Eldric’s final words to his commanders before they left on their final march were simple.
‘Over the past months we’ve been training for this day. Training intensively. So I’ll not burden you with our various alternatives again. However, two things I will repeat, for all they’re obvious.’ He looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Firstly, when battle’s joined, there’ll be confusion and mayhem and precious little chance of sending messages here and there. However, we all know one another. We’ve discussed tactics endlessly. We all think the same way. Use your judgement as need arises. Have no fear, it’ll be the same as mine.’ He leaned forward, resting his hand on the table in front of him. ‘Secondly, and I can’t emphasize this strongly enough: at the first sign of that… thing… using its appalling power, break formation, as practiced, immediately, whether your unit is being attacked or not, and retreat as fast as you can amp;mdashpreferably without it becoming a rout, but get your men away at all costs. You know your rendezvous points.’ He paused. ‘Everything we hear tells us that Oklar is bound in some way, but if after all, this is just some ghastly taunt on his part, then all we can do is flee and preserve what we can for another time.’
No one demurred.
Urssain had estimated that the Lords’ army would reach Vakloss in the late morning. It was an accurate estimate, spoiled only by the fact that the Lords, knowing the terrain, had decided to cover the last part of the journey at night. As a result, their army was within striking distance of the City when dawn began to break.
Hidden by the morning mists, however, they did not become visible to the City’s defenders until the autumn sun had turned from a sullen red to a brilliant gold.
‘Commander!’
Instinctively, Urssain lashed out and then reached for his knife as a hand shook him roughly from his slumbers. The offending sentry staggered across the tent, narrowly avoiding knocking over a table strewn with plans and documents.
‘I’m sorry, Commander,’ he gasped, before Urssain could speak. ‘Come quickly.’
Wide awake, his heart racing, and his hand offering his knife menacingly, Urssain took in the man at a single glance: one hand to his injured face, the other empty and extended to show no ill intent, he was unequivocally no assassin. And his whole manner indicated a concern greater than that occasioned by Urssain’s attack.
Urssain went cold. The Lords, he thought, but his face was set. Silently, he swung off the bunk and, snatching his tunic, motioned the sentry towards the entrance.
The sentry scurried out gratefully and Urssain strode after him, throwing his tunic over his shoulders. Without looking round, he was aware that he was the focus of many anxious looks, but he ignored them and went directly to where the sentry was now standing. The man was pointing towards the east.
They are here, he thought with a jolt, and his throat went tight with fear. Hours early. They’ve caught us unprepared. For an instant, Dan-Tor’s red-eyed wrath rose to dominate his mind, but somehow he still contrived to give no outward sign of this sudden inner turmoil.
However, as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the dazzling sunlight, the sight he had been anticipating over the past few days did not appear.
Instead of serried ranks of infantry and cavalry moving steadily forward across the distant fields, there was only the mist amp;mdashbright in the morning sun and at once tenuous and solid. For a moment he could see nothing except this strange silent white ocean, and his fear began to give way to annoyance at this unnecessary awakening. Then gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he began to make out tiny points protruding through the mist. They were like shoots of grass through a late snowfall, except that they came and went as the mist slowly shifted.
Pikes! Dozens of them.
His eyes flicked from side to side. Hundreds of them!
The fear returned, though now it was subservient to a growing excitement. Without turning round he snapped his fingers and beckoned the silent sentries towards him.
‘Battle stations,’ he said quietly, surprised at his own calmness. ‘Go and tell the Ffyrst. And rouse the other Commanders. At the double.’
Still without turning, he took the tunic from his shoulders and put it on as he listened to the retreating footsteps of his messengers. This was the last moment of silence and calm he would know for several hours, and for some reason he was loath to disturb it. Even his breathing became slow and deliberate. With meticulous care he fastened his tunic. Tonight I’ll be able to get out of this amp;mdashand this damned mail coat amp;mdashand sleep in comfort, he thought.
Then the silence and stillness were gone utterly as one of the sentries began beating out a frenzied clamour on the nearby alarm bell. The sound filled the air around him, then clattered out over the camp, waking its fellows as it went by.
Faintly, the unholy carillon drifted across the fields to the approaching army. It mingled with the steady tread of the troopers and the soft clinking jangle of the cavalry. The men were silent in the fading greyness, but a horse occasionally shook its head and whinnied softly.
Eldric turned to his companions. He had hoped to make some slight jest at this first contact with the enemy but none came. Instead, he found he was looking to them for a final confirmation of what they were about to do. Each nodded in turn. It was a dark and grim moment.
He looked around at his troops, and then upwards. The sky was visible in places, showing blue as the sun’s touch dissolved the mist. The air was full of the scents of autumn, so intense that it seemed as though they had been squeezed from the very earth by the relentless weight of the passing army. It was going to be a beautiful day. It would pursue its restful autumnal course to its golden red sunset as countless such days had done before, oblivious to the horrors that would be done here during its passage.
Jaldaric, riding by his father, looked down at the ground and then to left and right along the widely spaced ranks of troopers vanishing into the mist.
‘We’re destroying someone’s land,’ he said.
Eldric turned to him, and Jaldaric looked at him uncertainly as if perhaps expecting some small rebuke for this almost unintentional remark.
But Eldric simply nodded. ‘We’re destroying the crops, Jal,’ he said quietly. ‘The land’s beyond our hurting.’
‘Fortunately,’ he added after a brief pause.
Dan-Tor joined Urssain on the rocky outcrop in front of the Command Post. Some way back from them stood messengers and signallers, restless with anticipation.
Immediately below them, the camp was becoming relatively calm and orderly, following the frenzy of activity that had accompanied the rousing of the various companies and their noisy dispersal to their stations on the battle line.
Dan-Tor gazed out towards the approaching army. It was now more clearly visible as the mist too had dispersed. He raised his hand to shade his eyes and then smiled. ‘I think it will take a little more than the morning sun in our faces to sway this day their way, Commander,’ he said. ‘I fear the Lords will regret their final hasty night’s marching before the sun shines in their faces.’ He chuckled.
Urssain froze.
‘Indeed, Ffyrst,’ he managed. Then, cautiously, as if the movement might offend, he raised his seeing stone to his eyes.
‘What are they doing?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘What kind of a formation is that?’
Dan-Tor did not reply.
Urssain peered through the seeing stone intently, raising a hand in front of it to shield it from the sun.
He could see pikemen and various other infantry; and there were riders; and they were in some semblance of rank and file, but… widely spaced? He screwed his eyes up and allowed himself a small inward curse; he had a far better seeing stone back in his quarters, but it was one of the old ones; the one he was using had been made in the Ffyrst’s workshops and was noticeably inferior.
Nevertheless, it confirmed the eccentric disposition of the enemy clearly enough. The Lords’ army was advancing in small groups, about eight in each, he judged, each individual standing well clear of his neighbour, and each group substantially clear of the next.
His brow furrowed. ‘They fear your power, Ffyrst,’ he said, his voice low but excited at seeing into the heart of his enemy’s intent; it was a good omen. ‘They daren’t close ranks because they fear they’ll meet the same fate as the City. It’s making them walk towards us as if they were strolling in the park. We could just… ’
He lowered the seeing stone and looked at Dan-Tor.
He had been about to say that if they maintained this formation, then a sudden, massed charge would scatter them like leaves in the wind, but it occurred to him briefly that such insolent challenging by the Lords of his master’s awesome power might actually bring that selfsame power down upon their heads. However, following the chilling, ambivalent response to his earlier reference to such a possibility he remained silent and, like a child awaiting a gift at Festival time, merely tried to will the deed from this lean, enigmatic and fearful creature to whom he had bound his fate.
But Dan-Tor gave no response, though his mind was similarly occupied.
Scorn and anger whirled inside him. You would defy me in your arrogance, Ethriss’s creatures? Me, the first of the Uhriel! His greatest servant! Who has raised mountains and rent open valleys, turned forests to deserts, drawn forth the terrible inner heat of this world to destroy whole lands and the peoples on them. Who tore the Morlider islands asunder. You would judge me by the petty spleen I vented on your miserable City, and would seek to avoid my wrath by such antics?
Involuntarily, in his anger, Oklar put forth his power, deep underneath the approaching army, until he could feel the earth shaking to their tread.
‘There he is,’ Hreldar said, his voice soft and menacing. ‘On that outcrop right above the centre of their line.’
The other Lords raised their seeing stones to follow his gaze. Eldric focussed on the tall figure of the Uhriel. It was still wearing the spartan brown robe of office that it had worn as the King’s physician and adviser. He shuddered. Even though the image was still small and distant, it seemed as though its eyes were staring straight into his soul.
Then abruptly they were rushing nearer and nearer.
Suddenly, a tremor shook the ground. Eldric tore his eyes away from the stone as his horse shied.
‘Ffyrst!’ Urssain’s voice was alive with alarm as Dan-Tor suddenly staggered and clasped the arrow in his side. Urssain stepped forward and caught his arm.
‘Are you… ’ The Uhriel turned towards him and, with a terrified intake of breath, Urssain’s words stopped and he jerked his head away from the vision that was now his master’s face. Unashamedly afraid, he screwed his eyes tight shut as if the darkness might hide him from such terrors.
He felt the Ffyrst leaning heavily on him, then a voice drew him back to the light.
‘I am well, Commander,’ it said, without explana-tion.
Dan-Tor straightened up. His body was riven with terrible pain and Hawklan’s arrow hung gleefully in his side. End these Lords here, Uhriel, it taunted. Use your vaunted earth-rending power to its full, that I may return it and in turn rend your own miserable frame with it.
Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Mas-ter, Dan-Tor intoned to himself inwardly, as the agony slowly began to fade.
Mindful of Eldric’s orders, the advancing army faltered.
‘He staggered!’ Hreldar cried out, turning to the others, his face alive with a furious triumph. ‘He staggered! He tried to use his power and he couldn’t.’ He stood up in his stirrups. ‘Close ranks, and halt,’ he roared. Eldric, still struggling with his alarmed horse, shot him an angry look, then his own words returned to him, ‘Use your judgement, it will be the same as mine.’ He looked from side to side. Hreldar’s powerful command was echoing along the ranks as successive officers took it up; the brief hesitation passed and purposeful activity was replacing it.
Urssain, too, watched as the disparate groups began to merge into clear, identifiable patterns in the distance. As they did so, he recalled Dan-Tor’s words, ‘Men must fight men. The new Fyordyn must prove themselves in battle if they are to be of any value to me.’ He felt an inner hope die and realized that despite his best endeavours, a large part of him had indeed expected to see Oklar revealed again, his awesome power cutting through the Lords and their army as it had cut through the City. Now he knew with frightening clarity what the words meant, and that this salvation was not to be. Something in the Orthlundyn’s arrow prevented it, though Urssain knew that to inquire about this would be to court an immediate and unpleasant destruction, favoured Commander or not.
Unconsciously he rested his left hand on his sword hilt and loosened the weapon in its scabbard.
Bringing his mind back to the present realities, his eyes narrowed. The distant army had completed its manoeuvre. It had taken only minutes. That betokened discipline of a very high order.
The logic of what he had just seen unwound itself. The Lords had known that an appalling destruction might await them at Dan-Tor’s hands, yet they had come prepared to face it. That betokened great courage. Now, in some way they too had learned that his power would not be used against them
Discipline and courage, and now freedom from the terror of the unknown! Urssain glanced down at the ranks of the Mathidrin and Militia.
But we have the numbers, he thought. He looked again at the Lords’ army. The pikemen were now motionless, standing in orderly rows, presumably waiting for the order to advance. Sixteen rows, he presumed, barely a pace apart, but each man standing a little to one side of the man in front, and each holding his pike vertically; a pike some five, maybe six paces long.
Urssain knew the pattern; it was the traditional High Guards phalanx. The pike had a long metal blade at its tip, and a weighted spike at the other end so that it balanced about one fifth of the way along its length. When the first five ranks brought their pikes horizontal, they would all protrude in front of the first rank to form a long impenetrable row of pointed blades.
By reputation it was a formidable fighting array used to smash into an enemy line like a great hammer, splitting it open for attack by cavalry and lighter, more mobile infantry. But Urssain declined to be impressed. Had not the Mathidrin been trained in its use also? And they were hardened fighters, all with experience in Narsindal, not fops and dandies like Hreldar’s and Darek’s High Guards. A fleeting memory of Jaldaric’s patrol in Orthlund returned to him, but he dismissed it. The men for that had been chosen by the Ffyrst himself for his own protection. It was not typical. Urssain’s attention returned to the Lords.
At either end of the phalanx, to protect its otherwise highly vulnerable flanks, were cavalry, and beyond them and behind, further infantry, carrying shorter spears. In front of the whole was another small group on foot. Skirmishers, Urssain thought, archers and javelin-men probably, fast and mobile, to harry and disrupt the opposing front line prior to the advance of the phalanx.
Hreldar gazed at Dan-Tor’s army. Two long blocks of men. At the rear were black-liveried Mathidrin armed with pikes, thin ranks motionless, while at the front were Militia. They seemed to be armed with a variety of spears and pikes, and though more numerous than the Mathidrin, their line was uneasy. At the front of the whole was a line of archers.
‘They’ve twice our numbers,’ he said, his tone mat-ter-of-fact. ‘But only a third of them are Mathidrin, and they’ve less cavalry than we have.’
He turned to Eldric, who nodded. That bore out the information that Lorac and Tel-Odrel had obtained from Dilrap. For some reason, Dan-Tor had not encouraged the development of cavalry. Eldric was reassured. He had been concerned about leaving four squadrons behind to blockade the Lords Valen and Shalmson, but it had been unavoidable. Valen had been unequivocal in his support for Dan-Tor. To Darek’s horror, though not totally to his surprise, he had arrived to find Valen’s High Guard were indeed sporting Mathidrin livery. His force had succeeded in containing them only by dint of surprise, arriving when they were all in the castle preparing to leave for Vakloss.
Shalmson had been more difficult, pleading this and pleading that, but Arinndier had cut across the debate and simply told him to stay in his castle if he valued his life.
‘Even so,’ Eldric said. ‘They have the higher ground and that long line could fold round on our flanks all too easily. And I’d like to know what’s in those four wagons in the Militia line. They don’t look like catapults, but…?’
Urssain quickly estimated the now static force. Yes, we have the numbers, he confirmed to himself, and their cavalry was less than he had thought. But the speed and order with which that phalanx had been formed…?
The two armies faced each other.
Two men for every one of theirs. But…?
‘With your permission, Ffyrst, I’ll ride down and ensure that the Militia fully understand the conse-quences of failure to hold their line,’ Urssain said. Dan-Tor nodded.
Eldric wheeled round to face his Commanders. ‘The Uhriel is bound,’ he said. ‘His battle line’s conventional. You know what to do. But watch those wagons care-fully.’ The men saluted and then rode off towards their companies. Eldric looked at his three companions and, without speaking, the four began to move forward.
Dan-Tor watched as Urssain rode along the ranks of the Militia. Faintly he could hear his voice. He knew the message he would be delivering; the man had learned a great deal over the past months. It would be a combina-tion of rabble-rousing encouragement and implied threat. The Mathidrin archers had orders to shoot any of the Militia who broke ranks, and while this was ostensibly a secret order, it had been sufficiently well rumoured to be effective.
The four Lords rode forward, accompanied by two standard bearers; one carrying a green flag of truce, the other carrying the Fyordyn flag: the Iron Ring set on a red background.
Urssain paused in his harangue of the Militia and turned to watch their approach. A parley? At this stage?
‘Look,’ he shouted to those around him. ‘They’ve seen our might, and they see their own destruction. They’ve come to plead for terms.’
But Eldric and the others had not come to debate. They had come to undermine their opponents with the truth.
All four were armed and armoured as Eldric had been for his accounting. With arms glinting and red cloaks brilliant in the bright sunshine, they rode with wilful slowness until they were almost within arrow range of the brown liveried ranks.
Then Eldric rode forward alone until he stood like a commanding officer inspecting his troops.
He pointed to the distant figure of Dan-Tor.
‘Men of Fyorlund,’ he said, his voice carrying power-fully in the autumn stillness. ‘You face me and your own kind armed to do war, but yonder is your true enemy. Yonder is the one who poisoned the mind and body of your King for twenty years and then brutally murdered him when, with your Queen’s aid, he sought to fight free of this bondage. Yonder is the one who has poisoned our whole country for twenty years, and would murder it too with this dreadful meeting today because, like its King, its spirit also refuses his yoke. Yonder is Oklar, the Uhriel, come to lay waste Fyorlund to clear the path for his Master, Sumeral. Sumeral, the ancient Enemy of Life, who has risen again in Narsindal while we turned our faces from our duty.’
There was some jeering from the Militia, but it faded under the weight of Eldric’s grim presence. ‘Let him stand forth now who’d prove me liar,’ he said angrily, looking slowly along the watching ranks. He pointed at Dan-Tor again. ‘What mere man could have torn apart our City so, and casually slaughtered so many innocents with a single gesture? You know the truth in your hearts.’ He paused. ‘You arm today for an evil cause, Fyordyn. For most of you thus far, this has been no more than folly. If you lay down your arms and return to your homes and hearths, it will remain just that and there will be no stern accounting. However, if you stay, many of you will surely die.’
The stark simplicity of his statement was chilling. He leaned forward in his saddle and continued, his tone darker yet.
‘There will, however, be a dire accounting for some of you. Those of you who rode into Ledvrin recently. Rode in and cut down men and women as if they were no more than troublesome weeds.’ His horse became restive, sensing his restrained anger. ‘I promise you this, though. You will be allowed more than your victims were. You will be allowed a fair and honest hearing when the courts and the Geadrol are re-established. But I promise you this also.’ His anger seeped through into his voice. ‘No arm is strong enough to shield you, no shade too dark to hide you, no distance too far, nor time too long. You will be searched out and found and brought for accounting somewhere, sometime, even if it is at your dying breath.’
He swung his horse round and galloped back to the others, then turning, he called out. ‘Think on what I have said. Lay down your arms while you can.’
In common with all the other listeners, Urssain had been held by Eldric’s tone and manner, and this sudden manoeuvre took him by surprise.
‘Archers, cut them down,’ he shouted, coming to himself.
A few desultory arrows arced after the retreating Lords to land forlornly in the dew-soaked grass.
Urssain swore to himself. He had neither Eldric’s presence nor his eloquence, and he certainly did not have the rightness of a cause to expound.
‘Hold your ground,’ he bellowed angrily as he began riding along the ranks of the Militia again, his tone making his earlier, subtler threats unequivocal.
‘The Militia will break,’ he thought, as he turned finally to return to Dan-Tor.
‘The Militia will break,’ Hreldar said to his companions as they rode back to their troops.
At a nod from Eldric, the rider carrying the flag of truce dipped it and, without any further signal, the Army of the Four Lords began to move forward.
The four Mathidrin marched purposefully along the broad aisle between two of the largest workshops. Despite the bright autumn sunshine, the buildings looked drab and desolate, showing no outward sign of their function, unlike the large work-halls of the traditional craftsmen which were invariably bedecked with virtuoso demonstrations of their tenants’ skills. Indeed, the only outward signs that Dan-Tor’s work-shops gave were of neglect and decay, or, more correctly, indifference to the space they occupied. An appropriate craft sign for the goods that were produced here, Dan-Tor’s enemies declared knowingly; and even his most ardent supporters were obliged to concede that the buildings were eyesores.
‘But Lord Dan-Tor has brought work for… ’
‘… those whose crafts he’s ruined,’ had gone the arguments, round and round. But the workshops had been built regardless of opposition; a strange unpleas-ant scar at the edge of the City. Their appearance now was not improved by the charred remains of those buildings which had been destroyed by fire during the rescue of the Lords. Random sections of jagged, broken walls stood black and solitary amidst tangled masses of twisted metal and charred timber. When the wind blew, it carried an acrid stinging dust into the other work-shops and about the neighbouring streets while, when it rained, the dust became an unpleasant clinging slime which stank of retching decay and leached into ditches to poison nearby streams and fields.
The small patrol halted by the largest building and its Sirshiant looked about uncertainly. As he did so, a figure appeared in the shade of the doorway to the building. It hesitated briefly as if debating whether to flee.
‘You,’ shouted the Sirshiant, forestalling any action. ‘Come here.’
The figure stepped out into the sunlight uncertainly. It was a stocky man with a hooked nose and deep-set angry eyes; he was wearing a soiled overall typical of those who worked for Dan-Tor. As he came forward, his hands twitched nervously.
The Sirshiant shot a glance to the three troopers who immediately dashed past the man and, after a brief consultation, rushed through the open doorway. Within seconds, the sound of a violent struggle emerged.
Hearing the noise, the workman produced a large metal bar from under his overall and aimed a mighty swing at the Sirshiant’s head.
With apparent slowness, the Mathidrin stepped a little to one side and, almost gently, caught the moving arm, causing his attacker to lose his balance completely. As the man recovered, it was to find his wrist and arm twisted so that he was completely under the control of his captor. He struggled briefly but the increased pressure on his wrist soon stopped him, and he felt his hand opening involuntarily, to release the metal bar. It fell on the hard roadway with an echoing clang.
The troopers emerged from the building similarly restraining a taller, fair-haired man.
The Sirshiant’s eyes were cold. ‘What are High Guards doing here, disguised as workmen?’ he asked his prisoner.
The man twisted round to look at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘We’re not High Guards. We are workmen. We’re caretakers here.’
The Sirshiant shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think not. Caretakers don’t use the hand language to say things like "I’ll deal with this one and draw the others inside." Do they?’
The Sirshiant released his captive and, at his signal, the troopers released theirs.
Rubbing his wrist, the stocky man looked at the Mathidrin narrowly. ‘And cockroaches don’t know the hand language, do they?’ he echoed cautiously. He looked at his companion and came to a decision.
‘My name is Idrace… ’ he began.
The Sirshiant’s eyes widened in surprise and he raised his hand and placed a silencing finger on Idrace’s mouth. He looked at the other workman. ‘And that is Fel-Astian. Apart from Jaldaric, the only two Fyordyn from Dan-Tor’s escort to survive the Mandroc attack in Orthlund.’
Idrace gaped.
‘What was the name of the Orthlundyn who rode with you, High Guard?’ the Sirshiant demanded before Idrace could speak.
‘There were two,’ Idrace stammered. ‘Hawklan and Isloman. How…?’
‘Later,’ replied the Sirshiant. ‘We’ve no more time.’
He looked up at the building from which the two had emerged.
‘Will this place burn as well as the others?’ he asked.
Idrace gave Fel-Astian a nervous glance, and swal-lowed. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, very softly. ‘It’ll burn all right.’ His voice contained such strange tensions that the Sirshiant’s eyes narrowed uncertainly.
‘It’s a good job you met us,’ Idrace continued sig-nificantly. ‘You’d have killed yourselves for sure.’
As the phalanx of the Lords’ army moved nearer to the waiting defenders, the harrying of the Militia begun by Eldric with words was continued by skirmishers. Urssain had been wrong in his earlier assessment of these. They were neither archers nor javelin-men; they were slingers.
The traditional High Guards echoed still the training methods of the huge armies of the Great Alliance that had followed Ethriss, in that each individual was trained in many fighting skills; from the highly disciplined close order drilling required in the phalanx, to marksmanship with bow, sling and javelin and, not least, close-quarter fighting, both unarmed and with sword and spear.
This ensured that the High Guards maintained a high degree of flexibility, with individual units being able to assess each others’ tactical needs in the field and to some extent even replace one other as circumstances dictated.
It also ensured that the particular skills of each trooper were assessed to the full and hence that a high level of expertise was maintained in each discipline. Thus the Militia found themselves facing a lethal hail of heavy lead shot hurled by slingers of no mean ability.
Though more difficult to use, the slings could throw their shot farther than the short bows of the Militia and Mathidrin could fire their arrows, and the defenders found themselves effectively unable to retaliate. Even when the skirmishers ventured forward, it availed the Militia little, as their attackers were lightly armoured and extremely mobile. Slowly, casualties began to occur amongst the Militia, and as tension mounted, the Mathidrin Sirshiants and Captains placed strategically amongst them began to find it increasingly difficult to prevent their charges breaking the line and rushing forward to end this calculated and dangerous taunting.
Dan-Tor watched these preliminaries impassively. Ancient memories returned to him at the sight of the disciplined battle array moving relentlessly towards him and he felt black anger and hatred stirring deep inside him. No parleying, Lords? he thought. No attempt to use your early arrival to swing wide around the City and attempt a flanking action? No hesitation of any kind. Just straight towards the heart of your problem. Straight towards me. Like that accursed Orthlundyn’s arrow.
But you’re driven by anger still. And your arrogance. You imagine nothing can stand against your vaunted High Guards now you judge my power to be bound. Well, you were opposed and defeated in the past, and you will be now.
Dan-Tor’s battle line was almost twice as long as that of the Lords. Very soon, as the phalanx neared his centre, he would order the wings to wheel forward to move against his enemies flanks. True, these were protected by cavalry and light infantry and together these might well break the Militia. But the Mathidrin were behind them and their close-quarter fighting, together with the archers, and, of course, the wagons, would crush this guttering flame of rebellion once and for all.
Then, the phalanx stopped, and the skirmishers withdrew.
The pikemen stood in silence. To talk now would be to miss the orders of the individual phalanx officers, and the consequences of that could be dire. This was no drill. Round shield hung around your neck to protect your left side, both hands free to hold the pike, you kept your station in rank and file at whatever cost, and you watched and listened!
Charge! thought Dan-Tor.
But the phalanx remained motionless.
Dan-Tor frowned.
Abruptly, to no command that the defenders could hear, the front ranks of the phalanx raised their pikes vertically and the whole turned and began marching to the left, leaving their entire flank exposed. They were some distance away, but a determined charge now would scatter them utterly. Involuntarily, Urssain stepped to Dan-Tor’s side. ‘Ffyrst… ’
Dan-Tor raised an arm to silence him. Then, with the same silent precision, the pikemen turned back to face the defenders and the first five ranks brought their pikes horizontal again to restore the gleaming serrated edge along which such a charge would have foundered.
Urssain’s left hand tightened around his sword hilt. He had not expected this. He had expected a headlong, brawling clash of arms and a straightforward trial of strength. He glanced cautiously at Dan-Tor. The Ffyrst was impassive.
Worse was to follow for Urssain. The phalanx began marching to and fro as if it were on a parade ground; backwards, forwards, changing formation; a chilling display of discipline.
Periodically during this performance, the skirmish-ers moved in and renewed their vicious bombardment of the defenders. As the rain of lead shot continued, brown liveried bodies began to litter the field.
Urssain scowled. Despite the sunshine, it was not warm. His men would be suffering from the combined effects of cold and inaction, not to say the same frustration that he himself was feeling. Who could say what effect this tournament exhibition would be having on them? What in thunder were these Lords playing at?
Dan-Tor’s eyes narrowed. ‘They come a little closer each time,’ he said.
The phalanx turned yet again and began marching to its right but on a slightly oblique line that would bring it nearer and nearer to the watching Militia. It continued in this direction for longer than it had previously.
‘They’re going for our left wing,’ Dan-Tor said abruptly. Urssain was startled by the unexpected urgency in his voice.
Turning round rapidly, Dan-Tor snapped his fingers at one of the waiting messengers.
His order was simple. The right wing infantry was to wheel round immediately and attack the cavalry and light infantry that were guarding what was now the rear of the phalanx.
As the messenger galloped off, Dan-Tor looked back at the phalanx, still pressing forward. Soon they would be past the centre of his line.
He nodded. ‘Release the wagons,’ he said to another messenger.
Urssain smiled. Now things would start to happen, the wagons would soon break up this parade ground display.
There was a strange timeless pause while the mes-sengers galloped through the lines. It seemed to Urssain that his heartbeat filled the world, its rhythm matching that of the relentlessly marching feet of the pikemen. As he had willed Dan-Tor to use his power, so now he willed leaden lethargy into these legs that had trekked so tirelessly across the country to meet their fate.
Then the moment was gone and he was in the pre-sent again. The Militia lines in front of him opened and the four heavy wagons were carefully eased forward down the slope. They were very large, and some indication of their weight could be gained from the two lines of men who were straining on ropes to prevent them rolling forward. A Sirshiant by each one reached inside and then stepped back quickly. As he did so, the men released the ropes and the wagons slowly began to move towards the unguarded flank of the marching phalanx.
The slope was gradual, but the wagons gathered speed rapidly. Then, almost simultaneously, each one burst into flames. Not the crackling flames of burning hay and straw fanned by the wind, but flames that roared with a whiteness and intensity that was like the centre of a furnace.
Urssain leaned forward. This was the beginning of the end.
When they struck the phalanx…
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the right wing of the army begin to wheel to attack the phalanx’s rearguard.
The wagons rolled on, accelerating inexorably. Now they were going faster than horses at full gallop.
A great cry went up.
Not so silent now, Lords’ men, Urssain gloated. Not with Dan-Tor’s blazing torment about to crush you.
But a hissed intake of breath from Dan-Tor cut across his celebration. He looked up. The cry was not from the doomed pikemen, but from the right wing of the Lords’ army. The cavalry, which had been keeping station loosely with the manoeuvring phalanx, had suddenly adopted a solid wedge formation, and with two red-cloaked figures at its head, was charging at full gallop, lances levelled, into the Mathidrin riders who were protecting the left flank of Dan-Tor’s army. At the same time the leading section of the phalanx had faced left, lowered their pikes and, still in formation, begun charging up the slope. The rear ranks had partly lowered their pikes to break up the brief flurry of arrows and spears that arced up from the Militia’s front line.
Urssain’s thoughts whirled. In the instant he saw the Lords’ strategy. The cavalry charge must surely overwhelm the few Mathidrin riders, probably driving them into their own men, then both Mathidrin and Militia would flee before such an onslaught. Trapped between the thunderous hooves of the tightly grouped cavalry and the hedged points of the charging phalanx, they could escape only by retreating or panicking through the rest of the line.
Yet even as the fear of this conclusion began to take hold of him, it turned into elation. The left wing might be lost, but in seconds the wagons would destroy the latter half of the long phalanx and Dan-Tor would order the whole centre to join the right wing in wheeling round to envelop the confused survivors. So intense was Urssain’s awareness that his thoughts encompassed all this and were turning to the details of the victory parade even as his eyes returned to the careering wagons. The pikemen had turned to face them.
Now! his mind screamed. Die, all of you!
But instead of breaking in panic, the phalanx split open in front of the wagons to leave each a broad unrestricted avenue for its passage. The rearguard infantry did the same, and the four wagons, now virtually solid masses of flame, careened on impotently until, destroyed by their own fire, they tumbled over, spewing great cascades of blazing liquid and debris into the air and across the fresh-trampled autumn fields.
The phalanx closed again in silence.
Urssain watched in disbelief, his throat tight and dry. Desperately he kept his eyes from Dan-Tor.
Then the mounting din from the left wing intruded on him.
Eldric had lost his lance, torn from his grasp as he had impaled some floundering militiaman. Now he was laying about with his sword. Struggling through the panicking mass of Militiamen and Mathidrin, the squadron had lost some of its speed, but a quick glance behind showed Eldric that the formation still held, its widening bulk cutting through the shattered enemy like a scythe through grass. To his left was Arinndier, still in possession of his lance, he noted, and around them was their elite bodyguard.
Both he and Arinndier had protested this, but Yatsu had overridden them. ‘You’re too old and too impor-tant,’ he had said unequivocally. When Eldric had leaned forward angrily, the Goraidin’s eyes had widened as if he had just been confronted by an insolent cadet. ‘There’ll be no debate,’ he said. ‘You’ll have a body-guard.’ As a small concession, he added, ‘It’ll make the men feel easier.’
Now he was glad of it. He was too old for this kind of butchery. Old faces and old memories rode alongside him, and knowledge of consequences rode at his heels.
A hand clutched at his bridle. It was a pleading hand, he knew, but he slashed at it and both saw and felt it separate from its arm. There was an animal squeal and it was gone, into the bloody melee underneath the advancing squadron.
What had you crafted with that hand? he thought. What music had you made, or loved one’s hair caressed? A massive rage welled up inside him. A selfish rage, he knew. I will grind you under the hooves of my horses for bringing me to this again, you abomination!
A spear struck his cuirass. It was a timely reminder that here only the needs of the moment existed. His left hand reflexively seized its shaft and his right hand brought his sword down savagely across the extended arms that held it; this time there was no regret.
He raised the spear high above his head and turned to his men.
‘Oklar!’ he roared. ‘To Oklar. For Rgoric and Fyor-lund. Death to the Uhriel.’
The cry sounded above the screaming and shouting and was taken up by the rest of the squadron.
Dan-Tor heard the distant cry. Darkness welled up inside him as it had in Eldric.
You shall have Oklar before this day is out, he thought savagely. Though it cost me this body.
‘The right wing holds, Ffyrst. We’ll have them yet.’ Urssain’s voice cut through Dan-Tor’s black intent. Turning away from the mayhem being wrought by Eldric’s cavalry he saw that the right wing was indeed holding. Meticulously it had wheeled around to assault the rear of the phalanx and it had maintained both its advance and its formation despite a charge from the defending light cavalry led by Darek and Hreldar.
As they had neared, it had become apparent that the Militia, with Aelang’s Mathidrin at their backs, were not going to break, and the two Lords had veered the squadron away from the bristling rows of spears at the last moment, before their horses did it for them.
Now the Militia had closed with the line that the rearguard infantry had hastily formed, and bitter hand to hand fighting had begun in which the Lords’ infantry were being pressed relentlessly backward. Hreldar and Darek’s cavalry could do little more than skirmish on the well-defended flanks of the advancing enemy.
Dan-Tor’s attention moved from left to right. The wedge of heavy cavalry was moving relentlessly nearer, Eldric at their head, like retribution itself. As he looked at the ordered horsemen, Dan-Tor had a brief vision of Sylvriss laughing.
Yet their progress was being slowed by the panick-ing masses fighting to escape both them and the advancing pikes of the phalanx, while the rear of the phalanx was showing signs of disarray as their own defending infantry was pushed back into them. The long pike was of little value as an individual weapon and the phalanx depended totally on its close formation for its effectiveness. If this were broken by rear or flank attack then the whole phalanx could be disrupted, and the Lords’ army would fall to the superior numbers of their enemy.
The battle hung in the balance.
Down the aisles between Dan-Tor’s workshops, Idrace and Fel-Astian were running frantically, their faces desperate with fear and effort. The four Mathidrin were running with them, quite willing to accept their judgement in the matter they had just set in motion.
Dan-Tor debated, the din of battle washing around his cold heart. The clash of arms, the shouts of fury and terror, the screams of men and horses; ancient sounds. These creatures learn His lessons well, he mused. But the thought was transient; his predominant concern was whether the phalanx would be broken before the panic set in train by Eldric’s cavalry spread through the whole army.
He looked again at the two main arenas of the battle.
It was too close a calculation.
He could not risk defeat. To lose so much so easily was unthinkable, and yet… it was possible.
Slowly, a dreadful resolve formed. He must use the Old Power. It would not take overmuch to smash the weakening rear of the phalanx and ensure victory for his army.
The decision brought an unexpected clamour of thoughts in its wake. Hawklan? Would the terrible Guardian be awakened? Then, the remembrance that Hawklan could not be Ethriss. And in any event, the green-eyed abomination was not on the field. He would have felt the presence of Ethriss’s sword had he been. But the pain? The damage to his body? Such a modest use would be unlikely to kill him, but would it plunge him back into the darkness again?
A tiny spark flickered deep inside him, guttering remnant of a fire he had thought long doused. Your men face pain and death for you, how can you not share their lot? How can you, their leader, offer less than they?
He recoiled inwardly from this untimely reminder of his erstwhile kingly humanity. The pain and the hurt would have to be borne because they would be as naught compared to His wrath if Fyorlund were lost.
Yet, men must face men. His own words returned briefly to mock him in some way that he could not immediately fathom. No, it must be.
Closing his eyes, Oklar reached deep into his ancient skills and gathered his power. This must be finely judged. He prepared his entire being for the impact that he must both deliver and receive.
A thunderous concussion shook the battlefield.
Dan-Tor opened his eyes in shock. For an instant, his shadow spread out in front of him as though the sun were at his back; yet it shone still in his eyes. He felt Urssain turning and heard him gasp.
Imitating the action of his acolyte, Dan-Tor turned and looked upwards. Rising above the City was a brilliant, whirling mass of white incandescence, borne upwards on a column of smoke shot through with roaring flames.
For a moment, his mind refused to function, then: the workshops! His great warehouse! Who could have known the purpose of what was stored there?
Hawklan! It could only be he. The demon had sur-vived! And once more he had reached silently into the heart of his enemy’s domain to strike at him. Briefly the horrible rage of Oklar’s dark soul transfigured Dan-Tor’s face, though none saw it, all eyes being on the prodigy now dominating the sky above the City.
The glowing mass rose higher and higher, and the battle faltered, its terrible hubbub submerged momen-tarily beneath the awesome roar of the blazing column that seemed to be clawing at the sky as if to retrieve this escaping new sun.
Then…
‘They’re at our back.’ The thought welled up from the defending army and was given voice by Urssain.
Dan-Tor spun round, back to the now strangely silent battlefield, still illuminated by the funeral pyre of his years of corruption.
The balance tilted.
Those lines of Militia that were so far undisturbed, broke utterly and the Mathidrin lines wavered omi-nously. Eldric’s cavalry recovered and surged forward again through the now rapidly thinning ranks, and with renewed heart, the rearguard of the phalanx started to move forward.
Then a sudden charge from Hreldar and Darek’s cavalry broke the infantry protecting the flank of Aelang’s Mathidrin.
The battle was abruptly a rout.
Dan-Tor felt the reins of his power not so much slipping as being torn from him. The Old Power could not now change the outcome of this battle without surely destroying his mortal frame. Men must face men.
The faces of Hawklan and Rgoric and Sylvriss came unbidden into his mind, enigmatic, triumphant and mocking in turn. The cries of ‘Death to the Uhriel’ floated to him on the terrible screaming tide of his fleeing army.
He turned to Urssain. ‘Withdraw the Mathidrin,’ he said coldly. ‘We retreat to Narsindalvak.’