The long flight of stone steps led down from one of the Palace’s many side doors. It was a little-used entrance and the steps had not been routinely swept clear of snow, thus ensuring that such use as they had received had trodden a ragged pathway down the centre that had the texture of uneven, but polished, alabaster.
It glistened treacherously in the sunlight as Eldric emerged from the doorway.
Blinking in the sudden brightness, he eyed his pro-posed path suspiciously. Then, pulling his large cloak about his shoulders, he began a cautious descent, using his gloved hand freely on top of the stone balustrade to retain his balance.
Reaching the bottom without mishap or excessive loss of dignity, he made a note to return by another route and then crossed a narrow courtyard which brought him out into the Palace gardens.
It had not snowed for several days and though the extensive lawns and shrubs were brilliant in the winter sunshine they had lost that silent perfection which the first falls had given them. Untidy heaps of snow lay around the trees where the wind and the fluttering birds had dislodged it from the branches; human footsteps respectfully marked out the now hidden pathways, while the imprints of claws and padded feet showed no such restraint and were strung out purposefully across the lawns in an intricate tracery. Here and there a riot of destruction in the snow indicated the activity of the Palace children, not all of whom were particularly young.
Eldric took in the scene and smiled, then stepped forward to add his own marks to this great marring.
As he walked, he turned his mind to the message he had just received from Arinndier. Viladrien! Alphraan! Cadwanwr! Creost moving the Morlider against Riddin, and Hawklan leading half the Orthlundyn army into the snow-filled mountains to meet them while the other half was preparing to move north to join the High Guards for an assault on Narsindal!
Arinndier had laid out the facts simply and clearly. Indeed, Eldric could almost hear him speaking as he read the Lord’s characteristic hand.
He looked south. The Orthlundyn armed and ready for war. And with an army that was good enough to impress Arinndier. But for half of it to venture across the mountains at this time of year! Could even Hawklan bring his people through such an ordeal in a condition fit to fight a battle, or worse, a series of battles against the savage and numerous Morlider? By all accounts the journey north had been difficult enough for the two men who had brought Arinndier’s message; how much more so then for an army? And if Riddin fell, what then? What of Sylvriss and her child, the heir to Fyorlund’s throne? And what of Fyorlund’s southern and eastern borders?
Eldric weighed the thoughts briefly, then, with some difficulty, let them go. He could do nothing about these matters, he knew. Nothing except wait for further messages-tend his crops and keep his sword sharp as his father would have said. Urthryn would surely protect his daughter, no matter what happened. And if the rest of the Orthlundyn army was moving north then presumably they had made their own arrangements for the defence of their land should Hawklan be lost. As for Fyorlund’s border with Riddin, a few regiments of High Guards could always be left to protect that if need arose. Whatever force might come over those mountains certainly wouldn’t come quickly, winter or no.
It was too vague and untidy a resolution to be satis-factory, but it would have to suffice for the time being, though Eldric found that even the thought of Hawklan being lost in battle was deeply unsettling.
He reacted to his unease almost immediately. ‘We must stand on our own,’ he muttered into the cold air. To look to one man, however remarkable, as some kind of saviour, someone who would bear the responsibilities and fulfil the duties of others, would be a profound error. ‘Another betrayal of the people and our trust,’ he concluded.
He could allow himself to cling to the fatherly con-cern that he had felt on reading that Jaldaric was now training ‘with the Orthlundyn Helyadin-similar to our Goraidin,’ but apart from that he must continue to occupy himself with his own duty; with stern practicali-ties. Send messengers to welcome the approaching Orthlundyn. And find somewhere to put them all! Send the news to Hreldar and Darek currently out in the field, training and co-ordinating the different regiments of High Guards. This new army would radically affect the plans being laid for the assault on Narsindalvak and thence Narsindal. And to Yatsu, busy in the east with some of the Goraidin and their new recruits, preparing to assault Dan-Tor’s mines.
He straightened up and took a deep breath. As al-ways, when he did this, the cold air felt as if it were a light shining inside him, seeking out and exposing the lingering, stagnant memories of the imprisonment that returned to haunt him in his darker moments. It was a small, personal reaffirmation.
Remembering the treacherous stairway, he turned and set off briskly towards the front of the Palace.
With Gavor perched awkwardly in front of him, Hawklan walked Serian towards the top of the long slope that led down to the Morlider’s camp on the shore. Andawyr, on his smaller mare, rode by him, accompa-nied by Atelon. Loman, Isloman and a group of Helyadin maintained close station around the three. They were an unprepossessing sight, as Hawklan had told them to cover their light mail armour with rough cloaks to give the impression that they were a hastily levied local defence group.
A faint roll of thunder reached them. Several such had echoed down through the darkness since Andawyr’s announcement of the arrival of Dar Hastuin. Each time, Hawklan had looked at the Cadwanwr who had simply nodded helplessly in reply. Both knew that while the Morlider and the Orthlundyn were waiting for their battle, the Drienvolk were probably fighting theirs.
The slowly lightening sky, however, was an unbro-ken mass of grey, lowering cloud and gave no sign of this strange and alien combat.
‘Our tasks are here,’ was Andawyr’s final comment. ‘We mustn’t burden ourselves with their pain when we can’t alleviate it.’
Reaching the top of the slope, Hawklan reined Serian to a halt. In the far distance, the vague, misty horizon was broken by three islands which only the local Riddinvolk could have denounced as being unnaturally there. Nearer, on the shore, the rope-strewn masts of beached ships canted this way and that, and in front of them ragged columns of smoke rose from the camp. Hawklan viewed the scene with some satisfaction, though how much of the smoke was due to the previous night’s attack and how much due to the Morlider’s crude cooking and heating fires he could not tell.
Not that it was of any great moment now. The attack had doubtless done some useful damage to both materials and morale but its primary purpose had been to draw the Morlider out of their enclave to join battle. The only question taxing Hawklan as he gazed through the morning greyness was, had this been successful? If the Morlider simply repaired their defences and stayed behind them then the Orthlundyn would have to continue their harassing attacks, and while the previous night’s had cost them only two horses and various relatively minor injuries, future forays, being expected, would necessarily take a far greater toll.
It was with some relief therefore that he saw a large column of men forming up outside the camp, and he urged Serian forward to ensure he stood clear and bold on the skyline. At his signal the others joined him.
‘Careful,’ Andawyr urged softly to Hawklan. ‘I can feel Creost’s presence all around.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Hawklan asked.
Andawyr looked at him impatiently. ‘How could I know?’ he said, a little more sharply than he had intended. ‘He’s not attacking us for sure, you’ll not need me to tell you when he does that.’ Then, repenting a little, ‘He’s exerting Power in some way… wrongly, but not… against anyone… not destructively.’ He brushed his hand across his face as though irritated by morning spider threads. ‘It’s probably to do with preventing the islands from moving.
He paused thoughtfully, then leaned across to Ate-lon and spoke to him softly.
Another, loud, roll of thunder interrupted this con-versation and made everyone look upwards. Hawklan suddenly felt his flesh crawl. He had not felt such a sensation since he had approached Vakloss to confront Dan-Tor, but this, though fainter, was in some way far worse.
‘The Drienvolk are suffering,’ he said to Andawyr.
‘We can do nothing,’ Andawyr reiterated. ‘Look to your front; to the enemy you can fight.’
Hawklan pulled his mind from the invisible torment high above him and looked again at the smoking camp and the gathering men. As he had expected, the appearance of riders on the skyline had caused some commotion, and angry voices were now reaching him above the ubiquitous sound of the sea.
‘Have your bows ready,’ he said, nudging Serian forward.
‘Let’s see if our estimate of their temperament-and range-is correct.’
The small party began moving down towards the camp, two of the Helyadin discreetly falling in on either side of Andawyr whose horsemanship would be decidedly uncertain if as they anticipated, they were obliged to leave quickly.
As they neared, someone shouted an order, and the abuse that had been directed at them died down unexpectedly. Abruptly, some of the Morlider broke ranks and spread out in a line to face them. They were archers, silent and waiting. Their bows were lowered, but their arrows were nocked, and the manoeuvre was executed with some efficiency. Hawklan redirected his group a little to approach the other side of the column. There was another order and archers appeared on that side only.
Hawklan stopped and examined the watching men. ‘Loman. First impression. How do they compare with the Morlider you fought?’ he asked.
‘Badly,’ Loman answered tersely. ‘From our point of view. Somebody’s really knocked them into shape. The ones we faced would have been charging at us in a mob by now.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Stay here. We have to make sure they keep coming after us. I’m going forward to see if I can provoke them a little. Be ready to run quickly.’
Gavor flapped his wings in anticipation but as Hawklan was about to move forward Tybek rode past him and at the same time Loman surreptitiously leaned across and took Hawklan’s reins.
Caught unawares by these movements, Hawklan looked from Loman to the retreating Tybek open-mouthed. Loman casually handed him his reins back. ‘Don’t make yourself conspicuous, Commander,’ he said, his tone slightly mocking. ‘You have a bodyguard now.’
In spite of the mounting tension in the group as Tybek neared the silent column, Isloman, riding on Hawklan’s other side, chuckled at the expression on Hawklan’s face. ‘We thought it was best not to tell you,’ he said.
Hawklan was about to answer when Tybek stopped. He was some distance from the archers but, Hawklan judged, within range.
Hawklan found he was making himself breathe quietly and deeply.
Tybek stood in his stirrups and slowly looked over the waiting column. His manner was arrogant and he offered them no preamble.
‘We visited you last night, Morlider, to let you know what will happen if you choose to stay,’ he shouted. ‘Go back to your islands. We want no fighting but there’ll be nothing but pain and death for you if you remain.’
For a moment there was no response, then a short, stocky figure stepped forward out of the front rank. He cocked his head on one side and looked at Tybek narrowly.
‘We’ll put up with the pain and death, horse rider,’ he responded. ‘After all, it’s going to be yours, not ours.’ Jeering laughter rose up from the waiting column. The man continued. ‘We’re not here to debate, we’re here to take this country. If you’ll take my advice you and your scruffy mates’ll turn your nags round and not stop riding until you’re on the other side of the mountains. It’ll be a month or two before we get over there.’ His followers endorsed this remark with vigour and obscenity.
Tybek waved the din aside airily. ‘Don’t mistake us for what’s waiting for you out there,’ he said, pointing back up the slope.
The stocky man clapped his hands and then folded his arms. ‘That wouldn’t be… horses… would it?’ he said, laying a mocking and ponderous emphasis on the word. ‘It’s nice to know you’ve got one or two left. We thought they’d all gone south.’
More laughter greeted this remark. Someone shouted. ‘Fresh meat at least, lads!’ The stocky man smiled and gave Tybek an apologetic shrug.
‘It seems that horses don’t worry us like they used to,’ he said. Then his face changed, the smile vanishing. ‘Anyway, my men are getting cold standing about like this. We’ll have to be on our way. We’ve a camp to find and burn; a murdering sneaking night thieves’ camp. If there’s horses-or riders-in it, so much the better.’ His voice rasped with a viciousness that was like the drawing of a sword. Tybek made his horse shy and prance as if it were startled, surreptitiously using the movement to edge it backwards and preparing it to turn and run.
‘Get Andawyr out of here, now,’ Hawklan said ur-gently.
‘The rest of you get ready to move in and help Ty-bek.’ Before the Cadwanwr could protest, the two Helyadin were quietly leading him away.
Still affecting to be having difficulty in controlling his horse, Tybek was continuing his debate. ‘You’ve been warned. If you’re too stupid to learn from a little warning like last night’s then take your chances against a full Line of the Muster.’ He pointed back up the slope again. ‘We could use the practice.’
He paused and curled his lip. ‘And if anyone should know about sneaking, murdering thieves, it’s you, you fish-stinking scum.’
‘Shoot him down,’ roared the Morlider, rising more to the sneering contempt in Tybek’s voice than to the words. But as the Helyadin turned his horse again, he brought his own bow up and released an arrow at one of the extended lines of archers.
Then, urging his horse forward up the slope with his knees, he turned in the saddle and released a second arrow at the other line.
It was an ineffective assault, both arrows falling short, but it was so sudden that it caused a brief hesitation in the two lines and when they had recovered and released their volleys, Tybek was at the limit of their range.
‘Our bows have a longer range,’ Loman said with some considerable satisfaction as Tybek caught up with the now retreating group.
Tybek glowered at him, his face flushed. ‘Wonder-ful,’ he said caustically, adding, rhetorically, ‘Did I volunteer for that?’
Loman laughed and patted him on the back. ‘You did, and you did well,’ he said.
As they rode on, one of the Helyadin galloped ahead with the information about the approaching column and its archers while the others maintained a pace that drew them away from the Morlider only slowly.
Hawklan looked at Tybek. A mixture of exhilaration and disbelief lit the young man’s face, but there was also a new, stark, knowledge, in his eyes. The knowledge of the awesome reality of facing someone who was seeking to kill him. Tybek would be different ever after.
The sight and the thought took Hawklan’s mind back to the conspiracy that had silently provided a bodyguard for him and sent Tybek out on the danger-ous impromptu mission that he himself had casually been about to take. The Orthlundyn army was also changing, beginning to become an autonomous whole. It had learned what it needed of him and it would protect him whether he willed it or not; within certain limits it would not hesitate to constrain him for its greater good.
It occurred to him briefly that perhaps, after all, what he imagined to be leadership was no more than the pressure he exerted against such constraints. It was an uncomfortable thought and he did not dwell on it for, rather to his surprise, in thinking about the army, he found himself experiencing the unexpectedly turbulent emotions that he had seen in many a parent’s eye as they watched their offspring grow. Happy to see their child learning and achieving, yet sad to see it moving out and away on paths of its own choosing, increasingly less dependent on that which had been for so long the centre of its life.
He smiled at the whimsy of the thought, but was surprised again to find a parental fear swimming in its wake. What if I’ve not taught this child well enough? What if it should wander too far and become not a source of hope and light for the future, but some fearful monster.
The intermittent cries of the following Morlider, abusive and savage, ended his reverie. He looked around at his companions, their breath steaming and streaming behind them as their horses carried them through the cold morning air. It had better turn into a fearful monster, he concluded acidly. That was what it had been born for.
They rode on in silence for a while, with the Mor-lider column following them steadily and in good order. Eventually the Helyadin who had galloped ahead, returned. ‘Dacu has the message,’ he said to Hawklan.
Hawklan thanked him and looked around the white landscape. He could see nothing untoward other than the dark scar of the Morlider column, but he knew that Dacu and the other Helyadin would be watching their progress and relaying the information back to the waiting Orthlundyn army. In confirmation of this, Isloman hissed, ‘Message,’ and inclined his head towards a small cluster of trees in the distance. Hawklan looked up in time to see a torch flickering briefly.
‘What did it say?’ he asked.
Gavor sighed conspicuously. ‘Flashing lights,’ he muttered loudly with monumental contempt. ‘I don’t know why you don’t let me do all this message carrying.’
Hawklan had placed Gavor under the same injunc-tion as Andawyr; faced by men, the army must learn from the start to fight and live without the peculiarly valuable aids that those two could offer. ‘Soon you’ll have to leave them, then what will they do,’ he had said, adding by way of consolation, ‘Your time will come, have no fear.’ But the raven had taken the restraint with an ill grace and for the most part had been in a pro-found sulk ever since.
Hawklan’s jaw tightened at Gavor’s tone. ‘We’ve had all this out as you know full well,’ he said, in spite of a promise he had made to himself earlier not to rise to Gavor’s goading, adding, a little petulantly, ‘Besides, we have Creost and Dar Hastuin nearby somewhere and, if you remember, you tend to make a bad first impression on Uhriel.’
Gavor met the sarcasm with a dignified inclination of his head then, muttering something profane under his breath, he related the message, though with great distaste.
‘"Two more columns leaving the camp. Same size as first", flash, twinkle, flash,’ he said.
Hawklan favoured Gavor with a malevolent look, then threw a mute appeal to Isloman. Unsuccessfully trying not to laugh at this exchange, the carver nodded a confirmation.
Hawklan thanked him over-courteously, while Ga-vor whistled tunelessly to himself and looked with exaggerated interest about the snow-clad countryside.
A rumbling series of thunderclaps sounded an end to the interlude and once again Hawklan found himself gazing upwards into the concealing blank greyness of the sky. He felt an unreasoning anger at his ignorance about the Drienvolk. Had he known more about them, perhaps he would have been able to offer Ynar guidance at their brief and perhaps crucial meeting.
With his anger, however, came a deepening of his resolve. The Drienvolk were fighting the same war. The only help he could give them was to win his own battle. The Orthlundyn had resources beyond his reckoning and they looked to him to use them to the full. With that trust came the obligation to commit himself as fully to them as they had to him. They would not falter unless he did and, outnumbered or not, he must lead them forward until Creost and the Morlider were defeated, whatever the cost.
‘Riders ahead,’ Loman said.
They were Athyr and Yrain. Both were as unkempt as Hawklan and the others, though under their ragged clothes Hawklan knew they too would be armed and armoured for the task ahead.
Athyr’s face was stern and determined, and he waited on no invitation to speak. ‘I think the only way we’ll draw enough of them out of the camp is to bring the three columns together and then attack them with just enough infantry to make them send back for reinforcements. If we keep increasing our infantry and gradually easing them back, then they’ll probably send for more and more until… ’ He banged his fist into his open palm.
Hawklan looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded.
‘Loman?’ he said, turning to the smith.
‘I doubt the Memsa could have done much better,’ Loman said, smiling a little. ‘I certainly can’t. We’ll have to think as we go, anyway.’
‘Battle stations, then,’ Hawklan said simply. ‘Take command, Loman. Isloman and I will ride as observers with Andawyr and Atelon and… my… their… bodyguard. You know the final dispositions. Wait for my signal if we don’t meet again.’
Reaching forward, he took first Loman’s hand in both of his, and then Athyr’s and Yrain’s. ‘This will be our day,’ he said looking intently at each in turn.
As the three galloped away, Andawyr said quietly, ‘I wish I shared your certainty.’
Hawklan turned to the Cadwanwr. ‘You do, An-dawyr,’ he said. ‘You do.’
Andawyr’s eyes widened as the force of Hawklan’s personality seemed to become almost tangible around him. Whatever power lay in this man, he realized, was freely given to all who had the will, the courage, to accept it; its light illuminated his own resolves and, more alarmingly, his own dark skills with a fearsome clarity.
‘Why didn’t you take command yourself?’ he heard himself saying.
Hawklan eased Serian forward and Andawyr fell in beside him. ‘The Army’s a weapon of Loman’s forging,’ he said. ‘Loman’s and Gulda’s. He understands its heart far better than I ever could. He belongs here. I-we-belong elsewhere.’
Gavor flapped his wings noisily and then shook his wooden leg violently. ‘Can I at least go and watch, dear boy?’ he said, with forced politeness. ‘I’m getting cramp standing here.’
Hawklan looked at him suspiciously before conced-ing, ‘Go on,’ with reluctant indulgence. ‘But take care.’
Released, Gavor launched himself from Serian’s head and, after dipping briefly, began to climb purpose-fully until he was high above the cold landscape and the insignificant dots that were moving about it in their deadly game.
To the east the grey sky dwarfed the hazy Morlider Islands, and even the ugly stain that was the huge camp along the shore was diminished. A little to the west of the circling raven, the Orthlundyn camp blended with the terrain to become almost invisible.
It irked Gavor to be just a spectator to these mo-mentous happenings, though he understood the wisdom of Hawklan’s judgement. However, free now to travel the ways he knew, it soon occurred to him that sooner or later Hawklan would be the focus of trouble and that there would be plenty to do then, with no reproach to be offered. The thought made him chuckle conspiratorially to himself and in an excess of glee he tumbled over and, shaking his wooden leg threateningly at the clouds above, laughed to himself.
Hawklan looked up at the black figure gliding in smooth sweeping arcs and occasionally faltering and dropping vertically.
He smiled. It was good to have such a friend, who-ever he was.
‘Let’s find a high place of our own,’ he said to his companions.
As the morning proceeded, Hawklan moved his group to and fro for reasons that Andawyr could not always discern but which seemed to keep them fairly clear of the increasingly heated activity while enabling them to observe much of it. He began to see the truth of Hawklan’s comment about Loman and the army. No messages came to Hawklan asking for advice or help, yet frequently Andawyr saw Hawklan nodding approv-ingly at some manoeuvre by the skirmishers who were harrying the Morlider columns.
Groups of mounted archers attacked from first one direction then another, then from various directions simultaneously.
Carefully they avoided betraying the superior range of the Orthlundyn bows, but it was dangerous work and while it took a constant toll of the Morlider in dead and wounded, it also took some toll of the Orthlundyn, several being wounded.
‘They’re very different from what they were twenty years ago,’ Isloman remarked at one point. ‘Their discipline under fire is far superior.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘They’re certainly keeping their stations well and using their shields to some effect,’ he said. ‘I think Loman should send in some foot slingers now, that should… ’
Isloman caught his arm and pointed. A group of figures had dismounted and were approaching one of the columns on foot. Hawklan left his sentence unfin-ished and leaned forward intently.
At Dacu’s suggestion, the slingers were armed with lead shot rather than the shaped stones that their natural inclination drew them to. With these, the range of the slings was markedly superior to the Morlider bows and, coupling their expertise with jeering abuse, the slingers exploited it fully.
Almost immediately the Morlider column wavered as shields were used indiscriminately for protection against the rain of fast and almost invisible missiles. The slingers moved forward and pressed home their attack, at first randomly, then concentrating their fire at the centre of the column. The assailed Morlider faltered initially then crouched behind their shields and stood their ground. To relieve their comrades, the archers began to fire at the slingers, only to find their arrows falling short.
Standing next to Hawklan, Andawyr watched as the archers began to edge forward cautiously to bring the slingers within range, and slowly the whole column began to curve markedly.
At this distance it was like watching an unusual board game, and, almost deliberately, he kept his mind from thinking of the grim reality that the participants were facing.
Abruptly the slingers changed their point of attack, leaving the centre and turning on a large group of archers at the front of the column who had ventured forward too far. Several of them went down under this unexpected and sudden assault, but the main damage resulted from the disordered retreat of the remainder. Seeing this, the slingers redoubled their efforts, at the same time moving forward towards the confusion. Andawyr noted a change in the tone of the angry cries that were reaching across the white expanse that separated him from the scene.
‘Retreat,’ he heard Hawklan whisper.
A tremor seemed to run through the whole column, and then the far end began to fragment and swing around as the goaded Morlider began to break ranks and charge the slingers in both an excess of fury and an attempt to relieve their comrades.
Andawyr found he was gripping the edge of his saddle fiercely, and preparing to shout out, ‘Run!’
But his advice was unnecessary. The slingers were already retreating rapidly and riders were coming forward with horses to collect them.
Just as the Cadwanwr began to let out the breath he had been holding, one of the slingers, trailing the others, staggered and fell. Andawyr could not see what had happened but presumed the man had been struck by an arrow. A rider, a woman, galloped forward urgently to help him, leaping down from her horse as it came to a halt amid a great flurry of snow.
For an interminable moment, she struggled desper-ately to help the injured man into the saddle. Finally succeeding, she prepared to mount behind him.
However, startled by something, the horse darted forward unexpectedly and she fell heavily into the snow.
Standing up quickly but unsteadily, she looked around.
Behind her, her horse was bolting away carrying the injured slinger slumped across its neck. In front, Morlider were converging on her.
It needed no military skills to see that her compan-ions could not reach her before the enemy.
Instinctively, Andawyr reached out to strike the approaching Morlider and protect the woman as she stood watching them, uncertain which way to run.
Before he could act, however, a hand took his ex-tended arm and tightened round it powerfully. Looking up he met Hawklan’s haunted face.
‘No,’ the healer said. His voice was quiet and full of torment, but quite implacable.
Andawyr tugged at the grip ferociously, but it held him inexorably and pitilessly. After a brief, futile struggle, he found his gaze drawn inexorably to the distant tragedy about to be enacted.
The lone woman had seen the hopelessness of her position and turned to face the Morlider resolutely. Slowly she drew her sword with her right hand and a long knife with her left, then raising the sword above her head she began running to meet her foes. The advancing Morlider paused. Andawyr’s hand closed into helpless fists as he heard her high-pitched cry of defiance.
She had not taken four paces when arrows began to hit her.
The Morlider archers were taking their first true revenge.
The stricken woman staggered forward a little fur-ther until another volley of arrows brought her to her knees. With her last strength she lifted her sword high and then fell forward into the snow. The impact of her fall broke some of the arrows and drove others right through her, but for a moment her body lay slumped across them until she slumped over incongruously sideways.
The hesitant Morlider rushed forward and in a con-vulsive spasm of vengeance-taking, began hacking the body frenziedly.
Andawyr turned away from the scene and Hawklan released his arm.
‘Why?’ Andawyr said accusingly after brief silence.
‘You know why,’ Hawklan replied, his voice icy with a terrible restraint. ‘Do you think my grip could curb your power?’
Andawyr bared his teeth as anger surged up inside him.
‘Damn you,’ he said viciously.
‘Don’t damn me, damn Him,’ Hawklan said, his voice still cold. ‘There’ll be worse than that done before we’re free again. We all learn today… ’ His rebuke ended abruptly with an in-drawn breath and Andawyr saw that he was looking again at the distant field.
The column had largely disintegrated as an ordered force after the fruitless pursuit of the riders, and the slaughter of the woman, and while a few individuals were dashing to and fro obviously trying to reform it, most of the Morlider were wandering about aimlessly or standing around in small agitated groups. This had been precisely the object of the slinger’s attack but now a group of them had discovered the fate of their compan-ion and were circling round to return to the field.
Hawklan’s brow furrowed. Victory over the Morlider depended largely on breaking their discipline, but implicit in this intention was the assumption that the Orthlundyn would maintain theirs. Now, as the riders began to charge forward, Hawklan felt his great resolution falter.
Even as his doubts began to form, however, the cold voice within him spoke. You’re standing too close, it said. Doing as Andawyr did. There are many currents in the sea, large and small, but the tides are inexorable, break the waves how they will. So also is your purpose.
We all learn today. His own words returned to him.
With an effort he set his fears to one side and turned as cruelly observant an eye as he could on the unfolding events.
Some twelve riders were heading straight for the broken body as fast as the snow would allow, gradually coming into close wedge formation. Their line of approach was for the most part bringing them through the disordered Morlider from the side and they were largely unnoticed for much of the way, except for those who were trampled underfoot and cut down by slashing blades.
Despite his enforced coldness, Hawklan felt part of him surging forward in this attempt to recover the body of a fallen comrade.
As the riders reached the woman’s body, one of them dismounted and picked it up quickly with a strange gentleness while his companions circled wide around him in pairs using bows and swords to prevent the Morlider from reforming. Hastily he threw it over his saddle and remounted, only to dismount almost immediately to pick up a severed limb that had tumbled into the snow.
Then they were fleeing, holding the same close for-mation until they reached their waiting companions.
Hawklan weighed the incident in the balance. It had been impulsive and wrong; it may have given some shrewd-eyed Morlider commander a measure of their attacker’s worth that Hawklan would not have preferred; but it had been well executed and successful and would have done much for the morale of those involved. If circumstances allowed that day, he would offer them commiseration and perhaps qualified praise.
As he made this cold command judgement the min-gled emotions of the recovery party reached out to him. Dominant was anger; anger at the Morlider; anger at themselves, that their comrade had fallen unnoticed as they fled the field; anger and horror at the dreadful damage that had been wrought on the body. And, for the moment the most painful of all, guilt at their own swirling exhilaration at their deed.
Briefly too he felt other, different, emotions, almost too painful to be borne. A lover? A brother? The healer in him would seek these people out and ease what pain he could.
But circumstances did not allow him that healing visit. The tactics used to break up the Morlider column proved equally successful on the other two and, by judiciously continuing the harrying, Loman kept them all in some disarray and eventually succeeded in bringing all three within sight of one another.
This done, he launched an infantry attack against one of them.
At the sight of the orderly lines of Orthlundyn ap-proaching on foot the Morlider, angry and frustrated, broke ranks completely and began to move towards them in disorder, shouting abuse and threats, and waving their weapons in anticipation of the close quarter fighting that had been denied them so far that day.
Riding inconspicuously with the rearguard to the Orthlundyn, Hawklan heard other cries amongst the hubbub; the cries of officers trying to regain control of their men. After a while they faded away. It was another useful measure of the Morlider’s discipline.
The second column, a little further away, also began to break up, and men came running across to help their comrades mete out justice to this taunting, elusive enemy.
The third column, however, was of a different met-tle. It had been the least affected by the skirmishes, and now it maintained its ranks as it turned and began to move rapidly towards the closing antagonists.
Loman watched it carefully. Whoever was in com-mand had assessed the events of the day more accurately than the others and was trying to interpose an ordered defensive line between this dangerous enemy and the loose-knit mob that the other Morlider had become.
Loman signalled the phalanx commander to slow the Orthlundyn’s approach, then he turned and spoke to Athyr. The Helyadin galloped off to join the small contingent of cavalry that was guarding the infantry’s left flank.
Hawklan noted the incident with approval. Loman’s response had been his own. By surreptitiously slowing the Orthlundyn, he was ensuring that the third column would be able to move into position but almost certainly would not have time to form up properly or deploy their archers. Had they been left outside the conflict they could have moved to attack the Orthlundyn from either flank or rear; Hawklan judged that their discipline would carry them through any assault the cavalry could offer.
Good leader, Hawklan thought. But not good enough. In his anxiety to protect his fellows from their folly the Morlider was walking into Loman’s trap. It was a mistake that would probably cost him his life. Even now Hawklan knew that Athyr would be passing Loman’s order to the Helyadin among the cavalry. ‘Identify the leader and kill him; and any rank and file leaders.’ A glance confirmed it; several of the horsemen were preparing their bows.
A peculiar, almost snarling clap of thunder rattled overhead as if giving special sanction to this incisive and deliberate surgery that would occur amid the random butchery.
Damn you, Sumeral, Hawklan thought bitterly as the sound rumbled into the distance. Would that it were in my province to return to you all the pain you create.
A shout brought him back to the cold wintry Riddin countryside. It was an order from the phalanx com-mander and it echoed across the Orthlundyn as the file commanders took it up.
Almost as one man, the front rank of the Orthlundyn swung up their shields to form a continuous wall and the first three ranks lowered their short pikes.
Then they moved from their leisurely march to a jogging trot.
Loman’s timing had been good. The third column was moving into position, amid resentful shouts from their fellows at being apparently deprived of their prey, when the approaching men were suddenly transformed into a single armoured unit carrying a serrated row of death before it.
Several of the Morlider made a valiant effort to form their own shield wall, but it was too late and the Orthlundyn pikes drove into them, killing and wound-ing many on first impact.
The dark part of Hawklan calculated as it watched the destruction of the best of the three columns.
Then the Orthlundyn’s progress faltered as they tried to push through the dense mass of shouting and screaming men.
Push! thought Hawklan grimly, willing himself amongst the heaving pikemen. Push! Remember your drill. Watch your neighbour. Listen for your file commander. That way you’ll live. Push!
For a moment, he was free. Free of doubt and de-bate. Now Sumeral’s will would be tested at sword point. It was a good feeling for all that the events before him were horrific.
Briefly the Morlider held, as their disordered rear ranks, unaware of what was happening, continued to push forward. Then, though retreat was against the very heart of their fighting code, they broke as those at the front turned and crashed through those behind in a desperate attempt to avoid the relentless, terrible rows of jabbing spear points.
An attack now by the mounted archers could rout the Morlider entirely, sending them scattering across the snow at the mercy of the pursuing cavalry. But the destruction of one small group was not what was wanted. Today the entire invasion must be crushed. Today the Orthlundyn must overwhelm a vastly larger army and one of Sumeral’s terrible Uhriel.
Loman let the Morlider retreat, slowing down the advance of the phalanx and then stopping it altogether once contact had been broken.
The Morlider had taken heavy losses, as was evi-denced by the corpses and untended wounded decorating the blood-churned snow, yet they were still conspicuously more numerous than the unscathed Orthlundyn, and as they saw their smaller enemy faltering in its advance, the unspoken shame at their flight was redoubled. Cautiously, they began to move forward again.
Loman watched their confusion carefully, noting with satisfaction four men breaking away and heading back rapidly towards the camp. He took the phalanx forward again before the enemy could re-form properly and then he confined himself only to such manoeuvres as were necessary to maintain this modest disorder.
Outnumbering their troublesome opponents and yet unable to assail them because of their impenetrable shield wall with its lethal hedge of spear points, and the small but menacing cavalry flank guards, the Morlider’s frustration grew apace. The odd individual would charge forward, roaring and screaming and hurl an arcing spear or whirling axe at the silent, waiting, ranks, only to see it brought down by waving pikes, or bounce ineffectually off raised shields. The same fate befell the occasional arrows.
Hawklan watched as Loman’s tactics inexorably destroyed whatever ordered discipline the Morlider had acquired under Creost’s tutelage. It was a good sign.
As the seemingly stalemated skirmish moved uneas-ily to and fro, Gavor dropped silently out of the sky and landed lightly on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘Time to go, dear boy,’ he said softly. ‘There are two more columns leaving the camp-at the double.’
Hawklan read the same message from a distant flickering signal. ‘Gavor, I thought I told you… ’
‘I haven’t told a soul, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted petulantly. ‘I just thought you’d be interested.’
Hawklan let Gavor’s injured tone release the dark smile that was in reality for the day’s bloody success so far.
‘I’m glad to see you enjoyed your flight,’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ Gavor said, with an enigmatic chuckle.
Hawklan turned sharply at this response. ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked suspiciously.
Gavor hopped up on to his head. ‘My, this is going to be fun,’ he said. ‘We’re going to drive these beggars into the sea, aren’t we, dear boy? And that fish-eyed creature Creost.’
Hawklan started and looked up, causing Gavor to tumble off with a squawk. ‘Steady on, dear boy,’ he cried, flapping back up awkwardly on to Serian’s head.
‘Gavor, where’ve you been?’ Hawklan asked ur-gently.
Before Gavor could reply Loman was by Hawklan’s side.
‘You saw the message?’ the smith asked rhetorically. ‘Two more columns coming. It’s working. I’ve sent skirmishers out again and I’m bringing up a second company.’
Hawklan abandoned his interrogation of Gavor.
‘Take care,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how these peo-ple are organized. There was a marked difference in discipline between the third column and the other two. Judge each one on its own. Disorder and confusion are more important than damage at this stage. Take no risks, there’ll be plenty of those later.’
Loman gave him a mildly reproachful look, but Gavor was more direct. ‘He knows all this, dear boy,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does everyone else. Let’s get on and leave them to it.’
Leaving the small, bloodied battlefield, Hawklan returned to Andawyr and the others waiting nearby.
He repeated Loman’s comment when he reached them. ‘It’s working.’
If the relief columns were leaving at the double, then the messengers who had carried news of the ambush back to the camp had carried with them a useful note of alarm and confusion. All that remained now was to see how far that would spread and how many troops would be lured out before Creost or his senior commanders realized fully what was happening.
Watching the movements of both Morlider and Orthlundyn, and reading the signals that flickered to and fro between the concealed Helyadin, Hawklan and his group returned to their silent overseeing of the battle plan.
Several more columns came out from the Morlider camp to be harried and taunted by skirmishers and then confronted by Orthlundyn infantry. As Hawklan had noted, they varied in discipline, but those that stood firm were attacked ruthlessly, and eventually all were broken.
Suffering considerable losses, the Morlider were gradually eased back towards their camp, shepherded by smaller but unbroken ranks of Orthlundyn.
Hawklan rode up on to a small hill from where he could see most of the separate but converging conflicts. A rumble of thunder greeted him. He looked at Andawyr; the thunder, if thunder it was, had been increasing steadily for several hours now. Andawyr met his gaze with open anxiety, but with an inclination of his head redirected him yet again to the earth-bound battle.
Hawklan nodded a reluctant acknowledgement then gazed around: at the sky, still grey and ominous, though lighter in places as if the sun were struggling to break through; at the clusters of fighting men, black scars against the snow; at the small portion of the Morlider camp that he could see. His mind and his intuition told him that the first part of the assault against the Morlider was ending; that a pivotal point had been reached beyond which the balance could only swing to the enemy if he did not now commit the entire army.
He hesitated.
Memories of Orthlund and its people, sunlit, peace-ful and glorious rose to stand against the stark, bloodstained, winter greyness of the present.
He reached up and touched Gavor’s beak. ‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘And guard Andawyr as you’d guard me.’
Gavor bowed his head and looked at him beadily like an old schoolmaster. ‘Now, dear boy,’ he said purposefully. ‘Dar Hastuin and Creost foul my air.’
Hawklan frowned and then patted Serian’s neck. ‘Now, Hawklan,’ the horse said, with the same resolve as Gavor. ‘This is my land, and I would ride to save it.’
Hawklan nodded and turned to one of his Helyadin bodyguard. ‘Signal to Loman, "Now",’ he said.
The young man spurred his horse clear of the group to obey the order.
Hawklan watched him for a moment and then took off his gloves and reached up to unfasten the laces that held his ragged cloak.
They were stiff in the cold air and gave him a little difficulty, but he eventually freed them and with a broad gesture swung the cloak from his shoulders to reveal a black surcoat covering the fine black mail armour that Loman had made for him. It bore no emblem. Ethriss’s sword hung by his side.
Isloman looked at him, his face impassive. The sight brought back vividly to the carver the memory of Tirilen prinking out the healer for his trip to the Gretmearc; of his shock at the sudden appearance of a figure that might have stepped down from one of the many carvings that decorated Anderras Darion. Now, however, the presence of the man set all such compari-sons at naught. Hawklan was here, now, powerful as much because of his doubts as his certainties; a whole man.
Who masters one art masters all, Isloman thought as, with quiet gentleness, Hawklan folded his old cloak and placed it in his saddle bag.
Then with the same calm, Hawklan lifted up the grim black helm that Loman had also made. As he held it up he looked round at his companions.
‘To the light, my friends,’ he said quietly.
Serian lifted his head and shook it as Hawklan urged him forward and, with a powerful beat of his wings, Gavor launched himself into the air to glide, black and stark, against the white Riddin snow.