by Roger Taylor
And move they did, for all the wind was screaming its relentless opposition. The way was too narrow and the line of march too long for Hawklan and the others to move to and fro offering encouragement, so each section had to maintain its station by the simple expedient of shouted or whistled signals. Hawklan expressly forbade the Alphraan to help. ‘You won’t be with us on the plains of Riddin,’ he said. ‘These disciplines must be well learned from the start.’
The strong wind blew for several days but, driven both by Hawklan’s will and his example, the Orthlundyn army plodded slowly and defiantly on, each individual, limbs aching with fatigue and head bowed against the pitiless wind, concentrating on the person immediately in front, trying not to wait for that precious instruction to halt and camp that would eventually drift out of the whirling din ahead.
Finally the wind seemed to lose heart and, subsiding, allowed distant peaks to come into view once more.
It was with no small relief that Hawklan clambered up on to a ridge and confirmed for himself that his army was still intact. He remained on the ridge as the long column wound slowly past him, then he walked its length from rearguard to vanguard, bringing his healing touch to bear where the blizzard had torn into the will of his people.
‘You’re quiet,’ Isloman said that night.
Hawklan chuckled ruefully. ‘I’m exhausted,’ he said. ‘That’s a long, thin army we’ve got out there.’
Surprisingly, more injuries occurred during the subsequent fine weather than during the blizzard. The worst was the loss of a young man in an act of foolish bravado on an icy ridge. His flailing, sickening progress down the steep cliff face was watched in silent, impotent horror by a thousand eyes until he finally disappeared from view. Then there was uproar and ropes were lifted down from horses.
‘No!’ Hawklan cried in distress. ‘He’s beyond our help now. We’ll find him when we return.’
But it was the gentle whispering voice of the Alphraan that stilled the noise.
‘We will find and tend his body,’ it said. ‘Go on your way. Greater needs drive you.’
That same day, another had a leg broken trying to help a struggling horse up a slithering icy slope. Thence came a flurry of sprains, dislocations and bruises caused by falls, together with cases of frostbite, exposure and even some snow-blindness that had kept silent through the blizzard. Few of these reached Hawklan however, Tirilen and Gulda having ensured that each contingent had someone versed in healing. The consensus in the ranks was that some of these healers left a great deal to be desired, but equally this proved quite an effective incentive to staying careful and uninjured.
Along the journey, Hawklan noted the landmarks he had seen when he had travelled to Riddin during the spring: the hollow where he had been surprised by Loman and Isloman on his return; the high knoll where he had encountered the strange brown bird and, unknowingly, the Alphraan; the valley where he had met Jareg and the ailing Serian. Then finally they reached the long steep ascent where Gavor had mocked him as he came perspiring to the top and looked for the first time out across the Decmilloith of Riddin.
Now, of course, the scene was very different. The forests and farmlands, the hedges and roads, were buried beneath a great whiteness, soft and deceptive under a pale yellow sun. And behind him was no mountain silence, but the rumbling clamour of his labouring army. Some way below, he knew, was the place where he had seen the Viladrien. How strange, he thought, that one of those great cloud lands had reached out and drawn him hither again.
He turned and looked at his toiling people and then back at the white expanse of Riddin. Once he had held out his arms to receive this country’s harmony. Now, black on the skyline, he drew his sword and holding it high let out a great cry of defiance. Gavor, sitting on his head, flapped his powerful wings like a living helm. As Hawklan’s cry echoed around the valleys, it was taken up by the army who sent it ringing out until it seemed to fill the whole sky.
As they moved down through the gentler foothills fringing the mountains, the Orthlundyn encountered none of the Riddinvolk. The few small hamlets and farms they passed seemed to be deserted, though there were fresh hoof prints in the snow to indicate that they had been visited recently.
‘Where is everybody?’ Hawklan asked Agreth.
The Riddinwr looked puzzle. ‘Urthryn must have called a General Muster,’ he said. ‘That means everyone has been mobilized.’
‘Everyone?’ Hawklan said.
Agreth nodded. ‘Even the sick and the incompetent have a task in the General Muster,’ he said. ‘The people from these farms and small villages will have moved to one of the bigger villages nearby. The livestock will be being tended by runners in rota. They’ll all be helping, planning . . . it’ll be a great sharing . . .’ Though he was trying to affect casualness, he could not keep the emotion from his voice.
‘This is not usual?’ Hawklan said, more statement than question.
Agreth shook his head slowly. ‘Not even in the War was the General Muster called.’ Almost as if he could not help himself, he swung up on to his horse and, standing in the stirrups, stared out over the white landscape.
‘My people,’ he whispered softly to himself, then dismounted.
‘What does it mean?’ Hawklan asked.
Agreth shook his head again. ‘It means that Urthryn’s committed the entire nation to the destruction of this enemy. It means total and utter war. But as to what’s happened, I just don’t know. We’ll have to wait until we meet someone.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Well, let’s march,’ he said. ‘If we’re needed, we’re needed now. If we come upon a Morlider victory celebration then we’ll give your people vengeance, if we come upon your own victory celebration then so much the better.’
Agreth looked fretful and Hawklan laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll be with your people soon,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have our swords by your side. Lead on.’
Agreth frowned in self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Don’t think me a churlish guest. It’s just that all this . . . has taken me by surprise. I . . .’
He stopped and with an effort quelled the turmoil inside himself. ‘Until we find out what’s happened I suggest we send out Dacu and the Helyadin as scouts,’ he said, his voice purposeful. ‘The rest of us can follow the route we’ve discussed previously.’
Hawklan smiled and motioned to Loman to transmit this advice as an order. ‘As you command, Line Leader,’ he said.
Riddin was criss-crossed with wide, well-made roads and though these were for the most part snow-filled, the Orthlundyn found themselves making excellent progress after the leg-aching toil through the mountains.
Together with Loman and Isloman, Hawklan rode up and down the line, encouraging the marchers, looking at the few sick and injured and subtly assessing the condition of the whole army. As the light began to fail, Dacu returned with the Helyadin.
‘There’s no signs of hostile activity,’ he announced, dismounting and walking alongside Hawklan. ‘In fact the only place we’ve seen any activity at all is in the village about an hour’s march down the road.’
Hawklan looked up at the darkening sky and then at Agreth. ‘Ride ahead and announce us, Agreth,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to be attacked in the dark by some startled militia. Go with him, Dacu, Athyr, in case there’s news we need to know quickly.’
As the three men rode off into the gloaming, Hawklan turned to Loman. ‘Strike the torches, but hood them,’ he said. ‘There’s no point announcing our numbers until we find out what’s been happening here. And take a small vanguard forward.’
Loman frowned slightly. ‘Dacu would’ve told us if there was any risk,’ he said.
‘Do it,’ Hawklan said peremptorily. ‘We’re all tired and we’re none of us battle-ready yet.’
Hawklan’s precautions proved unnecessary however, as within the hour Agreth returned. He was accompanied by an elderly man seated straight and tall in his saddle.
‘Hawklan,
this is Fendryc, second son of Fendarek, from the Haron branch of . . .’ Agreth stopped and rubbed his nose with a rueful smile. ‘Fendryc is the Elder to the village ahead,’ he said briefly, with a quick look of knowing apology to his new companion. ‘It’s his runners whose tracks we’ve seen at the farms.’
Hawklan smiled and extended his hand to the old man.
Fendryc leaned forward and took the hand. Hawklan’s eyes narrowed in dismay.
‘Don’t dismount,’ he said softly. ‘Your joints pain you. You shouldn’t have come to greet us in this cold.’
The old man looked from Hawklan to Agreth, his stern expression fading into one of profound surprise.
‘I told you the Orthlundyn was no ordinary man, Elder,’ Agreth said simply. ‘Tell him your news.’
Hawklan mounted Serian to bring himself level with Fendryc. The old man was recovering his composure. ‘I thank you for your courtesy, young man,’ he said. ‘But to be in action again sets my discomfort well aside.’
Hawklan made to reply, but Fendryc continued, ‘My people are ahead marking out a good site for your night’s camp and we’ll let you have such fodder and radiant stones as you might need, but I have to ask you: why are you here?’
Hawklan raised his eyebrows. ‘The Morlider, Fendryc,’ he said. ‘The Drienvolk told us of their attack.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Drienvolk,’ he muttered, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.
‘Drienvolk,’ Hawklan confirmed. ‘They saw the islands and the great flotilla of ships, and good fortune gave them the chance to warn us.
Fendryc lifted an unsteady hand for silence. ‘I don’t doubt you, Orthlundyn,’ he said. ‘The Morlider are indeed coming. They were sighted many days ago sneaking towards us in the wake of a great storm. Urthryn called the General Muster and almost all the Lines will be gathered there now.’ He clenched the waving hand. ‘A host the like of which has never been gathered before. We’ll destroy them as they land.’ He looked at Hawklan and repeated his question, ‘But why are you here?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Hawklan said.
The old man pointed into the darkness. ‘They’re gathered in the south, not here. It’s several days hard riding by fast horse even in summer. It would take weeks on foot.’
* * * *
Urthryn slapped his gloved hands together as much in frustration as to warm them. With his knees he guided his horse to Girvan’s side. His face was concerned. ‘What does the fisherman say?’ he asked. ‘What did the watch boats see?’
Girvan shrugged. ‘Nothing new,’ he said. ‘And they were chased off like all the others. There’s a lot of activity going on out there but they couldn’t get close enough to see anything in detail.’
Urthryn shook his head and let out a long steaming breath. ‘Why should they delay like this? It makes no sense. The weather’s good. They had the benefit of some surprise when they arrived, but they must surely know we’ve gathered our strength by now.’
Girvan could offer no help. The waiting was not doing the morale of the Lines any good, not least because no one could see any reason for it. And it had been extensively discussed by Urthryn, his advisers, the Goraidin, and all the senior Line Leaders, not to mention Oslang and the other Cadwanwr who had arrived. He glanced around. The duty Lines were strung out across the cliffs and row upon row waited along the shore. Behind him the massive temporary camp dwarfed the small fishing village. He had never thought to see so many riders in one place at the same time. It was a logistical triumph: the Muster – the Riddinvolk – at their very finest.
But the enemy did not come.
Urthryn lifted his hand to his face and removing a glove, rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Oslang,’ he said, turning to the Cadwanwr. ‘Has a night’s rest given you any great inspiration?’
Oslang shook his head. ‘None, Ffyrst,’ he replied. ‘We detect no use of the Old Power. I’d like to think that they’ve decided not to attack having learned about your force in some way, but that’s hardly realistic. I can only imagine they’re hoping to destroy your morale by a prolonged delay.’
Urthryn grimaced. Same old thoughts treading a weary round. But he could scarcely reproach the Cadwanwr – they were not, after all, fighters, and couldn’t be expected to think as such. Even the Goraidin could offer little, though something was being missed and everyone knew it.
‘It’s a feint,’ Olvric had said after the first few days of waiting.
‘Cadmoryth’s boats have seen hundreds of ships moored by those islands, and swarms of men,’ Urthryn had replied.
‘Before they were conveniently chased away,’ Olvric retorted. ‘And why didn’t they capture your boats, or sink them?’
‘Because we took your good advice,’ Urthryn replied with some heat. ‘We’ve built boats like theirs. We were too quick for them.’
‘Cadmoryth?’ Olvric said, looking at the fisherman inquiringly.
Cadmoryth had looked apologetically at his Ffyrst. ‘I can’t be certain,’ he said. ‘But it’s a possibility that our boats were allowed to escape. At least two of our captains said they didn’t think the Morlider were trying very hard.’
Urthryn scowled again as he remembered the conversation. Still, the Goraidin usually talked sense and at least restarting the coast watch to a couple of days’ riding north and south had helped with morale by giving the otherwise idle Lines something to do.
‘Ho!’ A loud cry cut across his musing.
Girvan seized his arm and pointed to one of the fishermen standing in a precariously rigged look-out tower on top of the cliff.
‘Ships ho!’ came a second cry.
Urthryn urged his horse up the steep path followed by Girvan and the two Goraidin. Oslang followed cautiously, one eye on the nearby edge of the cliff, the other on the silent ranks of patiently waiting riders watching him pass with some amusement. Cadmoryth did not move but stared out at the ragged horizon, his eyes narrowed.
When Urthryn reached the look-out tower, its occupant was clambering down with alarming agility. He was red-faced as he jumped down the last section making Urthryn’s horse start a little.
‘Hundreds of them, Ffyrst,’ he said, pointing out to sea. Urthryn reached into his pocket and retrieved a seeing stone. No sooner had he lifted it to his eyes than he drew in a sharp breath.
‘Signaller,’ he said. A young boy stepped out of the waiting ranks. Urthryn walked his horse to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the riders on the shore far below. ‘Sound the Alert,’ he said to the boy.
‘Ffyrst!’ the boy shouted excitedly, then, licking his lips, he lifted up a curved brass horn and blew a simple but piercing call.
The ranks lining the cliffs maintained their station, though a noticeable tremor ran through them. On the shore below and in the camp behind the cliffs, a purposeful surge of activity began.
‘Messenger!’ Urthryn shouted. Another figure stepped from the ranks. ‘Go down to the Line Leaders on the shore. Remind them that these brigands are not to land. They die in the water. We’ve arrows enough to sink their damned islands; see that they’re used well.’
Involuntarily, Oslang grimaced at Urthryn’s tone and for an instant the Ffyrst looked angry at this implicit reproach. His anger however, did not reach his voice. ‘Your friends will be brought up as part of the alert,’ he said. ‘Are you prepared?’ His voice was unexpectedly gentle.
Oslang gave him a grateful and slightly apologetic nod. ‘As far as I know,’ he said. Then, more reassuringly, ‘We’ll fight to our limits if Creost manifests himself, have no fear about our resolve. We know the cost of failure.’
Urthryn nodded.
‘Shall I recall the coast patrols?’ Girvan said. Urthryn looked at the distant islands and at the riders on the shore below. Then, as he looked up, his eye fell on Yengar. The Goraidin was looking upwards. Urthryn followed his gaze. Clambering nimbly on to the swaying platform of the watch tower high above, was Olvric.
Still watc
hing the Goraidin, Urthryn said, ‘No. Tell them what’s happening and tell them to be on the alert in case it is some kind of elaborate trick.’ Then, to Olvric, he shouted, ‘What do you see, Goraidin?’
‘Ships,’ came the reply after a moment. ‘Maybe four hundred or more. In ranks and files as neat as your squadrons.’ Olvric’s voice was uncertain.
‘Your friend seems doubtful,’ Urthryn said to Yengar.
The Goraidin nodded. ‘So am I. They must know by now what they’re sailing into. I can’t imagine how they expect to land and establish a bridgehead against what they must surely see arrayed here. Your archers alone may destroy them.’
‘That’s my fervent hope,’ Urthryn said. But the Goraidin’s doubt disturbed him. What could possibly overwhelm the massive forces waiting on the shore?
Creost, came the thought.
He looked at Oslang, now greeting Ryath and the other Cadwanwr who had arrived over the past few weeks. They sit on horses like ill-tied baggage, he thought, in spite of himself, then he crushed the ungracious thought ruthlessly. He could not feel comfortable about the role these strange people were to play. Would they indeed fight to their very limits when need arose, as Oslang had promised? And what would those limits be? What power did this Uhriel command? He remembered Drago, knocked to the floor seemingly by a mere thought from Oslang. Then there was the power that Oslang had exerted over the Morlider’s mind. But these thoughts gave him no solace when he remembered a rather awkward Girvan telling him of the strange ‘unnatural’ storm that had blown so terribly before the islands appeared and when he recalled Sylvriss’s tale of the destruction of Vakloss by Oklar.
Again, he set the thoughts aside, though with difficulty. He had no alternative but to prepare his people to face a large and vicious army about to launch an unprovoked war of conquest. He would simply have to trust that the Cadwanwr knew what they were doing.
The approaching ships were clearly visible now. They were a magnificent sight, large colourful sails billowing to catch what slight breeze there was, white foam protesting round their bows, oars beating the waves rhythmically. Briefly, Urthryn felt a twinge of regret. How many good men and horses were to be killed and maimed today? Why were these people not content just to sail their beautiful ships and ride the oceans’ paths on their wondrous floating islands? Why must they seek always to destroy and ravage?
