Efnir was a small hamlet of perhaps twenty families situated in the shadow of the mountains that marked the far northern edge of Bethlarii territory. It was an isolated, self-sufficient community, far from the mainstream of Bethlarii life, but its people were of a traditional, old-fashioned disposition, and it was a matter of some pride to them that when the Hanestra called on men for the army, Efnir would always play its full part, and would not stint on its duty.
Thus it stood now empty of men, other than the very young and the very old.
Not that this greatly affected daily life. The departure of the men was not particularly welcomed, but it was not uncommon in any Bethlarii community, ‘The army must be kept in good order', and life was arranged accordingly.
Now, more than ever, any distress at the leaving of the men was thoroughly hidden beneath stern, determined faces, for this time it was no training exercise that the men had gone to, it was war. This time, sons and husbands had been sent off by their proud mothers and wives with an embrace and the time-honoured edict, ‘Return with your shield, or on it.'
'The Serens have assailed our people in Whendrak, in breach of the treaty, and the city is to be returned at last to its true allegiance.'
There had been some slight, extremely polite, questioning … requests for clarification … of the priestly acolyte who had brought the news, but, as was fitting, he had not been pressed, and, as had become the way these days, he had confined many of his answers to, ‘It is the will of Ar-Hyrdyn.'
Despite this divine reassurance, there had been some unease … suspicion? … among the men that all was not as it should be. Such of them as travelled at all, knew that the Serens had gone their own way for many years now, seemingly indifferent to rekindling the flames of old conflicts.
And surely there would be no Bethlarii community at Whendrak? It was a city mired in trade and commerce. There might well be Serens there, of course; they were a mongrel breed quite without honour and pride, and capable of anything. But there would be no Bethlarii there, surely?
Certainly no true Bethlarii.
And, too, there was some concern about the … intensity … of the priests who seemed to be rising high in political power up there in Bethlar.
But these doubts had scarcely found voice, other than obliquely. For as each man looked at his neighbour he saw only a reflection of his own face with its expression of a grim willingness to observe the ancient, trusted code of unquestioning submission to the Hanestra. At such times, even to show doubt was to preach dissension and that would surely bring about public or worse, private, denunciation and thence, disgrace, banishment, perhaps even death.
Thus the men of Efnir, full of confidence and bravado, left their homes and their wives and mothers, ‘for the good of the state', which, of course, was above them all.
Magret and her ten-year-old son, Faren, went over the field towards the place from where they normally drew their water. It was a cold day, a bitter wind blowing down from the mountains that dominated the tiny hamlet.
Magret adjusted her shawl. ‘When we've done this, we must go up to the forest with the others to help collect firewood; we'll be needing plenty soon,’ she said to her son, pulling the wide collar of his tunic up about his red ears.
With an accurate imitation of his father's scowl, Faren pushed it down again and straightened up to face the cold wind; a man should not concern himself with such discomforts.
Magret smiled to herself at the gesture, but, unwittingly, a little sadly, as pride at her son's spirit mingled with those deeper currents that told her, far below the well-learned patriotic responses that passed for thought, that these men and their warring, strutting ways, were fools beyond description; tragic fools.
The stream was wide and slow-moving where they stopped to fill their earthenware jars. It had bubbled and cascaded down rocky channels and over steep edges before it came here, and but a few paces further downstream it would chatter off again on its way down to the lowlands and the great rivers. But here it was slow and placid, as if gathering its breath after such a journey, and readying itself for the next.
It was not quiet, however, as all around the sound of water rushing towards this resting place filled the air.
It was the noise that prevented Magret from hearing the approaching riders as she laid down her yoke and began showing Faren how to fill the jars without putting his hands into the almost freezing water.
Even when they were on the opposite bank she saw them before she heard them, or rather, she saw their reflection in the gently eddying water of the stream.
She looked up with a start and took a step back as she stood up. The jar she had just been filling teetered slowly and then fell over and rolled into the stream with a soft splash. Faren, who was neglecting his task and leaning over the low bank pulling faces at his reflection in the water, looked around at the noise.
His mother stepped forward and, seizing his arm, pulled him to his feet and put him behind her before he could say anything. Normally he would have protested at this treatment, but there was a power and urgency in his mother's hands that forbade all resistance.
Magret met the gaze of the first rider. He was a powerful-looking man with a flat, scarred face, and a beak-like nose that made him look like a bird of prey. Standing by him was a thin figure in a soiled cloak, his face hidden in the depths of a large hood.
The rider was smiling, though the smile merely increased the menace which his very presence seemed to generate. But the hooded figure was worse. Though still and silent, it sent shivers of fear deep into Magret the like of which she had never known before: fear that plunged down through nightmare into those same currents that told her and all women of the folly of men. Now they swirled and heaved and reminded her that men could be murderous fools as well.
Her eyes flicked beyond the two men. Other riders were arriving. Two, three … a group of … six … and more, many more.
They all reined to a halt behind the leader as if waiting for something. Magret felt Faren clutching at her skirts, tugging slightly. Without taking her eyes from the watching men, she reached down to comfort him.
It was not easy. She knew that both she and the boy were in danger. These men were foreigners, tribesmen from beyond the mountains. As a child she had seen their kind when they raided her father's village in search of food, weapons … women.
But they'd never been this far east before.
They'd always been routed easily enough once the villages had been raised.
But the village was empty of men. As were virtually all the others between here and Bethlar.
The villagers would have to flee into hiding in the woods until the raiders had gone. But they had to be warned before they could do that.
Suddenly the stillness was broken as the leader's horse lowered its head and began to drink from the stream. Others followed.
Moving as the horse moved, Magret bent down to Faren and whispered to him. ‘Don't be afraid,’ she said. ‘Walk away until you can't see them, then run as fast as you can back to the village and tell your grandfather what's happened. Tell him they're raiders from over the mountains and that everyone must get out of the village right away.'
Faren gripped her skirts tightly. Gently she prized his fingers free and putting all her courage into meeting his fear-filled eyes, she said firmly, ‘Go now, straight away. It's important. I'll be all right.'
Reluctantly he turned and began walking away. After a few paces he turned and looked back. Magret smiled at him, and he went a little further. Then, she bent down calmly and picked up her yoke as if nothing untoward was happening.
'Stop there, boy!'
The voice, heavy and harsh with its alien accent, rang out above the noise of the stream. Faren stopped and half glanced back at his mother.
Magret spun round. The caller was the first horseman. She held his gaze defiantly. ‘Go on home as I've told you, Faren,’ she said loudly, keeping her eyes on the foreigner.
'Stay there, boy!'
The leader turned to the hooded figure at his side, who, without speaking, mounted up behind him. Then he eased his horse forward into the stream.
Magret, too, moved forward and stood on the bank opposite him. She pointed at him. ‘Stay where you are, northerner,’ she said. ‘You've picked an ill place and an ill time for your raiding. Turn about and leave now before our menfolk find you're here.'
The leader's smile broadened, and he continued walking his horse across the stream. Reaching Magret, he bent forward towards her.
'Your menfolk have all gone to the war, haven't they, my sweet?’ he said. ‘And we've come to take back our land.’ He swept his hand slowly in a broad encompassing gesture.
Magret felt the blood draining from her face. She was about to denounce his words with scorn and derision, but she knew her voice would betray her just as her face had.
What did this man mean, take back the land? And how did he know the men were gone to the war?
She fought down her fear somehow and forced a note of maternal concern into her voice to stand in the stead of her defiance. ‘Go home, northerner. I've seen your kin before, seen them die for their foolish bravery. All you'll get of this land is your length to lie in forever. Go before the winter seals you here.'
The rider looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then he seemed to dismiss her and turned and signalled to his men. Leisurely, they began to move forward across the stream. Magret walked backwards ahead of them, up the sloping embankment as they advanced. As before she tried to count them, her mind running to the possibility of a message to the nearest town. When she reached a point which overtopped the embankment on the other side, however, she stopped, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Beyond, were riders as far as she could see-hundreds of them! Thousands even! This was no raiding party. This was an army! A vast army of horsemen!
Scarcely realizing what she was doing, she reached up and seized the rider's bridle. He reined his horse to a halt and stared down at her angrily.
Vaguely, Magret had thought that she might find words that would somehow turn this man around, but now, against such numbers, she knew that nothing but another army could prevail. An ancient instinct took command. She might not survive this encounter, but …
'Run, Faren!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Run! Warn the village! Run…'
Her cry stopped abruptly as Ivaroth's spear ran her through. It was a swift and skilful thrust but it was also one that nearly cost him his life. Magret's eyes rolled back in shock and terrible realization, then her lips curled into a savage snarl and the shock vanished, displaced by hatred and rage. Gripping the shaft of the impaling spear, she swung her full weight on to it suddenly, almost unhorsing Ivaroth, then she twisted round and, producing a long knife from somewhere within her copious skirts, she lunged at his thigh as he struggled to keep his seat.
It was a murderous and powerful blow that would have cut Ivaroth to the bone and probably emptied his life blood in moments, but the reflexes, born of a lifetime spent fighting and killing from the saddle, saved him as they released his grip on the spear, and pushed its shaft upwards and sideways. The action destroyed Magret's swinging balance and she staggered backwards for several paces before toppling over with a cry of pain.
As she hit the ground the knife bounced from her hand. Ivaroth watched her struggling to recover it for a moment. A timely reminder, he thought, as he remembered advice given to him by men who had raided into Bethlarii territory before. ‘Take care with their women, Mareth Hai, they're usually armed, and nearly as dangerous as the men.'
He edged his horse forward and leaned forward to retrieve his spear.
Seeing her death approaching, Magret made a desperate, scrabbling effort and at last reached her knife. ‘Run, Faren! The village…’ she managed to shout as she seized it, but even as her grip tightened about its hilt, Ivaroth's expert hand wrenched his spear free with a practiced twist, and both knife and voice slipped from her again. With a soft, almost whimpering moan, she rolled over on to her face and lay still.
Ivaroth glanced at her indifferently and sniffed. He was about to hold up the bloodied spear to his men as a sign of what was to be in this land, when a fearful scream rang out.
It was Faren. He had watched open-mouthed and paralyzed as his mother had been struck down and killed, but now something had released him and he was running across the field shrieking incoherently.
Ivaroth made a swift gesture to his companion, who slowly nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Then there was a soft, but deep rumbling, and small ripples like those across a wind-blown field of corn, ran through the very ground itself towards the fleeing boy. As they reached him, their impact knocked him into the air and he crashed down heavily.
Ivaroth trotted towards him, but the boy did not rise.
Yet he was shrieking more than ever. And wriggling.
Ivaroth frowned and slowed his horse to a walk. When he reached the boy he saw that both of his arms were embedded in the ground up to the elbow. At his back, he heard the blind man breathing; an unholy descant to the boy's frantic screaming.
Ivaroth clenched his teeth. Sport was sport, but the relish the old man took from such deeds disturbed him at a depth within himself that he could not fathom.
Drawing his sword, he finished the terrified boy with a single stroke.
'Your noise is frightening my horse, boy,’ he said as he did the deed, lest it be misconstrued as an act of compassion. But his mouth was dry.
Then his army moved forward again. Freed at last from the narrow constraints of the mountains, they spread out across the wide fields like a river reaching a delta.
As a further demonstration of his insight as Mareth Hai, Ivaroth had led the journey through the final valley personally, allowing none of the scouts to go ahead.
'None will oppose us. This is our destiny,’ he said, in answer to the concern of his advisers. ‘Have I not told you repeatedly that their men will be elsewhere?'
Now, to confirm this prophecy, he sent a few scouts ahead to find the village the woman had spoken of. His confidence infected everyone and the tribes’ entry into this new land was like the return of a successful hunting party rather than the first intrusive steps of an invading army. Besides, had they not completed the greatest journey in the history of all the plains’ people? Nothing now could stand against them.
Over the next few hours the leisurely, walking hooves and wheels of Ivaroth's army fouled the quiet stream resting in its dell and trampled the bodies of Magret and her son beyond all recognition.
It was late morning when a scout returned to Ryllans with the news that a Bethlarii force was leaving the camp.
'Three battalions of infantry and a few dozen riders,’ Ryllans said, echoing the scout's message. The Bethlarii's response made sense: the terrain was unsuitable for large scale cavalry action and three battalions was a substantial enough force to engage almost any opposition in the relatively narrow confines of the valley. The riders would be there perhaps as advance scouts, skirmishers maybe, or, more likely, as messengers, and, judging by the speed at which the force had been mobilized, reinforcements from the camp would not be slow in arriving if needed.
'They must have been preparing to move, after all, to be able to put so many men in the field so quickly,’ Arwain said, speaking to the same thought. ‘We were right to attack when we did.'
Ryllans nodded and glanced up at the watery sun. It was impossible to say how long it would be before Ibris's army arrived. All they could do now was hold until there was a serious risk of their being overrun. There would be no easy decisions this day.
Without any further debate he and Arwain moved to their respective posts to advise their officers of the news and to confirm the tactics to be adopted.
The archers were to play the major part in slowing the Bethlarii column. During and since their integration into the Serens’ army, the Mantynnai had made many quiet changes to traditional weapons and tactics, and among these was the adoption of a larger, more powerful bow, and the training of men in its use.
It was said that the archers were a truly formidable force now, but today was the first time they were to be tested in a major conflict.
Firing from such cover as the valley sides offered, the first platoon launched its arrow storm-one, two, three volleys-into the advancing column. The effect was immediate as the heavy iron-tipped arrows penetrated stout leather breast-plates and, to a lesser extent, the more robust leather shields.
The soft winter silence that filled the valley, broken menacingly by the hissing flights of Serens’ arrows, began to be rent open by the sounds of wounded men screaming as they struck home.
The column came to a hasty and ragged halt and the archers maintained their fire until the Bethlarii regrouped, threw up a shield wall and sent their own archers forward to reply. However, their bows having a lesser range than the Serens’ and their target being smaller and more dispersed, the Bethlarii archers had little serious effect until a shield wall was provided which enabled them to move further forward.
At the same time, two groups of Bethlarii infantry separated from the main column and began moving up the valley sides with the intention of out-flanking the Serens.
These, in their turn, found themselves under fire from other archers and were obliged to retreat hastily.
For a long time the Serens succeeded in holding the Bethlarii column.
After a while, however, the flanking Bethlarii suddenly split into smaller groups and with a great roar charged forward to pursue the archers at speed. Small targets now, and moving quickly, they were too difficult for the archers to pin down, or even seriously delay.
The suddenness of the manoeuvre took the archers by surprise and many were slow in responding.
Arwain heard Ryllans catch his breath as they lay in their distant vantage watching the scene. ‘Move, move, move,’ he whispered to himself urgently. ‘They're fit, fast, and angry. Move!'
And in confirmation of these words, several archers, standing too long, and then encumbered by bow and quiver as they tried to flee over the awkward terrain, were caught and slaughtered by the Bethlarii.
Arwain and Ryllans watched the rising and falling swords and axes in silence.
Then there was a brief lull, until, now with loose-knit skeins of flank guards moving along the valley sides, the Bethlarii column began to move forward again.
Ryllans and Arwain glanced at one another. The loss of the archers had been a grim reminder of the ferocity and courage of their opponents and, although the Bethlarii response was broadly what they had envisaged, both were concerned that they now had only one more delaying tactic before they must make the decision whether to stand or retreat.
Ryllans looked down the valley. Everything was still and calm. No sign of even a galloping messenger, let alone a relieving army. With an effort he put from his mind a persistent thought urging him to calculate the probable position of the main force. It was not possible with the information he had, and in any event would serve no useful purpose. His and Arwain's task was to keep the Bethlarii in the valley for as long as they could, but not to jeopardize the bodyguard to any serious degree. If, as a result, the Bethlarii took possession of the valley, so be it. At least they would have been slowed down.
Then the final part of their trap was sprung, as two companies, half the battalion, emerged from the confused rocky cover on one side of the valley to sweep down on the scattered Bethlarii flank guards in as near close formation as they could manage. One or two groups of Bethlarii attempted to join together and lock shields against this onslaught, but to little avail, and the majority, finding themselves too far apart to develop an effective defence, fled back to the main column. On the opposite side of the valley, the guards there too began to close up and retreat in anticipation of a similar attack, although none came.
In the face of this assault on one flank and the risk of one on the other, the column stopped and again began to establish a shield wall, only to see the Serens withdraw as suddenly as they had attacked, and to find themselves under further arrow fire, even more intense than before.
Despite the intensity, however, the effect of the arrow storm was less than previously as many shields came up overhead immediately, and within a very short time, scattered groups of Bethlarii emerged as before to deal with the archers, though this time they were followed at a well-calculated distance by larger groups in closer formation who could protect them from another attack by the Serens’ infantry if need arose.
Ryllans and Arwain exchanged another glance, this time of resignation. ‘It's a pity the Bethlarii don't put their considerable skills to better use,’ Ryllans said, allowing himself a brief moment of reflection, then, ‘Time to leave.'
A short horn call rang out above the shouting men and whistling arrows, and those groups of archers that had not already been obliged to fall back, did so with alacrity.
This time, none was caught by the Bethlarii, though there were some narrow escapes, and one man, confused by the terrain, was separated from his companions and found himself alone on an exposed ledge with a rock-face at his back, a dangerous drop on two sides and approaching Bethlarii on the third.
He looked up the ragged cliff-face behind him and then over the edge in front of him, then, as calmly as if he were at a quiet evening's practice with friends, he took an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew it slowly, and shot the first Bethlarii to reach him at close range.
The arrow tore through the man's throat with such force that it knocked him backwards and embedded itself in the chest of his companion following close behind. Pinned together in their death embrace, arms and legs flailing like some grotesque insect, the two men tumbled off the ledge, air-foamed blood hissing noisily from the awful throat wound and whirling in the air around them like coloured ribbons in a children's dance.
A third Bethlarii hesitated at the sight and received an arrow square in his chest. He tottered backwards for several paces before his knees buckled and he collapsed. A fourth Bethlarii fled.
Watching him flee, the archer took careful aim and shot him also.
There was a strange, timeless interlude in the battle around this beleaguered figure, as the Serens retreated and the Bethlarii column moved forward, inexorably cutting him off.
The companions of the dead Bethlarii stood well back, prowling like predators waiting for their prey to weaken; discipline swept aside for the moment by the need for personal vengeance against this one representative of their enemy.
Seemingly indifferent to their presence or what must surely be his impending death, the man waited, an arrow nocked and the string of his bow slightly drawn, again as if he were merely waiting at the shooting line for permission to continue.
At one point a group of the Bethlarii ventured nearer, shields raised. But still the archer waited, motionless, until they charged along the ledge, then with the leisure that had hallmarked his previous actions he shot the leader in the leg. The barbed-iron point, crafted and hardened in one of Menedrion's workshops, entered the man's thigh and emerged, blood-red, at the back. He crashed down with a terrible cry, his shield and sword flying from his grasp. Even before he struck the ground, however, the archer had nocked another arrow and raised his bow to take his next victim. The other Bethlarii dropped down behind their shields immediately.
Rolling over in agony, the injured man looked up at the waiting archer.
Their eyes met. Then, without lowering his bow, the archer shouted, ‘Take him away.'
There was a hurried discussion among the waiting Bethlarii, then two of them scuffled forward, still crouching behind their shields, and dragged their companion away.
Below, the Bethlarii column moved relentlessly on and the Serens retreated before it.
Interest in the lethal archer flagged gradually, as the gravity of events below eventually drew the Bethlarii away, albeit reluctantly. They left him with menacing gestures and grim promises that they would return.
When they had gone, the archer remained where he was for a little while, and then slung his bow over his shoulder, turned round, and began scaling the rock-face.
The Serens were now in ordered but complete retreat, the archers acting as rearguard and still taking a sufficient toll of the Bethlarii to slow their progress. It was dangerous work, and two more archers lost their lives in the process.
Then the valley broadened out and, for the first time, the Serens stood exposed in their entirety. The realization that they had been struck such a savage blow, and delayed so severely in their pursuit, by such a small force, fuelled the anger of the Bethlarii to near frenzy, and they began to move forward at speed.
Marshalling the archers, both Arwain and Ryllans noted the change immediately and simultaneously reached the same conclusion. Their own men were tired, cold, and hungry after the forced march, the nerve-wracking assault on the camp and the equally nerve-wracking retreat. They could not outrun the much fresher Bethlarii for very far.
'They'll hack us down piecemeal if we continue,’ Ryllans cried above the din of the nearing Bethlarii. ‘We'll have to stand.'
It was something they had planned for but had desperately hoped to avoid. The Bethlarii, however, had adjusted to their harassing tactics more rapidly than they had envisaged, and this was the inevitable outcome.
Arwain nodded and gave the order to his signaller.
At the sound of the horn call the Bethlarii faltered momentarily, fearing some further ambush, even though there was patently no cover for one, nor any larger force waiting for them.
It seemed to Arwain, as he and Ryllans ran back with the archers, that the retreating infantry halted almost with relief at being given the opportunity to stand and fight. This was also a factor they had ignored in their calculations, and it put some heart into him. Retreat was intrinsically debilitating and Ibris's bodyguard were not chosen for their stupidity; all of them knew the consequences of being caught in loose formation by a superior force while together, tired or not, there was at least some chance of survival.
Arwain cast about him quickly to ensure that none of the archers was straggling, then, like a dutiful sheepdog, he followed after them, urging them forward while his mind repeated his wife's name over and over, like a protective litany.
The already forming shield wall opened to admit the returning rearguard and closed behind them rapidly. A single glance showed Arwain that the contingency orders were being obeyed meticulously. The men were forming a triple-ranked square with some four platoons at the centre ready to move to any threatened section of the wall.
Still breathless, Arwain and Ryllans moved round the square rapidly, bringing power and energy from their very depths to fire the men.
'Hold! Whatever happens, hold! Time is everything. The army's coming. Hold!'
'Archers! Select targets of opportunity. Especially priests and officers.'
Then the Bethlarii were on them.
Despite the array of spear and sword points darting and thrusting into their front ranks, the Bethlarii pressed forward in their anger and, almost immediately, the shield wall yielded a few paces. Men from the centre rushed to the weakening section, some helping their comrades to push their spears forward or to hold their shields, others using their own spears and swords to lunge and hack at those Bethlarii who had managed to force their way to the wall.
Archers, as ordered, waited, searching the heaving throng of roaring men for those on whom to best spend their remaining arrows.
The square held, but only just. It had been the right decision to stand and fight. The Serens were faring far better in this close-ranked defensive position than they could possibly have done had they been fallen upon from behind by the far more numerous Bethlarii. But it needed no fine judge of men or military tactics to see that their defeat, and possibly total annihilation, was simply a matter of time.
Their first furious charge having failed, the Bethlarii withdrew a little way and began to spread out to surround the square on all four sides.
Arwain and Ryllans took the opportunity to renew their exhortations to the men, ‘While they wait, while they think, while you hold, Ibris and the army draw nearer.'
Inwardly, however, Arwain knew that the next assault would be far more dangerous than the first. Then, the Bethlarii had struck in almost blinding anger and passion. It had cost them several men killed and many badly hurt and they had inflicted virtually no harm on their enemy. Now, however, their officers had obviously gained control again and the Serens could look to a much more disciplined and methodical attack.
Archers, long pikes, or delay, he thought to himself. The long pike was the weapon for massed shock troops and, not unexpectedly, he had seen none at any time during the pursuit. And the passions of the Bethlarii were too high for them to wait until the Serens were too tired, cold and hungry to stand. That left …
'Archers.’ It was Ryllans, calling to their own men and also drawing their attention to the Bethlarii's next tactic. Bowmen were rapidly assembling along the Bethlarii front opposite one side of the Serens’ square.
Ibris's archers needed no detailed instructions, they knew well enough what was about to happen and that they were the only ones who might stop it. A sustained arrow storm would break the square more surely than any charge.
They pushed through to the front rank and began their own assault before the Bethlarii were properly prepared.
Mantynnai-trained, Ibris's personal bodyguard were marksmen. They released no arrow storm of their own, but merely a handful of well-aimed shots before retreating to the back of the line again. Most of the arrows struck their targets, killing some of the Bethlarii archers and wounding several more.
Briefly the rage of the Bethlarii surged through again and there was an angry move forward. Some frantic shouting halted it quickly, however, and after withdrawing a little further for a while, more archers were brought forward again; this time behind a strong shield wall.
The square quivered as the first volley came over. High-held shields and a forest of waving spears stopped or brought down many of the arrows, but three men were injured.
The physician rushed to help the men, the reserve guard and the archers hurriedly picked up such of the fallen arrows as they could, and Ryllans and Arwain moved hither and thither, encouraging the men.
Another volley came, and another. With each one, jeering cheers rose up from the Bethlarii ranks. Two more Serens fell.
Somehow, Arwain managed to transform his terror at this fearful rain into anger. As he did so, he felt his vision clear and, almost to his surprise, he saw the attack for what it was, namely, not very effective. The Bethlarii had insufficient archers to end this matter quickly and, despite the casualties, the atmosphere in the square was becoming one of participating in a dangerous sport rather than defending against an overwhelming attack.
'This isn't going to break us,’ he said to Ryllans. ‘They must see that by now. Do you think they're waiting for more archers from the camp?'
Ryllans shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They want us now.'
Then he took Arwain's arm. ‘They're going to charge soon,’ he said, nodding to the Bethlarii forces on the flanks of the square. Another volley came over, to be met again with waving spears and high shields. This defensive response was possible because the enemy before them was some distance away. However, it left the front vulnerable and, Arwain realized, it was possible that the Bethlarii at the side could charge in when a volley was released and penetrate the temporarily weakened line. It would need careful timing, but …
Ryllans shouted to the officer in charge of the archers. ‘Time to send them their own back. Deal with them one at a time.'
The officer nodded and the Serens’ archers moved forward again to retaliate.
Using the enemy's own arrows, groups of them began to shoot simultaneously at the shields protecting individual Bethlarii. It was a tactic that was wasteful of arrows, and not many of the Bethlarii archers or their shield men were hurt, but it was profoundly intimidating and soon their line was badly disrupted, and the lethal rhythm of their volleys, broken.
'Fast!’ Ryllans shouted when he was satisfied with the disarray among the enemy. ‘Reserves move forward and replace centre ranks.'
Arwain shot him an alarmed glance. This was no time for parade ground exercises! Before he could protest, however, the changeover was under way and the weary front-rankers were retiring thankfully to the centre.
A strange silence suddenly descended on the battlefield as the Bethlarii too watched this unexpected manoeuvre.
A light came into Ryllans’ eye. ‘Go and negotiate,’ he said suddenly, to Arwain.
'What?’ Arwain responded in disbelief.
'Go and negotiate,’ Ryllans repeated. ‘And take your time. Quickly man, while they're wondering what's happening.'
The Mantynnai seized his Lord's arm and pushed him towards the front of the square. ‘Something green-white! — white, something white, for a flag of truce,’ he shouted to the men around him. A soiled rag was thrust into his hand and he tied it around a spear shaft and pushed it into Arwain's hand.
'Give me your sword and shield,’ he said, taking them before Arwain could demur. ‘Say anything, but say it slowly. And confidently! The archers will cover you.'
The front rank opened to let Ibris's bemused son through. Arwain felt the focused anger and hatred of the watching Bethlarii like a physical impact. He stepped forward a little way and then slowly looked along the enemy line as if he were a visiting dignitary conducting a formal inspection.
Then, raising the spear with its ragged flag, and taking a surreptitious deep breath, he stepped forward again.
The valley turf was damp and crushed, and in places had been torn into muddy strips. After about twenty paces he stopped and drove the spear into the ground. Then he waited. Each heartbeat brings my father nearer, he kept repeating to himself, though his eyes were still scanning the Bethlarii front line, waiting for one of the archers to draw his bow. His legs were shaking and he had to remind himself that this was so that they could move the quicker if need arose. The knowledge did not help a great deal.
The strange, waiting silence continued for some time, then a figure emerged from the Bethlarii ranks. He was tall and powerfully built and his dress identified him as a priest.
This religion must pervade their whole society, Arwain thought as the man walked towards him.
He stopped after some twenty paces, as Arwain had done. Wait, Arwain thought. Let him set the pace, I'll follow as slowly as I can.
The Bethlarii priest spoke immediately, however, and his words offered little hope of delay.
'We will allow you some time to make your peace with whatever pagan gods you worship, Serens,’ he called out, his voice loud and commanding. ‘Then we shall end this foolishness and crush you as we would crush any irritating insect.'
Arwain ignored the taunt. ‘I am Arwain, son of Duke Ibris, priest. I do not debate with underlings, priest. Return to your prayers and leave this matter to soldiers.’ He made a dismissive gesture and, looking past the priest towards the waiting solders, shouted loudly, ‘Someone fetch an officer of my standing so that we may speak together with authority.'
The priest angrily came forward several paces. Arwain moved forward also.
'Careful,’ he heard Ryllans hiss behind him.
'I am one of the chosen of Ar-Hyrdyn, unbeliever,’ the priest said, his eyes blazing. ‘We have his authority in all things. But the lowest among us here has authority greater than that of the bastard son of a usurper and his band of murderers.'
Again, Arwain ignored the priest and shouted past him towards the soldiers. ‘I have never heard it said that the Bethlarii were either dishonourable or foolish? Surely such a great warrior people as you will not allow itself to be led by these prating charlatans, like so many sheep?'
He paused briefly and waited until the priest was about to reply. Then he continued. ‘You men all know that Whendrak is a neutral city. Some of you might even have been there when this was solemnly agreed between my father and your Hanestra, and by the acclamation of your army, many years ago. You know that to attack it as you've done is to break your most solemn and binding oaths, and our actions last night were but to remind you of the consequences of pursuing such wickedness. Withdraw now or the further consequences will be a thousand times worse. Your land will ring with the keening of your widows and mothers, their losses made doubly awful by the knowledge that their men were oath-breakers and, worse, fools, for following these black-hearted priests and their ignorant superstition.’ Abruptly, he sneered. ‘Ask yourselves, men of the spear and the sword, what kind of men are they that say they speak to your great war god in dreams? Once you would have stoned them as blasphemers, or banished them as lunatics…'
At the word, dreams, however, the priest had started violently and, to Arwain's surprise, the front ranks of the Bethlarii actually retreated a few paces.
'Enough,’ the priest roared furiously. ‘It is you who blaspheme, impugning his chosen. We will allow you no such further opportunity.’ Then, turning and striding back to his own line, he shouted, ‘Kill them all!'
There was no debating or preparing the order of battle. Instead, the Bethlarii levelled their spears and, with a roar, began charging towards the square on all four sides. Arwain forced himself to walk back, taking up the spear as he passed it. The shield wall opened to admit him and as it closed behind him, he found himself facing Ryllans. He shrugged apologetically.
Ryllans took his arm reassuringly and gave him his shield and sword back. There was naked fear in his eyes as the din of approaching Bethlarii increased. ‘Forget your training now,’ he said. ‘What you've truly learned, you'll use without thinking. Anger and determination are your only true allies.’ And, as he spoke, the fear disappeared.
'Hold your positions!’ he bellowed. ‘They'll tire soon enough. Let them break themselves like waves against our rocks. Hold! Hold!'
The impact of the Bethlarii charge, however, was terrible. Arwain felt the ground shake under his feet. Two sides of the square buckled inwards, several men falling, and it seemed for a moment that they would break entirely. But again the reserves in the centre ran to the weakened sections and succeeded in beating back the encroaching enemy.
For a while there was a desperate and bloody stalemate, with the Bethlarii, like a storm-tossed sea, roaring and screaming as they struggled to beat down the bristling hedge of thrusting spear points and hacking sword edges that was the Serens’ shield wall.
Arwain and Ryllans strode around the square, directing the reserves, hurling back the enemy's spears, and, above all, encouraging the men ceaselessly.
Gradually, however, the fury of the Bethlarii seemed to become increasingly demented, and the square began to contract under the weight of the onslaught. Twice, individuals actually succeeded in mounting the shields and spears to leap screaming into the square. A reserve officer dealt with one, and Arwain the second, pinning him to the ground with a spear.
Desperately Arwain glanced at Ryllans as the square began to waver. A Lord's son, he had fought previously as a cavalryman, and he was unfamiliar with this close-quarter combat. But he could tell that this was no ordinary infantry battle. The Bethlarii were possessed; fighting as if their lives were of no import; fighting as a crazed rabble. It was the very antithesis of the disciplined, ordered infantry fighting that had been the hallmark of such confrontations in the past and which could guarantee individuals on the victorious side, at least, a high probability of survival. This thunderous riot around him was madness! Truly the unreasoned product of some grotesque religion.
Ryllans, however, was teaching, as all good teachers do, by example. He was moving unerringly to those parts of the wall that were weakest and laying about him with a purposeful, cold-eyed savagery that made all who met his gaze falter and grow sane for the moment.
'War is an evil because, to survive, the victim must become as bad as the aggressor,’ he would often say when Arwain rebelled against some technique he was being shown. ‘It is an evil because it places men in a position where their only ethical choice is kill or be killed, and by whatever means is quickest and most effective. If, in such a position, you do not have the knowledge…’ He would shrug and leave the conclusion unspoken.
Prior to the attack on the camp, Arwain had silenced his inner debate with the realization that he had no alternative but to do what he was about to do, simply because he was there. Now, in the midst of falling spears, clashing arms, and roaring, screaming, dying men, he understood at a deeper level by far.
His eye lit on a large Bethlarii beating down a shield with a great battle axe. When Arwain stepped forward to kill him, another Mantynnai had joined the square.
Then after a timeless interlude of blood-strewn, whirling mayhem, the air was abruptly filled with horn calls.
Bethlarii horns. Arwain's heart sank. Reinforcements! As if they needed any. More from the camp, come to see the sport. But his grip tightened around his sword and even as the thoughts taunted him he reached over the shields and struck down a Bethlarii trooper with a blow that cleaved clean through his helmet.
As he struggled to wrench the blade free, he was searching for his next adversary. But there was none. A space had opened between the Bethlarii and the shield wall. Groping pathetically at his head for some futile measure of the terrible injury Arwain had done, the Bethlarii fell back, not into the arms of his still fighting comrades, but on the heaped bodies of the dead he was soon to join.
'They're retreating,’ someone next to Arwain said, his voice low with disbelief.
The noise of the avenging army faded and that of the calling horns rose to dominate the valley. The gap between the two forces widened.
'They are retreating,’ came needless confirmation from several voices simultaneously.
Arwain became aware of his own raucous breathing and gradually his mind slowed sufficiently to accommodate this new pace of events. The army must have arrived, he realized ecstatically. But turning round, such of the valley that he could see was still deserted.
Then a hand took his elbow and he found himself looking along someone's pointing arm up on to the southern ridge. Clearly visible in the pale wintry sun was a long marching column.
'And the north ridge too, look!’ someone called.
A cheer began to rise up from the square, but a powerful voice stilled it.
'Hold your positions! Strict battle order! Archers-priests and officers, targets of opportunity.'
It was Ryllans, teaching still.