"Cohort, step back! Retreat!"
Now the gamble. We streamed back between the warding posts, shields up. Quickly, they are close. If panic caught us now, we were doomed. Several stumbled in the rush, trodden by sword kin who could not break formation. Through the blinding hail I heard the first Cohort screams, saw the first of Cohort blood. From the palisades I also heard howls of derision and horrified disbelief from watching Orlanthi.
Sword kin streamed past the posts as I guided them through. A spearman broke rank in panic, herald of a growing rush that would cause the formation to collapse, signal of needless death. Karis danced: I cut him down without thought or prayer.
I dare not look at his fallen face.
The foe were nearly upon us, surging forward, shouting in triumph, eager for our blood. The last of the Cohort passed between the posts. I followed, rushed to our left flank, where Kiomar and the standard waited.
The first of the enemy streamed past the warding posts. Their spears were low slung, hungry for our backs. Yet their ranks were broken as they passed between the wooden defences.
Their shield wall was weak. Confusion reigned. Screams and shouts in terrible array.
"Now! Turn and form! Shields up! Advance!"
"Humakt!" Deathsong ringing from one hundred throats.
And the moment upon us. I watched the Cohort turn, spears set and lowered, advancing upon the milling and suddenly terrorised foe. It seemed to me then our phalanx became a solitary being; spear-rich, all long beard and stinking armpit, heaving breast and iron-steady limb. Dressed in bronze, cloaked with hide and iron. And hungry. Blood hungry.
Then the furious collision. The shield walls met, a clash of bucklers, spears, and bronze-clad warriors. The bosses of our shields collided: a great roar went up, terrible cacophony of smashed bronze and wood and flesh. Spears snapped. Spirits keened. The ranks fought toe to toe and shield against shield. Screams of the dying were mingled with the vaunts of their destroyers, and the earth ran thick with warrior's blood.
I watched in morbid fascination, helpless till the grim task was done. I caught the battle-smell of sweat, odour of blood and entrails, the hard whiff of excrement.
The ranks pushed forward, heaving and grunting, pressing their very flesh face to face, a single great mass of screaming humanity. The foe rallied briefly, but their rear ranks were caught beyond the posts. In that terrible mindless crush the wounded and wyrded were trampled down and suffocated, grim broken bodies crushed in huge collapse.
Our strength triumphed. Suddenly we broke the board-wall, burst in among them. The foe's entire line shuttered, shield wall shattered, bone-shielding boss boards split.
The enemy faltered then, all order gone. Panic bit them, they turned and fled, a sweeping madness starting from the rear. Warriors trampled each other in the mad rush. Screaming again the name of the God, the Cohort swept forward past the warding posts, pushing, jabbing, killing... and dying. Those of the foe brave enough to rally against us were quickly despatched: for the grim impersonal push of the shield wall allowed no room for hero play.
All around me, death sounds of battle, screams of the dying, storm of spears and hail, wyrd-rain of blood. Everything seemed stained, a broken husk, pulped flesh and bloody bone, broken spear and excrement.
Amidst mass death, I lingered on a single shameful sight. A dead sword-sister in the dust, driven through from behind by an enemy spear. Why should I notice this one amongst the multitude? Perhaps because her hair blazed henna red.
Our enemy was routed. Our flankers, fresh, with lighter armour and shields, streamed forward to pursue the fleeing foe. The battle flautists gave hoarse assent to the chase. Our shield wall paused, exhausted. We would follow them soon enough. There was still death a plenty to deal this day.
>From the palisades there came a Thunder Shout, blessed with all the force that fury gave. Orlanthi clansman were streaming forth from behind the defences, screaming the names of their ancestors at the Tusk Riders locked in battle with their kin below. I could not see the further flank, but guessed the foe were broken there as well.
The Cohort dropped its spears, regrouped. The sounds and sights of the battlefield had their own tale to tell, and both Kiomar and I could read it. The foe were faltering, the wildfire panic spreading. Their wyter was broken.
"Honour Lord! Bronze-Dyer! Wielder of the Truth that cuts! Victory!"
Kiomar called the First Gathering, followed her flankers at a run towards the Lunar camp. Good hunting! I took the Fifth and led them across the field in open order. Our destination the Tusk Riders, surrounded now by howling Orlanthi and panic-stricken Lunar infantry.
All down the blood-slick slope isolated groups stood defiant against the rout; Lunar veterans drawn into defensive circles. The fighting there was fierce; death given and taken freely. This was war in the Orlanthi-style: hero against hero in wild disarray.
Our swords swung free: the play of spears was over. Karis flashed eager in the fray, forged of fire and file, firmly fastened, embellished and bolted.
Talor's wild blessing was upon me.
All around me now the clatter of blades, shriek of sharp edges, scream of the dying. All around me severed heads, slaughterhouse of heroes, soil streaming blood. All around me the fierce confusion of Death.
My body faltered, failed me. Exhausted, I sank to the mud-stained turf, the sword kin streaming by. A blade had pierced my chest. It did not seem to matter.
Death stood at last in his true rank and order. It was time.
"Karis, I love you. Let's die."
I took two coins of bronze from the birch bark wallet corded round my neck. Kissing them, I uttered the secret name of the god, calling down my death song. "The sword that ringeth most loudly is the sword of his name." I felt the blood-spell take me, lift me, push me forward. Time to be complete.
Karis keened, something beautiful and wordless and holy.
The fit mastered me. I surged forth in fury towards the hated foe, death-ready and laughing. Laughing so hard my throat spewed blood.
It seemed a woman fought beside me. I caught the flash of blunted mussel knife.
I could see forgotten faces pass before my eyes. I heard them laughing, calling out my name. I could smell the sea wind, see the birds of another country, once my own, but in a foreign sky. Senses awash in ecstasy, I surged forward, the bloody sword play a slow motion dance on every side. I was complete in every way.' He who gives the warcry has been born'. The foe fell: my funeral sacrifice, my offering. Wolf Pirates loomed where half-trolls and Lunars had threatened but a moment before. Blades flashed. Iron rang. I gave them what was due.
A woman fought beside me, blunted mussel-knife ablaze. Her shining hair fell about her head in braids, henna-rich, luxurious. We danced, we laughed together.
Liberation was upon me. The world was complete, perfect, keening a war-song in rhythm to my blade. Darkness beckoned. I was longing to die, perfect, complete, confident of victory. And I would go to my god laughing, knowing that the pikes and spears of the Lunar army, their wagons and moonboats, had, by the Earth's blessing, taken root and sprouted in the night.
So Death draws his darkness.
Complete.
END. PART IV OF IV. Copyright John Hughes 1994
==
"Bound I to Humakt
Serve in awe
yet practise double labour.
With skaldic verse, and tales of war
I also serve Donandar."
End of The Glorantha Digest V6 #345
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