The day was full of winter brightness. A cloudless blue sky, brilliant sun, and a windless cold.
It was a day for brisk walking through ragged, leafless country lanes or along hilly ridges or across manicured parks.
A day for warm reassuring clothes and a warm fireside and warm company to return to.
It was a day especially apt for celebrating life, but, albeit reluctantly, Ibris's army had risen to a misty dawn, to celebrate death. It had risen shivering with the cold and the fear: the fear of impending battle, the fear of showing fear, the fear of failing in command, the fear of edges and points, of missiles and flailing hooves, of looking into the face of the unthinking, fear-spawned, personal hatred of the enemy and, worst of all, of random, cruel chance.
Quickly the army had drawn noise and bustling activity over its nakedness like a familiar blanket.
And now it moved across the rolling Bethlarii landscape in battle formation; the sun glinting off spear points and armour, shields and harness, and brightening the surcoats and pennants and flags emblazoned with their many devices.
The air was filled with the soft clatter of marching and riding men, punctuated occasionally by shouted orders to maintain the line, and made purposeful by the ominous tattoo of the pace drums. A dark green trail marked the passing of the host as the dew-damped grass was relentlessly crushed under hoof and foot.
Visibility being good, and being some way from the Bethlarii position, Ibris and Menedrion rode at the front of the line with several other senior officers and aides. No one spoke.
A small group of riders appeared in the distance. Ibris motioned a signaller to halt the advance.
The pace drums stopped with startling suddenness and for a moment it seemed to Ibris that the ensuing silence was absolute.
As the riders drew nearer, the noise of the thousands of now waiting men began to assert itself.
'It's Feranc's patrol,’ Menedrion said.
Ibris nodded and clicked his horse forward, motioning Menedrion to follow him.
As Feranc's men reached them, Ibris sent the men back to the waiting officers to make their reports. Even as he did so, he saw Feranc's eyes flicking along the length of the waiting army.
'Your bodyguard, the Mantynnai, Arwain?’ he asked as Ibris turned back to him.
Ibris told him what had happened the previous night. After he had heard the tale, Feranc lowered his head. Ibris waited for his reaction, concerned.
'The Dream Finder has gone with them?’ Feranc said, after a long pause.
Ibris nodded awkwardly, somewhat taken aback at this unexpected response.
Feranc grimaced in sympathy. ‘It'll be a bad journey for him,’ he said. ‘A dark grim night he'll not forget.'
'You'd rather you were with them?’ Ibris said, cutting across this digression and anxiously voicing what he felt would be Feranc's unspoken reproach.
Feranc looked up at the blue sky, thoughtfully. ‘Your reasoning was sound, Lord,’ he said eventually. ‘And it was a decision only you could make.'
The two men looked at one another.
'Thank you,’ Ibris said softly.
'Talking of difficult decisions…’ Menedrion broke the silence and gave Feranc a significant look. ‘As commander I've decided that you, father, will take command of the reserve cavalry…'
Ibris turned to him, his face darkening.
'You're too old for the front line,’ Menedrion continued hastily, and more bluntly than he had intended.
'I can ride and fight you into the ground yet,’ Ibris blustered noisily.
'Not these last ten years, you can't,’ Menedrion retaliated vehemently, leaning forward towards his father, chin jutting.
Feranc coughed.
Ibris turned to him. ‘Ciarll?’ he appealed.
'Commander's decision,’ Feranc replied simply.
'Ciarll!'
'Please, father. Your will has brought us this far. You're the heart of all our dominions. If you fall today, then…'
He flicked his head towards the waiting army. ‘They'll evaporate, disappear. We'll all be lost. And city after city will fall in our wake.'
Ibris looked at his son narrowly. ‘Think you can out-talk me as well, do you?’ he said darkly.
Menedrion scowled impatiently. ‘No, damn it,’ he said. ‘I'm trying to tell you what you already know. I want all eyes forward. I don't want anyone risking themselves and their companions playing unofficial bodyguard to you.’ His expression became embarrassed. ‘Besides I've told all the company commanders you'll be protecting the rear, and that's what they've told the men. Everyone's happy with that. It'll not help their morale if they see you at the front. They'll think it's because Arwain and the others leaving has seriously weakened us.'
Ibris's eyes narrowed further and his mouth tightened.
'Yes, I know,’ he said abruptly.
Menedrion started at the unexpected reply.
'Do you think I don't know what's going on in my own army?’ Ibris continued, not without some relish. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to get round to telling me about it, that's all.'
Menedrion looked as if he were considering a wide range of replies to this revelation, but in the end, without taking his gaze from his father, he spoke to Feranc.
'Tell us the enemy's latest dispositions, Commander,’ he said.
Feranc replied without preamble. ‘Substantially unchanged from earlier reports. The traditional Bethlarii battle order. Predominantly heavy infantry in phalanx, with cavalry and light infantry protecting the flanks and rear. At least twice our number in all.'
'Anything unusual in the line?’ Ibris asked. ‘Chariots? Artillery? Cover for ambushing cavalry? Treacherous ground?'
Feranc shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nor anything to be seen in the surrounding countryside. Though there seemed to be quite a lot of activity along the line. Messengers running to and fro.'
Menedrion shrugged slightly. ‘Probably last-minute preparations,’ he suggested. ‘They know we'll be on them before noon.'
He looked at Feranc and then his father. ‘I can see no reason to alter any of the tactics we've decided on. Can you?'
Ibris looked at him quizzically. ‘Why the uncertainty?’ he asked.
Menedrion frowned. ‘I'm uncertain because I still can't believe they're doing this,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Throughout this whole campaign they've shown none of the war-craft that we know they have. Even now, at the end, they've made no special effort to choose advantageous ground, there's no evidence of flanking forces in the area, nothing that seems to indicate a real will to conquer. It makes no sense.'
Ibris could offer him no clearer vision.
Feranc spoke. ‘They're preparing to fight the battle of the end of the world,’ he said. ‘The final battle in which all other conflicts will be resolved and from which Ar-Hyrdyn will choose those destined to join the great heroes of legend who occupy his Golden Hall.'
Menedrion puffed out a long steaming breath into the cold air. ‘It's as logical as anything else I've heard,’ he said resignedly. ‘But where does that leave us earth-bound souls?'
'Facing an enemy that's liable to fight to the death, rather than break and run,’ Feranc replied starkly.
Menedrion's lip curled. ‘You can't suppress the flesh, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘Fear is fear. We'll see how their faith sustains them when our arrows are falling about them.'
Feranc nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘But we mustn't underestimate them. This day is going to be long, hard, bitter and bloody.'
'Yes,’ Ibris agreed, his voice sad. ‘And it will be the end of their world. Whatever corruption in their society has brought them to this, all will indeed be resolved today.'
Menedrion cut the discussion short. ‘It's still their choice, father,’ he said. ‘Don't forget the heralds they killed. If their sickness … can't be swayed away with reason and logic, then we must do it the physician's way. We must lance it. And quickly, if there's another enemy at our back.'
He reached up and pulled down the visor of his helm, then held out his mailed hands to Feranc who took them in both his own.
'Strength to your arm, Feranc the shield, Feranc the slayer. Here's to tomorrow's sunrise.'
'Light be with you, Irfan Menedrion,’ Feranc replied, then, taking the Duke's hands, ‘And with you, my Lord. Guard our backs well. And put me to the sword if I flee.'
Finally, Menedrion embraced his father in silence.
Then the three parted to ride to their allotted positions.
As he rode back towards the army, Menedrion drew his sword and waved it high above his head with a great shout. His cry echoed over the Bethlarii plain and into the bright sky and the cry of the entire army rose to follow it.
They had stopped. But the world was still filled with pain. He had never known anything but pain, nor ever would for all eternity to come.
No part of Antyr's body gave him any other message. Who would have thought that the human frame could travel so fast for so long, or that men could remain in the saddle throughout?
He had vague recollections of an occasional voice penetrating the haze of agony with the advice that he should, ‘Just relax, don't fight the horse.’ Then, more sternly. ‘Relax, you're tiring the horse.’ He had recollections too, that there had been other brief pauses punctuating this lifetime of pounding impact he had been living, though, as now, they had offered little comfort.
Even the dawn had brought no relief. Indeed the bright golden wash that had splashed into his face seemed to pass straight through him and illuminate his pain, so frail had he become.
He had no recollection of the strong hands that had reached out and supported him as he slithered into the unconsciousness from which he was now emerging.
'You've done well,’ an echoing voice was telling him from far away.
Mysteriously he floated out of his saddle and propped himself up against something … a tree, he realized, as he managed to look up through the intricate tracery of winter-bared branches.
Something damp and cold touched his face and sniffed inquiringly, then there was a vigorous splashing sound nearby.
'That's better.'
Antyr winced as Tarrian's relieved voice boomed into his head like a cascade of tumbling boulders. ‘That wasn't too bad a journey after all, was it? Slept most of the way. If you ever get a horse I think I'll travel more like that. It's very comfortable. And quite stylish in its way.'
Antyr felt stirrings of malevolence deep inside, but it was beyond him to formulate it into purposeful abuse and he let it lie.
'Are you awake?’ Tarrian said with deplorable heartiness, his paw poking Antyr with reckless disregard. Antyr stared at the hands that came up in front of him to deflect this unwanted attention. After a timeless interval he recognized them as his own. At the same time, his voice began to return.
'No, I don't think so,’ he replied. ‘At least I sincerely hope not.'
Slowly the pains wracking his body began to fragment and take up residence in various limbs and joints, and the memory of the purpose of this journey returned. It stood like a dark, evil forest, barring his way to the future.
He felt sick.
What madness had prompted him to join this demented dash across country to face some unknown enemy? What madness had drawn him into this whole business? He felt an overwhelming nostalgia for the familiar sounds and smells of his favourite inns, and the familiar, torchlit streets he had staggered along so often.
He put his hand to his head in imitation of the gesture he had made many times through his life on waking and finding himself regretfully reviewing his recent follies.
'Are you all right?’ someone asked.
Carefully, Antyr turned a protesting neck to see who had spoken. It was Estaan. He looked desperately weary. Under other circumstances Antyr might have replied with some mildly acid rejoinder, but he too was too weary to find solace in humour.
'Come on,’ Estaan said, bending down and unceremoniously hauling him to his feet. ‘You can take some pride in having survived this journey. We lost a few on the way.'
'Lost …?’ Antyr asked vaguely.
'Just exhausted,’ Estaan replied. ‘No fatalities fortunately. Come on, you'll feel better if you keep moving.'
Antyr's legs were reluctant to respond and he tried to slither back down on to the ground. Estaan held him upright however and then dragged him forward roughly, leaving him no alternative but to walk or fall.
Antyr uttered a feeble cry of protest and pain and there was a faint growl from Tarrian.
'Never mind growling at me, wolf,’ Estaan said brutally. ‘Get into his head and wake him up properly. If he falls, he's finished.'
Another face swam into Antyr's view before Tarrian could respond. It was Haster. He peered intently into Antyr's face for a moment and then he was gone. Abruptly, powerful hands from behind him began seeking out stiffened joints and muscles and manipulating them purposefully.
Antyr cried out again, though more loudly this time, but Tarrian did not interfere.
'It's for the best,’ he said awkwardly into Antyr's slowly clearing head. Then he was gone, and Grayle with him.
Then Haster was peering into his eyes again and driving thumbs into his shoulders. ‘I'm no expert at this,’ he said. ‘But that should help.’ He repeated Estaan's advice. ‘Keep moving.’ Adding, ‘Stand up straight as well.’ Then he too was gone.
A memory of Tarrian uttering the same rebuke when he had first met Ibris returned to Antyr and, as then, he found himself obeying without conscious thought. It helped-a little.
Tentatively, he began to test out his protesting limbs and to look beyond himself. All about him were weary-looking men, most of whom, he noted, were also trying to ease life back into stiffened limbs. The sight of this common discomfort made him feel a little ashamed of his complaining.
To a man they were grimy with travel, and their bedraggled condition was heightened by the brilliant sunshine that flooded over the scene. Steaming breaths however, confirmed the temperature that he himself was just beginning to be aware of.
Looking around he saw that they had stopped at what appeared to be a deserted farmhouse. Beyond it lay bleak rocky countryside which gave testimony to why it had been deserted. A little way off, a rough road wound down a shallow incline between two small hills and dipped straight down into a river. A ford, Antyr presumed.
In the distance, dark clouds were building.
Antyr took a long draught from his canteen. It was cold and it seemed to etch out his insides, almost painfully, as he swallowed. He drew in a sharp breath. The jolt helped to clear his mind further and the darkness looming ahead of him came into sharper focus. So too did his own position. Whatever happened now, there could be no way back to anything that had ever been before; neither the bad nor the good.
'Where are we?’ he asked Estaan after a moment.
'Somewhere south of Rendd,’ Estaan replied. ‘The farm's called Kirstfeorrd.'
'And the enemy?'
Estaan shrugged and motioned Antyr to follow him. As they wended their way through the resting men, Antyr noticed the horses being corralled at the rear of the building. A small wave of guilt passed over him. Ibris's bodyguard, he knew, took pride in tending their horses before themselves.
'My horse?’ he asked, a little shamefacedly. ‘I didn't…’ Estaan patted his arm and smiled appreciatively. ‘It's been tended. Don't worry about it.'
He walked on, but Antyr stood watching the horses. Splendid, trusting creatures, he thought. Would it ever enter your heads to treat us as slaves? To lead us into mayhem and slaughter for some whim of your own?
As he watched, one of them staggered and fell over. For a moment it thrashed about on the ground in distress, scattering the other horses. Then it lay still, foam trickling from its mouth and its eyes white and wild. Almost immediately a soldier was by its side, stroking the frightened head. Another joined him, and there was a brief discussion.
Antyr turned away, knowing the outcome. As he looked at the retreating form of Estaan, the sound of a powerful axe blow reached him. He flinched involuntarily.
Arwain was leaning over an old table examining a map when Estaan and Antyr entered the farmhouse. Ryllans and other Mantynnai were with him.
For an instant, the enormity of what had happened swept over Antyr. At his word, the finest of Ibris's army had been torn from what would undoubtedly be a fearful and vital battle, to exhaust themselves in a dash across the country to face an enemy he thought he had seen in a brief exchange with the strange warrior who was guiding the Mynedarion.
He felt cold.
Then he recalled that the two strangers, Haster and Jadric, had brought similar news at the same time and his immediate concern eased a little. He noticed that the two men were standing a little apart, watching quietly, though their manner was politely diffident rather than aloof.
He wished Tarrian and Grayle were here; he would have liked to learn more about these two men who seemingly came to threaten the Mantynnai with retribution for old misdeeds, yet who were now followed by them. And, also, who had secured the respect of the Duke almost on the instant.
They looked as travel-stained and weary as everyone else, but then, they had undertaken this journey twice within the last few days.
'This is the most likely route for a large force moving south from Rendd.’ Arwain's voice interrupted his reverie. ‘And there's no evidence that anything of any size has passed this way so far. We'll just have to hope this is the way they'll come and prepare accordingly.'
Antyr went cold again. If the army that he had seen came, he'd probably be wiped out with all the others. But if it didn't come …
The memory of the great horde in Ivaroth's mind was still vividly with him, but despite that and despite the confirmation of Haster and Jadric, he still felt disturbed by the weight of the decisions being made on the strength of his vision.
'We can send scouts out when the horses have rested a little,’ someone said.
Arwain nodded unhappily. Then he turned to Haster and Jadric. ‘We're indebted to you beyond measure for your message and your help in carrying us through the night. There's little more I can offer you by way of thanks under these circumstances, but I can't ask you to stay with us here. This isn't your war, this isn't your battle, I…'
Haster stopped him. ‘It's both our war and our battle, Lord,’ he said. ‘Had you chosen not to believe us then we'd have had to fight it alone.'
Arwain frowned and then smiled uncertainly, glancing round at the Mantynnai to see if he could find some indication of how he should respond to this strange utterance, but there was only acceptance and agreement to be read in their faces.
'I don't pretend to understand,’ he said with a dismissive lift of his hands. He echoed his father's words to Antyr. ‘You must do as your hearts bid you.'
Unexpectedly, both Haster and Jadric smiled. ‘Our hearts bid us flee,’ Haster said. ‘It's our knowledge and our duty that tells us we must stay. If we don't stand now, then someone else will have to in the future, and far more will then perish. This we know from the past. And if we, soldiers by calling, don't stand now, to protect those less able, what worth are we to anyone, not least ourselves?'
Arwain bowed slightly. ‘You teach me my own duty,’ he said, without rancour. ‘You honour us with your help. I'll not deny that two more swords will be of value. Though I'm still far from certain how a force this size is going to stop the horde you've all described.’ He nodded towards Antyr. ‘I suppose we'll have to go out and find them and start…'
There was a commotion outside.
'I don't think that will be necessary, sir,’ Antyr said. As he spoke, Tarrian and Grayle burst into the room and took shelter under the table.
'They're here!’ Tarrian's voice sounded simultaneously in the heads of all those present. ‘Minutes away.'
Haster and Jadric started noticeably, both raising their hands to their heads in disbelief. There was no time for explanations, however, the two wolves were followed by cries from outside carrying the same information.
Arwain was the first out of the farmhouse, his face dark and grim. Emerging from between the two hills on the other side of the river came a column of riders. They were walking, and in loose formation.
'String your bows,’ Arwain shouted unnecessarily as he strode through his men towards the small wall that ringed the farmhouse. ‘I'm going to try and talk to them, for what it's worth, but if we have to engage them, you know what to do: standard procedure; bring down the horses first, then the men, as need arises.'
Antyr looked at the lengthening line of horsemen and then, for the first time properly, at the soldiers around him. His eyes widened. ‘How many of us are there?’ he whispered to Estaan.
'A hundred and six,’ the Mantynnai replied. ‘We lost thirty-three on the way.'
Antyr felt the breath leave his body and for a moment he thought he was going to suffocate. He mouthed the number to himself in disbelief. He had not realized they were so few. When he had set out with them it had been dark and all had been confusion and uproar.
Ivaroth's vision returned to him.
His message to Ibris must have been misunderstood!
'There are thousands of them!’ he hissed to Estaan. ‘Didn't Ibris understand? I presumed he was sending the whole regiment of the bodyguard. Why didn't he send more?'
For the first time since they had met, a flash of anger passed over Estaan's face. ‘The Duke understood perfectly,’ he said. ‘He sent those who were best fitted to this task and whose absence would not disturb the strength of the army too greatly. It was no easy decision. We trust him. See if you can.'
Antyr raised a shaking hand to wipe his mouth. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I…'
Estaan gave a small grimace of self-reproach at his outburst. ‘So am I,’ he said. He looked at Antyr pointedly. ‘We're all weary, sore, and frightened, but for what it's worth, it's some measure of my regard for you that I forgot you're not one of us.'
Arwain had mounted his horse and was about to spur it forward when he paused. ‘Whatever happens, I want no heroics today. We're here to slow this … army … down, and we'll only do that if we survive.’ He pointed at Antyr. ‘Above all, though, the Dream Finder and his Companions are to be protected. That is a duty beyond all others today. Is that understood?'
Under battle orders, the men acknowledged the question in silence, then Arwain, accompanied by Haster and Ryllans, rode off to meet the vanguard of Ivaroth's horde.
Menedrion raised his hand and the army at his back came to a lumbering halt.
Silence hung over the field. No birds sang, nor animals stirred. Only the breathing and shuffling of the thousands of waiting men, like the sea breaking on some distant shore, intruded on the peace of the cold, sunlit scene.
From somewhere a tiny breeze rose and briefly fluttered the pennant at the end of Menedrion's lance. He looked up and listened to it. It was a lonely, defiant sound. Then it fell still.
He looked forward again. The Bethlarii army was spread before him. Unusually, it was not as still and ordered as he had seen it in the past, but it was huge. Feranc's estimate of their numbers had, as he expected, been distressingly accurate. It was at least twice the size of the Serenstad army.
And they would be no disordered rabble. Some of them would be reservists, of course, and some newly conscripted. They were probably what was responsible for the movements in the line. Nonetheless there would be a substantial core of hardened ghalers and officers waiting to oppose them.
Feranc's words returned to him: the battle of the end of the world. Whose world? he wondered. Serenstad and its dominions were unlikely to be the same after this, whatever the outcome. Ibris's call for full voluntary mobilization in the face of the Bethlarii threat had caused political problems which would doubtless persist for many years if Serenstad survived the day. But it had also, with one blow, cut a great swathe through the innumerable, squabbling factions, and conspiring cliques that hitherto had made political life in his dominions so complex and difficult …
Menedrion tore his mind from the future and brought it to bear mercilessly on the present.
Like the final flutter of his pennant, however, his mind lingered briefly on the waiting enemy in front of him.
The Bethlarii were a splendid sight, he conceded, with their ranks of shields, coloured and patterned with tribal and family emblems. Their colour on the battlefield was markedly at odds with the greyness of their normal lives. Granted it was so that Ar-Hyrdyn could readily identify the most valiant in the fray, and name them correctly when his messengers brought the spirits of the dead to him afterwards for due honour in the Golden Hall, but that did not alter the splendour of the sight.
He turned and looked at the Serenstad army. The emblems and flags of families, traditional regiments, allied cities, even some of the great trading houses, made them no less splendid to look at than the Bethlarii.
Then all the musing was done and Menedrion became only the will that must galvanize these men and destroy the enemy. The Serenstad cavalry was more numerous than the Bethlarii and more skilled in their riding, though the Bethlarii were formidable fighters with their double-headed lances once contact had been made. The infantry was markedly less numerous and, discipline for discipline, there was little to choose between the best of both sides. The Serens, however, were now using a longer, iron-pointed pike and that, he knew, would cause the Bethlarii ghalers severe problems. Then too, the Serens’ archers were better equipped, with longer range bows.
Nevertheless, it had to be assumed that the Bethlarii would be unlikely to break in the face of a direct frontal attack and, with such a long line, they had men enough to swing round and attack the Serens’ flanks. Should that happen, it was unlikely the Serens’ cavalry could defend them against a sustained cavalry and infantry assault.
The main plan, therefore, discussed at length with Feranc, his father, Arwain, and all the senior officers, was to advance behind a screen of elaborate cavalry manoeuvres and feints, and then, using mounted archers to disrupt the flanking cavalry, launch the full attack against the Bethlarii left flank with the hope of breaking it and sending it panicking into the rest of the army.
Various contingencies had been planned for also but once the battle was under way, individual company commanders would be responsible for implementing these as circumstances arose.
Nothing had changed. As expected, no heralds had come from the Bethlarii to quote terms or complaints and, following the deaths of his own heralds, Ibris had sent no more. Nothing now was to be gained by delay.
Menedrion lowered his lance, prior to giving the signal to advance.
Abruptly and unexpectedly, Feranc was at his side, pointing. Menedrion followed his arm. A rider was moving along the front of the Bethlarii line. It was too far away to see clearly, but he appeared to be gesticulating wildly. Feranc frowned and leaned forward as if by so doing he could hear what was happening.
The persistent, uneasy, movement in the Bethlarii line seemed to ripple behind the man as he moved along.
'A berserker,’ Menedrion said dismissively. ‘He'll be charging us on his own next. Nothing that a couple of archers or good pikemen won't be able to deal with.'
Feranc shook his head. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘Look.'
Even as he spoke, a figure emerged from the centre of the ranks and seemed to be remonstrating with the man. The line in the immediate vicinity of the incident broke up in disorder.
Menedrion and Feranc watched in silence, unable to interpret such events as they could see.
Then more riders were moving along the line and the disorder spread.
Menedrion gripped his lance tightly. What chance had brought this about, he could not hazard but this was the moment. This was the loose pebble that would begin the avalanche.
'Now,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Now!'
He raised his arm.
Arwain, Ryllans and Haster positioned themselves across the road in front of the advancing riders.
There was a momentary confusion, then the troop came to an uncertain halt and a group of six riders galloped forward.
Arwain had never seen their like before. Flat-faced and swarthy-skinned, they were clad in a random assortment of tunics and trousers made predominantly of leather and fur, though he noticed one or two decorative items that were conspicuous by being unmistakably Bethlarii or Serens in origin. Plunder, Arwain presumed, and a deep anger began to stir in him.
The horses they were riding were as mixed in colouring and style as their clothes, but though all the animals were quite small they were very sturdy-looking. Arwain had never seen their like before, but he judged them to be both manoeuvrable and capable of great endurance. Further, each rider sat his mount as if he were a natural part of it.
An array of swords, knives, spears and lances completed a motley whole, but Arwain spoke his immediate reaction to his companions. ‘These people must be able to ride and fight from the saddle like the very devil. I wouldn't want to meet them in the field without a good row of pikes in front of me.'
Both Haster and Ryllans nodded in silent acknowledgement of this judgement.
The six riders reached them and spread out in an arc. One of them spoke to the others in his own language and there was some raucous and derisive laughter. The arc opened and curled round a little further. Haster and Ryllans gently eased their mounts sideways.
'Who are you and why do you ride in armed force into my father's land?’ Arwain said.
There was a brief debate among the six riders and some pointing at Arwain and the others.
'They're deciding who's to have what booty after they've killed us,’ Haster said.
'You know their language?’ Arwain asked in surprise.
Haster shook his head and his lip curled into a brief, humourless smile. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘But what they're saying is the same in any language.'
'Fetch your leader here,’ Arwain demanded powerfully.
'Ryllans, take the three on your side, I'll take the others,’ Haster said quietly. ‘Lord Arwain, stay back unless we need you, and prepare to retreat quickly.'
Arwain was about to dispute this order with some indignation, when the six riders, without any apparent signal, spurred forward.
There was a cheer from their watching comrades.
It faded rapidly, however. At the first movement of the riders, Haster and Ryllans surged forward also. So fast was the response that they had almost closed with the attackers by the time Arwain had drawn his sword to join them.
Haster, however, had approached his first attacker empty-handed. Turning in the saddle at the last moment, he avoided a spear thrust and, seizing the shaft of the weapon, twisted it in such a way that his opponent was lifted clear from his saddle and hurled violently into his neighbour, unseating him. It looked like a display of prodigious strength, but despite the speed of the action, Arwain noted that Haster had seemed to use virtually no effort.
Without pause, however, and even as the two men were still falling, Haster swung the spear around and hurled it at his third target. It struck the man in the upper arm with such force that it pinned it to his body. He let out a great scream, and it was only some deep reflex that kept him mounted as he turned to flee. It served him little, however, as he had scarcely gone a dozen paces when he slithered from the saddle to be dragged along the rocky road by his now panic-stricken horse.
Ryllans in his turn had dispatched two of his attackers, a little more slowly, but just as effectively, with only two savage sword blows. Arwain struck down the third.
Haster rammed his horse sideways into the two men he had unhorsed, as they were struggling to their feet.
Both fell heavily and one of them stayed down, but Arwain swung low out of his saddle and seized the survivor by the collar of his tunic. He yanked him up on to his toes and placed his smoking, bloody sword blade at his throat. It was shaking. But not as much as the white-eyed tribesman.
'My father's a merciful man, that's why you're alive,’ he snarled. ‘But this is how it will be for all of you if you do not return whence you came. Pick up your dead and injured, and leave.'
He pushed him away violently and then the three of them turned rapidly and began galloping back to the farmhouse.
The sudden, explosive response by the three riders, and the rapid dispatch of their comrades, had stunned the watching tribesmen and, for a moment, there was a deep and profound silence in the wintry stillness. Then, with a roar they charged forward as one.
Estaan handed Antyr a knife. It was Larnss'. ‘This belongs with you, not me,’ he said. ‘Now break out those packed arrows and make sure everyone's well supplied.’ He looked at his charge earnestly. ‘I'll do my best to watch you, Antyr, but keep your wits about you. I…'
'Grayle and Tarrian will guard me,’ Antyr said, in an unsuccessful attempt at reassurance. ‘I'll be all right. You look to yourself.'
As he ran towards the small storage area in front of the farmhouse, Tarrian and Grayle emerged, ears laid back and tails between their legs. They ran straight to Antyr. He knelt down and put his arms around them.
Responsibility for them and their fear helped him to turn away from his own terror as the thunder of the approaching hooves and the cries of the riders grew louder.
'I'm sorry,’ he said, desperately and inadequately. ‘If I'm killed, then flee, live your lives as you should and my thanks and blessings go with you for ever.'
The sinister sound of flying arrows began to punctuate the din, followed almost immediately by the screams of terrified horses and injured men.
Antyr tightened his grip about the two animals, both trembling violently. ‘Your very natures bind you here with me, and I have no choice but to stay. I'm sorry. Let that part of you which is human guide and control that part which is wolf. And let that part of you which is human be at its worst. Remember-this day goes to the most terrible.'
From out of their whirling, tormented fears and doubts, the wolves’ voices emerged as one. ‘We understand,’ they said. Then, abruptly they were themselves again; strangely calm and alert.
Antyr released them and, with shaking hands, began to cut open the packages of arrows.