The sun rose bold on the horizon, bathing the turmoil in golden light. Standards waved listlessly in the breeze. Men-at-arms gathered in irregular masses, making for their places in the line. Mounted cohorts filed among them, their arms flashing, their shields bright with menacing totems and images of the Tusk.

Suddenly shouts broke out among those already gathered along the ravine. The entire horizon seemed to move move, winked as though powdered by silver filings. The heathen. The Kianene Grandees of Gedea and Shigek.

Cursing, thundering commands, the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North managed to draw up their thousands along the ravine's northern edge. The stream had already become a black, muddy basin, pocked and clotted with deep hoof-prints. On the ravine's southern edge, before the massed lines of footmen, the Inrithi knights milled in great clots. Cries of dismay were raised when those ranging farther afield discovered bones among the weeds, bundled in rotted leather and cloth. The ruin of an earlier Holy War.

Many different hymns were taken up, particularly among the low-caste footmen, but they soon faltered, yielding to the cadences of one deep-throated paean. Soon the air thrummed with the chorus of thousands. The hornsmen began marking the refrains with sonorous peals. Even the caste-nobles, as they arranged themselves into long iron ranks, joined:

A-warring we have come A-reaving we shall work.

And when the day is done, In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

It was a song as old as the Ancient North, a song from The Sagas The Sagas. And as the Inrithi gave it voice once again, they felt the glory of their past flood through them, brace them. A thousand voices and one song. A thousand years years and one song! Never had they felt so rooted, so certain. The words struck many with the force of revelation. Tears streamed down sunburned cheeks. Passions ignited, swept through the ranks, until men roared inarticulately and brandished their swords against the sky. They were thousands and they were one. and one song! Never had they felt so rooted, so certain. The words struck many with the force of revelation. Tears streamed down sunburned cheeks. Passions ignited, swept through the ranks, until men roared inarticulately and brandished their swords against the sky. They were thousands and they were one.

In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

Taking the dawn as their armature, the Kianene rode out to answer them. They were a race born to the fierce sun, not to clouds and gloomy forests as the Norsirai, and it seemed to bless them with glory. Sunlight flashed across silvered battlecaps. The silk sleeves of their khalats glimmered, transformed their lines into a many-coloured horizon. Behind them the air resounded with pounding drums.

And the Inrithi sang,

In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

Saubon, Gothyelk, and the other ranking nobles conferred for one last time before dispersing along the line. Despite their best efforts, it remained uneven, the ranks painfully shallow in some places, and pointlessly deep in others. Arguments broke out among clients of different lords. A man named Trondha, a client thane of Anfirig, had to be wrestled to the ground after attempting to knife one of his peers. But still, the song thundered, so loud some clasped their chests, fearing for the rhythm of their hearts.

A-warring we have come A-reaving we shall work!

The Kianene drew closer, encompassing the grey-green plain, endless thousands of approaching horsemen-far more, it seemed, than the Inrithi leaders had supposed. Their drums thundered out across the open spaces, throbbing through an ocean of rumbling sound. The Galeoth longbowmen, Agmundrmen from the northern marches primarily, raised their yew bows and released. For a moment the sky was thatched, and a thin shadow plunged into the advancing heathen line-to little effect. The Fanim were closer now, and the Inrithi could see the polished bone of their bows, the iron points of their lances, their wide-sleeved coats fluttering in the breeze.

And they sang, the pious Knights of the Tusk, the blue-eyed warriors of Galeoth, Ce Tydonn, and Thunyerus. They sang, and the air shivered as though the skies were vaulted in stone.

And when the day is done, In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

Crying "Glory to the God!" Athjeari and his thanes broke ranks, crouching forward on their mounts, slowly dipping their lances. More Houses abandoned the line and pounded toward the Kianene: Wanhail, Anfirig, Werijen Greatheart, and then old Gothyelk himself, bellowing,"Heaven wills it!" Like an avalanche, House after House followed, until almost all the mail-clad might of the Middle-North cantered out to greet their foe.

"There!" footmen on the line would cry, glimpsing the Red Lion of Saubon or the Black Stag of Gothyelk and his sons.

From a trot the massive warhorses were urged to a slow gallop. Nesting thrushes took flight, burst slapping into the sky. Everything became breath and iron, the rumble of brothers before, behind, and to the side. Then, like a cloud of locusts, arrows swept among them. There was a hellish racket punctuated by screaming horses and astonished shouts. Warhorses toppled and thrashed, yanking knights to the ground, breaking backs, crushing legs.

Then the madness fell away. Once again it was the pure thunder of the charge. The strange camaraderie of men bent to a single, fatal purpose. Hummocks, scrub, and the bones of the Vulgar Holy War's dead rushed beneath. The wind bled through chain links, tousled Thunyeri braids and Tydonni crests. Bright banners slapped against the sky. The heathen, wicked and foul, drew closer, ever closer. One last storm of arrows, these ones almost horizontal to the ground, punching against shield and armour. Some were struck from their saddles. Tongue tips were bitten off in the concussion of the fall. The unhorsed arched across the turf, screamed and swatted at the sky. Wounded mounts danced in frothing circles nearby. The rest thundered on, over grasses, through patches of blooming milkwort waving in the wind. They couched their lances, twenty thousand men draped in great mail hauberks over thick felt, with coifs across their faces and helms that swept down to their cheeks, riding chargers caparisoned in mail or iron plates. The fear dissolved into drunken speed, into the momentum momentum, became so mingled with exhilaration as to be indistinguishable from it. They were addicted to the charge, the Men of the Tusk. Everything focused into the glittering tip of a lance. The target nearer, nearer . . .

The rumble of hooves and drums drowned their kinsmen's song. They crashed through a thin screen of sumac . . . Saw eyes whiten in sudden terror.

Then impact. The jarring splinter of wood as lances speared through shield, through armour. Suddenly the ground became still and solid beneath them, and the air rang with wails and shouts. Hands drew sword and axe. Everywhere figures grappled and hacked. Horses reared. Blades pitched blood into the sky.

And the Kianene fell, undone by their ferocity, crumpling beneath northern hands, dying beneath pale faces and merciless blue eyes. The heathen recoiled from the slaughter-and fled.

The Galeoth, the Tydonni, and the Thunyeri raised a mighty shout and spurred after them. But the Shrial Knights reined to a stop, seemed to mill in confusion.

The Inrithi knights spurred their warhorses, but the Fanim outdistanced them, peppered them with arrows as they fled. Suddenly they dissolved into an advancing advancing tide of heathen horsemen, more heavily armoured. The two great lines crashed. Several desperate moments ensued. The orange-and-black standard of Earl Hagarond of Osgald disappeared in the tumult, and the Galeoth lord was speared lifeless on the ground. A lance through the throat heaved Magga, cousin of Skaiyelt, from his horse and threw him into his kinsmen. Death came swirling down. Gothyelk himself was felled, and the roars of his sons pierced the din. The ululating cries of the Fanim reached a crescendo . . . tide of heathen horsemen, more heavily armoured. The two great lines crashed. Several desperate moments ensued. The orange-and-black standard of Earl Hagarond of Osgald disappeared in the tumult, and the Galeoth lord was speared lifeless on the ground. A lance through the throat heaved Magga, cousin of Skaiyelt, from his horse and threw him into his kinsmen. Death came swirling down. Gothyelk himself was felled, and the roars of his sons pierced the din. The ululating cries of the Fanim reached a crescendo . . .

But war was bloody work, and the iron men hammered their foes, split skulls through battlecaps, cracked wooden shields, broke the arms bearing them. Yalgrota Sranchammer beheaded a heathen horse with a single blow, tossed Fanim Grandees from their saddles as though they were children. Werijen Greatheart, Earl of Plaideol, rallied his Tydonni and scattered the heathen who assailed Gothyelk. On the ground, Goken the Red, the Thunyeri Earl of Cern Auglai, butchered man and horse alike, and cut his way back to his struggling standard. Never had the Kianene encountered such men, such furious determination. Desert-dark faces howled against the turf. Hawkish eyes slackened with fear.

A moment of respite.

Householders dragged their wounded lords to pockets of safety. Injured in the arm, Earl Cynnea of Agmundr ranted at his kinsmen not to pull him away. Earl Othrain of Numaineiri wept as he lifted his family's ancient standard from the lifeless hands of his son and raised it once more. Prince Saubon bellowed for another horse. Across the stretch they had thundered across only moments before, men stumbled or crawled, fumbling to staunch their wounds. But many more roared in exultation, the madness of battle upon them, cruel Gilgaol galloping through their hearts.

Their enemy was everywhere, before them, beside them, sweeping in on their flanks. Massive cohorts wheeled in the near distance, charged them from behind. Splendid in their silk khalats and golden corselets, the Grandees of Gedea and Shigek yet again assailed the iron men.

Beset on all sides, the Men of the Tusk died. Taken in the back by lances. Jerked by hooks from their saddles and ridden down. Pick-like axes punched through heavy hauberks. Arrows dropped proud warhorses. Dying men cried to their wives, their Gods. Familiar voices pierced the cacophony. A cousin. A mead-friend. A brother or father, shrieking. The crimson standard of Earl Kothwa of Gaethuni toppled, was raised once more, then disappeared forever, as did Kothwa and five hundred of his Tydonni. The Black Stag of Agansanor was also overcome, trampled into the turf. Gothyelk's householders tried to drag their wounded Earl away, but were cut down amid a flurry of Kianene horsemen. Only a frantic charge by his sons saved the old earl, though his eldest, Gotheras, was gored in the thigh.

Through the din, the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North could hear horns desperately signalling retreat, but there was nowhere to withdraw. Jeering masses of heathen horsemen swirled about them, peppering them with arrows, rolling back their flanks, shrugging away their disjointed countercharges. Everywhere they looked, they saw the silken standards of the Fanim, stitched in gold, bearing strange animal devices. And the endless, unearthly drums pounded out the rhythm of their dying.

Then suddenly, impossibly, the Kianene divisions blocking their retreat scattered, and lines of white-clad Shrial Knights swept into their midst, crying, "Flee, brothers. Flee!"

Panicked knights galloped, ran, or stumbled toward their countrymen. Bloodied bands tumbled through the ravine, careened into their own men. The Shrial Knights fought on for several moments, then wheeled, racing back, pursued by masses of heathen horsemen-a howling rush of lances, shields, dark faces, and frothing horses, as wide as the horizon. Limping across the Battleplain, hundreds of wounded were cut down within throwing distance of the common line. The Men of the Tusk could only watch, aghast. Their song was dead. They could hear only drums, pounding, pounding, pounding . . .

Dread and the heathen were upon them.

"We had them . . . Had them!" Saubon screamed, spitting blood.

Gotian seized him by both shoulders. "You had nothing, fool. Nothing! You knew the rule! When you break them, return to the line! return to the line!"

After he'd skidded through the muck of the stream and pressed his way through the ranks, Gotian had sought out the Galeoth Prince, but had found a raving lunatic in his stead.

"But we had had them!" Saubon cried. them!" Saubon cried.

There was a sudden shout, and Gotian reflexively raised his shield. Saubon simply continued to rave. "They broke like children broke like children before-" There was a clatter, like hail against a copper roof. Men screamed. "-like children! We hacked them before-" There was a clatter, like hail against a copper roof. Men screamed. "-like children! We hacked them to the ground! to the ground!"

A heathen shaft stuck from the Galeoth's chest. For a moment, the Grandmaster thought the man was dead, but Saubon merely reached up and snapped it. It had pierced his hauberk, but had been stilled by the felt beneath. heathen shaft stuck from the Galeoth's chest. For a moment, the Grandmaster thought the man was dead, but Saubon merely reached up and snapped it. It had pierced his hauberk, but had been stilled by the felt beneath.

"We fucking well had them!" Saubon continued to roar.

Gotian grabbed him again, shook him. "Listen!" he cried. "That's what they wanted you to think! The Kianene are too nimble, too pliable on the field and too fierce of heart to truly break. When you charge, you charge to bleed them, not to rout them!"

Saubon looked at him dully. "I've doomed us . . ."

"Gather your wits, man!" Gotian roared. "We're not like the heathen. We're hard, but we're brittle. We break! break! Gothyelk is down. Wounded-perhaps mortally! Gothyelk is down. Wounded-perhaps mortally! You must rally these men! You must rally these men!"

"Yes . . . Rally . . ." Abruptly, Saubon's eyes shone shone, as though some brighter fire now moved him. "The Whore would be kind!" the Prince cried. "That's what he said!"

Gotian could only stare, bewildered.

Coithus Saubon, a Prince of Galeoth, the seventh son of old evil Eryeat, hollered for his horse.

Great tides of Fanim lancers, countless thousands of them, crashed into the Inrithi line-and were stopped dead. Galeoth and Tydonni pikemen gutted their horses. Tattooed Nangaels from Ce Tydonn's northern marches cudgelled the fallen in the mud. Agmundrmen punched arrows through shield and corselet with their deadly yew bows. Auglishmen from the deep forests of Thunyerus broke ranks when the Fanim fled, hurling hatchets that buzzed like dragonflies.

At other points along the ravine, leather-armoured cohorts of Fanim swept parallel to the Inrithi ranks, loosing arrows and taunts, tossing the heads of those caste-nobles who'd fallen in the first charge. The Northmen would hunch beneath their kite shields, weather the barrage, and then, to the dismay of the heathen, throw those selfsame heads back at them.

Soon the Fanim began flinching from sections of the Inrithi line-from the stouthearted Gesindalmen and Kurigalders of Galeoth, from the grim Numainerish and long-bearded Plaidolmen of Ce Tydonn-but they found none so fearsome as the flaxen-haired Thunyeri, whose great shields seemed walls of stone, and whose two-handed axes and broadswords could split iron-armoured men to the heart. Horseless, the giant Yalgrota Sranchammer stood before them, roaring curses and waving his axe wildly in the air. When the Kianene indulged him, he and his clansmen hacked them into bloody kindling.

Yet again and again, the Grandees of Gedea and Shigek spilled across the ravine and charged headlong into the iron men, besetting the Galeoth, then the Tydonni, searching for one ill-forged link. They need only break the Inrithi once, and this knowledge drove them to acts of fanatic desperation. Men with shattered scimitars, with spouting wounds, even men with their bowels hanging about their knees, surged forward, threw themselves at the Norsirai. But each time they became mired in melee, mud, and carnage before the howls of their lords sent them galloping for the safety of the open plain. In their wake the Men of the Tusk stumbled to their knees, crying out in bitter relief.

To the northeast, where the common line trailed into the salt marshes, the Padirajah's son, Crown Prince Fanayal, led the Coyauri, his father's elite heavy cavalry, against the Cuarwishmen of Ce Tydonn, who had crowded into the ranks of their neighbours to the west and were caught scrambling back to their positions. For several moments, all was chaos, and dozens of Cuarwishmen could be seen fleeing into the marshes. Broadswords and scimitars flashed in the sunlight. Suddenly bands of shimmering Coyauri began spilling behind the line, though the Fanayal's White Horse standard remained stalled near the ravine. Gothyelk's two younger sons charged the Coyauri with what horse that remained to them, and the Fanim, without the open ground their tactics favoured, were driven back with atrocious losses.

Heartened by this success, Prince Saubon of Galeoth mustered those knights still mounted, and the Inrithi began, with more and more confidence, answering Fanim assaults with countercharges. They would crash into the seemingly amorphous masses, the Fanim would melt, then they would race to evade the darting masses trying to envelop their flanks. Breathless, they would tumble back into the common line, lances broken, swords notched, ranks thinned. Saubon himself lost three horses. Earl Othrain of Numaineiri was carried back by his household, mortally wounded. He soon joined his dead son.

The sun climbed high, and scoured the Battleplain with heat. The Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North cursed and marvelled at the fluid tactics of the Kianene. They gazed with envy at their magnificent, glossy-coated horses, which the heathen riders seemed to guide with thought alone. They no longer scoffed that the heathen Grandees were proficient with the bow. Many shields were quilled with arrows. Broken shafts jutted from the hauberks of many men. In the Inrithi camp, thousands sprawled dead or wounded because of the heathen's archery.

The Fanim withdrew and reformed, and the Men of the Tusk raised a ragged cheer. Many infantrymen, suffocated by the heat, dashed into the corpse-strewn ravine and doused their heads with bloody and fouled water. Many others fell to their knees and shook, wracked by silent sobs. Body-slaves, priests, wives, and harlots walked among the men, salving wounds, offering water or beer to the common soldiers and wine to the caste-nobles. Small hymns were raised among pockets of exhausted warriors. Officers bawled commands, enlisting hundreds to hammer broken pikes, spears, even shards of wood to spike the incline before their lines.

Word arrived that the heathen had sent divisions of horsemen north into the hills in a bid to outflank the Inrithi position, where, anticipated by Prince Saubon, they had been utterly undone by the tactics and valour of Earl Athjeari and his Gaenrish knights. More cheers swept through the common line, and for a short time, they waxed louder than the incessant thunder of Fanim drums.

But their jubilation was short-lived. Massed on the plains before them, the heathen had assembled beneath their triangular banners in long, staggered lines. The drums fell silent. For a moment, the Men of the Tusk could hear wind across the grasses, even bees as they meandered over the dead that choked the ravine. As they watched, a small party of horsemen trotted imperiously before the ranks of motionless Fanim, bearing the Black Jackal device of Skauras, the Kianene Sapatishah-Governor of Shigek. They heard a faint harangue, answered by resounding shouts in an unknown tongue.

Prince Saubon could be heard bellowing, offering fifty gold talents to the archer who could kill, and ten to the one who could wound, the Sapatishah. After testing the wind, individual Agmundrmen raised their yew bows to the sun and began taking pot-shots. Most of the missiles fell far short, but some few made the distance. The distant horsemen affected not to notice, until abruptly one began swatting at the back of his neck, then toppled to the turf.

The Men of the Tusk roared with jeering laughter. As one, they pounded their shields, hooting and yelling. The Sapatishah's entourage scattered, leaving one figure: a nobleman on a magnificent white caparisoned in black-and-gold, obviously unafraid, apparently unmoved by the derision booming across the plain. And to a man, the Inrithi realized they looked upon the great Skauras ab Nalajan, whom the Nansur called Sutis Sutadra, the Southern Jackal.

Arrows fletched in faraway Galeoth pocked the turf about him, but he didn't move. More and more shafts feathered the ground as Agmundrmen began finding the drift and distance. Facing the Inrithi, the remote Sapatishah pulled a knife from his crimson girdle-and began paring his nails.

Now the Fanim began to laugh and roar as well, beating their round shields with sun-flashing scimitars. The very earth seemed to shiver, so ferocious was the din. Two races, two faiths, willing hate and murder across the littered Battleplain.

Then Skauras raised a hand, and the drums resumed their implacable throbbing. The Fanim began advancing along the entirety of their line. The Men of the Tusk fell silent, butted their pikes and squared their shields with those of their neighbours. It was beginning again.

Trailing clouds of dust, the Kianene ponderously gathered speed. As though counting drumbeats, the forward ranks lowered their lances in unison, urged their horses to gallop. With a piercing cry, they threw themselves at the Inrithi, while mounted archers swept to either side, showering the Northmen with arrows. They came crashing in successive waves, deeper and more numerous than in the morning. Entire companies were sacrificed for mere lengths of earth. Here and there, against the Usgalders of Galeoth, against the battered Cuarwishmen, the Nangaels and Warnutes of Ce Tydonn, the Kianene gained the crest of the ravine, pressed the iron men back. Pikes snapped, gouged faces, hooked harnesses. Curved scimitars cracked helms, snapped collarbones through iron mail. Maddened horses crashed through rank and shield. And just when the heathen's numbers and momentum seemed to fail, more waves resolved from the dust, leaping through the ravine, pounding over the dead, lancing into the staggered footmen. There was no time for tactics, no time for prayer, only the desperate scramble to kill and live.

At several points, the common line wavered, broke . . .

Then, as though stepping out of the blinding sun, the Cishaurim revealed themselves.

Saubon even beat at several of the fleeing Usgalders with the flat of his sword, but it was no use. Mad with panic, they scrambled from his warhorse's snorting path-and from the gold-armoured horsemen running them down.

"The God!" Saubon roared as he barrelled into the pursuing Coyauri. "The God wills it!" His black crashed against the mount of the heathen before him. The smaller charger stumbled, and Saubon punched his sword-point clear through its astonished rider's neck. He wheeled and parried a heavy blow from a Kianene garbed in flowing crimson. His black stumbled sideways and screamed, throwing him thigh to thigh with the man-though Saubon towered higher. Saubon smashed down with his pommel and the man tumbled backward from his saddle, his face bloody ruin. From somewhere, a blade nicked Saubon's helm. He slashed the now-riderless charger's hindquarters and it went dancing into the heathen dogs before him, then he swept his broadsword in a great backward arc, shearing off the jaw of his assailant's mount. The horse reared; its rider went down. Saubon reined his black to the left and trampled the shrieking blasphemer.

"The God!" he cried, hacking at another man, cracking the wood of his shield.

"Wills!" His second blow shattered the warding arm beneath. "It!" The third cracked his silvered helm, halved his dark face. The Coyauri beyond the slumping man hesitated. Those behind Saubon, however, did not. A lance scraped along his back, snagged his hauberk, almost throwing him from his saddle. Standing in his stirrups, he hacked again, snapping the lance. When his opponent reached back for his curved blade, Saubon plunged his sword into the joints of the man's harness. Another down. The heathen milled around him, bewildered.

"Craven," Saubon spat, and spurred into them with a crazed laugh. They recoiled in terror-that was the death of two more of them. But Saubon's black inexplicably reared and stumbled . . . Another fucking horse! He slammed hard against the turf. Muddy thought-confusion. A stamping forest of legs and hooves. Inert bodies. Bruised weeds. Up . . . up . . . mustget up! Up . . . up . . . mustget up! He kicked at his thrashing mount. A great, buoyant shadow loomed above. Iron-shod hooves chopped the turf about his head. He jammed his sword upward, felt the point skid along the horse's sternum, then plunge into soft brown belly. Flash of sunlight. Then he was clear, stumbling to his feet. But something shattered across his helm, knocking him back to his knees. Another concussion sent him face-first into the ground. He kicked at his thrashing mount. A great, buoyant shadow loomed above. Iron-shod hooves chopped the turf about his head. He jammed his sword upward, felt the point skid along the horse's sternum, then plunge into soft brown belly. Flash of sunlight. Then he was clear, stumbling to his feet. But something shattered across his helm, knocking him back to his knees. Another concussion sent him face-first into the ground.

By the God, his fury felt so empty empty, so frail against the earth! He reached out with his bare left hand and grabbed another hand-cold, heavily callused, leathery fingers and glass nails. A dead hand. He looked up across the matted grasses and stared at the dead man's face. An Inrithi. The features were flattened against the ground and partly sheathed in blood. The man had lost his helm, and sandy-blond hair jutted from his mail hood. The coif had fallen aside, pressed against his bottom lip. He seemed so heavy, so stationary stationary-like more ground . . .

A nightmarish moment of recognition, too surreal to be terrifying.

It was his face! His own hand own hand he held! he held!

He tried to scream.

Nothing.

But there was the thunder of heavier hooves, shouts in familiar tongues. Saubon let slip the cold fingers, struggled to his hands and knees. Concerned voices. From nowhere it seemed, arms were hoisting him to his feet. He stared numbly at the bare turf, at the site where a moment before his corpse his corpse had been . . . had been . . .

This ground . . . This ground is cursed!

"Here, take my arm," the voice was fatherly, as though to a son who'd just learned a hard lesson. "You're saved, my Prince." It was Kussalt.

Saved?

"Are you whole?"