Pandemonium was well established when Hawklan and the others returned to Anderras Darion on the day following their meeting with the Drienvolk, and it continued steadily for the next few days. On receiving Hawklan’s strange, disembodied instruction, Gulda had immediately sent messages to all parts of the country and gradually the chosen contingents were beginning to converge on the great Castle, bristling with arms and supplies, and with just enough enthusiasm and curiosity to keep their alarm at bay.
At a brief council of war, Hawklan told of the strange meeting and of Ynar’s message that the Morlider islands and a great armada were gathered off the northern shore of Riddin.
‘It’ll be a difficult journey,’ Loman said. ‘A forced march across the mountains and right across Riddin in far from ideal conditions.’
No one disagreed. ‘I don’t think we’ve any alterna-tive,’ Isloman said. ‘If what that Morlider-Drago-said about his people being united and learning to fight with some semblance of discipline is true, then the Muster’s going to be hard pressed especially in this weather. Good infantry can stand off cavalry and defeat it if their nerve holds. And if the Morlider have numbers and Creost… ’ He left his conclusion unspoken.
By now familiar with the open speaking of his hosts, Agreth was only mildly defensive at the suggestion that the Muster was anything other than invincible. ‘It’s a fine infantry that’ll stand long against our charges,’ he said. ‘But I agree, if they have the advantages you suggest, then we’ll be hard pressed.’
Later, alone with Andawyr and Gulda, Hawklan discussed the route that Ynar told Gavor the Morlider Islands were apparently taking.
‘Why would they come so far north?’
‘They probably think they can establish a good base before the Muster catches wind of them,’ Gulda suggested unconvincingly. ‘It’ll also give them the mountains to their back. Make it harder to flank them.’
Hawklan pulled a sour face. ‘It also gives them the Pass of Elewart at their back, and it cuts off the Cadwanol,’ he said, looking at Andawyr.
Andawyr shrugged. ‘I doubt Creost knows the Cad-wanol still exists, let alone where,’ he said. ‘At least I hope so. More importantly, it occurs to me that they might be expecting reinforcements down the Pass.’
It was a grim thought. Hawklan scowled. ‘It’s also an escape route into Narsindal for Creost if anything goes wrong,’ he said. Then, slapping his knees impatiently, he stood up. ‘Still, I think we’ll be wasting our time worrying about Creost’s strategic thinking. If he’s expecting reinforcements then all the more reason we get over there quickly, and if he’s got any escape routes planned let’s make sure he can’t use them.’ He looked at Andawyr darkly and his voice was suddenly cold.
‘He’s your province, Andawyr. According to Dar-volci, the Alphraan have their… ways… open as far as the Caves so presumably you can ask them to send a message of some kind. Rally your people’s every resource. I want Creost bound or dead at the end of this venture.’
With difficulty, the Cadwanwr held Hawklan’s men-acing gaze, but he did not reply.
Hawklan walked to a window and stared out. ‘If Riddin falls then not only do we lose a massive cavalry force, which will be vital in Narsindal, we’ll have to tie down most of our own army simply guarding our borders. We’ll have to meet Creost and the Morlider head-on and crush them utterly. Whatever the cost of success it can’t begin to compare with the cost of failure.’
Gulda grimaced. ‘What about your own plans?’ she said, turning away from Hawklan’s cruel summary.
‘They’re unchanged,’ Hawklan said. ‘In fact, moving to oppose the Morlider gives us a legitimate reason for being in that area if Sumeral has spies there. We’ll have to judge the situation as we find it, of course, but if all goes well, we should be able to slip away to the Caves and thence to the Pass at some juncture.’
Then the countrywide uproar faded and a substan-tial part of the Orthlundyn army stood ready at a temporary camp just outside Pedhavin, fired by Hawklan’s determination and anxious to begin its desperate trek across the mountains.
‘You have our best there,’ Gulda said quietly as Hawklan prepared to mount Serian. He nodded but did not speak. Instead he looked up at the Castle Wall towering high above him, massive and solid against the grey sky. It was snowing a little and a few flakes settled on his face and slowly melted. For a moment a terrible pain showed.
‘The Alphraan will tell you of our progress while we’re in the mountains,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I leave the disposition of all the other troops with you and Lord Arinndier. See what reply Eldric sends to our news then head into Fyorlund as soon as you can. The people know what to do if things go wrong. The castle’s well stocked and self-sufficient… if… ’ His voice faded.
Gulda shook her head reproachfully. ‘We’ve been over this ten times, Hawklan,’ she said. ‘We all know what to do. Take care.’ Then she stepped forward and embraced him. As she released him, Hawklan felt his arm held in a merciless grip and his eyes pinioned on her blue-eyed stare. ‘Ethriss go with you, prince,’ she said. ‘You and I will meet again at Derras Ustramel. We’ll end this horror either dead or with His head impaled on your sword.’
Then, without further comment, she turned and stumped back towards the Castle Gate. Hawklan watched her go, shaken by the terrible passion of her unexpected declaration. He was uncertain how long he stood there but suddenly he found Tirilen standing in front of him. She had been saying farewell to her father and her uncle and she was weeping, though not pettishly or with a clinging heart. A healer herself, she knew it was the only release she had for the measureless sorrow and pain she felt, and she knew not to deny it.
Hawklan wanted to say something, but he found no words that would do anything other than rattle vainly in the cold winter air. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She placed an arm around his neck and held him for a moment.
‘Take care,’ they both said simultaneously. Then Tirilen turned to follow Gulda, and Hawklan swung up onto Serian.
‘Carry me to my army, Muster Horse,’ he said. ‘My legs unman me.’
The journey through the snow-clogged mountains proved to be quite as difficult as had been envisaged. The path to Riddin was not designed to accommodate an army, and the several thousand troops were soon spread out along valleys and ridges in a thin, rambling line.
‘I’m glad we don’t have to guard our flanks in this terrain,’ Hawklan said to Isloman as he reached a prominence and stared back at the great winding procession.
Necessarily, progress was slow and careful as they had brought no carts and for the most part each individual was carrying his or her own equipment and supplies, although the few hundred horses they had brought for the use of scouts and skirmishers served as useful pack animals also.
For the first few days the weather confined itself to bright sunshine and occasional light falls of snow, and the natural good spirits and camaraderie of the marchers lessened the effects of the cold and the discomfort. As they climbed steadily towards the heart of the mountains however, the weather deteriorated markedly and the wind began to whip the snow into a dense, obscuring blizzard.
For a while the long twisting line eased forward, but as the light began to fail, Hawklan brought it to a halt, and gradually a thin, blurred skein of beacon torches began to thread its way through the white-streaked darkness as the army gratefully pitched camp.
In the command tent, Hawklan was not too con-cerned at the change in the weather. ‘We’ve made good progress so far,’ he said. ‘Very few accidents, no animals lost, and morale good.’
Loman was less sanguine. ‘A situation that could change very quickly if we get stuck here for any length of time,’ he said.
Hawklan nodded. ‘There’s no question of that,’ he replied unequivocally. ‘This weather won’t be keeping the Morlider away. We rise early tomorrow and we move forward, regardless. Everyone’s well-equipped and fit, and we can’t afford to dawdle. If anyone objects, remind him that we haven’t the supplies and our friends haven’t the time to wait the weather’s whim.’
And move they did, for all the wind was screaming its relentless opposition. The way was too narrow and the line of march too long for Hawklan and the others to move to and fro offering encouragement, so each section had to maintain its station by the simple expedient of shouted or whistled signals. Hawklan expressly forbade the Alphraan to help. ‘You won’t be with us on the plains of Riddin,’ he said. ‘These disciplines must be well learned from the start.’
The strong wind blew for several days but, driven both by Hawklan’s will and his example, the Orthlundyn army plodded slowly and defiantly on, each individual, limbs aching with fatigue and head bowed against the pitiless wind, concentrating on the person immediately in front, trying not to wait for that precious instruction to halt and camp that would eventually drift out of the whirling din ahead.
Finally the wind seemed to lose heart and, subsid-ing, allowed distant peaks to come into view once more.
It was with no small relief that Hawklan clambered up on to a ridge and confirmed for himself that his army was still intact. He remained on the ridge as the long column wound slowly past him, then he walked its length from rearguard to vanguard, bringing his healing touch to bear where the blizzard had torn into the will of his people.
‘You’re quiet,’ Isloman said that night.
Hawklan chuckled ruefully. ‘I’m exhausted,’ he said. ‘That’s a long, thin army we’ve got out there.’
Surprisingly, more injuries occurred during the subsequent fine weather than during the blizzard. The worst was the loss of a young man in an act of foolish bravado on an icy ridge. His flailing, sickening progress down the steep cliff face was watched in silent, impotent horror by a thousand eyes until he finally disappeared from view. Then there was uproar and ropes were lifted down from horses.
‘No!’ Hawklan cried in distress. ‘He’s beyond our help now. We’ll find him when we return.’
But it was the gentle whispering voice of the Al-phraan that stilled the noise.
‘We will find and tend his body,’ it said. ‘Go on your way. Greater needs drive you.’
That same day, another had a leg broken trying to help a struggling horse up a slithering icy slope. Thence came a flurry of sprains, dislocations and bruises caused by falls, together with cases of frostbite, exposure and even some snow-blindness that had kept silent through the blizzard. Few of these reached Hawklan however, Tirilen and Gulda having ensured that each contingent had someone versed in healing. The consensus in the ranks was that some of these healers left a great deal to be desired, but equally this proved quite an effective incentive to staying careful and uninjured.
Along the journey, Hawklan noted the landmarks he had seen when he had travelled to Riddin during the spring: the hollow where he had been surprised by Loman and Isloman on his return; the high knoll where he had encountered the strange brown bird and, unknowingly, the Alphraan; the valley where he had met Jareg and the ailing Serian. Then finally they reached the long steep ascent where Gavor had mocked him as he came perspiring to the top and looked for the first time out across the Decmilloith of Riddin.
Now, of course, the scene was very different. The forests and farmlands, the hedges and roads, were buried beneath a great whiteness, soft and deceptive under a pale yellow sun. And behind him was no mountain silence, but the rumbling clamour of his labouring army. Some way below, he knew, was the place where he had seen the Viladrien. How strange, he thought, that one of those great cloud lands had reached out and drawn him hither again.
He turned and looked at his toiling people and then back at the white expanse of Riddin. Once he had held out his arms to receive this country’s harmony. Now, black on the skyline, he drew his sword and holding it high let out a great cry of defiance. Gavor, sitting on his head, flapped his powerful wings like a living helm. As Hawklan’s cry echoed around the valleys, it was taken up by the army who sent it ringing out until it seemed to fill the whole sky.
As they moved down through the gentler foothills fringing the mountains, the Orthlundyn encountered none of the Riddinvolk. The few small hamlets and farms they passed seemed to be deserted, though there were fresh hoof prints in the snow to indicate that they had been visited recently.
‘Where is everybody?’ Hawklan asked Agreth.
The Riddinwr looked puzzle. ‘Urthryn must have called a General Muster,’ he said. ‘That means everyone has been mobilized.’
‘Everyone?’ Hawklan said.
Agreth nodded. ‘Even the sick and the incompetent have a task in the General Muster,’ he said. ‘The people from these farms and small villages will have moved to one of the bigger villages nearby. The livestock will be being tended by runners in rota. They’ll all be helping, planning… it’ll be a great sharing… ’ Though he was trying to affect casualness, he could not keep the emotion from his voice.
‘This is not usual?’ Hawklan said, more statement than question.
Agreth shook his head slowly. ‘Not even in the War was the General Muster called.’ Almost as if he could not help himself, he swung up on to his horse and, standing in the stirrups, stared out over the white landscape.
‘My people,’ he whispered softly to himself, then dismounted.
‘What does it mean?’ Hawklan asked.
Agreth shook his head again. ‘It means that Urth-ryn’s committed the entire nation to the destruction of this enemy. It means total and utter war. But as to what’s happened, I just don’t know. We’ll have to wait until we meet someone.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Well, let’s march,’ he said. ‘If we’re needed, we’re needed now. If we come upon a Morlider victory celebration then we’ll give your people vengeance, if we come upon your own victory celebra-tion then so much the better.’
Agreth looked fretful and Hawklan laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll be with your people soon,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have our swords by your side. Lead on.’
Agreth frowned in self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Don’t think me a churlish guest. It’s just that all this… has taken me by surprise. I… ’
He stopped and with an effort quelled the turmoil inside himself. ‘Until we find out what’s happened I suggest we send out Dacu and the Helyadin as scouts,’ he said, his voice purposeful. ‘The rest of us can follow the route we’ve discussed previously.’
Hawklan smiled and motioned to Loman to trans-mit this advice as an order. ‘As you command, Line Leader,’ he said.
Riddin was criss-crossed with wide, well-made roads and though these were for the most part snow-filled, the Orthlundyn found themselves making excellent progress after the leg-aching toil through the moun-tains.
Together with Loman and Isloman, Hawklan rode up and down the line, encouraging the marchers, looking at the few sick and injured and subtly assessing the condition of the whole army. As the light began to fail, Dacu returned with the Helyadin.
‘There’s no signs of hostile activity,’ he announced, dismounting and walking alongside Hawklan. ‘In fact the only place we’ve seen any activity at all is in the village about an hour’s march down the road.’
Hawklan looked up at the darkening sky and then at Agreth. ‘Ride ahead and announce us, Agreth,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to be attacked in the dark by some startled militia. Go with him, Dacu, Athyr, in case there’s news we need to know quickly.’
As the three men rode off into the gloaming, Hawk-lan turned to Loman. ‘Strike the torches, but hood them,’ he said. ‘There’s no point announcing our numbers until we find out what’s been happening here. And take a small vanguard forward.’
Loman frowned slightly. ‘Dacu would’ve told us if there was any risk,’ he said.
‘Do it,’ Hawklan said peremptorily. ‘We’re all tired and we’re none of us battle-ready yet.’
Hawklan’s precautions proved unnecessary how-ever, as within the hour Agreth returned. He was accompanied by an elderly man seated straight and tall in his saddle.
‘Hawklan, this is Fendryc, second son of Fendarek, from the Haron branch of… ’ Agreth stopped and rubbed his nose with a rueful smile. ‘Fendryc is the Elder to the village ahead,’ he said briefly, with a quick look of knowing apology to his new companion. ‘It’s his runners whose tracks we’ve seen at the farms.’
Hawklan smiled and extended his hand to the old man.
Fendryc leaned forward and took the hand. Hawk-lan’s eyes narrowed in dismay.
‘Don’t dismount,’ he said softly. ‘Your joints pain you. You shouldn’t have come to greet us in this cold.’
The old man looked from Hawklan to Agreth, his stern expression fading into one of profound surprise.
‘I told you the Orthlundyn was no ordinary man, Elder,’ Agreth said simply. ‘Tell him your news.’
Hawklan mounted Serian to bring himself level with Fendryc. The old man was recovering his composure. ‘I thank you for your courtesy, young man,’ he said. ‘But to be in action again sets my discomfort well aside.’
Hawklan made to reply, but Fendryc continued, ‘My people are ahead marking out a good site for your night’s camp and we’ll let you have such fodder and radiant stones as you might need, but I have to ask you: why are you here?’
Hawklan raised his eyebrows. ‘The Morlider, Fen-dryc,’ he said. ‘The Drienvolk told us of their attack.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Drienvolk,’ he mut-tered, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.
‘Drienvolk,’ Hawklan confirmed. ‘They saw the is-lands and the great flotilla of ships, and good fortune gave them the chance to warn us.
Fendryc lifted an unsteady hand for silence. ‘I don’t doubt you, Orthlundyn,’ he said. ‘The Morlider are indeed coming. They were sighted many days ago sneaking towards us in the wake of a great storm. Urthryn called the General Muster and almost all the Lines will be gathered there now.’ He clenched the waving hand. ‘A host the like of which has never been gathered before. We’ll destroy them as they land.’ He looked at Hawklan and repeated his question, ‘But why are you here?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Hawklan said.
The old man pointed into the darkness. ‘They’re gathered in the south, not here. It’s several days hard riding by fast horse even in summer. It would take weeks on foot.’
Urthryn slapped his gloved hands together as much in frustration as to warm them. With his knees he guided his horse to Girvan’s side. His face was concerned. ‘What does the fisherman say?’ he asked. ‘What did the watch boats see?’
Girvan shrugged. ‘Nothing new,’ he said. ‘And they were chased off like all the others. There’s a lot of activity going on out there but they couldn’t get close enough to see anything in detail.’
Urthryn shook his head and let out a long steaming breath. ‘Why should they delay like this? It makes no sense. The weather’s good. They had the benefit of some surprise when they arrived, but they must surely know we’ve gathered our strength by now.’
Girvan could offer no help. The waiting was not doing the morale of the Lines any good, not least because no one could see any reason for it. And it had been extensively discussed by Urthryn, his advisers, the Goraidin, and all the senior Line Leaders, not to mention Oslang and the other Cadwanwr who had arrived. He glanced around. The duty Lines were strung out across the cliffs and row upon row waited along the shore. Behind him the massive temporary camp dwarfed the small fishing village. He had never thought to see so many riders in one place at the same time. It was a logistical triumph: the Muster-the Riddinvolk-at their very finest.
But the enemy did not come.
Urthryn lifted his hand to his face and removing a glove, rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Oslang,’ he said, turning to the Cadwanwr. ‘Has a night’s rest given you any great inspiration?’
Oslang shook his head. ‘None, Ffyrst,’ he replied. ‘We detect no use of the Old Power. I’d like to think that they’ve decided not to attack having learned about your force in some way, but that’s hardly realistic. I can only imagine they’re hoping to destroy your morale by a prolonged delay.’
Urthryn grimaced. Same old thoughts treading a weary round. But he could scarcely reproach the Cadwanwr-they were not, after all, fighters, and couldn’t be expected to think as such. Even the Goraidin could offer little, though something was being missed and everyone knew it.
‘It’s a feint,’ Olvric had said after the first few days of waiting.
‘Cadmoryth’s boats have seen hundreds of ships moored by those islands, and swarms of men,’ Urthryn had replied.
‘Before they were conveniently chased away,’ Olvric retorted. ‘And why didn’t they capture your boats, or sink them?’
‘Because we took your good advice,’ Urthryn replied with some heat. ‘We’ve built boats like theirs. We were too quick for them.’
‘Cadmoryth?’ Olvric said, looking at the fisherman inquiringly.
Cadmoryth had looked apologetically at his Ffyrst. ‘I can’t be certain,’ he said. ‘But it’s a possibility that our boats were allowed to escape. At least two of our captains said they didn’t think the Morlider were trying very hard.’
Urthryn scowled again as he remembered the con-versation. Still, the Goraidin usually talked sense and at least restarting the coast watch to a couple of days’ riding north and south had helped with morale by giving the otherwise idle Lines something to do.
‘Ho!’ A loud cry cut across his musing.
Girvan seized his arm and pointed to one of the fishermen standing in a precariously rigged look-out tower on top of the cliff.
‘Ships ho!’ came a second cry.
Urthryn urged his horse up the steep path followed by Girvan and the two Goraidin. Oslang followed cautiously, one eye on the nearby edge of the cliff, the other on the silent ranks of patiently waiting riders watching him pass with some amusement. Cadmoryth did not move but stared out at the ragged horizon, his eyes narrowed.
When Urthryn reached the look-out tower, its occu-pant was clambering down with alarming agility. He was red-faced as he jumped down the last section making Urthryn’s horse start a little.
‘Hundreds of them, Ffyrst,’ he said, pointing out to sea. Urthryn reached into his pocket and retrieved a seeing stone. No sooner had he lifted it to his eyes than he drew in a sharp breath.
‘Signaller,’ he said. A young boy stepped out of the waiting ranks. Urthryn walked his horse to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the riders on the shore far below. ‘Sound the Alert,’ he said to the boy.
‘Ffyrst!’ the boy shouted excitedly, then, licking his lips, he lifted up a curved brass horn and blew a simple but piercing call.
The ranks lining the cliffs maintained their station, though a noticeable tremor ran through them. On the shore below and in the camp behind the cliffs, a purposeful surge of activity began.
‘Messenger!’ Urthryn shouted. Another figure stepped from the ranks. ‘Go down to the Line Leaders on the shore. Remind them that these brigands are not to land. They die in the water. We’ve arrows enough to sink their damned islands; see that they’re used well.’
Involuntarily, Oslang grimaced at Urthryn’s tone and for an instant the Ffyrst looked angry at this implicit reproach. His anger however, did not reach his voice. ‘Your friends will be brought up as part of the alert,’ he said. ‘Are you prepared?’ His voice was unexpectedly gentle.
Oslang gave him a grateful and slightly apologetic nod. ‘As far as I know,’ he said. Then, more reassuringly, ‘We’ll fight to our limits if Creost manifests himself, have no fear about our resolve. We know the cost of failure.’
Urthryn nodded.
‘Shall I recall the coast patrols?’ Girvan said. Urthryn looked at the distant islands and at the riders on the shore below. Then, as he looked up, his eye fell on Yengar. The Goraidin was looking upwards. Urthryn followed his gaze. Clambering nimbly on to the swaying platform of the watch tower high above, was Olvric.
Still watching the Goraidin, Urthryn said, ‘No. Tell them what’s happening and tell them to be on the alert in case it is some kind of elaborate trick.’ Then, to Olvric, he shouted, ‘What do you see, Goraidin?’
‘Ships,’ came the reply after a moment. ‘Maybe four hundred or more. In ranks and files as neat as your squadrons.’ Olvric’s voice was uncertain.
‘Your friend seems doubtful,’ Urthryn said to Yen-gar.
The Goraidin nodded. ‘So am I. They must know by now what they’re sailing into. I can’t imagine how they expect to land and establish a bridgehead against what they must surely see arrayed here. Your archers alone may destroy them.’
‘That’s my fervent hope,’ Urthryn said. But the Goraidin’s doubt disturbed him. What could possibly overwhelm the massive forces waiting on the shore?
Creost, came the thought.
He looked at Oslang, now greeting Ryath and the other Cadwanwr who had arrived over the past few weeks. They sit on horses like ill-tied baggage, he thought, in spite of himself, then he crushed the ungracious thought ruthlessly. He could not feel comfortable about the role these strange people were to play. Would they indeed fight to their very limits when need arose, as Oslang had promised? And what would those limits be? What power did this Uhriel command? He remembered Drago, knocked to the floor seemingly by a mere thought from Oslang. Then there was the power that Oslang had exerted over the Morlider’s mind. But these thoughts gave him no solace when he remembered a rather awkward Girvan telling him of the strange ‘unnatural’ storm that had blown so terribly before the islands appeared and when he recalled Sylvriss’s tale of the destruction of Vakloss by Oklar.
Again, he set the thoughts aside, though with diffi-culty. He had no alternative but to prepare his people to face a large and vicious army about to launch an unprovoked war of conquest. He would simply have to trust that the Cadwanwr knew what they were doing.
The approaching ships were clearly visible now. They were a magnificent sight, large colourful sails billowing to catch what slight breeze there was, white foam protesting round their bows, oars beating the waves rhythmically. Briefly, Urthryn felt a twinge of regret. How many good men and horses were to be killed and maimed today? Why were these people not content just to sail their beautiful ships and ride the oceans’ paths on their wondrous floating islands? Why must they seek always to destroy and ravage?
He let the thought pass by unhindered by debate. Perhaps the Morlider had their own answer to such questions, but now he had time only for killing strokes until those same ships were heading back whence they came.
The riders on the shore could now see the ships and were manoeuvring to ensure that no part of the shoreline would be unprotected. As the ships neared the beach, the riders would move to the sea’s edge and launch volley upon volley of arrows into them. Any who survived that onslaught would then have to wade through the water for perhaps a hundred paces or more through the same intensity of fire. Yet, they must know this, Urthryn thought again, as some ill-formed unease rumbled deep within him.
‘Ffyrst.’ It was Oslang. Urthryn turned.
‘Creost is putting forth his power,’ the Cadwanwr said, his face intent as if listening for a distant sound.
‘I feel nothing,’ Urthryn said, uncertain how to re-spond.
Oslang paused. ‘I think it drives the ships,’ he said. ‘But there’s something else as well that I can’t identify. It’s subtle. Shall we oppose the ships?’
Urthryn looked at the approaching fleet again. To his eye, nothing was untoward. He was distracted by a sharp whistle. It was Yengar signalling to Olvric, giving him Oslang’s news. High above, the Goraidin lifted his hands to shade his eyes.
‘No,’ said Urthryn, turning back to the Cadwanwr. ‘Let them come. Let’s settle this affair blade to blade.’ He looked down again to the riders on the shore. They were beginning to move forward, but something was different, though precisely what eluded him.
For a while there was silence except for the sound of the sea and the distant cries of the riders on the shore, then, ‘Ffyrst. Something’s wrong.’ It was Cadmoryth; he had followed Urthryn and the others up the cliff path slowly, on foot. He reached up and took Urthryn’s wrist in a powerful grip. His other hand was pointing to the shore. ‘The tide’s ebbing,’ he said.
Urthryn frowned. That was the change he had seen but not recognized-but what was the significance of a receding tide?
Cadmoryth answered the unspoken question. ‘It’s too fast and it’s not the time,’ he said. ‘I was so occu-pied, I didn’t notice. Get your people off the shore now!’
Urthryn snatched his hand free and took in at once the fisherman’s nervous face, the advancing ships, and the riders, walking their horses after the now rapidly retreating water.
‘I don’t understand… ’ he began.
His voice disappeared under a great cheer from the riders around him as the archers on the shore released their first volleys into the leading ships. Even on the cliffs, the rush of the arrows could be heard.
‘Ffyrst… ’ Cadmoryth seized his wrist again desper-ately. ‘For pity’s sake. Get them off the shore!’
But a more urgent cry caught Urthryn’s attention. It was Olvric. Looking up, he saw the Goraidin clambering down the watchtower. Uncharacteristically, he was shouting-shouting frantically. ‘The boats are empty. And there’s something out there, coming in fast. Get those people off the shore. Now!’
From the beach came the sound of yet more volleys of arrows and the crunching rattle of the ships beaching in the shallows. The riders were advancing relentlessly, following the receding water almost at the trot now and eagerly waiting for the first sight of the enemy that had chosen to threaten their land.
But Urthryn scarcely registered the unfolding saga beneath him. He was transfixed by Olvric. Normally emotionless and laconic, the Goraidin’s face was now alive with fear and he was staring out to sea. Urthryn followed his gaze. The distant islands were no longer visible. Instead, a blur now separated sea and sky.
Then a figure surged past him and went right to the edge of the cliff. It was Oslang, his hood thrown back and his arms extended.
Ryath and the others followed him.
‘Do as they say, Ffyrst,’ Oslang cried, without turn-ing round. ‘I think we can give you a little time. But hurry!’
Urthryn’s hesitation vanished. ‘Signaller, sound retreat,’ he shouted.
‘Retreat, Ffyrst?’ the youth inquired uncertainly.
‘Retreat, boy!’ Urthryn thundered. ‘As you’ve never blown it.’
Shaken by his leader’s sudden anger, the boy’s mouth dried and made him falter with the first notes. From some hitherto unknown depth of patience, Urthryn found a nod and a strained smile of encour-agement for the boy, and the call to retreat eventually burst out of the curved horn, clear and determined.
‘Louder, lad,’ Urthryn whispered to himself, as the nature of the advancing blur in the distance began to become apparent. It was a great foaming wave.
As the strident horn call reached the ordered ranks on the beach there was confusion. Battle-ready and on the verge of facing their enemy, the sudden urgent call to retreat was not heard by some, doubted by most others, and blatantly ignored by a few.
Urthryn’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the hesitation. Then, suddenly, a powerful wind struck the watchers on the cliff. The signaller faltered again as his horse shied, but Yengar caught its reins and steadied it. ‘Keep blowing, boy,’ he shouted above the noise of the wind and increasing roar of the oncoming wave.
It seemed to Urthryn, as he watched, that the squad-rons below, still confused, were blundering and floundering with infinite slowness, and that the dreadful wave was lingering like some taunting hunting animal waiting its pleasure before launching its final, speeding, attack.
Everywhere was dominated by its distant thunder carried on the wind, but somewhere in the din he heard his own voice rising up to join with those around him in shouting fruitless encouragement to the riders below.
On the shore, Muster discipline was beginning to assert itself, aided in no small degree by the eerie silence that greeted the attack on the grounded ships. Arrows had flown over their sides and thudded into their capacious interiors, but not a sound had emerged. No cries of pain, or rage, or fear, no rattle of arms; nothing. And as more ships crunched into the shallows the silence seemed to deepen. The only sound that emerged from the ships was the flapping of their impotent sails in the sudden wind. It had a mocking quality about it.
Then the other sounds began to impinge on the riders; the desperate clamour behind them and, worse, the deep and ominous rumble rising out of the now spray-obscured sea like a massive cavalry charge.
‘Too late. Too late,’ Urthryn whispered to himself as the squadrons below began to wheel and turn to gallop up the beach. He saw through their eyes-they were much farther out than they had thought. It was a long way back to the village. His horse shifted restlessly underneath him, responding to his inner turmoil.
On the cliff edge, Oslang and the other Cadwanwr stood motionless, faces set in profound concentration. Suddenly, the wind faltered and the advancing wave rose and fumed as if it had struck some unseen barrier.
They are giving us time, Urthryn realized. Though how it was being achieved, he could not tell. Below, he saw the leading riders at last reaching the village and turning to head up the cliffs towards the sound of the horn.
Urthryn held his breath as the wave continued to be held by the unknown skills of the Cadwanwr. His riders were streaming off the shore. But the ramps and walkways up into the village were narrow and the great mass of riders were slowed virtually to a halt. For a moment Urthryn was almost overcome with emotion as he watched the impeccable discipline of the Muster holding. Fear and urgency surged up to him from the waiting riders, but no panic.
Then, one of the Cadwanwr sank slowly to his knees. The others ignored him. Another fell; heavily. Urthryn’s gaze moved from his riders to the fallen man. Without examination, he knew the man was dead. Whatever these men were doing it was taking some grim toll. A third faltered, his folding body feeling to Urthryn like the curling finger of a cold hand closing about his stomach.
‘Hold, Oslang!’ he shouted. ‘Hold!’
Below, a great black mass of riders oozed slowly towards the constricting exits from the beach.
‘Hold, Oslang!’ he whispered.
But he could see that all the Cadwanwr were nearly spent. Not from their actions, for they stood as silent and stern as before, but from the beached ships now being lifted by the nearing tide, and beginning to jostle one another like a crowd of excited children at a party.
Then the rest of the Cadwanwr yielded, slowly and painfully. Oslang was the last. He alone remained standing at the end, though he staggered back, ex-hausted. Urthryn leaned forward in his saddle, and caught him. Oslang looked up at him, his face full of a great weariness and a terrible remorse and grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said faintly. Urthryn put a protective arm round him and held him firmly against the horse for support and comfort.
Looking up, Urthryn confirmed the scene that he knew would be unfolding. The wave was moving forward again. Even from above, its size and speed were terrifying. The colourful ships were jigging and rolling in anticipation. Immediately below him, the dark crowd of riders became darker as instinctively they urged their horses forward to reach the safety of the higher ground.
Abruptly, the horn call stopped and the signaller, overcome by his exertions and by the now obvious futility of his actions, let the instrument slip from his hands as his head slumped forward. He was sobbing.
The shouting crowd lining the cliff tops fell silent too as, gathering up the bobbing ships, the wave reached its destination and, crashing over the crowded Muster squadrons, roared angrily up the cliff face as if it would not be sated unless it overwhelmed even the high watchers.
Urthryn watched in empty helplessness as, in sec-onds, thousands of his charges were destroyed. Some were crushed in the great rolling melee of men and horses, some were smashed against the rocks, or by the empty, charging ships; others were drowned as they were towed out to sea by the retreating wave, and some were suffocated in the clinging sand made suddenly soft and quick.
Yet, it transpired, there were miraculous escapes also. A father and son, swept up on to a narrow rocky ledge, a woman who awoke bruised and shaken to find herself in one of the empty Morlider ships. And many others found themselves thrust to the surface where they could swim ashore or cling to debris until the villagers, manning such boats as were undamaged, were able to rescue them.
Despite his agony, some reflex of leadership galva-nized Urthryn even as the wave was foaming around the foot of the cliff. ‘Yengar, Olvric, help the Cadwanwr,’ he shouted, then shaking the signaller had him blow, ‘Stand Firm’. If all the riders present descended on the beach in impromptu rescue missions, who knew what further harm might ensue in the crush?
As Urthryn turned and galloped off down the cliff path to take personal command of the rescue, Oslang reached out and took Yengar’s arm to steady himself. ‘Ryath,’ he said, none too gently prodding his prostrate friend with his foot. ‘Ryath, get up. We must still the water before it retreats too far and returns again. Get up! And we must find Creost and the islands before they move beyond us.
Olvric and Yengar exchanged a glance. ‘Find the islands first, then still the water, Oslang,’ Olvric said. ‘We need to know whether to move north or south. Riddin is defenceless while we wait here. The Morlider may be landing and moving against us at this very moment.’