A great cheer spread through the waiting ranks of the Orthlundyn as Hawklan’s message flickered from its last sender and was read directly by many of them.
The day had been chill and tedious; a day of foot stamping, arm beating, and endless last-minute checking of equipment and weapons as the Orthlundyn waited and watched, gaining relief only from the relayed messages detailing the successes of the companies assaulting the Morlider columns.
But now, the message had arrived and the myriad irritations of the long wait were ended. All doubts and fears dissolved, momentarily at least, in a wave of exhilaration as shouted orders penetrated the din, and the advance began.
Hawklan, Isloman and Andawyr together with their Helyadin bodyguard took station at the top of a small rise that lay in the army’s path.
‘A fine sight but a sad one,’ Isloman said, as they waited.
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Remember your mines, carver,’ he replied. Much of his face was hidden in his helm, but his voice bore a stern reproach and the will behind it struck Isloman almost like a physical blow. ‘We’re here out of necessity and now we’re committed totally. Sadness is for another time and will be the greater if we ponder it here. Now, there is only this moment, and victory. All else are traitors to our true need, old friend.’
Still the healer, warrior, Isloman thought, as he felt the last two words seal the small wound to his pride that the rebuke had offered. He bowed slightly in acknowl-edgement, then put on his own helm.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr and Atelon and looked at them both intently. Much rested on this strange couple, he knew. They it was who must resist the Old Power that Creost would inevitably send against them before the day was through. If they failed, then the Orthlundyn would fall like corn before a scythe at this terrible touch. It was an awesome burden for such seemingly frail creatures.
‘You are prepared to oppose and destroy Creost,’ he said. It was not a question and for all its simplicity it carried the same will that would soon fire the entire Orthlundyn army.
Like Isloman, both inclined their heads in acknowl-edgement.
Loman galloped up. His face was flushed, and showed a grim satisfaction. ‘I threw two more compa-nies in on your signal, and attacked. You should have seen them scatter.’ He laughed. ‘They’re running back in total disorder,’ he went on. ‘Athyr will pursue them as far as possible and then do what he can to lure out the rest of the camp.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan said, smiling. ‘I think we’ve done enough to make them angry, and while they’re angry, their training won’t stick, and we have them.’ His mailed hand reached out and patted Loman’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s join our army, commander,’ he said. ‘We’ll ride with you until we see the enemy’s response.’
It took them only a few minutes to reach the ad-vancing army and as they did so, another spate of cheering broke out. Spontaneously the front rows began lowering and raising their long pikes in salute, making waves ripple along the entire front, so that it looked like a field of tall grass ruffled by a summer wind.
Gavor and Serian caught and responded to the mood of the people immediately, Gavor letting out a cry of delight and rising up into the air, Serian prancing a little, and then shying and kicking out his forelegs to throw up great flurries of snow.
Hawklan too could do no other than respond. He drew the black sword and, holding it high above his head, trotted Serian along the rows of bobbing pikes. Gavor flew to and fro around his head.
The cheering echoed along the line as they passed.
Then Hawklan rode amongst the various companies, satisfying himself that all were prepared, and quietly ensuring that his implacable determination pervaded the whole army.
While Hawklan was being greeted by the advancing army, Athyr was walking to the top of the long slope down to the shore and the Morlider camp. As Loman had reported, the Morlider columns, having suffered heavy losses, were fleeing in complete disarray back to their camp. Had Athyr launched even his small cavalry units against them, their losses would have been magnified appallingly. Instead, however, he withdrew the riders, and dispatched them back to join the army. The Morlider had prepared themselves to face the Muster; if they saw cavalry cutting down their fleeing companions, there was a strong chance that they would either stay where they were, or form up into the disciplined phalanxes they had obviously rehearsed. Neither of these alternatives was desirable. If, on the other hand, they saw their comrades being pursued simply by the now superior numbers of foot-soldiers, it was probable they would continue to come out as a disordered and vengeful mass.
To tempt the Morlider further, and to some extent to protect the Orthlundyn from the Power of Creost should it be brought against them, Athyr had the several companies break ranks before they came in sight of the camp so that they would appear to the majority there to be no more than a large but disorganized group of raiders.
It was thus this seemingly motley group that ap-peared on the skyline behind the fleeing Morlider. Maintaining the charade, Athyr had the Orthlundyn straggle a long way down the slope before halting.
Almost immediately, large numbers of Morlider began to emerge purposefully from the camp. Athyr smiled in satisfaction as he watched them.
Slowly however, his smile began to fade. The num-ber of Morlider coming from the camp was unexpectedly large, and while many of them were heading towards the Orthlundyn in an angry mob, a substantial proportion were lining up in ordered ranks and files.
The smile became a frown. Athyr had little doubt that if need arose his companies could come together and hold the undisciplined charges of the mob, but the group forming outside the camp, he noted, were already substantially larger than his own force and were armed with long pikes. They were a different matter. They could destroy his people in a single leisurely charge.
For a moment he began to wonder who was luring whom. Had Creost been aware of their presence all the time? Did he have his own Helyadin moving silent and unseen through this chilly landscape, or did he have a Gavor amongst the seagulls that squabbled noisily around the camp? Had he allowed so many of his troops to be sacrificed just to lure the Orthlundyn into full battle? It occurred to Athyr that because he would not be prepared to countenance such savagery he should not have assumed that his enemy would be similarly constrained.
Angrily, he dismissed the thoughts, knowing they were no more than the corrosive products of his own fear and self-doubt. Circumstances had dictated Hawklan’s strategy and the probability was that Creost, or his commanders were simply reacting. In any event, such considerations were irrelevant. No matter at whose behest, battle was about to be joined. His task had been to lure out the enemy if possible and in this he had been successful; too successful, he thought ruefully looking at the growing mass of Morlider outside the camp. Now his task was to protect his companies and perhaps do some further damage to the enemy in the process.
The intention had always been to retreat, but now came the question of the manner in which this should be done. His people had been marching and fighting for several hours; if he ordered a retreat from their present disordered positions there was no guarantee that they could outstrip the Morlider whose greater freshness was being amply demonstrated by the speed of their advance.
He must bring his people together.
But if he left it too late, the Morlider would be run-ning berserk amongst them, and if he did it too soon, the very suddenness of the manoeuvre might perhaps give too much information to the calmer minds forming the phalanx in front of the camp.
As he watched the advancing crowd he realized that the choice had been made for him. The Morlider were too many and coming too quickly. Suddenly he seemed to see them very clearly and as if from some other place. His fear had slipped away and been replaced by a dark and terrible resolve.
He would have to engage and destroy them if he was to be able to retreat.
‘We will kill every one of you,’ the resolve said si-lently to the Morlider. ‘Every death will weaken your army further and help draw forth your massing companions below.’
Then the strangeness was gone. But everything was changed.
Athyr placed his fingers in his mouth and blew the penetrating whistle that his friends had been willing from him for some time past. Faster than for any drill they had ever performed; the Orthlundyn converged on him.
The angry Morlider misunderstood the sudden movement, taking it for a headlong charge, and with a great roar they ran even faster in their desire to close with this treacherous and elusive enemy.
Few survived to benefit from the realization of this mistake.
The scattered, scurrying Orthlundyn became, very suddenly, a long, solid, armoured mass protected by a jagged row of glistening pike heads.
Like many of their compatriots that day, most of the Morlider either perished directly in the first impact between the two forces, or in the subsequent melee as the front ranks struggled frantically to escape the relentlessly thrusting pikes.
Athyr saw the exercise fulfilling his cold resolve though, perversely, he was pleased that the voice of his conscience made itself heard briefly, railing at the profound pity and futility of such carnage.
As the Morlider broke and began running back to the camp, the archers who were guarding the flanks of the phalanx killed and injured many more.
Again, the Orthlundyn had taken no losses.
As the remnants of the Morlider fled, Athyr turned his attention back to those gathering outside the camp. The sight made his stomach leaden with fear. In exaggerated mimicry of his own force, a huge swaying forest of pikes stood silent and waiting. What appeared to be massed ranks of archers guarded the flanks, and archers and shield bearers were strung out in front of this terrifying vision.
Too successful, he thought again with bitter irony. This must be their entire army. Once they start to move, they’ll pursue us for ever. How can even Hawklan…? His legs started to tremble and this time no stern resolve came to aid him.
Then, faintly, there was a distant cry. It echoed along the waiting line and, slowly, as though a soft breeze had blown through it, the great forest wavered and began to move forward.
‘Time to leave,’ Athyr heard himself saying, in a voice whose quiet calm almost had him searching for some other speaker. ‘Break ranks and retreat at the double.’
The Orthlundyn needed little urging and were soon energetically widening the distance between themselves and the advancing enemy.
As they ran, a solitary figure on horseback appeared on the skyline ahead of them, black and forbidding. Then, one on each side of him, came two others, armoured, helmed and grim. Athyr started, his mind suddenly flooded with thoughts of the three Uhriel and the terrible unknown powers that they could bring to bear on these insignificant humans who had had the temerity to take up arms against them.
Then a familiar voice intruded. ‘Come along, dear boy, this is no time to be dawdling. You seem to have made yourself distinctly unpopular.’
The voice was Gavor’s, and Athyr’s vision cleared to identify the three riders as Hawklan flanked by Loman and Isloman.
Hawklan took off his mailed glove as Athyr ran towards him. ‘You’ve done well, Athyr,’ he said, leaning forward and taking the man’s hand. ‘Tend to your people. Take them to the rear so that they can get a little rest, then get your horse and come back here.’
As Athyr shouted orders to his companies, Hawklan turned to look at the advancing Morlider.
‘Many of these will die today,’ he said, his voice cold with distaste. ‘Send a herald out with a flag of truce. Tell them we want to talk.’
Both Loman and Isloman looked at him in disbelief. ‘They’ll kill him,’ they said in surprised unison.
Hawklan’s brow furrowed in ironic surprise at this unexpectedly positive and unanimous advice. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Get me the flag.
Andawyr and I will go down-with our bodyguard,’ he added reassuringly.
A loud clap of thunder rolled over the two brothers’ replies.
‘Good,’ Hawklan said, wilfully misunderstanding their unheard protests. ‘I’m glad you agree. There may yet be a chance to talk our way out of this. You two stay here. Bring the cavalry and the front ranks into sight on my signal.’
His manner was so authoritative that Loman and Isloman could only exchange a brief look of resignation. However, as Hawklan turned away, Loman flicked out an emphatic hand signal to the Helyadin bodyguard.
‘Language, dear boy,’ Gavor tutted reproachfully. ‘A simple "Take care," would have sufficed.’ Then he was flying after the already retreating party.
Holding the green flag of truce himself, Hawklan led his small entourage towards the approaching Morlider. He stopped just in front of the scattered bodies that were the remains of the crowd that had fallen before Athyr’s force.
‘Halt!’ His voice, commanding and powerful, rose above the clatter of the moving army.
Another voice repeated the command and rapidly it passed from officer to officer through the extended ranks and the great line came to a lumbering stop.
There was another command and the file in front of Hawklan opened to make a broad pathway. Along it came one man on horseback flanked by what appeared to be either advisers or bodyguards. The rider was a large and imposing man, untypical of his fellows to the extent that his heavy-boned face was beardless. He exuded a menacing physical power and he sat his horse as if defying it to disturb him in any way.
Hawklan felt Serian react, but it was too subtle for him to understand.
The man stopped some way from Hawklan and looked at him appraisingly. Then, almost surrepti-tiously, he glanced at Andawyr.
‘Who are you that chooses to stand in our way, horse rider?’ he called out. ‘And what do you want? We’re anxious to settle some debts today.’
Hawklan gave his name. ‘I am one of the defenders of this coast who’ve cost you so dear so far,’ he said. ‘I come under a flag of truce to speak to your people.’
The Morlider curled his lip and bared his teeth vi-ciously. ‘Speak to me then,’ he replied. ‘I’m Toran Agrasson. I command this… little patrol. But hurry, we’re impatient to try real knocks with you.’
Hawklan pointed to the distant islands. ‘Do you speak for all the peoples of your united lands?’ he asked.
The Morlider’s eyes narrowed slightly but his voice showed no uncertainty. He glanced from side to side at the waiting army. ‘I speak for these,’ he replied. ‘That’s all you need to concern yourself with.’
Hawklan shook his head. ‘I speak for all my people,’ he said. ‘And I must speak to the one who speaks for all of yours or terrible harm will be done here today. Send a messenger for Karios.’
Agrasson started visibly and an alarmed murmur rose up from the army.
‘Isn’t he with you?’ Hawklan asked, before Agrasson could answer.
Agrasson recovered himself. ‘Our chieftain is where he wills to be,’ he replied. ‘But don’t seek to meet him too soon, leader of your people.’ His tone was sneering. ‘Aside from your deeds of last night and today, each careless mention of his name will cost you a year’s torment when he has you in his thrall… ’ He looked up at the lightening sky overhead. Thin skeins of bright blue sky were appearing in the greyness. ‘Which will be long before the sun sets today-if you survive.’ This brought some laughter and jeering from the nearby ranks.
Hawklan looked down for a moment then straight-ened, took off his helm, and peered slowly over the vast expanse of the waiting army. Finally he looked again at Agrasson. ‘Very well, Toran Agrasson, I’ll speak with you, but know first that if you speak only for these gathered here, you speak for a doomed and betrayed people.’ He waved again towards the distant islands. ‘If your leader is too timorous to face the consequences of his own deeds, then let us at least, as true men, as warriors, not degrade this place further with lies and deceit. Let us call your chieftain by his true name.’
Agrasson frowned angrily and for a moment seemed inclined to ride forward.
Hawklan raised a hand to stop him. ‘Creost,’ he said, his voice becoming more powerful. ‘Creost. The Uhriel. One of the creatures of Sumeral who is risen again and seeks once more to spread his evil over the world.’
This time Agrasson backed his horse away from Hawklan, as if fearful of being caught in some awful retribution. He pointed an unsteady hand at Hawklan. ‘You weave a terrible doom for yourself with such words, horse rider,’ he said. ‘Seek earnestly to die today. It’s the happiest of the futures now before you.’
‘No!’ Hawklan roared. ‘I weave nothing. I come here to cut the threads that bind you all and that have led you to this folly. I come here to tell you the truth.’
‘Enough!’ Agrasson shouted, but Hawklan waved his protest aside.
‘Do you truly think that this… abomination… from another time will lead you to glory, to wealth, to whatever it is he has promised you?’ he said, projecting his voice out over the now silent army. ‘This creature, who has already slaughtered so many of your kin and torn your islands from the ancient ways of Enartion. You are a brave people. People of the sea. You, more than I, must know the price that will have to be paid for such folly.’
‘Archers!’ Agrasson roared. But his men, held by Hawklan’s voice, hesitated, and the Helyadin had drawn and aimed their bows at Agrasson and his companions before the nearest Morlider archers could bring theirs to bear. Hawklan held up his hand.
‘No,’ he said, gently. ‘You’ll die before us, and our deaths will not kill the truth; they’ll serve no end but his. Like the Fyordyn you’ve been cruelly misled by forces beyond your knowledge. They’re free now, and arm against Sumeral Himself, though they have paid a terrible price. You… ’
‘You’re lying,’ Agrasson burst out, though seemingly more for the benefit of his own men than for Hawklan. ‘Our chieftain’s brought us unity and strength… ’
‘He’s deceived you in every way,’ Hawklan shouted, cutting across him. ‘Even here. Did he not tell you that the Muster would be far to the south? That there would be no one here to oppose you?’
He turned and signalled to Loman.
There was a brief silence then, slowly, a long row of points began to rise from the skyline like tiny shoots of grass.
Hawklan watched the faces of the Morlider soldiers carefully as the front ranks of the Orthlundyn infantry marched forward.
Behind them a forest, of pikes waved gently, indicat-ing an unknown strength to the rear; two close-ranked formations of cavalry appeared on the flanks.
As they halted, the sun broke through a gap in the clouds and the unfamiliar sunlight danced and sparkled on bright surcoats, and polished shields and helms and weapons. It was a daunting spectacle, made all the more intense by the dark grey winter sky that formed the backdrop.
‘Nice timing,’ whispered Gavor into Hawklan’s ear with untypical awe.
Hawklan ignored him. ‘Turn away from this,’ he said to the Morlider. ‘Go back to your islands and the true ways of the sea. Make no widows and orphans for this cold land that you do not belong to. If truly you did not know his deceit, then see it writ large in the glittering edges and points waiting for you up there, and in the blood and gore of your companions right here.’ He waved his hand over the carnage that lay between himself and Agrasson.
The sunlight faded as the clouds closed again and a cold breeze ruffled the clothing of the waiting men. Hawklan felt his faint hopes shrivel at its touch. Such doubts as he had seen stir in those Morlider near to him, were gone, and only a savage, driven intent remained. Here, as in Fyorlund, the heart of the disease would have to be excised before peace could be found.
What Agrasson thought, he could not tell; the man’s face had become a mask.
‘You don’t reply,’ Hawklan said after a long silence.
Agrasson indicated the army with a nod of his head. ‘They’re reply enough,’ he said impassively, adding scornfully, ‘It was thoughtful of you to bring your army to us, it’ll save us a great deal of searching.’
Hawklan nodded sadly. ‘Then carry a message to Creost for me,’ he said. ‘Tell him that Hawklan, the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion, has pinioned Oklar and now comes to seek out the lesser Uhriel for an account of his misdeeds. Look at me, Toran Agrasson.’ His voice was soft but extraordinarily commanding and, reluctantly, Agrasson’s eyes met his. ‘Tell Creost there is no escape from the forces that have been set against him and that today he will be killed or bound.’
With an effort, Agrasson broke free from Hawklan’s gaze. ‘He’ll hear your message, horse rider, have no fear,’ he said. ‘And I’ll repeat my advice; seek earnestly to die today, Hawklan, Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion and speaker of fine words. Seek earnestly to die.’
Hawklan bowed slightly and, replacing his helm, began to walk Serian backwards. The Helyadin did the same, keeping their bows levelled at Agrasson and his companions until they were beyond bow shot.
‘I could have told you that would happen,’ Gavor said. ‘So could Loman and Isloman. All that lot under-stands is fighting.’
Hawklan handed the green flag to one of the Helyadin. ‘I could do no other than try, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ve left some darts of self-doubt stuck in some of them, and every little helps.’
Gavor condescended a cluck of mild approval.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr. ‘What did you learn?’ he asked.
Andawyr shrugged a little. ‘He’s there somewhere,’ he said. ‘But not truly exerting himself. I doubt he’s any idea of the threat we can pose.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep it that way for as long as possible. But we have to face him today no matter what else happens, and I’d like to know where he is.’
‘He’s on that boat there.’ The voice was Gavor’s. He was nodding towards a small boat anchored off shore, well away from the other vessels that were plying to and from the islands.
Hawklan frowned at him. ‘I thought I told you… ’ he began, then with a resigned shake of his head, ‘Never mind… A seagull told you, I suppose,’ he said.
‘No,’ Gavor replied with some scorn. ‘They’re very dim. Not a thought in their heads except family squabbles and… fish. I found him on my own.’
‘They’re coming.’ One of the Helyadin ended this exchange.
Glancing back, Hawklan saw the great mass of the Morlider army moving forward again. He galloped Serian up to Loman who was waiting anxiously with a group of company leaders.
‘Are Dacu and all the Helyadin back? Hawklan asked.
‘With the cavalry on the left flank,’ Loman replied, pointing.
Hawklan nodded. ‘Isloman, Andawyr, Atelon and I will join them,’ he said. ‘We’ll stay there unless we’re needed. Have you worked out your battle plan?’
Loman looked around at the company leaders. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Unless you saw anything special down there.’
Hawklan shook his head. ‘They’re as nasty looking as you always told me. And strong, but nothing your rock heavers can’t handle. Their pikes aren’t as strong as ours by the look of them-and they’ve got a motley assortment of close quarter weapons so I doubt they’ve learned how to fight in phalanx other than with pikes.’
‘Good,’ said Loman, signalling his companions back to their posts.
Then he took Hawklan’s elbow and led him aside a little way. When he turned to speak, his eyes were fearful and his face grim, ‘Look how many there are,’ he whispered. ‘Can we truly win against such numbers. Can I… ’ His voice faltered.
Hawklan reached down to his quiver and drew one of the black arrows that Loman had made for Ethriss’s bow. He held it out in front of the smith.
‘In this, you made a weapon that brought down an Uhriel,’ he said. ‘A deed none other could have done.’ Then, motioning towards the army: ‘And in them, you, Gulda and all the others have made a weapon just as fine. You’ve talked and debated together, trained and shared hardships together, sought out and corrected flaws together just as you would at a Guild meeting. You’re many and yet one.’ He smiled. ‘Unlike me, your whole army’s already been told your battle plan by now and they’ll implement it because they’ll see its sound-ness.’ He raised an emphatic finger. ‘Or they’ll change it as need arises. And that change will accord with your will-you know that, don’t you?’
He paused and looked back at the approaching Morlider.
‘Unlike them. People who fight because they’re driven by fear or who fight for fighting’s sake. They understand nothing of the true purpose of combat; or why they’re here. Our cause, our understanding, our discipline, our training, our will; all these are superior to theirs.’ He turned back to Loman, his face purposeful and implacable. ‘Destroy these invaders, Loman, we’ve other battles to fight.’
Loman reached out and gripped Hawklan’s hand powerfully, then, without speaking, he spun his horse round and trotted back to Isloman and the others.
Hawklan remembered Loman’s concerned face as they had parted once before, outside Anderras Darion. Referring to the decision to train the Orthlundyn, Loman had said unexpectedly, ‘I’ve never had a tool on my bench that I haven’t used eventually.’
A perceptive and tragically accurate remark, Hawk-lan thought, as he watched Loman embracing his brother and exchanging battle farewells with the others.
His own reply returned to him.
‘All choices… carry responsibility… Having seen what we’ve seen and learned what we’ve learned can we do anything other than tell the people the truth and teach them what we can?’
He looked at the ranks of the Orthlundyn.
The people had chosen. Chosen to learn, chosen to face the truth, and chosen to defend what they valued.
Then a great certainty rose up inside him to shine like a dazzling summer sunrise.
And they had chosen to win this day!
Hawklan drew Ethriss’s black sword and held it high. Gavor rose powerfully into the air with a raucous, laughing cry and Serian reared and screamed his own challenge to the invaders of his land. Then overtopping both, and ringing out across the waiting people, Hawklan’s voice was heard, crying,
‘To the light!’
The cry spread through the army, washing to and fro like a great roaring wave.
Then, Hawklan and the others were galloping to join the Helyadin, Loman was shouting orders and the whole army began to move forward.
The long phalanx, sixteen men deep, moved forward very slowly, but the cavalry squadron guarding the right flank set off at the trot, leaving behind only a small flank guard. As they advanced, they gathered speed and took up a column formation as if to launch a direct charge against the centre of the Morlider front. The Morlider halted and their vanguard of archers prepared to greet this folly with the destruction it deserved.
Abruptly, however, while still out of range, the col-umn swung round and half of the riders dismounted. Within seconds, the defending archers found themselves under a hail of lead shot. At first there were few casualties as the Orthlundyn tested out the archers’ shield bearers. Then they began to concentrate their fire and casualties began to mount rapidly.
The Morlider began to move forward again; the skirmishing slingers were comparatively few and to remain stationary under their assault would have been to incur far more losses than if they kept moving.
The slingers held for a little while, still concentrat-ing on the destruction of the archers, then quickly retreated and remounted. The squadron, however, did not withdraw immediately. Instead, the second half charged forward and released three volleys of arrows in rapid succession.
Many of the arrows were brought down by the wav-ing pikes or deflected by shields, but many too found more effective marks.
Watching the foray, both Atelon and Andawyr started suddenly.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked, concerned.
‘I think he has your message,’ Andawyr replied, a little breathlessly.
‘I feel nothing,’ Hawklan said, remembering the sensations he had experienced when approaching Oklar.
‘You will, healer,’ Andawyr said knowingly. ‘And very soon, I imagine.’
‘Look,’ said Isloman pointing. ‘There’s someone coming out onto the deck of the boat.’
Hawklan looked at the solitary boat then abruptly he felt the presence of the Uhriel. Even at this distance, the figure seemed, like Oklar, to be a rent in the reality around him. A great wrongness. Unconsciously Hawklan’s left hand moved to the hilt of the black sword.
‘What will he do?’ he asked, but neither Andawyr nor Atelon were listening. They were moving forward from the group and looking fixedly at the distant figure. Hawklan signalled to the Helyadin. ‘Protect Andawyr above all; then Atelon, then me.’
Quietly a group of the Helyadin positioned them-selves behind the two Cadwanwr.
Hawklan turned his attention back to the advancing Morlider. The first cavalry squadron was riding to and fro in loose formation, generally harassing the enemy’s centre with bursts of slinging, while the second had advanced and was using the same tactics as the first further along the Morlider’s left wing.
Several times this sequence was repeated, with the squadrons concentrating their assaults on the Mor-lider’s centre and left.
At the rear of his army, Toran Agrasson looked puzzled.
‘These aren’t the Muster I remember,’ he said to one of his officers. ‘Archers, stone throwers and spear carriers, with only a handful of horsemen.’ The frown deepened, then a realization dawned. ‘They’re not Riddinvolk,’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew that big fellow’s accent was funny. They must be those northerners.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Fyordyn. That’s it, they’re Fyordyn. I’ll wager the horse riders had asked them for help and they’ve come on us by accident.’ He laughed loudly. ‘And look at what they’re doing. Outnumbered more than two to one and trying to break our centre. They always were arrogant bastards. This is going to be fun. Pass the word, keep some of them alive for sport afterwards.’
Hawklan watched Loman’s battle plan unfold gradually. Because of its great length and with the centre and left constantly faltering under the attacks from the cavalry, the Morlider’s line had become distorted. In particular, the unhindered right was moving forward rapidly and pivoting inwards. At the same time, largely hidden by the confusion of galloping horsemen, the Orthlundyn phalanx was marching and counter-marching but drifting slowly, inexorably to its left-towards the Morlider’s pivoting flank.
Then the second squadron was charging forward as if to repeat its two-pronged assault yet again. The archers and shield-bearers at the centre prepared themselves for the anticipated assault and once again the line slowed a little.
But the assault did not occur. Instead, the cavalry, keeping comfortably out of range, thundered past at full gallop, hooves pounding and throwing up flurries of snow.
The Morlider pikemen and archers at the centre relaxed and began to move forward again, warily watching the retreating spectacle. Soon the riders would break formation and return again, but they’d have to come to grips sooner or later.
This time however, the cavalry showed no signs of dispersing. And sweeping round in a great curving arc the first squadron galloped down to join them.
Still to some extent obscured behind them, the Orthlundyn phalanx quickened its pace.
‘They’re going for our right flank,’ Agrasson said in growing disbelief.
‘Shall I order the left to swing round?’ asked the officer by his side.
Agrasson shook his head. ‘No, not yet. They might have more over the hill. There’s no real danger. The flank archers will bring them down by the net-full once they’re in range.’
The cavalry however, did not move within range of the Morlider archers. They remained carefully beyond it, and for the first time that day demonstrated the longer range of the Orthlundyn bows; demonstrated it with volley upon volley into the massed archers guarding the right flank of the Morlider line.
The Morlider held for only a short time under this lethal rain, then they began to scatter in disorder. As they broke, the cavalry abandoned bows for swords and charged into them to complete the rout and expose the flank of the Morlider line utterly.
During this assault, the Orthlundyn phalanx demon-strated a skill of its own. With parade-ground elegance it changed formation, making itself eight men deep instead of sixteen, and doubling its length to the left in the process. Then, as the cavalry tore away the flank guard, the extended phalanx increased speed and with a great shout, charged the Morlider’s right wing.
As the rows of lowered pikes crashed into those of the Morlider, Hawklan ruthlessly quelled the reproaches that were rising up in him as loudly as the terrible noise of the battle. Now all were to be tested. Would the will and discipline of the Orthlundyn overcome the wild fighting frenzy of the Morlider?
The thinning of the phalanx had been a risk, but it seemed that the speed with which it had been executed had justified it.
The Morlider on the right flank, assailed by the cavalry, hastily discarded their now ineffective long pikes, and resorted to their traditional swords and axes. But though they fought bravely they took little toll of the cavalry and the disintegration and destruction of the right wing accelerated relentlessly.
‘Hawklan!’
It was Andawyr, and his voice was taut with fear. He was pointing to the distant figure of Creost. Hawklan followed his gaze. The strange unreality that pervaded the Uhriel seemed to have intensified. Serian whinnied uneasily. Without realizing why, Hawklan drew his sword. Then suddenly, he began to feel an unnatural warmth, a warmth that rose inside him with a choking menace, as if a ravening fever had just seized him. Serian started to shiver.
This was the touch of Creost. The touch of death. Hawklan’s eyes widened in helpless terror as sweat broke out all over him.
Andawyr extended his arms as if both defying an enemy and welcoming an old friend. Atelon, beside him, bowed his head slightly and lifted his hands to his temples in concentration. Neither spoke, but Hawklan could feel their ringing opposition to Creost’s Power. As suddenly as it had come, the nauseous warmth that had pervaded him passed away, and he saw the figure on the boat stagger.
Looking round, he saw that Isloman and the Helyadin were wide-eyed and flushed, and their horses restless.
A strange quiet had come over the battlefield.
‘He would have destroyed half his own to destroy us,’ said a soft voice laden with horrified disbelief. Hawklan turned. It was Atelon. The Cadwanwr still sat with his head bowed but his face was riven with effort. He began to speak further but his voice was inaudible. Hawklan bent forward.
‘We hold him,’ came a faint whisper. ‘Fight, Hawk-lan!’
Hawklan put his free hand on the young man’s shoulder in an involuntary gesture of comfort. At the touch, the Cadwanwr’s pain and torment crashed over him like a great icy wave. For a timeless moment he was no more; he was the least mote caught up and whirled around by forces beyond imagining. Yet, too, he was not; the deep stillness at his centre was beyond all such turmoil; it embraced and accepted the pain in silence, and in so doing rejected it utterly. Then it gave him his name again and showed him himself as healer and warrior. Through his outstretched hand, it told Atelon, and listened; and through the other, it told the black sword, and listened.
And it showed Hawklan the balance of many futures that the touch of Creost had brought to the bloody, snow-covered field. Warrior and healer heard and, standing high in the stirrups of the great Muster horse, Hawklan raised the black sword of Ethriss, and roared his will to his people.
‘Orthlundyn. To the light!’
As his cry sounded over the faltering warriors, it reached out and brought each back to the fray, and it was a mighty roar that returned to the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion.
Still bemused by the unseen assault from their leader, the Morlider gave way before the Orthlundyn’s onslaught, and the right wing, after retreating for some way, broke and became a rout as men abandoned their long pikes and turned to flee from the swords of the cavalry and the relentless pointed hedge of the phalanx.
The watching Helyadin cheered, but Hawklan him-self was watching the motionless Andawyr and the distant scar that was Creost. The battle being waged there was beyond his understanding, but he knew it to be as terrible as that between the two armies. He could do no other than watch and wait, and act as his heart bade him.
The battle between the two armies, however, he did understand, and he knew that for all the success of the Orthlundyn against the right wing of the Morlider, the army as a whole was far from defeated. Indeed, he noted that the Morlider’s left wing was beginning to wheel round to outflank the Orthlundyn and, of more immediate danger, the archers from the left flank were running along the line.
In addition, small groups of Morlider were begin-ning to break ranks and attack the small cavalry contingent guarding the right flank of the phalanx.
These were not unexpected manoeuvres, but Islo-man came to Hawklan’s side anxiously.
Hawklan raised a hand before he could speak. ‘Lo-man’s seen it,’ he said. ‘Look.’
As he pointed, part of the cavalry broke off from the destruction of the Morlider’s right wing, and began galloping to intercept the approaching archers and to relieve their companions protecting the phalanx’s right flank.
Without thinking, Hawklan drew off his mailed glove and wiped his brow. His fingers glistened with perspiration and he looked again at the two Cadwanwr. Andawyr seemed unchanged, sitting motionless on his horse, his arms still extended. His oval, battered face was quiet and oddly dignified, but Hawklan could sense a terrible strain in the man. It was as if he were facing a great wind that no other could feel. Atelon, on the other hand, was wilting visibly.
Hawklan reached out and taking Atelon’s hand, thrust the black sword into it. ‘Feel the spirit that used the Old Power to make this blade, Cadwanwr,’ he said. ‘It will unmake Creost’s vile abuses and hurl him back into oblivion if you will it.’
Atelon made no response, but slowly straightened. Gently, Hawklan took the sword from his hand and sheathed it.
He looked again at the distant figure of Creost.
‘Dacu,’ he said. The Goraidin eased his horse for-ward. ‘Can we get out there and attack him directly.’
‘No,’ replied a familiar deep voice emphatically. Dar-volci emerged from Andawyr’s stout coat. ‘His Power is divided. It assaults you and it holds the islands. If you threaten him with death-and you could-he might let slip the islands and destroy you and all these in his extremity.’
Hawklan opened his mouth to speak, but Dar-volci had retreated into Andawyr’s coat again.
Dacu finished the idea. ‘We could only reach him by boat, and there’s too many people still in that camp for us to do that,’ he said. ‘We’d better leave him to Andawyr and concentrate on what we know about.’ He pointed to the battle.
The Morlider left wing was moving purposefully round, its pikemen maintaining a disciplined formation. The archers had spread out, making themselves difficult targets for the volley fire which had destroyed the others. The cavalry however had succeeded in fighting back the assault on the right flank of the phalanx, though the Morlider who had abandoned that assault were now acting as shield bearers to the archers. More numerous than the cavalry, the archers were gradually easing forward and would soon pose a threat to the phalanx.
Suddenly, a brilliant light lit the whole battlefield, glaring white off the snow and transforming the dark mass of the two armies into grey smudges. Then it was gone and in its wake came a terrible thunder clap. Though there were no mountains or cliffs nearby, the sound seemed reluctant to fade, rattling and echoing to and fro across the sky like a trapped and frenzied animal.
All started violently at this din save Andawyr and Atelon, though Atelon turned to look up with consterna-tion on his face. Andawyr merely nodded his head in the direction of their lone enemy.
The Helyadin were struggling to control their horses and even Serian was showing signs of alarm. ‘That wasn’t thunder,’ he cried.
‘No, it was someone else’s battle I fear,’ Hawklan replied, leaning forward and patting his neck. ‘But it’s done us no favours.’
Nor had it. Their horses frightened by the lights and the noise, the cavalry were in some considerable disorder while the Morlider archers had recovered quickly and were using the confusion to advance rapidly.
The Morlider left wing too was closing round inexo-rably.
Suddenly a hand grabbed Hawklan’s arm and twisted him round. It was Dacu. He was pointing to a group of about fifty riders galloping round the Mor-lider’s left wing.
‘A large part of their cavalry, I suspect,’ Dacu said. ‘And not coming to discuss a truce by the look of it,’ he added, as the riders turned and headed directly towards the Helyadin.
‘Striking to the heart of the enemy, as they think,’ Hawklan said, nodding in agreement.
‘Or as they know,’ Dacu said, looking significantly at the Cadwanwr.
Hawklan felt an ancient force stirring inside him. He singled out some of the Helyadin. ‘Tybek, Jenna, you… six, stay here,’ he said. ‘Protect Andawyr and Atelon at all costs. If things turn against us, get them to Fyorlund as we’ve arranged. The rest of you, come with me.’ Then turning Serian before Dacu could speak his inevitable protest, he took up two of the lances that had been stuck into the ground nearby in readiness for any defensive action the Helyadin might have to take. ‘Line abreast, then into wedge formation just before we hit them,’ he shouted.
Serian reared up without any apparent command, and started towards the advancing riders. Dacu hesitated for a moment, then Isloman galloped past him on one side and a lance was thrust into his hand from the other.
‘Come on, Goraidin,’ shouted Yrain. ‘Shift yourself. He’s going to get himself slaughtered.’ And with a yell she was off after Isloman and Hawklan.
Hawklan’s brief tactical instructions were only par-tially successful. Though barely seconds behind him, Dacu and the Helyadin could not hope to match the speed of the great Muster horse as it thundered towards the approaching Morlider at full gallop.
To the few in the marching Morlider ranks who lifted their eyes briefly from the figures in front of them, it seemed that Hawklan, galloping on alone, his cloak streaming, and his great horse wild-eyed and pounding, was like a boulder crashing down a mountainside, while behind came the avalanche; Dacu, Isloman and the Helyadin, in a wide ragged line, shouting and scream-ing, with the polished points of their lances cold and final in the Riddin snowlight.
The advancing Morlider horsemen, in loose forma-tion, saw the tumult coming but did not waver. Instead, four of them split off to deal with this black-helmed apparition, charging at it in defiant echo of its challenge. The Morlider understood the berserk fighter.
But though Hawklan had the all-consuming fury of the berserker, it was guided by his cold inner vision that saw always the true need, and thus it was that the first two Morlider who met him were not impaled on the shining lances from Anderras Darion, but unhorsed.
Seeming to have selected the two riders on the left for his first assault, Hawklan swerved Serian at the last moment to attack the two in the centre. Surprised by the suddenness of this manoeuvre, both riders flinched away from the inexorability of Hawklan’s driving lances only to find their points passing narrowly by and the shafts guiding them effortlessly out of their saddles. Both men fell heavily.
Dacu felt himself gasp at the sight of this superlative fighting technique and even as it happened, the memory returned to him vividly of Hawklan galloping through the sunlight to unseat the demented Ordan Fainson on their flight from Vakloss.
Briefly he felt the ambivalence of motives in Hawk-lan’s actions; not to kill, through caring and compassion; not to kill, to burden the enemy with wounded. He swept the thoughts aside as the Helyadin moved into their wedge formation. Such choices were not his. Hawklan’s skills were as far from his as were his from the average High Guard; here he needed all his own just to survive, and a mind elsewhere would see him killed. Part of him however marvelled again as at the edge of his vision he saw Hawklan beat down an attacking sword with his lance, then bring it up to strike his assailant under the chin, unseating him.
Dacu closed with his chosen target but, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he swung the point of his lance away suddenly and swung the aft end round to strike him in the face. As the Helyadin struck the Morlider, Hawklan was swinging his lance around to deliver a ringing blow to the head of the fourth rider who was struggling to turn his horse to face this explosive assault. The man tumbled out of his saddle, stunned, but a fifth rider joining the fray was less fortunate; Hawklan drove the aft point of his lance into his throat. As the Morlider crashed, choking, into the snow, Hawklan turned with a great roar to the entangled mass of fighting riders.
The initial charge by the Helyadin had killed several of the Morlider and injured or unhorsed several others. It had not, however, scattered the attackers and, lances having been discarded, swords, axes and clubs were being used in savage close-quarter fighting.
The Helyadin’s greater skills, both in riding and fighting, were prevailing against the Morlider’s numbers and brute power, but barely, and it was obvious that the Morlider were neither going to yield nor flee.
With one lance, Hawklan impaled an axe-wielding giant who though badly hurt and on foot was about to hamstring Isloman’s horse. The second lance he drove into the ground between the legs of a horse to bring it down. Its rider, however, rolled as he fell and, coming upright almost immediately, ran forward as if to drag Hawklan from his saddle. Serian hit him broadside, but it took a powerful kick from Hawklan to end his part in the skirmish.
Hawklan drew his sword and urged Serian into the middle of the melee.
No sooner had he done so than he found himself in another place.