enemies at first and charged them. But they rode away from me, laughing. Bastards. Anyway, once they’d had their fun, I told them there was a battle coming and led them here. Just as well, eh? Who’s the thinker now?”

“That would be you, Banokles, my friend. My good, dear friend.”

Banokles peered at him suspiciously. “I think that crack to your skull has loosened your wits. So how much longer do we have to hold this place?”

“No longer,” Kalliades said. “To stay now would be foolish and achieve nothing. Leave the fires burning brightly and then lead the horses out as quietly as you can. Bind their hooves with cloth. We’ll slip away in the darkness and make a run for the sea at Carpea. With luck the Idonoi will not mount an attack until morning, and we should be far away from here by then.”

“That’s more like it,” Banokles said happily. “You rest here. I’ll get Olganos to organize the withdrawal. He’s good at organizing. Did they leave you any wine?”

“No,” Kalliades said. Banokles swore and moved away.

Kalliades dozed a little and dreamed once more of Piria. She was on the deck of a dark ship, sailing toward a sunset. He was standing on a golden beach. Kalliades lifted his arm and waved to her, but she was facing the setting sun and did not see him.

The journey east was slow, much of the flatlands marshy and impassable and thick with midges and flies. The allied force of 142 men led by the reluctant Banokles was forced to take a meandering route, seeking firmer ground. On the first morning they had come across six deserted supply wagons. They had been looted, the horses gone. Banokles, on the advice of young Olganos, had horses hitched to them. Some of the more seriously wounded, Kalliades among them, were transferred to the wagons.

Toward midafternoon they came across more fleeing Thrakian soldiers. There were forty-three infantrymen, well armored, and twenty light horsemen. They were heading from the northwest, where a garrison fort had been taken by an Idonoi force.

Banokles had hoped Kalliades would be well enough to take charge of the journey, but his condition had worsened during the night. He was now sleeping in the lead wagon, and even when he occasionally regained consciousness, his mind wandered. A fever had begun, and he was sweating heavily. Banokles had stitched the wound in his chest, but there was no way of knowing how deep it was and whether it had pierced any vital organs.

Olganos sent out scouts to the north, south, east, and west to watch for signs of enemy movement. As the slow journey progressed, the scouts came across more refugee Kikones warriors and sent them on to the main force. By dusk there were more than three hundred soldiers under Banokles’ command.

“We are attracting them like flies to shit,” he complained to Olganos.

The young man shrugged. “It makes us stronger if we come under attack.”

The first good news came in as they were making camp for the night. One of the scouts from the west reported that the Idonoi army at the pass had made no move to march east and was now almost a day behind them.

As the men rested, Banokles sought out Kalliades. He was awake but weak. Banokles brought him some water. “There’s no food,” he said.

Kalliades said nothing for a moment. His face was ashen and glistening with sweat. “There will be farms and settlements to the north and east,” he said. “Send out riders tomorrow morning. Gather some cattle or sheep.”

“Good plan,” Banokles said.

“And walk among the men, Banokles. Make your presence felt. The Thrakians are proud men, but they are volatile, swift to anger or despair. You need to hold them steady.”

Kalliades stretched out and began to shiver. Banokles covered him with his cloak. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re tough. You’ll be fine.” Still trembling, Kalliades fell asleep. Banokles sat with him for a while, then stood. All around him men were sitting in small groups. Mostly there was no conversation among them, and an air of dejection hung over the camp. Banokles strolled over to where Periklos was sitting with the old nurse and the sleeping Obas. “We’ll find food tomorrow,” he said. “Farms and suchlike to the east.”