Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Sound judgement there, anyway,’ Andawyr said approvingly. ‘That,’ – he imitated the young Cadwanwr’s gesture – ‘is Dar Hastuin.’

  Atelon’s eyes widened in fear and, unconsciously, he cowered a little as if to avoid the attention of the sinister presence far above him.

  ‘Viladrien are nearby,’ Andawyr went on. ‘And from what Hawklan’s told me I suspect some battle’s afoot up there which may be as vital to us as anything that’s happening down here.’

  ‘Viladrien?’ Atelon said in amazement. ‘And fighting?’

  Andawyr nodded, but did not amplify his remarks.

  ‘What can we do?’ Atelon said after a moment, rather from want of something to say than anxiety for an answer.

  ‘Nothing,’ Andawyr replied, shaking his head. ‘Except hope, and be aware.’

  He stopped at a tent and unsealed the entrance. Dar-volci scuttled in and headed for the radiant stones. ‘Here’s my tent,’ Andawyr said. ‘Let’s obey our leader’s orders and talk while you eat and rest.’

  * * * *

  When Andawyr and Atelon left his tent, Hawklan threw on his cloak and, gesturing Gavor on to his shoulder, strode out into the snow.

  Until the time of his meeting with Isloman and Athyr, he knew that he must wander the camp, talking, laughing, encouraging, commiserating, but, above all, quietly inspiring the Orthlundyn army – his army – with the deep resolution that alone could bring it against the superior numbers of the Morlider with any chance of success.

  His pilgrimage took him through tent after tent, each standing dark and sullen in the fading winter light but inside glowing with subdued torchlight and filled with men and women, honing edges, testing bow strings, checking shields, armour, belts and buckles. Some were quiet and thoughtful, others were talking more loudly than usual and laughing too easily. But few needed his words. The Orthlundyn know what they face and what they need to meet it, he realized. It heartened him. Who supports whom? he thought. Perhaps, after all, he was no more than one man in the Orthlundyn army.

  The camp’s small administrative centre was frantic with activity, as were the stores, and a mere glance told him he was not needed in either place. The kitchens were pursuing their normal routines uncertainly, but there he could be of no help anyway.

  Only towards the end of his brief journey did he feel his resolve tested: twice.

  As he entered the hospital tent, the two duty healers rose to greet him. They were smiling, but a subtle reproach hung in the air. How can you be both healer and warrior, Hawklan? it said. You know the scenes that will be enacted here soon, as smashed and broken bodies are dragged in from the battlefield in hope of repair or solace, or at worst, an easier death; bodies that have walked and run, slept, eaten, loved. And followed you.

  There was no answer other than that he and those with him were there by choice and knowing at least some of the truth.

  It offered little comfort.

  He placed his arms around the shoulders of the two women. ‘Don’t be afraid of your anger,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it to mend some of the ills that you’ll see soon. Use it.’

  Leaving the hospital tent he wandered absently for a few minutes before finding himself by the stables. Someone inside was singing softly. Entering, he saw that the singer was a lanky youth grooming one of the horses. At the sound of Hawklan’s footsteps in the straw the youth turned and, recognizing him, smiled awkwardly.

  But as their eyes met the youth looked away suddenly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.

  The youth’s hand fidgeted with the grooming brush, then, suddenly he said. ‘I’m frightened, Hawklan.’

  ‘Good,’ Hawklan replied, almost automatically. ‘Your fear will help keep you alive.’

  The youth looked at him suspiciously. He put down the brush gently on a nearby stool and twisted from side to side, his whole body denying Hawklan’s words.

  ‘It’s not the same, Hawklan,’ he said fearfully. ‘Not the same as training and talking at home.’ Then, abruptly, ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said. ‘Or be . . . maimed. And I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t think I can. I . . . don’t want to be here . . . freezing, frightened and days from home.’

  The brief flow stopped and the youth turned round and began to stroke one of the horses nervously. Hawklan looked at him, his own conscience made flesh.

  ‘You’re not alone in that,’ he said quietly, after a pause. ‘What else are you frightened of?’

  The youth turned back to Hawklan sharply, oddly unbalanced by the question. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ he said.

  ‘Speak all your fears,’ Hawklan said, ignoring the question.

  For a long moment the youth stared at him, then he seemed to become more composed. ‘I don’t want to see my friends killed,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for their deaths. Suppose I . . . fail them in some way; slip, stumble, forget a drill when I’m in the line and break it . . .’

  Hawklan looked down. Something in the youth’s manner touched him deeply. These last remarks were only a hastily snatched garment to cover the naked truth of the previous outburst. But it did not matter. The youth’s fear taunted him. He had many skills he could use to lift the morale of his people when it proved necessary; skills that would ease burdens and carry the bearer boldly into battle. But now they had a hollow ring to them; Hawklan recognized the mocking residue of their original creator’s teaching.

  Here he could use none of them.

  Reaching out, he stroked the horse as the youth had been doing. ‘You won’t,’ he said simply. ‘Will you?’ It was all he could offer.

  Leaving the stable, Hawklan continued on to the command tent. Tirke and Yrain were there with Isloman and Athyr, poring over a plan of the Morlider camp. Both radiated a mixture of relief and exhilaration at their first silent encounter with the enemy. Their mood lifted some of the darkness from Hawklan that his encounter with the youth had left. He smiled and as he had with the healers, laid a hand on the shoulder of each as a token of welcome and understanding.

  Yrain was marking on the plan the extent of the latest fortifications. Hawklan looked over her shoulder.

  ‘They’re nearly completed,’ he said unnecessarily when she had finished.

  Isloman ran his finger over the plan. ‘Apart from this uncompleted end here, there are four openings,’ he said. ‘None of which is gated so far. The ground’s well compacted by now. We should be able to get in and out quickly in the confusion.’

  Hawklan frowned uncertainly.

  ‘They’re not expecting anything,’ Isloman went on persuasively. ‘They’ve still not got guards out. They haven’t had any all the time we’ve been watching them.’

  Hawklan nodded, and tapped his finger on the plan thoughtfully. ‘This uncompleted end is cluttered with tents and stores of some kind,’ he said. ‘Access is out of the question there. Then these gaps are a long way apart and none too wide. And for all they’ve no guards that we can see, we’ve no idea how quickly they’ll respond once things start to happen. You could find yourselves trapped in there and our hit and run attack could easily turn into a slaughter.’

  The entrance of the command tent opened to admit Dacu and Loman.

  Hawklan turned to Yrain. ‘Tell me about these patrols,’ he said. ‘Size, number, uniforms . . .’ There was a little laughter at this last. The Morlider might perhaps be united in spirit and intent but they were as individually and eccentrically dressed as could be imagined.

  ‘Single patrols, about twenty men strong, uniforms – well-wrapped, but casual,’ Yrain replied. ‘So far they’ve come out at irregular intervals and they seem to be following different routes. I think they’re just finding their way around.’

  Hawklan thought for a moment. ‘Is there a patrol out now?’

  Yrain nodded.

  ‘It’ll be dark when it returns?’ Hawklan continued.

  Yrain nodded again.

  * * * *

 
Pitch-soaked torches burned smokily along the wooden palisade, throwing uneasy dancing shadows on to the nearby line of tents. Near to one of the four gaps in the long defensive paling a large fire burned. Four figures crouched around it. The sound of waves breaking over the shore in the near distance formed a constant bass harmony to their conversation.

  ‘What’s he doing down there any way?’ said one irritably. ‘Why’ve we all got to sit up here freezing our backsides in the snow while he and his fancy guards swan around down south somewhere.’

  His neighbour kicked him, none too gently. ‘Shut up, you blockhead,’ he said, looking around anxiously. ‘This place is full of those big-eared Vierlanders, and a comment like that could see you discussing your complaint with him face to face.’

  The first speaker rubbed his leg and made a disparaging noise. ‘So what?’ he muttered.

  His companion looked round hastily then seized him roughly and pulled him forward. ‘I’ll tell you so-what, fish-brain,’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘He’ll boil your blood in your veins with a look, that’s what. I’ve seen him do it.’ He shuddered and released his charge. ‘Personally I don’t give a crab’s fart about that, but he’s liable to do it to us as well for not skewering you on the spot. Now shut up.’

  Chastened, the first speaker stirred the fire with his foot. A shower of sparks rose up through the falling snow.

  ‘I meant no disrespect,’ he said awkwardly and more as if for the benefit of any listeners in the darkness around the fire than out of genuine regret. ‘But I came to kill Riddinvolk, not sit shivering behind a wooden fence at the top end of nowhere.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for killing, don’t you fret,’ replied another, older than most of the others. He drew a long knife and turned it over longingly. ‘The Chief knows what he’s doing. That’s why we’ve got decent tents, clothes, food; so that we can wait. Not like last time. Men’s feet and hands turning black. Dying screaming in the night, or worse, just going . . . quiet . . . and lying down in the snow waiting to die. Trying to fight those damned horse riders and those poxed inlanders from over the mountains with your hands too cold to feel your sword; the chiefs quarrelling like old women and everyone fretting in case the islands moved off along the ways too soon.’

  He spat into the fire and bared his teeth. The firelight bounced menacingly off his twisting knife. ‘None of that this time. This time we take this land.’ He paused and nodded reflectively. ‘I’ve some rare scores to settle I can tell you, and I intend to enjoy them. I’ve waited twenty years – a little longer’s neither here nor there.’

  Any further debate was precluded by the arrival through the opening of a group of men heavily muffled and hooded in furs.

  The man with the knife looked up. ‘About time,’ he said unpleasantly. ‘Where the devil have you been? We’ve been freezing to death waiting for you.’

  The new arrivals moved towards the fire eagerly, with much hand rubbing and foot stamping. The man watched them as they approached, then he leaned forward a little, his eyes narrowed, trying to peer into the darkness of the leader’s hood.

  Suddenly his hand curled around the handle of his knife and he started to rise. ‘You’re not . . .’

  Before he could finish, a sword emerged from the leader’s fur coat and ran him through. There was not a flicker of hesitation in the deed, nor in the hand that shot out to silence any cry he might make. Before his knife had tumbled onto the snow, others from the group had killed the remaining three guards with the same ruthless expedition.

  ‘Guards after all,’ Athyr said. ‘I hope the others are all right.’ He looked down at the dead men. ‘Still, first and last duty for this lot. Prop them up quickly and gather round as if you’re warming yourselves.’ He wiped his sword on the dead man’s coat and looked at Tirke. ‘See what’s happened to the others,’ he said.

  The young Fyordyn hesitated. The blood-stained sword in his hand was shaking.

  ‘Tirke!’ Athyr hissed angrily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tirke said starting. ‘When I pulled my sword out, his . . .’

  ‘Later.’ Athyr’s voice was both understanding and grimly unequivocal. ‘You did well. You killed him before he knew what was happening, quickly and quietly; that’s all that matters here. Keep it that way and we’ll get back to camp safely.’

  Tirke nodded awkwardly. ‘By numbers,’ he said.

  Athyr patted him on the arm. ‘By numbers,’ he confirmed. ‘Now, signal.’

  Tirke ran to the palisade and looked up and down its length intently. Producing a small signalling torch he sent a brief message in both directions.

  The Morlider patrol had been ambushed and groups of Helyadin, suitably disguised, had arrived simultaneously at all four entrances in an attempt to ensure deep and silent penetration into the camp. Hawklan had told them to prepare for guards, but nonetheless they had been an unpleasant surprise.

  ‘Groups one and three are all right,’ he said, returning to Athyr.’ But group four’s met some resistance.’

  Even as he spoke the faint sound of raised voices in the distance reached them. The entire group stood motionless and silent. The commotion mingled with the sound of the sea but showed no immediate signs of stopping.

  Athyr ran through the anticipated options quickly. Three groups into the camp without disturbance was one of the better ones. Isloman’s group would now act as diversion by holding for as long as they could before retreating.

  ‘Three are going in a hundred paces,’ Tirke said.

  Athyr nodded. ‘We’ll go a hundred and fifty, tell one to go two hundred at their discretion.’

  Tirke sent the message and then, without speaking, the group set off towards the sound of the breaking waves. They made no effort to quieten their footsteps, knowing that to the sleeping army around them a stealthy footfall would ring like a clarion call while the crunching indifference of their passing comrades would warrant no more than a mumbled oath.

  The group encountered only two solitary wanderers and both met the same sudden and cruel fate as those at the gate.

  Occasionally the distant sounds of Isloman’s encounter drifted to them over the sound of the surf.

  As they walked over the frozen sand and snow, churned up by the traffic of the camp, Athyr found flickering fireflies of sympathy beginning to dance in his mind. The layout of the camp was a bizarre mixture of imposed order and personal idiosyncrasy; all the tents were different and, for the most part, crudely made out of animal skins and various fabrics. Pitch torches and the remains of camp fires glowed and guttered everywhere. Athyr could not avoid feeling the personal endeavour and the fulfilment of modest skills that radiated from these details and his carver’s soul could do no other than respond in some degree. He tried to scatter the thoughts, but they reformed. These people were trapped in and by their own ignorance, he saw. Blazing torches for light! Open wood fires for heat! Presumably they had the same inside their tents; tents that would let that meagre heat escape into the winter night with scarcely any hindrance; they had no conception of collection, or re-use; small things, but they typified the state of these benighted, misled people. They knew so very very little . . . it was tragic that . . .

  His foot caught an extended guy rope and only the quick response of his neighbour prevented him from sprawling headlong.

  Athyr nodded his thanks and cursed himself darkly for a fool. Whatever had made the Morlider into what they were, they were what they were and, misled or no, they were numerous, dangerous, and more than capable of over-running the Orthlundyn army if they were given the opportunity. More urgently, they could destroy this tiny infiltrating force if they were roused by some such further act of carelessness. The Morlider could not now be retrieved by knowledge, especially as they had been welded into some semblance of a whole by Creost. That salvation might await them some other day, but . . .

  One hundred and fifty.

  His training and his wiser instincts cut across his though
ts. This was far enough. The intermittent noise of the distant fighting had faded; Isloman must have done what he could and retreated. Would the Morlider rouse the whole camp, or would Isloman have been able to preoccupy them with the lure of pursuit?

  Conjecture was irrelevant.

  ‘Time to go,’ Athyr hand-signalled to his group. ‘You know what to do. Keep to your pairs, keep quiet, keep moving, and cut down anyone who gets in the way.’

  The group spread out silently.

  Athyr reached into his pouch and withdrew one of the specially prepared radiant stones. He placed it on the ground against the wall of a tent then, nervously and with a well extended arm, he struck it. Almost immediately it glowed a dark sinister red and he stepped back hastily. Quickly he moved to the next tent.

  In a few seconds the stone would begin to release its stored energy; not in a steady hearth-warming flow, but in a great uncontrollable surge of heat that would continue for many minutes. In addition to his concern at being in the heart of the enemy’s camp, Athyr’s nervousness was aggravated by the fact that once struck, such stones were unstable and there was no indication how long it would be before this release occurred.

  He was crouching down striking a fourth as the first one began to fire. He paused momentarily to watch it and suddenly a blow sent him sprawling. As he fell, the stone he had struck blazed up dazzlingly in front of him.

  Momentarily blinded he rolled away from the heat, eyes closed. When he opened them he saw a blurred figure silhouetted against the glaring light. It was bending over him, arm extended. Reflexively Athyr tightened his grip on his striker to use it as a dagger against this assailant but, with unexpected speed, a foot pinned his wrist onto the frozen snow-filled sand.

  ‘It’s me!’ the figure hissed, its voice a mixture of alarm and exasperation. ‘I had to knock you away, you weren’t looking and your stone was going. Get up for pity’s sake!’

  It was Tirke. The foot released Athyr’s arm and he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. Tirke was looking at him anxiously and was about to speak.