‘In the name of pity, Hawklan, help us!’
The voice was that of Ynar Aesgin. It rang in Hawk-lan’s head and possessed his body, though the images in his eyes were still those of the Helyadin and Morlider locked in savage and bloody combat about him.
A great rage and fear surged through him.
‘What have you done?’ he roared, though no sound was heard in Riddin. ‘Release me. I will die here, or others will die protecting my helplessness. Release me!’
‘This is not my doing,’ came the reply.
‘Release me!’
‘I do not bind you, neither can I release you,’ said Ynar. ‘Would I had such skills at my command, I’d have sought you before this extremity.’
Faint and distant voices impinged on Hawklan, calling his name frantically as the images of his friends battling the Morlider around his helpless frame came before him with fearful clarity. An ancient part of his mind struggled desperately for release, but none came.
‘Help us, Hawklan,’ intruded Ynar again. ‘Hendar Gornath understood the great truth of the sword you bear and he has held firm. The Soarers Tarran have repelled Dar Hastuin’s terrible hordes… at great cost… but now he takes his tormented land to the higher paths… He will crush us… Destroy us utterly. Help us.’
The despair in the Drienwr’s voice appalled Hawk-lan. ‘I cannot help you, Ynar,’ he cried.
‘He will destroy us!’
‘I cannot help you!’
Ynar’s pain filled Hawklan. ‘What do you want of me?’ he cried.
‘Your strength, your knowledge, your wisdom, to guide us.’
‘If you understand the sword you are wiser than I am. You have what you need. Search your hearts.’
Ynar’s despair did not abate.
‘But tell us what to… ’
Hawklan screamed. ‘Do what you must, Drienwr. I know nothing of your ways. You sought no conflict. You have the right to be. No one, no thing, can deny you that. Do… ’
Ynar was gone.
The din of the battle broke over Hawklan deafen-ingly; Isloman’s voice roaring his name, others screaming and shouting, swords and shields clashing.
He tightened his grip on the black sword but some-thing struck his helm a ringing blow and the impact toppled him from Serian’s back to leave him rolling in the cold damp snow beneath the flailing hooves of friend and foe alike.
A figure crashed down beside him, screaming and clutching a partly severed arm. The screaming stopped as a horse’s hoof struck the man’s head.
Hawklan rolled away to avoid the same fate and then, leaning on his sword, staggered to his feet and shook his head to still the roaring in his ears that the blow had left. A horse buffeted him, and only some ancient reflex twisted him away from a descending sword blade. The same reflex cleared his vision and drove the black sword upwards under his attacker’s chin then tore the blade free from the ghastly grip of the man’s skull.
Then Serian was there, rearing and prancing to keep his foes away.
As Hawklan swung up into the saddle he gave a great howling cry of rage at his impotence before Ynar Aesgin’s terrible agony. And then there was a brief frenzied whirl of movement. A single thrust of the sword killed a Morlider pressing Jaldaric; a high lashing kick from Serian smashed the thigh of another, and a whistling cut scythed through the shield of a third, leaving him unscathed but unmanned before the black-helmed vision of his death. His flight from the field drew the few surviving attackers after him like water from a fractured bowl.
The skirmish was ended.
‘What happened to you?’ Isloman was wide-eyed as he took Hawklan’s arm.
Hawklan released the grip gently and raised his hand to forbid any further questions. He looked around at his companions. They were a grim sight, bloodstained and steaming in the cold air, but they were all there even though some were injured. Their faces reflected Isloman’s question.
‘Later,’ he said, turning the Helyadin’s gaze back to the battle with a nod of his head.
The Orthlundyn phalanx had turned and was driv-ing along the Morlider line, but was coming under attack from the Morlider archers. The cavalry had withdrawn and was re-grouping, presumably with a view to attacking the Morlider archers before the circling left wing outflanked the phalanx. Once again, Hawklan felt the battle come to a balancing point. The Morlider were fearsome and brave fighters and, despite their dreadful losses, they were beginning to slow down the phalanx, even holding it in places, as some of wilder spirits among them actually seized the ends of the long pikes and hacked at them with swords and axes in an attempt to reach their foes.
Hawklan had no doubt that the phalanx would hold and that the mounted archers could do great harm to the approaching Morlider wing: but would it be enough? He sensed perhaps not; their position was becoming increasingly defensive. And, despite the considerable panic in certain places, the Morlider’s mood seemed to have shifted from surprise and anger into indiscrimi-nate battle fury. Thus fired and uncaring about their fate, their sheer weight of numbers could give them the day.
Would give them the day, if action was not taken.
He led the Helyadin back to Andawyr and the oth-ers. The Cadwanwr were still motionless, both now with arms extended, but it seemed to Hawklan that the unseen wind which buffeted them was taking a toll.
It came to him that if their conflict was not ended soon then Andawyr and Atelon must surely crumble, standing alone against this terrible Uhriel. Out on his solitary vessel, the sinister figure of Creost stood, equally motionless.
Hawklan frowned as his gaze took in two approach-ing ships. Reinforcements, he thought.
He looked again at the disposition of the Orthlundyn forces. He could have done no better, he saw. Loman’s command had been sound and shrewd but…
Reinforcements! What other forces still lay on those distant islands?
A horse-pulled sled galloped past, swaying omi-nously. It was one of several that the Orthlundyn had made for carrying supplies about the battlefield, and it was stacked high with bundles of arrows. Riding the horse was a young boy.
Drawn from his thoughts by the sled’s seemingly reckless progress, Hawklan pointed.
‘Who…?’ he began.
‘He’s from the village,’ said one of the Helyadin. ‘Fendryc’s village. There’s a few knocking about. They just turned up and started helping with the horses.’
Hawklan swore. The Riddin village with its popula-tion of the too old and the too young left to tend the surrounding farms! The Riddinvolk had thrown their every able resource into meeting this enemy. Now even the frail were stepping forward.
How could he do less? Now, more clearly than ever he saw that he too must commit his last resource to try to tilt this battle if the Morlider were bringing in reinforcements.
He set the calculation aside, and his resolve, buried by the sudden burden of Ynar Aesgin’s fears, reasserted itself.
Turning to the Helyadin he said quietly, ‘String your bows, friends. We’re going to stop that Morlider left wing.’
Despite himself, Isloman expressed the immediate response of the group. ‘It’s not possible,’ he said, his voice full of alarm. ‘There’s not remotely enough of us.’
Hawklan looked at him for a long moment and then smiled. ‘Since when is the possible so easily measured, carver?’ he asked. Then he patted Isloman’s arm affectionately. ‘Tirke, Athyr, keep our quivers filled. We’ve a battle to win.’
Turning Serian, he began walking towards the or-dered ranks of advancing Morlider. Except for those trusted with the protection of the two Cadwanwr, the others rode after him.
As they moved forward, Hawklan glanced upwards. The sky had been silent since the lights and thunder that had panicked the cavalry, but as he looked at the grey, mottled clouds he felt a strange sense of foreboding.
What extremity had the Drienwr been in to have reached out, unknowing, to seize him thus? He remem-bered how Andawyr had appeared before him as he sat drowsing in the library at Anderras Darion and in that dusty sunlit storeroom in Vakloss. But here he had been about to enter battle.
He set the questions aside. If even Andawyr did not truly understand how such things had happened, how could anyone else? But still the foreboding persisted and the lingering regret that perhaps yet again he had turned away the Drienvolk when they had sought his aid. That he could have done no other in such circum-stances offered him little consolation.
‘Here,’ he said, reining Serian to a halt. ‘Dismount. Line abreast. Pick your targets and take your time. If they break and charge us, maintain your aimed fire into the leading ranks until my command, then remount and move down line.’
The Helyadin obeyed Hawklan’s order in silence, and their flimsy line stretched itself out in front of the dark mass of the Morlider and their waving pikes with the easy leisure of companions about to enjoy an afternoon’s friendly archery practice.
Their assault did not have the immediate morale-breaking impact of the massed volleys that had shattered the Morlider’s flank guards, but the Helyadin were expert shots and almost every arrow struck its target. Very soon a length of the approaching wing was in complete disarray.
Eventually, as Hawklan had envisaged, a section of the assailed infantry began to charge forward in desperate fury in an attempt to end this peculiarly dreadful attack.
He watched them come. ‘Keep firing,’ he said unhur-riedly. ‘Take your time. Three more shots at least. Aim for those still holding their stations.’
Nearer.
‘One more.’
Nearer.
‘Mount up.’
And the Helyadin were gone, leaving the charging Morlider to hurl axes, swords, and abuse after them with equal futility.
Twice more the group reformed and attacked the relentlessly advancing line, doing great harm.
As they pulled away for the third time, Hawklan looked at the frayed and straggling line that had marked their assault.
It was not enough. The whole wing had slowed a little as a result of the attack, but much of it was still intact. The Helyadin’s attack was having an effect quite disproportionate to their numbers, but they were still very few.
For the first time that day, Hawklan’s mind turned to Agreth. A single Muster squadron could smash the unprotected flanks and rear of the Morlider line.
Had the Riddinwr reached an outpost that might carry his news swiftly south? Had he been able to draw away the Muster from whatever treachery had led them there? Despite himself, Hawklan found his eyes looking to the misty horizon in the hope of seeing the quivering movement that would be riders approaching.
But all was still.
‘Riders.’ The urgent voice was Dacu’s. Hawklan took in a sharp expectant breath. But Dacu was not pointing to the horizon, he was pointing to another group of riders emerging from behind the Morlider line. Fewer than before, but galloping again towards the Cadwanwr and their small guard.
Still attacking the heart, Agrasson, Hawklan thought.
Quickly he dispatched half the Helyadin to intercept them. ‘Don’t close with them,’ he shouted. ‘Shoot the horses, then the men. I want no survivors. Then get back here as quickly… ’
His orders froze in his throat as the foreboding he had felt before suddenly returned, though far worse, doubling and redoubling, as if a great power were descending from above to crush the whole loathsome field and all on it.
Then the sky ignited.
A dazzling incandescence flooded the two armies and the snow-covered arena with a light so bright that it seemed that no matter could stay its flow sufficiently to cast a shadow.
Yet even as hands rose to cover tormented eyes, there came a noise that swept such concerns into nothingness. It filled the sky and enfolded the battling peoples in an embrace so powerful that not one there could hear his own screams. The swaying lines of pikes wavered and fell like corn before hail as Morlider and Orthlundyn alike tumbled to the ground vainly trying to avoid this overpowering and terrifying onslaught.
Hawklan fell forward and clasped his arms around Serian’s neck. Faint but sure, an inner light held firm amid the tumult within him and showed him that now above all times, the outcome of this battle lay in his hands.
He tightened his grip around Serian’s neck. His voice would not be heard, but the healer in him would reach the horse.
‘Hold, Serian,’ it said. ‘Listen to the sires within you who know me and who know the truth. This is the doom of another world not ours. Who rises first from this, carries the day. ’
The great horse reared and screamed unheard as its spirit fought against the fears that would have its body flee from this horror, but Hawklan entered into it and for a timeless moment the two sustained each other, moving beyond the light and the noise.
Then, as the dreadful brilliance lessened and be-came a shifting, ghastly, bloodstained iridescence, and the sound dwindled into a cascade of tumbling thunder-claps, Hawklan leapt down from Serian.
‘Quiet your own, before they recover their wits enough to flee,’ he shouted, then he ran among the stunned Helyadin, dragging them to their feet, staring into shocked eyes, slapping faces, thrusting unsteady forms on to equally unsteady horses, and roaring his will at all of them.
Two others were doing the same, he noted. One was Isloman; the great carver, though patently terrified, was unceremoniously dumping the Helyadin into their saddles. The second was Dacu. Fleetingly the memory returned to Hawklan of the great silence that had awakened him in the mountains and how it had so moved the Goraidin. ‘A gift to guide me forever,’ he had said. The memory eased his own pain in some way.
‘Through the archers and rally the phalanx!’ he shouted to the two men, signalling at the same time.
Both acknowledged his cry and mounted their own horses.
Hawklan spun Serian round in front of the recover-ing group and drew the black sword. He was an ominous figure, cutting as starkly into the minds of his shaken troops as he did through the baleful, shifting, red light still pouring from the blazing sky.
‘To me, Helyadin, to me!’ he shouted, his voice still lost in the dying din from above, but his meaning unmistakable. The Helyadin started forward, first at the trot then at the gallop, as their leader drew them forward and as the rhythm of their movement began to displace the terrible possession of the noise.
As they rose, Hawklan’s own vision cleared. The Morlider who had been riding to attack Andawyr were scattered, most of them unhorsed by their panicking mounts, but so too were the Orthlundyn cavalry. The great blocks of infantry, both Orthlundyn and Morlider, were motionless.
He could not bring himself to look up, as if fearing to see some awful livid wound torn into the very fabric of the sky. Whatever had come to pass in the Drien-volk’s conflict, this battle here had to be won, and Creost defeated.
The thought took his gaze briefly to Andawyr and Atelon and thence to the Uhriel. Though their body-guards were gone, both the Cadwanwr were seemingly unmoved by the happenings around them, as was the distant figure of Creost, still jagged and awful in Hawklan’s sight.
At the edge of his vision, he saw the two ships bear-ing reinforcements for the Morlider. In the eerie stillness of the fallen armies and the whirling confusion of the demented horses, the smooth purposeful movement of the two vessels seemed strangely gro-tesque.
Soon the enemy’s reinforcements would be ashore.
Then the Helyadin were crashing through and over the Morlider archers, swords rising and falling, arcing red in the reflected cloud light and the blood of their hapless enemy. The swathe they cut, however, caused no great panic as most were too occupied with the terrors still shaking the sky above them.
Nearing the Orthlundyn infantry, Hawklan saw that, like his brother, Loman, though unhorsed, had recov-ered quickly from the ordeal. The smith was running along the ranks of fallen and crouching figures as desperately as Hawklan had run amongst the Helyadin. Under his exhortations, individuals were rising to their feet and struggling to help their neighbours.
‘Spread out. Get these people moving,’ Hawklan thundered, leaping down from Serian at the run and dashing forward to join Loman.
Then, as the infantry climbed up from its knees, he and the Helyadin were through to the broken front line of the Morlider, a thin strand of frenzied, hacking, skirmishers spreading out before the recovering Orthlundyn like a ripple presaging the arrival of a great wave.
The rumbling above continued to fade but, as it did, so the Orthlundyn filled the incipient silence with their own thunder as once again they began their relentless advance.
Hawklan and the Helyadin retreated through the phalanx and remounted.
‘We’ll not re-form the cavalry,’ Dacu said anxiously. ‘There’s hardly anyone mounted and the horses are scattered everywhere.’
Hawklan did not answer immediately, but glanced quickly upwards. Through the residual rumbling, he thought he heard a thin, flesh-crawling screeching high above, but it disappeared under the mounting pande-monium of the battlefield and he dismissed it.
He turned back to Dacu and his concerns. ‘Most of them have still got their bows,’ he said. ‘Get them guarding this flank, and skirmishing. Then do what you can with the horses; we need them.’
As the Helyadin dispersed to execute this command, Hawklan turned and rode back towards Andawyr. On the way he passed the sled that the Riddin boy had driven by him so apparently recklessly but minutes ago. It had overturned and the horse was struggling white-eyed and foaming in its harness. Hawklan drew his sword and cut the animal free. Serian backed away as, with much kicking and stumbling, the terrified horse stood up.
‘Calm it, Serian,’ Hawklan said.
‘Tend your own, Hawklan,’ the horse replied with an inclination of his head towards the far side of the sled.
Hawklan looked where Serian indicated and saw a small form lying in the snow. He dismounted quickly and ran to the boy, but even as he bent over him, he knew that the child was beyond any aid he could offer. From the impressions in the snow, it seemed that the sled had rolled over him when it overturned.
A surge of memories swept through him. Memories of the children of Pedhavin, shouting, running, silently watching, as they played their eternally secret games about the winding sunlit streets of the village, and around the courtyards and halls of Anderras Darion. And somewhere was the glow from his own golden childhood in another age.
He let the vision unfold without restraint until he found his vision blurring, then colder, adult needs made him lay it aside; though gently.
The freed horse came and stood beside him. It low-ered its head and touched the boy.
‘Not your fault,’ Hawklan said, stroking it. Then, to the boy, he whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ very softly. ‘Fear no more.’
Remounting Serian, he turned again towards the Cadwanwr. As Hawklan approached, Andawyr moved slightly as if he had been struck, and Hawklan felt again the choking warmth rising up inside him that had marked Creost’s entry into the fray. He turned and looked over the battlefield.
The right wing of the Morlider was being routed as its bewildered and shocked fighters struggled to escape the renewed advance of the Orthlundyn pikes. The left wing, disarrayed to some extent by the Helyadin’s quiet but savage assault, had stopped its advance and was faltering in some confusion. Dacu and the Helyadin were rallying the broken cavalry to protect the Orthlundyn’s vulnerable flank on foot.
Hawklan felt both the exhilaration of the Orthlundyn and the terror of the fleeing Morlider. If the attack could be sustained, the Morlider would soon break utterly.
Creost was acting now not to destroy his enemy, but to save his army! From somewhere, the Uhriel had found the resource to beat back the opposition that the two Cadwanwr had offered him. For a chilling moment, it occurred to Hawklan that perhaps this foul agent of Sumeral had only been toying with these irksome creatures that scuttled irritatingly about its feet.
But the moment passed. The seizure of Riddin must surely be vital to Sumeral’s strategy and while the fate of the Morlider army as men doubtless meant little to Creost, as a tool for implementing the will of Sumeral, it was well wrought and powerful, the work of many years; it would not lightly be broken and destroyed if it fell within its creator’s remit to prevent it.
‘He would have destroyed half his army to destroy us!’ Atelon’s shocked words came back to Hawklan vividly. Had there been any doubt in his mind about that first assault by Creost, there was none now. Better to lose half the army than all of it.
Hawklan urged Serian forward. He knew nothing of the ways of the Old Power, but he knew that he was the chosen of the sword of Ethriss and that both he and the sword now belonged to the battle against Creost.
The cloying warmth ebbed and flowed as he gal-loped through the snow to bring this aid to the struggling Cadwanwr.
A quick glance showed him that the Helyadin body-guard had recovered, but all, save two, had lost their horses. He jumped down from Serian and, drawing the black sword, stepped forward to join Andawyr and Atelon.
Looking out over the battlefield, he saw the figure of the Uhriel, now more disturbing than ever in the aura that surrounded it. Should he place the sword in Andawyr’s hand as he had in Atelon’s? Should he hold it in front of himself as he had when Oklar had stood revealed before him? No instinct guided him, though something drew his gaze down to the sword itself. As he looked at it, he saw the twining strands in the black depths of the hilt shining and flickering triumphantly as they wound their way through countless brilliant stars into some unknown, unimaginable, distance.
A touch on his arm returned him to the field. It was Jenna, white-faced and shaking, but in control. She was pointing out to sea.
One of the two ships bringing reinforcements was heading towards the shore. Hawklan could not make out how many were on board but the danger lay not necessarily in the quantity of troops but in their quality. Could these perhaps be an elite like the Goraidin and the Helyadin? Such a group, fast, powerful, determined, could turn this battle even now. But Jenna shook him and redirected his attention to the other ship.
His eyes widened.
Oars plunging into the waves at what must have been a body-wrenching rate for the rowers, the ship was heading at great speed towards the boat on which stood the malevolent figure of Creost.
Then it struck.
Its bow reared out of the water as it rode up over the smaller vessel, then it seemed almost to pause before crushing it under the waves as if it had been some child’s toy. Hawklan saw the Uhriel hurled into the sea to be submerged as the rowers appeared to redouble their efforts and drove their ship over the splintering remains of the boat in a fury of thrashing destruction. Then, at the same frenzied pace, the ship turned towards the shore.
Before Hawklan could even react, however, a great dome of water swelled up and burst under the stem of the retreating ship, upending it totally. Hawklan saw men tumbling out of the ship to fall into the sea under a hail of oars and tackle. Then the ship itself fell on them in a great cloud of spume and spray.
He would have turned his face away from the horror of the sight, but a greater horror held him. Atop the crashing wave stood Creost, his rending presence tenfold what it had been. Instinctively, Hawklan raised the sword in front of himself.
There was a cry from both Andawyr and Atelon; a cry of both pain and triumph.
‘We have you, demon!’ Andawyr cried out.
Joining his triumphant shout came a terrible cry from the distant figure. A cry that Hawklan recognized; a cry that he had heard from the wounded Oklar. It filled him with the same nameless terrors, but he passed through them unmoved. The creature had been sorely hurt by some hand; now he must be destroyed. He felt dark forces of his own gathering within him.
‘The sword, Hawklan, the sword!’ It was Andawyr. His face was alive with both triumph and fear and Hawklan had the impression of a dazzling brilliance beneath the prosaic clothing as he had once before at the Gretmearc. ‘We’ve torn the islands from him. His army is lost but his rage in his agony may be far beyond our containing.’
The Cadwanwr’s words briefly disturbed Hawklan’s terrible focus and he looked at him uncertainly, then at the distant islands. They seemed to be unchanged, but even as he watched, a ragged white began to blur their edges.
Waves, Hawklan realized. Huge waves, to be seen at this distance. The long frustrated will of Enartion was asserting its ancient sway once more.
Hawklan’s purpose focused again, the clearer still for this new knowledge. With a cry he willed Serian forward at full gallop towards the still unbroken Morlider.
As he neared them he pointed his sword towards the sea.
‘Look to your homes,’ he roared repeatedly, gallop-ing along the line. ‘Creost is downed. Look to your homes.’
Few heard him over the din of the battle, but to their knowing eyes the merest glance confirmed the truth of his words and the news sped through the ranks faster even than the galloping Serian.
The Morlider army, ferocious and dangerous even in rout, was no more. Now the Riddin shore was filled with frightened men running desperately to reach the boats that alone could take them back to their lands.
For a moment, Hawklan’s heart ached at the pity of the transformation, but his mind did not turn, even briefly, from the true enemy on that field, and his dark, focused forces became a sinister battle fever.
‘Ho! Creost!’ he shouted. ‘Come. Face your destiny. Face the justice of the black sword of Ethriss for your crimes.’
As he rode to and fro, wending his dangerous way through the fleeing crowd, and shouting his challenge, he thought he heard again a distant screeching high above but, when he looked up, nothing was to be seen other then the brightening sky and high circling sea birds.
Some strange freak of the air carrying a dying crea-ture’s tormented cries, he thought. Yet it was a sound the like of which he had never heard before.
He thrust it from him and returned to his search for Creost. Now he could feel the creature’s presence all around him; but where was its heart?
Then, abruptly, the crowd parted, and he was there; malevolence and rage pouring from him. Serian reared.
Hawklan surveyed his foe, the true architect of this day’s horror. The Uhriel was smaller and broader than Dan-Tor and his skin had a pallid lustre that reminded Hawklan of his own arm after it had been seized by the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Worse though, were his eyes. Cold, black, and dead they were, but far beyond Gavor’s contemptuous epithet, fish-eyed. And, like Oklar, facing him at the Palace Gate in Vakloss, Creost seemed to intrude into this time and place with an appalling wrongness.
Despite the crush of the fleeing Morlider, none stepped near their erstwhile leader. It was as if his raging aura would destroy any who came too near.
Hawklan jumped down from Serian and walked towards him. Taking off his helm he stared, unblinking, into the Uhriel’s eyes. At Vakloss there had been ignorance and doubt, but here was knowledge and certainty. Here, no debate was needed; this creature must die and this sword would kill him.
Yet, even as he strode forward, Hawklan hesitated. The healer in him felt Creost’s pain.
‘We have torn the islands from him!’ Andawyr had cried. Now Hawklan understood the consequences, if not the nature, of this… victory. The Uhriel was indeed sorely hurt. Some part of it reached out to Hawklan and cried for rest and peace to recover from this pain.
The warrior in him set aside the healer, gently. The hurt was of his own making, it said. He is still malevo-lent and powerful, perhaps more powerful in his intent towards us, than before. He is beyond all help. He must die.
Hawklan gripped the black sword and strode for-ward.
Creost did not move but, abruptly, Hawklan felt the awful warmth that had seized him before become a burning horror all over him.
Creost’s mouth opened to reveal a cavernous black-ness as cold and dead as his eyes.
‘So you are the bearer of the heretic Ethriss’s sword; the sender of arrogant messages, the one who would slay me.’
The voice’s withering contempt and certainty chilled Hawklan’s heart even as he felt his body burning.
‘Whatever chance threw that bauble into your hand, did you an ill turn. See how you wilt at the least of my touches and see how your vaunted sword protects you. Now stand aside, I have true foes to seek and punish for this day’s work.’
‘No,’ Hawklan managed to gasp out. ‘You will not pass me, Uhriel. You cannot pass me. I pinioned your loathsome soul-mate with a lesser weapon than this. You, I will kill for sure; for this day’s work, and many others.’
Still Creost did not move, but his black eyes seemed to expand. Though he made no sound, his demented fury screamed at Hawklan like a scarcely chained predator. He raised a pale hand towards his adversary. Hawklan forced his legs to move forward.
‘Hold, creature!’
The Uhriel’s gaze left Hawklan, and he felt his pain ease a little, though some power still held him back from his purpose.
Andawyr came to his side. A pace behind him stood Atelon.
Cadwanwr and Uhriel stared at one another in some unseen conflict of wills; a strange enclave of stillness in the midst of the whirling tide flowing across the battlefield.
‘Know this, pawn of the great Corrupter,’ Andawyr said, his voice powerful and clear even above the clamour of the fleeing Morlider. ‘While you slept, we waited. While you lay in the darkness, we searched in the light, and we learned. We are not the Cadwanwr of old, and you are not the Uhriel of old. Our knowledge and skill are greater by far and your vaunted Power is weaker by far. Turn from this awful road. Nothing but your doom lies at the end of it. He will deceive and desert you now, as He did aeons ago.’
Hawklan felt the Uhriel’s fury screaming and his own grew in unholy harmony with it.
‘You blaspheme, old man,’ Creost said, ‘And you misjudge both your skill and my Power grievously.’
Then there were no more words. The Uhriel’s fury burst forth to assail the Cadwanwr. Hawklan felt it swirl around him, but both Andawyr and Atelon stood unmoved.
For a moment, Hawklan saw and understood the Cadwanwr’s great skill. Even with Atelon’s aid, Andawyr did not have the power of this awesome creature now that it was freed from the burden of the islands; but while Creost’s fury ran unfettered and uncontrolled, his strength could be redirected against himself and his pain and injury made the worse.
He saw too, however, that Andawyr could not kill this thing. That task was his alone.
He took the sword in two hands and tried again to move forward, but still some force held him where he stood.
He was a mote, held motionless in some terrible deadlock of wills and powers.
Yet he was the mote that would tilt this great bal-ance and topple the monstrous enemy.
‘I will not be bound,’ he roared, though no sound came from his mouth.
But still he could not move forward; could not measure those few paces that would bring him within reach of the end of this horror.
Then the screeching came again. Thin, skin-tearing, and frightful, it shimmered through Hawklan’s resolve like a bright ringing crack in a fine glass.
It was not the sound of any wholesome creature. It had the quality of desecration about it that hallmarked His work.
With appalling suddenness, it grew until it over-topped both the commotion of the battlefield and the still grumbling sky.
Creost’s black eyes turned upwards, drawing Hawk-lan’s with them. A black shape was high above them. Gavor? But something was amiss. Hawklan screwed up his eyes as they refused to focus clearly on the descend-ing form, dark against the clearing sky.
It seemed that Gavor was coming too close, too quickly, but…
The screeching became unbearable.
It was not Gavor! It was some other bird. A huge bird. And someone was astride its back!
The awesome deadlock between Creost and the Cadwanwr shattered suddenly. Hawklan’s gaze returned to Creost and he felt his arms lift the sword high as they obeyed his long restrained will. As his legs prepared to carry him forward, however, someone seized him about the waist and sent him crashing to the ground.
Rolling over, he brought a mailed fist round to deal with this assailant, only to find that it was Andawyr.
Before he could speak however, the air was full of the sound of the beating of great wings, and the descending creature landed in front of Creost.
Hawklan gaped. The creature was a grotesque trav-esty of a bird. Its body was larger than Serian, its feet were taloned, and a serpentine neck supported a long pointed head that swayed to and fro menacingly. Astride its back, however, was a worse sight. Gaunt and deathly pale, with long tangled white hair that writhed as if it existed in a wind-blown universe of its own, sat the white-eyed figure of Dar Hastuin.
Hawklan recognized the Uhriel, though no name had been spoken; nothing else could so offend the time and place by its very presence.
Come in triumph to aid your ally and gloat over your victory, you obscenity? he thought.
Anger rose up through him like a sudden blazing fire as he struggled to his feet. Freed from whatever had held him, he knew he must slay these abominations while chance allowed. The black sword seemed to draw him onward, singing, to the deed.
As he dashed forward, he saw Dar Hastuin’s claw-like hand reach out to take Creost’s.
‘No!’ he cried. They must not escape the reach of the sword. He aimed a savage blow at the head of the frightful bird, but it pulled away from him with unexpected speed and, curling its long neck, struck at him like a serpent, screeching horribly as it did so.
Hawklan staggered as his reflexes moved him away from the blow, but he did not lose his footing.
Creost was astride the flapping creature now. Hawk-lan moved forward to strike again, but the bird struck first, making him fall over this time. As he rose to his feet, the bird began beating its wings so ferociously that he could scarcely keep his balance in the wind it created. Then it charged at him, making him dive desperately to one side.
As he rolled through the trampled snow he brought himself upright, sword still firmly gripped. But the bird was in the air, carrying its loathsome cargo.
‘My bow!’ he roared. ‘Serian!
The horse was by him in the instant, but even as he reached for the bow, Hawklan knew that the Uhriel were beyond even its range. Quickly he swung up into the saddle. Serian could surely outrun that bird!
Before he could move however, Andawyr stepped in front of Serian and laid a gentle hand on his muzzle.
‘Stand aside, man,’ Hawklan shouted angrily. ‘We can have them yet.’
Andawyr shook his head sadly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In the confusion of the moment we might indeed have slain them. But not now. Not together, and riding Usgreckan. They would slay us if we challenged them. Let them flee if they themselves haven’t realized that.’
‘No!’ Hawklan shouted, urging Serian forward to push Andawyr aside. But the horse did not move.
Hawklan’s anger foamed up into his eyes then drained away abruptly as it broke against Andawyr’s stillness. He leaned forward and looked into the old man’s face.
‘No,’ he said again, quietly, and in some despair. ‘It cannot be, Andawyr. Not when we’ve been so close.’
‘It is, my friend,’ Andawyr said gently. ‘It is. But the day is ours. Creost hurt, and his mortal allies broken and fleeing should give us the Muster by our side when we march into Narsindal. And we know that Dar Hastuin too was hurt, hurt at least as sorely as… ’
‘Hurt?’ Hawklan echoed, looking at him sharply.
Andawyr shrugged and looked upwards. ‘Whatever happened up there, he too was defeated.’
Hawklan looked up. Inland, the sky was dark and heavy with winter, but overhead and out to sea the cloud had been breaking up for some time as the tide turned. Now much of the sky was blue and filled with tiny blowing clouds. Directly overhead, and very high, a large white cloud moved slowly out to sea.
Though he could hear nothing above the noise around him, Hawklan felt the presence of the great cloud land. He raised his sword in salute. ‘Live well, and light be with you, Ynar Aesgin, and with your soarers, riders of the high paths. May you find the peace to heal all your pains,’ he said, quietly. ‘Forgive me if I failed you.’
He swung down from Serian and gazed at the pass-ing Viladrien for a moment in silence.
As he turned back to Andawyr, Isloman galloped up. His face was flustered and anxious. ‘Hawklan! Quickly!’ he shouted pointing to the south.
Hawklan followed the direction of his hand. There in the distance were horsemen; hundreds of them, spreading out as they approached.
‘Muster!’ he said softly, smiling as he remembered the call of the old lady he had met on his sunlit way to the Gretmearc. ‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ he heard her say.
But his smile faded almost immediately and, with a shout, he remounted Serian and drove him forward. The Muster were heading towards the fleeing Morlider with lances and drawn swords. Their intention was un-equivocally clear.
‘I will take you to the Line Leader,’ Serian said as he gathered speed. ‘But sheathe your sword or neither of us will live to reach him, they’re in full cry.’
Hawklan gave the horse his head marvelling again at his speed and power as he galloped forward towards the charging horsemen.
Looking at the Muster, Hawklan saw the wisdom of trusting to the horse. He could not have stopped the impending massacre single-handed, and he could not have found the leader amidst so many.
Indeed, in Hawklan’s eyes, the grey-bearded man before whom Serian eventually halted was scarcely distinguishable from any of the other riders, in his heavy clothing and helm.
‘Hawklan,’ cried the man riding next to him. The voice was Agreth’s and its tone was full of both pleasure and relief.
Hawklan returned him no courtesies, however.
‘Call your men back,’ he said urgently. ‘Call them back.’
Agreth hesitated and looked uncertainly at his neighbour. Urthryn took off his helm; his face was grim, and strained with great weariness.
‘Take care,’ Serian said softly.
‘You are the man Hawklan,’ Urthryn said apprais-ingly. ‘I should have known you from your demeanour without Agreth’s calling your name. We are greatly in your debt. A matter to be honoured in due time. But we’ve ridden as the Muster has never ridden before to find these murderers, and nothing will stop us meting out due punishment.’
Hawklan glanced over his shoulder and saw the Muster reaching some of the stragglers.
‘Call them back!’ he shouted furiously. ‘They’re retreating. Let them go.’
Urthryn recoiled from Hawklan’s outburst, then his face darkened. A rider next to him, misunderstanding his movement, brought a lance up protectively towards Hawklan’s throat.
Almost off-handedly, Hawklan seized the shaft as it moved forward, and with a barely perceptible move-ment unbalanced the man so that he toppled from his saddle. Another rider reached for a sword, only to find Hawklan’s newly acquired lance resting heavily across his hand. Other swords were drawn rapidly.
‘No!’ shouted Agreth, holding out a hand before his own angry leader. Then, to Hawklan, ‘What are you doing, threatening the Ffyrst? These invaders slaugh-tered thousands of our kin mercilessly. They must be punished.’
Hawklan struggled with his anger. ‘Whoever fought your people in the south, it was not these. They’ve been on this shore for weeks and the only people they’ve killed have been Orthlundyn, and that only today. Call your riders back.’
‘Hawklan, they swept our people away like so much dung out of a stable.’ Agreth’s face was pained. ‘Smashed and drowned them all as they waited on the beach… ’
Hawklan’s brow furrowed. ‘Drowned?’ he queried.
Agreth faltered, ‘A wave. A great wave… ’ he said, his voice fading as his gaze turned to the sea, sparkling now golden and grey, and alive with fluttering sails and bobbing vessels.
Hawklan turned to Urthryn. ‘If your people were slain by the sea, then their murderer is Creost,’ he said, his voice now urgent and pleading. ‘And he has fled this field, injured and robbed of his mortal army.’ He swung his arm over the retreating masses. ‘These people were deceived and misled. They’ve taken a hundred losses to our one and now their very lands are drifting from them. Let them go. Call your riders back. Your true foe-our true foe-lies yonder.’
He turned and pointed to the north, but as he did so, he froze. Serian whinnied uncertainly. Low over the horizon and black against the distant clouds was an unmistakable silhouette. Usgreckan and its unholy burden were returning.
Andawyr’s fears returned to Hawklan. Together the two Uhriel might yet reverse this rout. A great silent cry of denial rose up within him and he swung Serian round, scattering the gathered Muster riders. ‘Break your heart, prince of horses,’ he said, his face savage. ‘We must kill these before they reach our peoples.’
And wild though Serian’s charge had been to inter-cept the Muster, it was as naught before the tumultuous black wind of his race to greet the Uhriel, with Hawklan carrying high the bow of Ethriss and the ranks of friend and fleeing enemy parting before him like the sea before a surging prow.
‘Hawklan, no! You’ll be killed! Stay by us!’ Andawyr cried as the great stallion sped by, but nothing could stay such purpose, and Andawyr and Atelon spurred their horses after him like flotsam in his wake.
The sound of Usgreckan came ahead of him, bearing the Uhriels’ rage like a foul wind. It mingled with the cry rising in Hawklan’s throat as he nocked one of Loman’s black arrows on to the glistening string of Ethriss’s bow.
But as the two foes closed, a third figure appeared; a small black dot falling precipitously from high out of the sky.
As it seemed set to fall past the screeching Us-greckan, its wings spread wide and it arced down to strike the ghastly white head of Dar Hastuin a punishing blow.
‘Gavor!’ Hawklan shouted in alarm and distress. ‘No!’
But the battle was far from his reach and Serian’s pounding charge slowed as both horse and rider found themselves helpless spectators to Gavor’s lone assault.
The two Uhriel struggled and flailed their arms to repel Gavor’s frenzied attacks while Usgreckan twisted and swooped, but all was to little avail against Gavor’s consummate flying until eventually a fortuitous blow struck the raven full square.
Even as his friend fell, Hawklan released an arrow, and then another and another. The first glanced off Creost’s hand which was reaching out to deliver some final blow to the falling Gavor; the second and third did no hurt, but passed close by, causing Usgreckan to tumble and almost unseat its riders. Then Andawyr was by Hawklan’s side, his bright eyes blazing and his arms extended, adding his own menace to Hawklan’s assault.
Usgreckan shrieked and fled, its fearful cry echoing over the whole field. Gavor struck the ground.
Hawklan galloped desperately to his stricken friend.
The black form looked fragile and broken in the deep Riddin snow and there was blood all around him. As Hawklan knelt by him, Gavor opened his eyes weakly and said, very faintly, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’
Then his eyes closed and he lay very still.