Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  He let the thought pass by unhindered by debate. Perhaps the Morlider had their own answer to such questions, but now he had time only for killing strokes until those same ships were heading back whence they came.

  The riders on the shore could now see the ships and were manoeuvring to ensure that no part of the shoreline would be unprotected. As the ships neared the beach, the riders would move to the sea’s edge and launch volley upon volley of arrows into them. Any who survived that onslaught would then have to wade through the water for perhaps a hundred paces or more through the same intensity of fire. Yet, they must know this, Urthryn thought again, as some ill-formed unease rumbled deep within him.

  ‘Ffyrst.’ It was Oslang. Urthryn turned.

  ‘Creost is putting forth his power,’ the Cadwanwr said, his face intent as if listening for a distant sound.

  ‘I feel nothing,’ Urthryn said, uncertain how to respond.

  Oslang paused. ‘I think it drives the ships,’ he said. ‘But there’s something else as well that I can’t identify. It’s subtle. Shall we oppose the ships?’

  Urthryn looked at the approaching fleet again. To his eye, nothing was untoward. He was distracted by a sharp whistle. It was Yengar signalling to Olvric, giving him Oslang’s news. High above, the Goraidin lifted his hands to shade his eyes.

  ‘No,’ said Urthryn, turning back to the Cadwanwr. ‘Let them come. Let’s settle this affair blade to blade.’ He looked down again to the riders on the shore. They were beginning to move forward, but something was different, though precisely what eluded him.

  For a while there was silence except for the sound of the sea and the distant cries of the riders on the shore, then, ‘Ffyrst. Something’s wrong.’ It was Cadmoryth; he had followed Urthryn and the others up the cliff path slowly, on foot. He reached up and took Urthryn’s wrist in a powerful grip. His other hand was pointing to the shore. ‘The tide’s ebbing,’ he said.

  Urthryn frowned. That was the change he had seen but not recognized – but what was the significance of a receding tide?

  Cadmoryth answered the unspoken question. ‘It’s too fast and it’s not the time,’ he said. ‘I was so occupied, I didn’t notice. Get your people off the shore now!’

  Urthryn snatched his hand free and took in at once the fisherman’s nervous face, the advancing ships, and the riders, walking their horses after the now rapidly retreating water.

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ he began.

  His voice disappeared under a great cheer from the riders around him as the archers on the shore released their first volleys into the leading ships. Even on the cliffs, the rush of the arrows could be heard.

  ‘Ffyrst . . .’ Cadmoryth seized his wrist again desperately. ‘For pity’s sake. Get them off the shore!’

  But a more urgent cry caught Urthryn’s attention. It was Olvric. Looking up, he saw the Goraidin clambering down the watchtower. Uncharacteristically, he was shouting – shouting frantically. ‘The boats are empty. And there’s something out there, coming in fast. Get those people off the shore. Now!’

  From the beach came the sound of yet more volleys of arrows and the crunching rattle of the ships beaching in the shallows. The riders were advancing relentlessly, following the receding water almost at the trot now and eagerly waiting for the first sight of the enemy that had chosen to threaten their land.

  But Urthryn scarcely registered the unfolding saga beneath him. He was transfixed by Olvric. Normally emotionless and laconic, the Goraidin’s face was now alive with fear and he was staring out to sea. Urthryn followed his gaze. The distant islands were no longer visible. Instead, a blur now separated sea and sky.

  Then a figure surged past him and went right to the edge of the cliff. It was Oslang, his hood thrown back and his arms extended.

  Ryath and the others followed him.

  ‘Do as they say, Ffyrst,’ Oslang cried, without turning round. ‘I think we can give you a little time. But hurry!’

  Urthryn’s hesitation vanished. ‘Signaller, sound retreat,’ he shouted.

  ‘Retreat, Ffyrst?’ the youth inquired uncertainly.

  ‘Retreat, boy!’ Urthryn thundered. ‘As you’ve never blown it.’

  Shaken by his leader’s sudden anger, the boy’s mouth dried and made him falter with the first notes. From some hitherto unknown depth of patience, Urthryn found a nod and a strained smile of encouragement for the boy, and the call to retreat eventually burst out of the curved horn, clear and determined.

  ‘Louder, lad,’ Urthryn whispered to himself, as the nature of the advancing blur in the distance began to become apparent. It was a great foaming wave.

  As the strident horn call reached the ordered ranks on the beach there was confusion. Battle-ready and on the verge of facing their enemy, the sudden urgent call to retreat was not heard by some, doubted by most others, and blatantly ignored by a few.

  Urthryn’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the hesitation. Then, suddenly, a powerful wind struck the watchers on the cliff. The signaller faltered again as his horse shied, but Yengar caught its reins and steadied it. ‘Keep blowing, boy,’ he shouted above the noise of the wind and increasing roar of the oncoming wave.

  It seemed to Urthryn, as he watched, that the squadrons below, still confused, were blundering and floundering with infinite slowness, and that the dreadful wave was lingering like some taunting hunting animal waiting its pleasure before launching its final, speeding, attack.

  Everywhere was dominated by its distant thunder carried on the wind, but somewhere in the din he heard his own voice rising up to join with those around him in shouting fruitless encouragement to the riders below.

  On the shore, Muster discipline was beginning to assert itself, aided in no small degree by the eerie silence that greeted the attack on the grounded ships. Arrows had flown over their sides and thudded into their capacious interiors, but not a sound had emerged. No cries of pain, or rage, or fear, no rattle of arms; nothing. And as more ships crunched into the shallows the silence seemed to deepen. The only sound that emerged from the ships was the flapping of their impotent sails in the sudden wind. It had a mocking quality about it.

  Then the other sounds began to impinge on the riders; the desperate clamour behind them and, worse, the deep and ominous rumble rising out of the now spray-obscured sea like a massive cavalry charge.

  ‘Too late. Too late,’ Urthryn whispered to himself as the squadrons below began to wheel and turn to gallop up the beach. He saw through their eyes – they were much farther out than they had thought. It was a long way back to the village. His horse shifted restlessly underneath him, responding to his inner turmoil.

  On the cliff edge, Oslang and the other Cadwanwr stood motionless, faces set in profound concentration. Suddenly, the wind faltered and the advancing wave rose and fumed as if it had struck some unseen barrier.

  They are giving us time, Urthryn realized. Though how it was being achieved, he could not tell. Below, he saw the leading riders at last reaching the village and turning to head up the cliffs towards the sound of the horn.

  Urthryn held his breath as the wave continued to be held by the unknown skills of the Cadwanwr. His riders were streaming off the shore. But the ramps and walkways up into the village were narrow and the great mass of riders were slowed virtually to a halt. For a moment Urthryn was almost overcome with emotion as he watched the impeccable discipline of the Muster holding. Fear and urgency surged up to him from the waiting riders, but no panic.

  Then, one of the Cadwanwr sank slowly to his knees. The others ignored him. Another fell; heavily. Urthryn’s gaze moved from his riders to the fallen man. Without examination, he knew the man was dead. Whatever these men were doing it was taking some grim toll. A third faltered, his folding body feeling to Urthryn like the curling finger of a cold hand closing about his stomach.

  ‘Hold, Oslang!’ he shouted. ‘Hold!’

  Below, a great black mass of riders oozed slowly towards the constricting
exits from the beach.

  ‘Hold, Oslang!’ he whispered.

  But he could see that all the Cadwanwr were nearly spent. Not from their actions, for they stood as silent and stern as before, but from the beached ships now being lifted by the nearing tide, and beginning to jostle one another like a crowd of excited children at a party.

  Then the rest of the Cadwanwr yielded, slowly and painfully. Oslang was the last. He alone remained standing at the end, though he staggered back, exhausted. Urthryn leaned forward in his saddle, and caught him. Oslang looked up at him, his face full of a great weariness and a terrible remorse and grief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said faintly. Urthryn put a protective arm round him and held him firmly against the horse for support and comfort.

  Looking up, Urthryn confirmed the scene that he knew would be unfolding. The wave was moving forward again. Even from above, its size and speed were terrifying. The colourful ships were jigging and rolling in anticipation. Immediately below him, the dark crowd of riders became darker as instinctively they urged their horses forward to reach the safety of the higher ground.

  Abruptly, the horn call stopped and the signaller, overcome by his exertions and by the now obvious futility of his actions, let the instrument slip from his hands as his head slumped forward. He was sobbing.

  The shouting crowd lining the cliff tops fell silent too as, gathering up the bobbing ships, the wave reached its destination and, crashing over the crowded Muster squadrons, roared angrily up the cliff face as if it would not be sated unless it overwhelmed even the high watchers.

  Urthryn watched in empty helplessness as, in seconds, thousands of his charges were destroyed. Some were crushed in the great rolling mêlée of men and horses, some were smashed against the rocks, or by the empty, charging ships; others were drowned as they were towed out to sea by the retreating wave, and some were suffocated in the clinging sand made suddenly soft and quick.

  Yet, it transpired, there were miraculous escapes also. A father and son, swept up on to a narrow rocky ledge, a woman who awoke bruised and shaken to find herself in one of the empty Morlider ships. And many others found themselves thrust to the surface where they could swim ashore or cling to debris until the villagers, manning such boats as were undamaged, were able to rescue them.

  Despite his agony, some reflex of leadership galvanized Urthryn even as the wave was foaming around the foot of the cliff. ‘Yengar, Olvric, help the Cadwanwr,’ he shouted, then shaking the signaller had him blow, ‘Stand Firm’. If all the riders present descended on the beach in impromptu rescue missions, who knew what further harm might ensue in the crush?

  As Urthryn turned and galloped off down the cliff path to take personal command of the rescue, Oslang reached out and took Yengar’s arm to steady himself. ‘Ryath,’ he said, none too gently prodding his prostrate friend with his foot. ‘Ryath, get up. We must still the water before it retreats too far and returns again. Get up! And we must find Creost and the islands before they move beyond us.

  Olvric and Yengar exchanged a glance. ‘Find the islands first, then still the water, Oslang,’ Olvric said. ‘We need to know whether to move north or south. Riddin is defenceless while we wait here. The Morlider may be landing and moving against us at this very moment.’

  Chapter 13

  Dacu swung down from his horse. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed.

  Hawklan did not alter his steady pace through the snow and Dacu fell in with him.

  ‘Well?’ Hawklan asked.

  ‘They’re there,’ Dacu said, between great breaths. ‘Right where the Drienvolk said they were heading. There must be forty thousand and more landing while we watched. And they’ve been there for some time. They’ve established a large camp and a lot of it’s being fortified.’

  Hawklan did not try to keep the relief from his face. After the old man’s news that the Muster was gathering in the south to face the Morlider, there had been a considerable debate about where the Orthlundyn army should go.

  Agreth had wanted to march south, hoping to find some Muster outpost still manned that could ride to Urthryn with news of their arrival and arrange for supplies to carry them over the long journey. Others had suggested dividing the army, with one section moving south and the other continuing across Riddin to the sea.

  Hawklan’s instinct had been to heed the Drienvolk’s warning. Tactically it made more sense and, according to an unyielding Gavor, it had been unequivocal. ‘Their greatest islands have come north, carrying many men, and such numbers of boats as we have never seen – a great and powerful host. We watched them for much of their journey. They defied the ways of Enartion.’ This observation, Gavor declared, had distressed Ynar greatly and for a little while the Drienwr had been unable to conclude his warning. ‘But now they are waiting.’

  Waiting for what? Hawklan had thought. A feint to the south, or an attack? Or had the Drienvolk been subtly deceived in some way, looking down from their high vantage? That was a doubt he had carried all the way from Orthlund, but about which he could do nothing other than trust his intuition.

  In the end he had overruled the suggestions. They could not possibly leave the north without knowing what was happening on its shores. Dacu and the Helyadin would ride to the bay where the Morlider were supposed to be, and the Orthlundyn would march after them until they returned with definite news.

  Now it was here, and his relief faded as quickly as it had bloomed. The number and seemingly well established position of the Morlider was appalling. ‘Have they any scouts out?’ he asked.

  Dacu shook his head. ‘None that we saw. Not even perimeter guards in fact. They’re not expecting anyone.’

  Hawklan looked puzzled. ‘Any horses?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Very few that we could see,’ Dacu replied. ‘Probably too difficult to transport.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides I doubt they’re going to risk facing the Muster on its own terms.’

  Hawklan agreed. This was true and, with the absence of guards, was a stroke of fortune. The Morlider had effectively contained themselves. Though they had considerably superior numbers and it would not be possible to prevent reinforcements and supplies arriving by sea, the Orthlundyn could perhaps stop them breaking out until the Muster could be roused.

  If the Muster could be roused!

  Hawklan’s doubts returned. What if the Morlider indeed had a second army attacking to the south? It was a grim thought, for if it were true, then the Orthlundyn would have to attack the Morlider ahead of them immediately, or risk being caught between two armies themselves. He set the thought aside. It was not a realistic choice unless circumstances changed radically. The Orthlundyn were in good heart but they were tired and would fight well for only a limited period. They could not expect to overwhelm such a substantially larger, well entrenched force easily, and even if they were victorious, what would they do next? A forced march south after such a battle, carrying their wounded and the subtler burden of battle-fatigue would be impossible. They would probably have to retire to Orthlund, leaving who knew what confusion behind. For a little while he had no alternative but to wait and watch and move as his enemy did.

  He looked at Agreth, who had run up at the arrival of Dacu and listened intently to his report. Taking the Riddinwr’s arm, he said, ‘Now you go south, Muster rider. Take the horses and supplies you need, and ride with this news until you come to someone who can carry it faster.’

  Agreth nodded. ‘And what will you do?’ he said anxiously. ‘You don’t have the resources to face such numbers.’

  Hawklan looked at him squarely. ‘One horseman in our ranks isn’t going to make any difference,’ he said. ‘Do what you do best – ride. Our actions here will be decided by those of the Morlider, the state of our supplies, or any news that comes from the south. If we have to engage them we’ll stand and hold for as long as we can.’

  Suddenly granted his wish, Agreth found himself torn between his desire to ride over the snow-covered c
ountryside to his own kind and his strange new loyalty to these people who, unasked, had undertaken this long exhausting march to defend his country, and who now found themselves in such a perilous position.

  Unexpectedly, Hawklan smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘They don’t seem to be in a hurry to move. We’ll just wait until they do – the rest won’t go amiss. Besides, we have the advantage of surprise,’ he added. ‘You heard Dacu. They think they’re alone up here. They’re waiting for a message from Creost probably. The last thing they’ll be expecting is an army waiting for them if they leave their camp. Now go. Straight away. Find out what’s happening to your people and tell them that we’re here.’ He paused, then, ‘Tell Urthryn I trust implicitly the judgement of a man who could father such a Queen as Sylvriss.’

  As Agreth strode off, Gavor’s head appeared out of Hawklan’s cloak. ‘Rather glib, dear boy,’ he said. ‘My own assessment of the situation is that we’re in a mess.’

  Hawklan pushed the raven back under his cloak without replying.

  * * * *

  ‘It was an act of monstrous folly, and we’ve paid a terrible price for it,’ Bragald shouted, his face livid. ‘I spoke against the General Muster and the manning of the beach at the time, and I was right. Step down and face the judgement of the Moot, Urthryn.’

  Angry cries filled the great tent, both in favour and against the Riddinwr’s outburst.

  Urthryn stood up and raised his hands. The din faded. He looked at his accuser.

  ‘Yes, Bragald,’ he said, uncharacteristically omitting the man’s formal address in his irritation. ‘You spoke against it, but you offered no alternative.’ There were more cries from the gathered riders. ‘You’d have let them sail in and build a camp on the beach unhindered.’