Hawklan stood at the entrance to his tent and looked up at the grey sky. It seemed to be strangely oppressive and the air around him felt as though a summer storm were pending.
Andawyr joined him.
‘Shut the door,’ came Dar-volci’s deep voice from within the tent.
Hawklan glanced back through the opening. Dar-volci was curled up in front of a small fire of radiant stones and Gavor was asleep with his claw clutching the back of a chair.
He sealed the flap and pulled his cloak about him-self.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
Hawklan shrugged. ‘The weather,’ he said looking around. ‘It’s still snowing, but it feels like a thunder-storm building up.’ He shook his head. ‘And my ears are ringing.’
Andawyr looked puzzled. ‘It feels odd for sure,’ he said. ‘But I can’t hear anything.’
‘It’s rather like the song of the Viladrien,’ Hawklan said tentatively. ‘But… harsher in some way.’
Andawyr looked up at the featureless sky and shrugged. ‘It probably is a thunderstorm building up, as you say. I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Then, taking Hawklan’s arm, he said, ‘It’s very peaceful. Let’s walk.’
And peaceful it was. The two men walked slowly down the ranks of snow-covered tents, largely silent except for the occasional muffled conversation and the odd individual pursuing some duty.
‘This weather’s opportune,’ Hawklan said. ‘It keeps us as well hidden as we can expect in the absence of any convenient forest.’
He rubbed his arms uncertainly.
‘What are we going to do?’ Andawyr said abruptly.
Hawklan stopped and turned around. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a moment. ‘But we haven’t much time. They’re not showing any signs of moving out, but they’re growing in strength daily; we’ve only got limited supplies and now that we’re rested a little we’re likely to have a morale problem.’
‘And we’ve no idea what’s happening in the south.’ Andawyr completed the list.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘Nor are we likely to have for several days, even if Agreth doesn’t run into any difficulties.’
Hawklan looked at the sky again. ‘Something’s hap-pening up there,’ he said.
Andawyr followed his gaze, but the snowflakes fal-ling towards him, dark against the greyness, told him nothing. Casually he took hold of the cord around his waist.
‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘It’s been going on for some time. Someone somewhere is using the Old Power. But it’s a long way away.
Hawklan looked at him anxiously. ‘Creost?’ he said.
Andawyr shook his head and cast a knowing glance upwards.
‘Dar Hastuin?’ Hawklan said, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
Andawyr hesitated. ‘I can think of no other,’ he said. ‘The Power’s being used for no good, that I can tell. And it seems to be… up there. But it’s way beyond anything we can influence.’
The memory of Ynar Aesgin’s pain and fear re-turned to Hawklan, but further discussion was ended by the appearance of Gavor. He landed on Hawklan’s shoulder and shook the snow from his feathers. ‘Jaldaric and Athyr have just got back,’ he said. ‘They want to see you right away.’
The two Helyadin, still wearing their white camou-flage, were pacing up and down outside Hawklan’s tent when he and Andawyr returned.
‘What’s happened?’ he said, motioning them inside.
‘They’ve started to send out foot patrols,’ Athyr said, loosening his coat and throwing his hood back. ‘They nearly spotted us.’
‘It’s about time,’ Hawklan said, then, anxiously, ‘What about Tirke and Yrain?’
‘They should be all right if they keep their wits about them,’ said Athyr. ‘But I don’t think they’ll be able to move until nightfall.’
‘Gavor, find Loman and Isloman will you?’ Hawklan said. ‘Ask them to come here straight away.’
‘And Dacu, dear boy,’ Gavor added.
‘And Dacu,’ Hawklan confirmed.
Within minutes, the bulk of the two brothers was filling the small tent. When Dacu arrived, Dar-volci reluctantly yielded his place at the fireside and clam-bered on to Andawyr’s lap.
‘Decision time I think,’ Hawklan said when Athyr had given his news to the new arrivals. ‘Presumably it’s only a matter of time before they find us if they’re sending out patrols, and we can’t lose the one advantage we have-surprise.’
No one disagreed, though the atmosphere in the tent seemed to become suddenly heavy.
Dacu crouched down and stared into the small fire.
‘When shall we attack?’ he said.
‘Unless Tirke and Yrain tell us something different when they get back, we’ll have to make the first raid tonight,’ Hawklan said, without pause. ‘And be ready for a major encounter tomorrow or perhaps the day after.’
Dacu closed his eyes. ‘With no cavalry worth speak-ing of,’ he said.
Hawklan nodded. ‘But such as we have is better than theirs,’ he said. ‘And they’ve almost certainly been training to face cavalry and not infantry.’ He waved the conjectures aside. ‘It’s of no importance anyway. We’re going to face the reality of it all soon enough, and our people are as well prepared as they can be.’ He looked around the tent. ‘Does anyone want to change any of the battle plan?’ he asked. Dacu smiled wryly. ‘Other than to march back to Orthlund,’ Hawklan added in reply to the unspoken suggestion.
But the mirth could not survive in the stultifying atmosphere of the tent. ‘Come on,’ Hawklan said understandingly. ‘We’ve no choice, you know that. There’s nowhere we can hide or seriously disguise our numbers out here, and if they find us they’ll move out to meet us and against such numbers we’ll have a real problem on our hands. Added to which we’re going to start running into serious supply problems very soon.’
He looked round at his friends again. All, except Dacu, were looking at him. The focus of all their attention, he felt a great loneliness rise up inside him like a black, engulfing shadow. The familiar, terrible images that had so often returned to haunt him, images of war and defeat in a long gone time, came with the darkness and, for a moment, it seemed that the tent and the waiting people were receding into an unreal distance.
But his mind would not allow it. He rested high on the shoulders of these people, like a mountain peak on its broad base, yet, paradoxically, he alone must support their entire weight now. He knew that if he faltered then all would fall. Many things may sway a battle, but the resolution of an army was paramount and this was merely a measure of the resolution of its leader. Wilfully he looked into the ancient darkness and then scattered it with the light of his twenty years at Anderras Darion. Whatever the Morlider had been, they were His creatures now. They must be defeated utterly; crushed. The only choice that he, Hawklan, could give them was flight or death.
The atmosphere in the tent changed palpably. An-dawyr inclined his head and looked at Hawklan narrowly. Dacu turned from the fire as if someone had spoken to him.
Hawklan stood up. His presence was suddenly al-most frightening and, despite the softness of his voice, everyone in the tent held their breath.
‘Dacu.’ The Goraidin stood up. ‘Extend our perime-ter guards and double your observation patrols. We need to know exactly where they are at all times if they’re going to move about. If any come near this camp, destroy them totally. Act on your own initiative if Tirke and Yrain run into difficulty, but jeopardize nothing, you understand?’ Dacu nodded and turned to leave.
‘Loman,’ Hawklan continued. ‘Rouse the company commanders. Tell them what’s happened and issue the battle orders. Isloman, Athyr, get your group ready to move tonight. We’ll meet in the command tent and go through the final details at sunset or whenever Tirke and Yrain get back.’
As Dacu and the others were leaving, a sentry ap-peared outside the tent escorting a slouching figure wearing a bedraggled and over-sized fur coat, and carrying a large pack.
‘What’s this?’ Hawklan asked, looking at the vision with some amusement.
‘It just wandered in from the north and asked for Andawyr,’ replied the sentry.
Hearing his name, the little Cadwanwr stepped for-ward, setting aside Hawklan’s cautionary hand. He peered into the deep hood. The figure extended its arms, and two gloved hands eventually appeared from the long sleeves of the coat.
‘Atelon?’ Andawyr said in a mixture of delight and concern. The hands flicked back the figure’s hood to reveal the tired but smiling face of the young Cadwanwr.
Andawyr embraced him and then ushered him quickly into Hawklan’s tent.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, removing the young man’s snow-clogged coat busily. He stepped outside before Atelon could answer and Hawklan could hear the coat being shaken vigorously. Atelon gave him a nervous smile and Hawklan introduced himself. The Cadwanwr looked at him uncertainly as he took the offered hand and gave his own name.
‘Sit down,’ Hawklan said. ‘You look very tired.’
The young man needed little bidding and he was warming himself in front of the radiant stones when Andawyr returned.
‘What are you doing here?’ Andawyr repeated, sit-ting down beside him.
Atelon looked mildly surprised. ‘The felci brought your message,’ he answered. ‘We didn’t know what to think. Oslang had sent the Muster to take us down south when the Morlider islands appeared.’ He cast a glance at the seemingly sleeping Dar-volci and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And the felci have been behaving most peculiarly lately. Rambling on about the Alphraan, and opening the ways… all sorts of things. We didn’t know what to make of it. But they were adamant about what you’d said. The Morlider were landing in the north-here. And the Orthlundyn were coming. So, in the end we decided we’d better find out. It was all we could do.’
Andawyr nodded and patted his arm. His face was concerned. ‘We?’ he said. ‘Where are the others?’
‘There was only Philean and Hath left, of the Senior Brothers,’ Atelon said. ‘And they’re far too old for such journeying. I was the only one who could possibly… ’ He stopped; Andawyr was gaping.
‘Only Philean and Hath and you!’ he said, his voice rising. ‘How many went south?’
Atelon gesticulated vaguely. ‘All the senior brothers who were still there, except we three,’ he replied. ‘But most of the students and junior brothers are still at the Caves,’ he added reassuringly.
Andawyr stood up. ‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked. The Cadwanwr frowned a little. ‘The Caves are vulnerable,’ he said.
‘All the defences are sound,’ Atelon said, a little reproachfully. ‘And the seals to the lower levels. We checked them thoroughly before I left.’ He met An-dawyr’s gaze. ‘The Pass has been as quiet as ever since we put the watch stones out. And while Philean and Hath mightn’t be up to a winter hike they’re… ’
Andawyr raised his hand. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve done everything that was necessary. It’s just that your news startled me. It’s a long time since the Caves have been so empty.’ He managed a forced smile. ‘But it’s good to see you. To be honest, I had my doubts about whether the message would even arrive and I didn’t seriously think that anyone would venture out in this weather if it did. I’m indebted to you.’
Atelon returned the smile, but his face too was con-cerned. ‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘Have the Morlider come north as well as south?’
Hawklan interrupted. ‘Take him to your tent, An-dawyr,’ he said, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder and easing a little of the strain and fatigue he felt there. ‘Tell him what’s been happening while he eats, and then let him have a rest. He might be needed soon.’
As the two Cadwanwr strolled through the falling snow, with Dar-volci loping along behind, the camp was coming alive. Well-wrapped figures were moving purposefully hither and thither through the greyness as Hawklan’s battle orders began to be implemented. Atelon kept glancing upwards nervously.
‘He’s a strange man, Hawklan,’ Atelon said. ‘Very powerful. More even than I’d imagined from your description of him.’
Andawyr nodded. ‘He’s changed,’ he said. ‘Very much changed. And you’ve caught him at a… crucial moment. But I’ll tell you about that shortly. Tell me about your journey.’ He looked at the young Cadwanwr solemnly. ‘It was hardly an act of wisdom to venture out on your own in these conditions.’
Atelon shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much fun,’ he conceded. ‘And I got lost a few times. I know this area a little but I’d forgotten how the snow changes the countryside. That sentry frightened me to death appearing out of nowhere, but I’ll admit I was glad to hear that Orthlundyn accent when he challenged me… ’ He glanced upwards again.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
Atelon looked awkward. ‘I thought it was because I was tired,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But it’s still there, coming and going, and not pleasant.’
‘What is?’ Andawyr persisted.
‘The Old Power,’ Atelon said, rather hastily, as if to get an anticipated reproof over with quickly. ‘I think. No, I’m sure it is. It’s faint and distant and… ’ He extended a finger upwards. ‘It’s… up there… but… ’
Andawyr did not let him continue. ‘Did you use the Old Power yourself to get through your journey?’ he asked.
Atelon shook his head. ‘No. Except once, a little, to light some bad radiant stones-I’m sure they’d been baked you know,’ he said with mild indignation. Dar-volci cleared his throat conspicuously but Andawyr said nothing, and Atelon returned to his answer. ‘I’d no idea what I was walking into. I didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone-anything-I couldn’t cope with. Especially after I began to feel that.’ He looked upwards again.
‘Sound judgement there, anyway,’ Andawyr said approvingly. ‘That,’-he imitated the young Cadwanwr’s gesture-‘is Dar Hastuin.’
Atelon’s eyes widened in fear and, unconsciously, he cowered a little as if to avoid the attention of the sinister presence far above him.
‘Viladrien are nearby,’ Andawyr went on. ‘And from what Hawklan’s told me I suspect some battle’s afoot up there which may be as vital to us as anything that’s happening down here.’
‘Viladrien?’ Atelon said in amazement. ‘And fight-ing?’
Andawyr nodded, but did not amplify his remarks.
‘What can we do?’ Atelon said after a moment, rather from want of something to say than anxiety for an answer.
‘Nothing,’ Andawyr replied, shaking his head. ‘Ex-cept hope, and be aware.’
He stopped at a tent and unsealed the entrance. Dar-volci scuttled in and headed for the radiant stones. ‘Here’s my tent,’ Andawyr said. ‘Let’s obey our leader’s orders and talk while you eat and rest.’
When Andawyr and Atelon left his tent, Hawklan threw on his cloak and, gesturing Gavor on to his shoulder, strode out into the snow.
Until the time of his meeting with Isloman and Athyr, he knew that he must wander the camp, talking, laughing, encouraging, commiserating, but, above all, quietly inspiring the Orthlundyn army-his army-with the deep resolution that alone could bring it against the superior numbers of the Morlider with any chance of success.
His pilgrimage took him through tent after tent, each standing dark and sullen in the fading winter light but inside glowing with subdued torchlight and filled with men and women, honing edges, testing bow strings, checking shields, armour, belts and buckles. Some were quiet and thoughtful, others were talking more loudly than usual and laughing too easily. But few needed his words. The Orthlundyn know what they face and what they need to meet it, he realized. It heartened him. Who supports whom? he thought. Perhaps, after all, he was no more than one man in the Orthlundyn army.
The camp’s small administrative centre was frantic with activity, as were the stores, and a mere glance told him he was not needed in either place. The kitchens were pursuing their normal routines uncertainly, but there he could be of no help anyway.
Only towards the end of his brief journey did he feel his resolve tested: twice.
As he entered the hospital tent, the two duty healers rose to greet him. They were smiling, but a subtle reproach hung in the air. How can you be both healer and warrior, Hawklan? it said. You know the scenes that will be enacted here soon, as smashed and broken bodies are dragged in from the battlefield in hope of repair or solace, or at worst, an easier death; bodies that have walked and run, slept, eaten, loved. And followed you.
There was no answer other than that he and those with him were there by choice and knowing at least some of the truth.
It offered little comfort.
He placed his arms around the shoulders of the two women. ‘Don’t be afraid of your anger,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it to mend some of the ills that you’ll see soon. Use it.’
Leaving the hospital tent he wandered absently for a few minutes before finding himself by the stables. Someone inside was singing softly. Entering, he saw that the singer was a lanky youth grooming one of the horses. At the sound of Hawklan’s footsteps in the straw the youth turned and, recognizing him, smiled awk-wardly.
But as their eyes met the youth looked away sud-denly.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
The youth’s hand fidgeted with the grooming brush, then, suddenly he said. ‘I’m frightened, Hawklan.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan replied, almost automatically. ‘Your fear will help keep you alive.’
The youth looked at him suspiciously. He put down the brush gently on a nearby stool and twisted from side to side, his whole body denying Hawklan’s words.
‘It’s not the same, Hawklan,’ he said fearfully. ‘Not the same as training and talking at home.’ Then, abruptly, ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said. ‘Or be… maimed. And I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t think I can. I… don’t want to be here… freezing, frightened and days from home.’
The brief flow stopped and the youth turned round and began to stroke one of the horses nervously. Hawklan looked at him, his own conscience made flesh.
‘You’re not alone in that,’ he said quietly, after a pause. ‘What else are you frightened of?’
The youth turned back to Hawklan sharply, oddly unbalanced by the question. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ he said.
‘Speak all your fears,’ Hawklan said, ignoring the question.
For a long moment the youth stared at him, then he seemed to become more composed. ‘I don’t want to see my friends killed,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be responsi-ble for their deaths. Suppose I… fail them in some way; slip, stumble, forget a drill when I’m in the line and break it… ’
Hawklan looked down. Something in the youth’s manner touched him deeply. These last remarks were only a hastily snatched garment to cover the naked truth of the previous outburst. But it did not matter. The youth’s fear taunted him. He had many skills he could use to lift the morale of his people when it proved necessary; skills that would ease burdens and carry the bearer boldly into battle. But now they had a hollow ring to them; Hawklan recognized the mocking residue of their original creator’s teaching.
Here he could use none of them.
Reaching out, he stroked the horse as the youth had been doing. ‘You won’t,’ he said simply. ‘Will you?’ It was all he could offer.
Leaving the stable, Hawklan continued on to the command tent. Tirke and Yrain were there with Isloman and Athyr, poring over a plan of the Morlider camp. Both radiated a mixture of relief and exhilaration at their first silent encounter with the enemy. Their mood lifted some of the darkness from Hawklan that his encounter with the youth had left. He smiled and as he had with the healers, laid a hand on the shoulder of each as a token of welcome and understanding.
Yrain was marking on the plan the extent of the latest fortifications. Hawklan looked over her shoulder.
‘They’re nearly completed,’ he said unnecessarily when she had finished.
Isloman ran his finger over the plan. ‘Apart from this uncompleted end here, there are four openings,’ he said. ‘None of which is gated so far. The ground’s well compacted by now. We should be able to get in and out quickly in the confusion.’
Hawklan frowned uncertainly.
‘They’re not expecting anything,’ Isloman went on persuasively. ‘They’ve still not got guards out. They haven’t had any all the time we’ve been watching them.’
Hawklan nodded, and tapped his finger on the plan thoughtfully. ‘This uncompleted end is cluttered with tents and stores of some kind,’ he said. ‘Access is out of the question there. Then these gaps are a long way apart and none too wide. And for all they’ve no guards that we can see, we’ve no idea how quickly they’ll respond once things start to happen. You could find yourselves trapped in there and our hit and run attack could easily turn into a slaughter.’
The entrance of the command tent opened to admit Dacu and Loman.
Hawklan turned to Yrain. ‘Tell me about these pa-trols,’ he said. ‘Size, number, uniforms… ’ There was a little laughter at this last. The Morlider might perhaps be united in spirit and intent but they were as individu-ally and eccentrically dressed as could be imagined.
‘Single patrols, about twenty men strong, uniforms-well-wrapped, but casual,’ Yrain replied. ‘So far they’ve come out at irregular intervals and they seem to be following different routes. I think they’re just finding their way around.’
Hawklan thought for a moment. ‘Is there a patrol out now?’
Yrain nodded.
‘It’ll be dark when it returns?’ Hawklan continued.
Yrain nodded again.
Pitch-soaked torches burned smokily along the wooden palisade, throwing uneasy dancing shadows on to the nearby line of tents. Near to one of the four gaps in the long defensive paling a large fire burned. Four figures crouched around it. The sound of waves breaking over the shore in the near distance formed a constant bass harmony to their conversation.
‘What’s he doing down there any way?’ said one irritably. ‘Why’ve we all got to sit up here freezing our backsides in the snow while he and his fancy guards swan around down south somewhere.’
His neighbour kicked him, none too gently. ‘Shut up, you blockhead,’ he said, looking around anxiously. ‘This place is full of those big-eared Vierlanders, and a comment like that could see you discussing your complaint with him face to face.’
The first speaker rubbed his leg and made a dispar-aging noise. ‘So what?’ he muttered.
His companion looked round hastily then seized him roughly and pulled him forward. ‘I’ll tell you so-what, fish-brain,’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘He’ll boil your blood in your veins with a look, that’s what. I’ve seen him do it.’ He shuddered and released his charge. ‘Personally I don’t give a crab’s fart about that, but he’s liable to do it to us as well for not skewering you on the spot. Now shut up.’
Chastened, the first speaker stirred the fire with his foot. A shower of sparks rose up through the falling snow.
‘I meant no disrespect,’ he said awkwardly and more as if for the benefit of any listeners in the darkness around the fire than out of genuine regret. ‘But I came to kill Riddinvolk, not sit shivering behind a wooden fence at the top end of nowhere.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for killing, don’t you fret,’ replied another, older than most of the others. He drew a long knife and turned it over longingly. ‘The Chief knows what he’s doing. That’s why we’ve got decent tents, clothes, food; so that we can wait. Not like last time. Men’s feet and hands turning black. Dying screaming in the night, or worse, just going… quiet… and lying down in the snow waiting to die. Trying to fight those damned horse riders and those poxed inlanders from over the mountains with your hands too cold to feel your sword; the chiefs quarrelling like old women and everyone fretting in case the islands moved off along the ways too soon.’
He spat into the fire and bared his teeth. The fire-light bounced menacingly off his twisting knife. ‘None of that this time. This time we take this land.’ He paused and nodded reflectively. ‘I’ve some rare scores to settle I can tell you, and I intend to enjoy them. I’ve waited twenty years-a little longer’s neither here nor there.’
Any further debate was precluded by the arrival through the opening of a group of men heavily muffled and hooded in furs.
The man with the knife looked up. ‘About time,’ he said unpleasantly. ‘Where the devil have you been? We’ve been freezing to death waiting for you.’
The new arrivals moved towards the fire eagerly, with much hand rubbing and foot stamping. The man watched them as they approached, then he leaned forward a little, his eyes narrowed, trying to peer into the darkness of the leader’s hood.
Suddenly his hand curled around the handle of his knife and he started to rise. ‘You’re not… ’
Before he could finish, a sword emerged from the leader’s fur coat and ran him through. There was not a flicker of hesitation in the deed, nor in the hand that shot out to silence any cry he might make. Before his knife had tumbled onto the snow, others from the group had killed the remaining three guards with the same ruthless expedition.
‘Guards after all,’ Athyr said. ‘I hope the others are all right.’ He looked down at the dead men. ‘Still, first and last duty for this lot. Prop them up quickly and gather round as if you’re warming yourselves.’ He wiped his sword on the dead man’s coat and looked at Tirke. ‘See what’s happened to the others,’ he said.
The young Fyordyn hesitated. The blood-stained sword in his hand was shaking.
‘Tirke!’ Athyr hissed angrily.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tirke said starting. ‘When I pulled my sword out, his… ’
‘Later.’ Athyr’s voice was both understanding and grimly unequivocal. ‘You did well. You killed him before he knew what was happening, quickly and quietly; that’s all that matters here. Keep it that way and we’ll get back to camp safely.’
Tirke nodded awkwardly. ‘By numbers,’ he said.
Athyr patted him on the arm. ‘By numbers,’ he con-firmed. ‘Now, signal.’
Tirke ran to the palisade and looked up and down its length intently. Producing a small signalling torch he sent a brief message in both directions.
The Morlider patrol had been ambushed and groups of Helyadin, suitably disguised, had arrived simultane-ously at all four entrances in an attempt to ensure deep and silent penetration into the camp. Hawklan had told them to prepare for guards, but nonetheless they had been an unpleasant surprise.
‘Groups one and three are all right,’ he said, return-ing to Athyr.’ But group four’s met some resistance.’
Even as he spoke the faint sound of raised voices in the distance reached them. The entire group stood motionless and silent. The commotion mingled with the sound of the sea but showed no immediate signs of stopping.
Athyr ran through the anticipated options quickly. Three groups into the camp without disturbance was one of the better ones. Isloman’s group would now act as diversion by holding for as long as they could before retreating.
‘Three are going in a hundred paces,’ Tirke said.
Athyr nodded. ‘We’ll go a hundred and fifty, tell one to go two hundred at their discretion.’
Tirke sent the message and then, without speaking, the group set off towards the sound of the breaking waves. They made no effort to quieten their footsteps, knowing that to the sleeping army around them a stealthy footfall would ring like a clarion call while the crunching indifference of their passing comrades would warrant no more than a mumbled oath.
The group encountered only two solitary wanderers and both met the same sudden and cruel fate as those at the gate.
Occasionally the distant sounds of Isloman’s en-counter drifted to them over the sound of the surf.
As they walked over the frozen sand and snow, churned up by the traffic of the camp, Athyr found flickering fireflies of sympathy beginning to dance in his mind. The layout of the camp was a bizarre mixture of imposed order and personal idiosyncrasy; all the tents were different and, for the most part, crudely made out of animal skins and various fabrics. Pitch torches and the remains of camp fires glowed and guttered every-where. Athyr could not avoid feeling the personal endeavour and the fulfilment of modest skills that radiated from these details and his carver’s soul could do no other than respond in some degree. He tried to scatter the thoughts, but they reformed. These people were trapped in and by their own ignorance, he saw. Blazing torches for light! Open wood fires for heat! Presumably they had the same inside their tents; tents that would let that meagre heat escape into the winter night with scarcely any hindrance; they had no concep-tion of collection, or re-use; small things, but they typified the state of these benighted, misled people. They knew so very very little… it was tragic that…
His foot caught an extended guy rope and only the quick response of his neighbour prevented him from sprawling headlong.
Athyr nodded his thanks and cursed himself darkly for a fool. Whatever had made the Morlider into what they were, they were what they were and, misled or no, they were numerous, dangerous, and more than capable of over-running the Orthlundyn army if they were given the opportunity. More urgently, they could destroy this tiny infiltrating force if they were roused by some such further act of carelessness. The Morlider could not now be retrieved by knowledge, especially as they had been welded into some semblance of a whole by Creost. That salvation might await them some other day, but…
One hundred and fifty.
His training and his wiser instincts cut across his thoughts. This was far enough. The intermittent noise of the distant fighting had faded; Isloman must have done what he could and retreated. Would the Morlider rouse the whole camp, or would Isloman have been able to preoccupy them with the lure of pursuit?
Conjecture was irrelevant.
‘Time to go,’ Athyr hand-signalled to his group. ‘You know what to do. Keep to your pairs, keep quiet, keep moving, and cut down anyone who gets in the way.’
The group spread out silently.
Athyr reached into his pouch and withdrew one of the specially prepared radiant stones. He placed it on the ground against the wall of a tent then, nervously and with a well extended arm, he struck it. Almost immedi-ately it glowed a dark sinister red and he stepped back hastily. Quickly he moved to the next tent.
In a few seconds the stone would begin to release its stored energy; not in a steady hearth-warming flow, but in a great uncontrollable surge of heat that would continue for many minutes. In addition to his concern at being in the heart of the enemy’s camp, Athyr’s nervousness was aggravated by the fact that once struck, such stones were unstable and there was no indication how long it would be before this release occurred.
He was crouching down striking a fourth as the first one began to fire. He paused momentarily to watch it and suddenly a blow sent him sprawling. As he fell, the stone he had struck blazed up dazzlingly in front of him.
Momentarily blinded he rolled away from the heat, eyes closed. When he opened them he saw a blurred figure silhouetted against the glaring light. It was bending over him, arm extended. Reflexively Athyr tightened his grip on his striker to use it as a dagger against this assailant but, with unexpected speed, a foot pinned his wrist onto the frozen snow-filled sand.
‘It’s me!’ the figure hissed, its voice a mixture of alarm and exasperation. ‘I had to knock you away, you weren’t looking and your stone was going. Get up for pity’s sake!’
It was Tirke. The foot released Athyr’s arm and he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. Tirke was looking at him anxiously and was about to speak.
Athyr forestalled him. ‘Come on,’ he said urgently, seizing his arm. He had recovered most of his compo-sure as soon as he had recognized Tirke’s voice but his heart was beating at a rate that he knew would not now diminish until he was clear of the Morlider camp.
Against the background of growing flames and mounting clamour, the Helyadin moved silently and swiftly between the crooked rows of tents, leaving the glowing red stones that would spread that clamour even further.
As they neared the palisade and the unguarded opening, a man came running towards them, sword in hand.
‘The Gate watch have all been killed,’ he said, a murderous fury in his voice. ‘Those stinking horse riders must be in the camp.’
Athyr gripped his sword under his fur coat but be-fore he could strike, three more armed figures came running in the same direction. Too many and too angry to kill either quickly or quietly. He had to get his group out urgently now.
He gesticulated frantically towards the sea. ‘The ships! The ships! Fire!’ he gasped hoarsely, as if he had been running desperately.
The words could not have been better chosen. The merest glance at the flickering skyline galvanized the four men who ran off shouting and banging tent ropes as they passed.
Athyr and Tirke ran on desperately until they reached the fire by the opening in the palisade. Two of the dead guards had tumbled over, and were staring upwards wide-eyed into the still falling snow. Tirke paused as he passed by, then wiping his hands down his sides as if they were dirty he moved to join Athyr who had slipped through the opening and was waiting in the shade beyond.
Four figures emerged from between the nearby tents, their rapid stealth identifying them as Helyadin. Athyr stepped forward and ushered them through the opening. They vanished into the darkness.
Almost immediately, others appeared. Athyr dis-missed them after their companions. Tirke found himself examining faces and counting, just as he knew Athyr would be. So near the end of this mission he found his fear rising almost uncontrollably. Four more left! Come on! Come on! Yet Athyr seemed quite calm.
The din in the camp was now considerable and there were signs of waking activity in the nearby tents. Shadowy figures were emerging everywhere.
Where in Sumeral’s name are you?
Tirke’s agonized but silent question was answered by angry voices and the clash of arms nearby. Athyr ran towards the sound and, without thinking, Tirke followed him. As they reached the aisle from which the noise had come, two figures emerged, one supporting the other. Behind them two others were walking backwards holding their swords double-handed and keeping a group of about six hesitant Morlider at bay. In the gloom beyond them, Tirke thought he saw two figures sprawled on the ground. That would account for the Morlider’s caution.
Athyr seized the free arm of the injured man and lifted it around his shoulder.
‘Run,’ he shouted unnecessarily, to his fellow bearer.
Tirke joined the two men forming the rearguard. Abruptly three of the Morlider disappeared behind a tent.
‘Watch your flanks,’ one of the Helyadin cried, fol-lowed immediately by the cry, ‘Run for it.’
Tirke and the other Helyadin needed no such in-junction and, turning, they dashed for the opening. A figure came briefly into the edge of Tirke’s vision and he lashed out at it wildly with his sword. The sword made contact with something and there was a cry of pain. Tirke did not pause in his flight; he suddenly had the impression that the entire Morlider army was being drawn towards him personally.
Outside the palisade, the ground sloped upwards slightly and the snow became increasingly deep, making both flight and chase awkward and lumbering. However, unburdened by any injured companions, the Morlider soon caught up with the retreating group. There was a brief untidy skirmish which left two Morlider bleeding and groaning in the snow, before they in their turn withdrew a little to surround the Helyadin comfortably beyond sword’s length.
Rather to his surprise, Tirke saw that there were in fact only about a dozen or so, and that not all were armed.
Without command, the Helyadin formed a circle.
‘Tend to your ships, Morlider,’ Athyr shouted, wav-ing his sword towards the now roaring flames, but the lure did not have the effect it had had before.
Instead, one of the Morlider threw a small axe. Its blade glittered briefly in the flickering light, and somehow, Athyr managed to strike it with his sword and destroy most of its momentum. It travelled on, however, to catch Tirke a glancing blow on the shoulder. The impact made him stagger forward and two or three of the Morlider started towards him. The pain of the blow broke through Tirke’s fear and released a darker creature. As he recovered his balance he took one hand from his sword hilt and drew a long knife. The attackers faltered, though it was as much the look on his face as the extra blade that made them hesitate.
Athyr glanced towards the camp. More Morlider were emerging; delay would be fatal. He hitched his injured companion into a more comfortable position then, speaking in the battle language, said, ‘Into the darkness.’
Abruptly the five men and their burden were run-ning through the hindering snow. The surrounding circle burst open as, surprised by Athyr’s alien com-mand and this unexpected charge, the Morlider scattered to avoid the slashing blades of the Helyadin. The surprise was only momentary, however, and a grim pursuit began again in earnest as yet more Morlider poured out of the camp.
Rage and terror mingled equally in Tirke as, gasping for breath, he forced his legs high to carry him through the deep snow and tried to keep near his companions in the deepening darkness that lay beyond the reach of the light from the blazing camp.
Very soon, however, he fell, almost bringing down a close pursuer. Turning as he fell he felt rather than saw a descending weapon. Some reflex twisted him from its path and he let out a startled cry. Loman gaped. It wasn’t possible. The column was here already?
As his attacker raised his weapon for a second blow, Tirke lashed out at him wildly with his sword. The blade raked across the man’s thighs and Tirke felt it scraping along bone. He looked at Hreldar’s Guards. They would take a toll, but they were very few, even in this narrow part of the valley. This was going to be bad if the reinforce-ments didn’t arrive soon.
He had a sudden vision of Loman patiently and caringly teaching him how to use a sharpening stone. The Morlider gave an agonized cry and hurled himself backwards in a frenzied and belated attempt to avoid his terrible injury. He motioned Atelon to follow him then drew his sword and rode forward. Hreldar galloped across to join them.
Tirke saw him rolling away frantically, still scream-ing, but he had little time to assimilate this scene, as he could also see Morlider closing in on him from all sides. He had a fleeting impression of his companions similarly assailed. As they reached the small line of pikemen and arch-ers there was another whistle from above and abruptly the column came into sight.
A blow from somewhere knocked the sword from his hand and he swung his knife in the general direction of this attack. He sensed a pair of legs leaping away, but in front of him appeared a looming figure lifting a spear high for a blow that must surely pass through him as easily as through the snow beneath him. It was cavalry, and moving fast.
In the instant that it took for the spear to reach its zenith, Tirke felt his body futilely bracing itself for the dreadful impact, and the welling up of a great surge of cringing terror inside him. Yet even as the terror took shape, another emotion rose up and twined around it like a strangling serpent; a consuming fury, blazing from who could say what fire in his soul. Somehow he would kill this man even as he died. The pikes came down and the archers drew their bows.
This resolve had scarcely begun to reach his hand when the shadow of his doom went staggering back-wards violently. The man took several flailing, unsteady paces and then crashed to the ground. Against the light of the blazing camp, Tirke saw him struggling to pull an arrow from his chest. After a moment he became still, though the arrow still swayed from side to side a little. Loman peered into the darkening light, his Orthlundyn sight searching desperately into the approaching mass.
Then Tirke realized that he was also watching the other Morlider running away. Suddenly he urged his horse forward.
He struggled into a sitting position and looked be-hind him. As he did so, a long row of swaying lights appeared in the blackness; the second phase of the attack on the camp was beginning. ‘Put up your weapons!’ he shouted to the Guards. ‘Put up your weapons! It’s Fyndal and the others with the Muster.’
Relief almost as powerful as his terror overwhelmed him briefly and he found his legs were shaking violently as he staggered to his feet. Later, as the senior officers of the various armies gathered in one of the spartan rooms of the tower fortress, Loman found himself the butt of some considerable banter.
Suddenly he was with his companions and there were horses all around. Someone was carrying the injured man away and hands were reaching down to help the others. ‘A rare welcome, Orthlundyn,’ Urthryn said, laugh-ing as he settled into his chair. ‘We ride down the Pass of Elewart and all through southern Narsindal unhin-dered, to be greeted by our allies with archers and pikemen.’
‘Come on, Tirke,’ a voice said. ‘Shift yourself, you’re frightening the horses standing gaping like that.’ Loman raised his hands. ‘You have my surrender, Ffyrst,’ he announced. ‘But I’ll not apologize again. I’ve been doing it since you arrived. I see now that this is a barrack-room version of your Helangai; dragging the hapless defeated about from rider to rider.’
It was Jaldaric. Tirke looked at him vacantly for a moment and then, taking his proffered hand, swung up behind him clumsily. Urthryn laughed again, and slapped his legs. Loman saw Sylvriss’s features written in her father’s.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, as Jaldaric clicked to the horse. ‘Peace, then, Loman,’ Urthryn said. ‘I’ll concede that when I saw your pikes waving in the gloom you gave me a rare fright. I thought that Dan-Tor had caught you napping and locked you in your own tower.’
Jaldaric paused. ‘Their tower,’ Loman corrected, nodding towards Eldric and the others.
Tirke looked back through the gently falling snow at the Helyadin’s handiwork. Urthryn made a dismissive gesture. ‘Still, I’d hate to think that our companions in this venture were so careless that they’d have let us arrive unnoticed.’
The gentle slope he had just scrambled over was lit orange and yellow by the flames rising from the camp. Three substantial areas were ablaze, figures could be seen running in all directions and the noise of the flames and the shouting and screaming rose above the sound of the distant surf. He became more pensive. ‘It was a good response, indeed,’ he said. ‘Events are moving so fast these past weeks. Good and bad. So many of my people killed by that… creature’s… treachery. My countrymen squabbling like children in their pain. A great battle fought to defend our soil and avenge our dead and us not there.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet, on the other hand, we travel that accursed Pass and through the enemy’s own land without hurt. My daughter rallies my people and then gallops off across the mountains to drop her foal in a Fyordyn farmhouse.’ He gave a sombre chuckle. ‘It’s like something out of one of our old tales.’
It was a grim, tormented sight, yet he knew it had been a good start to the night’s work. His face became serious and, leaning forward, he held out his hands, cupped as if to help someone into the saddle. ‘I accept my daughter’s decision without reservation, Loman,’ he said. ‘The Muster will ride at your command.’
Now the cavalry would take over. Already their line was beginning to gather speed and Tirke could see that few of the Morlider who had ventured out of the camp would return. The thought reminded him of the rest of his own companions. Loman bowed.
‘Did everyone get back safely?’ he asked. Urthryn relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘If it’s possible I’d like to go to Vakloss and see my child and grandchild.’
‘Some injuries I think, but no one killed as far as I know,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘You and the others were the last out.’ ‘It isn’t possible, Ffyrst.’
Injuries. The word brought back to Tirke the mem-ory of the hurts he had caused that night and, in its wake, one of Hawklan’s injunctions: ‘Take no risks, but, if circumstances permit, wound rather than kill. An injured man is more trouble to the enemy than a dead one. He absorbs resources and he saps morale.’ Then he had paused. ‘And it’ll burden you less at some happier time in the future.’ Gulda spared Loman the decision. He gave her a surreptitious look of gratitude.
Tirke and Jaldaric watched as the cavalry caught up with the fleeing Morlider. There would be little wound-ing in that melee. ‘It’ll take too long for you to get to Vakloss and back,’ she said. ‘We know nothing of our enemy’s forces or intentions, but we do know that the three Uhriel are together in Narsindal again, and that Oklar’s force has been gone from here for some time. Sumeral will gain strength from delay; we’ll lose it. We must ride to meet Him as soon as the Muster and the army here can be integrated. That’s going to mean hard, detailed work. Work that can’t be done without you, we can’t afford any delay.’
From a higher vantage, Hawklan, Andawyr and Loman watched the same scene. Gulda leaned forward and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm, and the room fell silent.
While some of the cavalry, yelling raucously, were dealing with the Morlider, others were flinging ropes and grappling hooks over the palisade. Very soon, large gaps had been torn in the defensive wall. ‘Tell us about your journey,’ she said after a while. ‘Did you truly meet no opposition?’
Hawklan nodded approvingly. The Orthlundyn were not natural horsemen by any means, but they had absorbed fully such teaching as Agreth had been able to give them and were mastering the necessary skills competently enough. Urthryn came out of his reverie. ‘Yes,’ he said, nod-ding, his manner mildly surprised. ‘The Pass was grim and unpleasant. It’s a forbidding, awful place. I’ve never ridden along it before. I’d always thought the tales about the wind to be just that-tales. But it howls and moans almost constantly. You’ve never heard such sounds! I can see now why they call it the Discourse of Sumeral
The first wave of cavalry retreated and for a moment a strange stillness pervaded the scene. Hawklan ran his eye along the still extensive remains of the palisade. Here and there groups of Morlider seemed to be forming in some semblance of order. Then, as though the night itself were moving to assault the camp, the second wave of cavalry surged forward. Silent this time, in tight formation, and without illumination, they were suddenly there, riding through the firelit night.
As they rode they shot volleys of arrows deep into the camp, arrows carrying the same radiant stones that the Helyadin had used. Some of them glowed white so quickly that they consumed the arrows that carried them, to fall fluttering and flaring out of the air; others
Hawklan saw a movement in the nearest group of Morlider. He leaned forward. ‘Wheel!’ he muttered urgently. The leader of the riders saw the danger at the same time and, as if Hawklan’s will had reached out through the night, he turned the line back towards the darkness. But it was almost too late. The Morlider stepped forward and released a small but accurate volley of arrows at their assailants.
The sound of shouted commands came faintly to the watchers.
Two riders broke off to pursue the third horse, which had recovered itself almost immediately. Other riders picked up their unhorsed companions while the remainder returned the Morlider’s fire, causing them to scatter for shelter behind the palisade. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the riders merged back into the darkness.
Andawyr turned to speak, but Hawklan held up his hand for silence. Again there was an almost eerie stillness in front of the camp. The Morlider archers re-formed.
fell dully into the ranks of tents and flared up only after the riders had passed. Urthryn frowned a little. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘Perhaps sad would be a better word, but it’s a woefully inadequate one.’ He looked at Gulda. ‘Do you know the tale of Elewart and Gwelayne, Memsa?’ he asked.
Suddenly two adjacent groups of archers further along broke up rapidly. Hawklan could not see what was happening, but he knew that the Orthlundyn were standing back and firing from the cover of darkness. As soon as the defenders were routed, albeit temporarily, the cavalry rode in again to fire further volleys of flaming arrows into the camp. Hawklan nodded approvingly.
The harassment continued through the night and for much of the time the Morlider camp was in consid-erable disarray.
‘If only we had the numbers, we could drive them into the sea,’ Loman reflected.
Hawklan grunted. ‘A good word to choke on, if,’ he said. ‘But even if we drove them to their boats, they’d be back, wouldn’t they, Andawyr?’
The Cadwanwr started. He had been watching the unfolding saga with mounting distress. No amount of knowledge, he realized, could have fully prepared him for the frightening ordinariness that framed this reality. The horse shifting underneath him, the creaking of harness, Loman softly clearing his throat, the occasional snowflake landing cold on his now clammy face. Hawklan still Hawklan. The crackling flames and the terrible tactical games being played before him should have meant… more than they did. But they were outside his protective cocoon of darkness, and they were so… distant… unreal.
Hawklan’s voice reached out and brought him to the present with a jolt.
‘Yes. Yes,’ he stammered, catching the vanishing gist of the question. ‘I doubt they’ll leave until Creost abandons them.’
Hawklan turned and looked at him. As their eyes met, Andawyr said, almost shamefacedly, ‘Thank you. I couldn’t have helped.’
Hawklan did not reply, but the understanding and compassion of both warrior prince and healer showed in his eyes and comforted the Cadwanwr. Earlier, as the details of the attack were being discussed, Andawyr had asked if he could help: he had devices of his own that would not extend him; a breeze to fan the flames, some fires of his own, something to tear out that palisade? Hawklan had shaken his head. ‘Another time,’ he had replied. ‘Your Power’s for another purpose, you know that. Men must fight men. Here particularly, the Orthlundyn must learn those final lessons which can only be learned in combat. To ease their way with weapons they themselves can’t wield would be to mislead them and betray them in some future battle.’ Then, practical as ever: ‘Besides, you don’t want to betray your presence to Creost if he’s there, do you?’
‘He isn’t,’ Andawyr had replied positively, but Hawklan’s silent green-eyed gaze had said, ‘Can you take that risk?’
As time passed, however, the Morlider began to recover from the initial impact of the Orthlundyn assault.
‘They’ve realized we’re not intending an all-out attack,’ Hawklan said, as gradually the fires were doused and the archers defending the gaps in the palisade became both more cautious and more effective. ‘Pull back. We can do no more tonight. We’d be risking riders and horses needlessly if we persisted.’ Loman nodded in agreement. ‘I doubt they’ll venture out,’ Hawklan continued. ‘But leave pickets out in case, and have the army deployed by first light. They’ll come out then with a vengeance.’
In the command tent, Hawklan looked purposefully at his friends. ‘We’ve done them some harm,’ he said. ‘And shaken their nerve. Have we learned anything that would make us change our basic tactics?’
‘Loman tells me their archers are more organized than they used to be,’ Isloman said. ‘But that crowd we ran into were the same as ever-wild and dangerous.’ Old memories of close-quarter fighting rose like vomit to mingle with the new, but with an angry grimace he dismissed them. ‘I think if we can crack their discipline, they’ll revert to type-individual warriors looking to fight and kill. Then we’re in with a chance. I see no reason to change anything.’
No one disagreed. The conduct of the Morlider that night had shown the veterans enough to confirm that their enemy was both the same, and profoundly changed.
Hawklan reached up and touched Gavor’s beak absently. ‘The tactics stand, then,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow… ’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Today, rather. We will drive them into the sea. They’ll have been training to deal with cavalry and they’ll expect to meet cavalry not disciplined infantry. We still have surprise on… ’
Andawyr stood up suddenly. ‘Wake Atelon,’ he said, cutting across Hawklan. ‘Quickly. Bring him here.’ His voice was strange and distant.
After a momentary hesitation Dacu ran out.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan said, concerned by Andawyr’s manner.
A distant roll of thunder sounded softly through the tent.
‘Dar Hastuin,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘He’s above us. And putting forth great power.’
Hawklan looked alarmed. ‘Against us?’ he said.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I think he’s found the Drienvolk.’
Gavor flapped his wings restlessly and Hawklan reached up to him again. ‘There’s nothing we can do, old friend,’ he said. ‘We touched briefly, but the Drienvolk must fight their own kind in their own way. Stay here and guard my back.’
Before Gavor could reply, the entrance to the tent burst open and Atelon staggered in, supported by Dacu. His young face was haunted and fearful and his mouth was working though no coherent sounds were emerging.
‘He was like this when I found him,’ Dacu said, his own face riven with concern.
Andawyr looked at his student for a moment and then walked over to him very calmly and took his hands. Hawklan saw again the man who had destroyed the lair of the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Dacu released his charge.
At the touch of his master, Atelon recovered some of his composure.
‘Don’t be… ’ Andawyr froze, and his words of sol-ace faltered. Atelon’s legs buckled and Dacu stepped forward quickly to catch him.
‘Andawyr, what’s happening?’ Hawklan said, his eyes now wide with anxiety.
Andawyr lifted a hand for silence but kept his atten-tion on Atelon. The young man’s eyes opened and with an effort he straightened up. Hawklan winced inwardly as the healer in him felt Atelon’s pain and fear.
‘You feel it all?’ Andawyr said. ‘Both of them?’
Atelon nodded.
‘That’s good,’ Andawyr said, his voice gentle but filled with a great resolve. ‘I’ll not exhort you to be brave, I’ll ask you only to be a Cadwanwr, and do what must be done. Can you accept that?’
Atelon nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said faintly, but clearly.
Andawyr turned to Hawklan.
‘Very shortly, you’ll lead the Orthlundyn against the superior numbers of the Morlider army, and fight to the very limits of your skill and strength to destroy them,’ he said. ‘Atelon and I will accompany you to do the same against their new leader.’
Hawklan’s eyes narrowed with an unnecessary ques-tion. Andawyr answered it. ‘What Dar Hastuin is doing above I do not know, but whatever Creost’s purpose was in the south, it’s ended; for good or for ill. He’s here, now.’