The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [174]
‘Well and good then, lads!’ Cadryc called out. ‘Remember your orders! Fight hard for Deverry and the high king!’
The warband cheered him.
Once the rest of the army had assembled, it set out down the cliff-top road. The terrain here stretched reasonably level from the cliff edge to their left all the way through the husks and bones of a slain forest to their right—stretching close to a mile in all, Gerran estimated, back to a rise of hills. He no longer worried about fire. If the Horsekin set the rubble alight this close to Zakh Gral, they would pay more heavily than their enemies. The debris did provide another obstacle; poor footing at the best and downright dangerous traps for a horse’s hooves at worst should the battle spread into it. The archers, however, found it a blessing.
When the army reached a slight rise in the road, the commanders called a halt. The archers, unmounted, spread out into the debris fields. The Red Wolf and its allies took their position near them on the right flank. Gerran had noticed that each archer carried a small hatchet at his belt. He’d assumed that it was a weapon, a last defence in case of a defeat, but in fact, the archers used the blades to shape stakes from dead branches. They then flipped the hatchet over and pounded each stake into the ground in front of them. Behind this waist-high palisade, they arranged themselves three men deep in a curving formation like an arm reaching towards the enemy.
At the centre of the Deverry line a silver horn sounded. Gerran rose in his stirrups and looked south along the road. A column of dust rose in the air and moved steadily forward. He sat back down in the saddle, then drew one of his three javelins from the sheath under his right leg. He heard the rattle of metal as the rest of the warband followed his lead. The dust cloud came closer and resolved itself into a column of spearmen, marching in tight formation some ten men abreast. Gerran could just make out the sound of brass horns, squalling orders. They’ve spotted us, he thought.
The column halted some hundreds of yards away, just out of bow range. Units from the Gel da’ Thae rear ranks pivoted and swung to the flank, crunching into the debris field and wheeling around with a precision the more impressive for the uneven footing. Unit after unit fell into place until the line stretched from the road deep into the flat ground to the west. The spearmen stood some five ranks deep, raising their spears to form a hedge of metal points at an angle ready for a charge. With the Westfolk archers threatening on the flank, however, they held their position, just as the princes had expected they would.
For a brief while the stalemate held, giving Gerran time to look beyond the front ranks of well-armed and well-drilled Gel da’ Thae troops. Behind them stood more spearmen, mostly human, and a pack of Horsekin armed with swords. Some of their shields were round, some oval, some almost square, a variety that made the Gel da’ Thae style of shield wall impossible. These men, a good half of the army, stood in loose ranks, three or four men to a file. Gerran saw only leather armour, gleaming here and there with bronze strips and studs. Dotted among them were men in red surcoats carrying long whips—the Keepers of Discipline, the Westfolk had called them, the most important targets on the field.
On the Deverry side of the line, horses stamped and shook their heads. Men shifted in the saddle, muttering now and then. The Gel da’ Thae spearmen held their position with scarcely a quiver or curse, but Gerran could see the Horsekin at the rear of the enemy formation growing restless, impatient even, as they moved back and forth. Some took a few steps forward only to jump back as the Keepers cracked their whips.
Prince Voran’s silver horn rang out for the first feint. Screaming warcries, the front rank of horsemen spurred their mounts forward. They thundered down the rise towards the Gel da’ Thae, who set their