HAGAN SPOTTED THORISMUND amid a group of his horsemen a little way off through the throng. He battled his way over to him, using the bulk of his horse to shove men on foot out of his way. Whether they were friends or enemies he could not tell.
When he reached the Visigoth prince he shouted across to him what was happening. Thorismund glanced at the group of fleeing Huns. They were now almost obscured by the smoke and dust but Attila’s banner was still plain to see.
Thorismund yelled orders to those around him. His signallers began blowing their horns. Moments later they had wheeled their horses and were galloping off after Attila and his men. Hagan followed.
As they pushed their way through the throng others, summoned by the blaring horns, joined them and soon there were perhaps a hundred or more horsemen all in pursuit of the Hun King.
As they moved clear from the whirling mass of fighting men they were able to pick up speed, reaching a gallop. The Huns reached full speed too and soon they were all racing across the plain, the Huns making for the relative safety of their camp, the semi-circle of Visigoth, Roman and allied cavalry charging to catch them before they got there.
The exhilaration Hagan had felt earlier when charging down the ridge returned as they pounded across the plain. Attila was the greatest war leader in the world. He had never lost a battle and here Hagan was at the very moment when that was about to happen.
He knew his horse was flagging and he prayed to whoever was watching from above, be it Tiwass or Jehovah, that they would manage to catch Attila. If they did there would be no mercy. Attila had to die if there was ever to be peace in the world. The army of the Alliance may have defeated Attila’s horde but now Hagan had the chance to be among the few men at the last who brought Attila down.
They were now about three-quarters of the way across the plain and gaining on the Huns. This fact was proved when some of the rearward riders turned and began to shoot arrows in the direction of the pursuers. Hagan and the others were beyond range and all the arrows hit the ground before their horses arrived, but the warning was clear: if they drew any closer they would be riding into bow range.
Undaunted, the pursuers unslung their shields and held them before themselves. The wind roared in their ears as the horses’ hooves drummed across the ground. They were about fifty horse lengths behind Attila and his warriors. They shot another volley of arrows. A horse four along to Hagan’s right cried out and went down, spilling its rider into the dust. They pushed their horses harder. They were drawing close to the line of wagons that marked the perimeter of the Hun camp.
Then two wagons drew aside, creating a gap. A line of horsemen rode out, shooting their bows to provide more cover for their fleeing leader. The arrows thudded down all around Hagan, causing him to swerve his horse and almost fall from the saddle.
Attila galloped full speed through the gap in the wagons with some of his men. The rest skidded to a halt and wheeled their horses to face back the way they had come, adding their own arrows to the hail falling on their pursuers.
The wagons closed back together. Hagan and the others found themselves facing a line of Hun cavalry, all shooting their bows. More arrows and spears came flying from defenders behind the wagons inside the camp.
Hagan’s heart sank. To continue the pursuit of Attila they would have to fight their way through the cavalry outside, who nearly matched them in number, then fight their way into the camp itself. It was impossible. Attila had escaped.
Thorismund’s signallers were already blaring their horns and the Visigoth riders were turning back in response.
Spears and arrows raining down around him, Hagan reined his horse to a halt. With a curse and a spit, he wheeled his horse around and began galloping away with the Visigoths.
As they rode back across the plain, they began to run into remnants of the enemy army fleeing in the opposite direction. At first a few horsemen galloped past, riding hard for the Hun camp. Then it became a steady stream of men on foot or horseback, hurrying to get to relative safety.
The fight was over. The Hun army had been put to flight. None of them bothered with Hagan and the other Visigoth riders as they passed each other, going in opposite directions.
‘That was a close-run thing,’ Thorismund said.
Hagan turned and saw the Visigoth prince had ridden up beside him.
‘But a great day nonetheless,’ Thorismund said. ‘We have won a famous victory.’
‘Attila got away,’ Hagan said.
‘For now, yes,’ Thorismund said. ‘But he is trapped in that camp with his army. Aetius and I will regroup our army and advance across the plain to besiege him. In fact, I wonder why Aetius isn’t already on the march. Then when Attila is surrounded in that camp the end won’t take long. His own folk will probably kill him. That or the Ostrogoths will turn against him. Attila’s power lay in his ability to deliver victory and the plunder it brought to those who followed him. We’ve shown today he can be beaten.’
Hagan nodded. Perhaps things were not so bleak as they seemed. Perhaps the mounds of corpses they now rode among were not the remains of men who had died for nothing.
A Roman messenger rider approached through the bodies and the drifting smoke. When he spotted Thorismund he rode over and made the Roman salute.
‘King Thorismund, General Aetius has a message for you,’ the messenger said.
Hagan saw Thorismund’s chest swell and his back straighten at the use of the title, King.
‘Your brother, Theodoric the younger,’ the messenger said, ‘when he heard about your royal father’s death, left the battlefield, took horses and men and set off to the south. It is General Aetius’s conclusion that he means to get back to your father’s palace in Tolosa to declare himself the new king.’
‘What? That treacherous bastard!’ Thorismund was aghast. He turned to one of his men. ‘Theoden: I must ride for Tolosa straight away. I will take some men with me but the rest of the army needs to rest. I will need them, so I leave you in command. Follow us with the men in the morning. Gather up my father’s body with full honours and bring it with you.’
Theoden nodded and rode off into the gloom.
Thorismund turned to Hagan.
‘Farewell,’ he said, his face set in a grim expression. ‘I am thankful to have fought alongside the famous Burgundars today. If only every folk was as honourable and trustworthy.’
Then he rode off, taking his men with him.
Hagan, finding himself alone once more, rode on as smoke and the gathering darkness rolled across the plains. Thousands of men and horses, dead or dying, littered the ground all around. The great tumult of battle had abated to the eerie moans of the wind and the dying, along with the crackle of fires burning.
Hagan’s mood of despondency returned, driven by an overwhelming feeling of tiredness.
There would be no final victory now. Without the Visigoths the Romans would not have enough men to finish off the Huns. Why had Aetius told Thorismund this news? He must have known the young man would leave and take his warriors with him. Did Aetius not want Attila vanquished?
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps this was all a grand stratagem by Aetius. Attila was defeated but not dead. Theodoric was dead and the Visigoths had lost many warriors. Perhaps they would now be drawn into a civil war as the brothers Thorismund and Theodoric the younger fought for the throne. Neither the Visigoths nor Attila now had the strength to threaten Rome, but they could still threaten each other, and while they were doing that they would leave Rome alone.
Hagan felt sick. Had all these men died for nothing? Just to keep the creaking, rotting Roman Empire, already tottering on its last legs, alive for a few more years before its final, inevitable collapse? It was unthinkable. How could someone be so evil?
A pall of smoke drifted by, catching in his dry throat and making him cough. Realising how thirsty he was, Hagan remembered the stream running by the bottom of the ridge and made for it. Perhaps, as the fighting had moved away from there and the dying around it had bled out, the water would be fresh once again.
Approaching the stream Hagan dismounted and walked towards it, already imagining the taste of the sweet, pure water as it coursed over his parched tongue.
Someone was ahead of him. At first in the gloom he thought it was a large dead body lying face down. Then Hagan saw whoever it was was drinking from the stream. He also recognised the armour the man wore. It was made up of countless little scales of metal all joined together like the hide of a dragon. The tunic was too small for the wearer and did not meet at the broadest part of his back.
Hagan slowed down. He was about to turn away when somehow Sigurd sensed his presence. He looked up. Hagan stopped. Sigurd clambered to his feet. The front of his armour was splattered all over with blood, some dried to maroon, some still quite fresh, none of it his own.
‘Well look who it is,’ Sigurd said. ‘The little man with the big ideas.’
‘Sigurd, it has been a very long day,’ Hagan said, holding up his hands. ‘I’m tired. I just want a drink of water.’
‘It has been a long day for all of us,’ Sigurd said. He looked around. ‘I have killed many men today.’
He unsheathed his great war sword.
‘One more won’t be much more work,’ he said.