“What the fuck’s—”

And he heard the horn. A long, low, throbbing blast, echoing about the valley. Hardbread had been waiting for it for hours. Thinking of it for days. He’d dreamed of it in his fitful sleep the night before. But somehow when it came it caught him by total surprise.

“By the dead!” He scrambled to his feet, winced at a sharp twinge through his stiff ankle, near fell over and half-swallowed his tongue as he bellowed the order. “That’s it!” And he fumbled his sword out and held it high. “Charge!”

There was a great rattle, a great clatter, a great cry as all around him men jumped to their feet and started rushing through the woods.

Hardbread hobbled along for a moment. Bloody hell, his knees, his hips, he was creaking like a wooden man from squatting in the cold damp for hours. He had to stop, hold on to Brandal’s shoulder while he tried to shake some life into his legs and men surged past him towards the daylight.

“There we go!” And he set to running again. More of a jog, being honest, it was tough through the trees. Broken ground and fallen branches and tree roots ready to trip you. He was wheezing as he burst from the woods and heard the noise, far louder, far closer, far harsher.

His eyes were weaker than they once were and had tears in ’em from the wind of running, and he had to squint into the brightness, down towards Carleon. Calder’s men, crawling in the fields around the city. Swarms of the bastards. They were at the walls already, ladders up, arrows flitting this way and that.

“By the dead,” he muttered.

It had seemed a mad plan, but it looked very much as if Calder had fallen for it, and fallen hard. The enemy had their arses stuck right out, trapped between Hardbread’s men and the walls.

“Charge!” he roared, though his voice was weak from the effort and the wind soon snatched it away and everyone was charging anyway, men bounding from the trees and into the open, pouring down the hillside. He set off again, Brandal beside him with the standard held high. More of an amble than a run, being honest, it was tough outside the trees. Tough on the knees, the uneven ground on the ploughed field jolting him, making his teeth rattle, the sun flashing and flickering at him as the clouds rushed overhead. Couldn’t they have found a nice smooth stretch o’ road to charge down?

He tottered to a halt, one hand propped on his thigh and his sword dangling from the other. Damn it, he was blown. There’d been a time he could run for hours. Fastest runner in Uffrith. Used to be sent running over the fells with messages. Thinking on it, though, that had been forty years ago.

“All right, Chief?” asked Brandal, thumping Hardbread’s standard into the turf beside him. “You want some water?” And he offered out a flask.