by Roger Taylor
Athyr forestalled him. ‘Come on,’ he said urgently, seizing his arm. He had recovered most of his composure as soon as he had recognized Tirke’s voice but his heart was beating at a rate that he knew would not now diminish until he was clear of the Morlider camp.
Against the background of growing flames and mounting clamour, the Helyadin moved silently and swiftly between the crooked rows of tents, leaving the glowing red stones that would spread that clamour even further.
As they neared the palisade and the unguarded opening, a man came running towards them, sword in hand.
‘The Gate watch have all been killed,’ he said, a murderous fury in his voice. ‘Those stinking horse riders must be in the camp.’
Athyr gripped his sword under his fur coat but before he could strike, three more armed figures came running in the same direction. Too many and too angry to kill either quickly or quietly. He had to get his group out urgently now.
He gesticulated frantically towards the sea. ‘The ships! The ships! Fire!’ he gasped hoarsely, as if he had been running desperately.
The words could not have been better chosen. The merest glance at the flickering skyline galvanized the four men who ran off shouting and banging tent ropes as they passed.
Athyr and Tirke ran on desperately until they reached the fire by the opening in the palisade. Two of the dead guards had tumbled over, and were staring upwards wide-eyed into the still falling snow. Tirke paused as he passed by, then wiping his hands down his sides as if they were dirty he moved to join Athyr who had slipped through the opening and was waiting in the shade beyond.
Four figures emerged from between the nearby tents, their rapid stealth identifying them as Helyadin. Athyr stepped forward and ushered them through the opening. They vanished into the darkness.
Almost immediately, others appeared. Athyr dismissed them after their companions. Tirke found himself examining faces and counting, just as he knew Athyr would be. So near the end of this mission he found his fear rising almost uncontrollably. Four more left! Come on! Come on! Yet Athyr seemed quite calm.
The din in the camp was now considerable and there were signs of waking activity in the nearby tents. Shadowy figures were emerging everywhere.
Where in Sumeral’s name are you?
Tirke’s agonized but silent question was answered by angry voices and the clash of arms nearby. Athyr ran towards the sound and, without thinking, Tirke followed him. As they reached the aisle from which the noise had come, two figures emerged, one supporting the other. Behind them two others were walking backwards holding their swords double-handed and keeping a group of about six hesitant Morlider at bay. In the gloom beyond them, Tirke thought he saw two figures sprawled on the ground. That would account for the Morlider’s caution.
Athyr seized the free arm of the injured man and lifted it around his shoulder.
‘Run,’ he shouted unnecessarily, to his fellow bearer.
Tirke joined the two men forming the rearguard. Abruptly three of the Morlider disappeared behind a tent.
‘Watch your flanks,’ one of the Helyadin cried, followed immediately by the cry, ‘Run for it.’
Tirke and the other Helyadin needed no such injunction and, turning, they dashed for the opening. A figure came briefly into the edge of Tirke’s vision and he lashed out at it wildly with his sword. The sword made contact with something and there was a cry of pain. Tirke did not pause in his flight; he suddenly had the impression that the entire Morlider army was being drawn towards him personally.
Outside the palisade, the ground sloped upwards slightly and the snow became increasingly deep, making both flight and chase awkward and lumbering. However, unburdened by any injured companions, the Morlider soon caught up with the retreating group. There was a brief untidy skirmish which left two Morlider bleeding and groaning in the snow, before they in their turn withdrew a little to surround the Helyadin comfortably beyond sword’s length.
Rather to his surprise, Tirke saw that there were in fact only about a dozen or so, and that not all were armed.
Without command, the Helyadin formed a circle.
‘Tend to your ships, Morlider,’ Athyr shouted, waving his sword towards the now roaring flames, but the lure did not have the effect it had had before.
Instead, one of the Morlider threw a small axe. Its blade glittered briefly in the flickering light, and somehow, Athyr managed to strike it with his sword and destroy most of its momentum. It travelled on, however, to catch Tirke a glancing blow on the shoulder. The impact made him stagger forward and two or three of the Morlider started towards him. The pain of the blow broke through Tirke’s fear and released a darker creature. As he recovered his balance he took one hand from his sword hilt and drew a long knife. The attackers faltered, though it was as much the look on his face as the extra blade that made them hesitate.
Athyr glanced towards the camp. More Morlider were emerging; delay would be fatal. He hitched his injured companion into a more comfortable position then, speaking in the battle language, said, ‘Into the darkness.’
Abruptly the five men and their burden were running through the hindering snow. The surrounding circle burst open as, surprised by Athyr’s alien command and this unexpected charge, the Morlider scattered to avoid the slashing blades of the Helyadin. The surprise was only momentary, however, and a grim pursuit began again in earnest as yet more Morlider poured out of the camp.
Rage and terror mingled equally in Tirke as, gasping for breath, he forced his legs high to carry him through the deep snow and tried to keep near his companions in the deepening darkness that lay beyond the reach of the light from the blazing camp.
Very soon, however, he fell, almost bringing down a close pursuer. Turning as he fell he felt rather than saw a descending weapon. Some reflex twisted him from its path and he let out a startled cry.
As his attacker raised his weapon for a second blow, Tirke lashed out at him wildly with his sword. The blade raked across the man’s thighs and Tirke felt it scraping along bone.
He had a sudden vision of Loman patiently and caringly teaching him how to use a sharpening stone. The Morlider gave an agonized cry and hurled himself backwards in a frenzied and belated attempt to avoid his terrible injury.
Tirke saw him rolling away frantically, still screaming, but he had little time to assimilate this scene, as he could also see Morlider closing in on him from all sides. He had a fleeting impression of his companions similarly assailed.
A blow from somewhere knocked the sword from his hand and he swung his knife in the general direction of this attack. He sensed a pair of legs leaping away, but in front of him appeared a looming figure lifting a spear high for a blow that must surely pass through him as easily as through the snow beneath him.
In the instant that it took for the spear to reach its zenith, Tirke felt his body futilely bracing itself for the dreadful impact, and the welling up of a great surge of cringing terror inside him. Yet even as the terror took shape, another emotion rose up and twined around it like a strangling serpent; a consuming fury, blazing from who could say what fire in his soul. Somehow he would kill this man even as he died.
This resolve had scarcely begun to reach his hand when the shadow of his doom went staggering backwards violently. The man took several flailing, unsteady paces and then crashed to the ground. Against the light of the blazing camp, Tirke saw him struggling to pull an arrow from his chest. After a moment he became still, though the arrow still swayed from side to side a little.
Then Tirke realized that he was also watching the other Morlider running away.
He struggled into a sitting position and looked behind him. As he did so, a long row of swaying lights appeared in the blackness; the second phase of the attack on the camp was beginning.
Relief almost as powerful as his terror overwhelmed him briefly and he found his legs were shaking violently as he staggered to his feet.
Suddenly he was with his companions and there were h
orses all around. Someone was carrying the injured man away and hands were reaching down to help the others.
‘Come on, Tirke,’ a voice said. ‘Shift yourself, you’re frightening the horses standing gaping like that.’
It was Jaldaric. Tirke looked at him vacantly for a moment and then, taking his proffered hand, swung up behind him clumsily.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, as Jaldaric clicked to the horse.
Jaldaric paused.
Tirke looked back through the gently falling snow at the Helyadin’s handiwork.
The gentle slope he had just scrambled over was lit orange and yellow by the flames rising from the camp. Three substantial areas were ablaze, figures could be seen running in all directions and the noise of the flames and the shouting and screaming rose above the sound of the distant surf.
It was a grim, tormented sight, yet he knew it had been a good start to the night’s work.
Now the cavalry would take over. Already their line was beginning to gather speed and Tirke could see that few of the Morlider who had ventured out of the camp would return. The thought reminded him of the rest of his own companions.
‘Did everyone get back safely?’ he asked.
‘Some injuries I think, but no one killed as far as I know,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘You and the others were the last out.’
Injuries. The word brought back to Tirke the memory of the hurts he had caused that night and, in its wake, one of Hawklan’s injunctions: ‘Take no risks, but, if circumstances permit, wound rather than kill. An injured man is more trouble to the enemy than a dead one. He absorbs resources and he saps morale.’ Then he had paused. ‘And it’ll burden you less at some happier time in the future.’
Tirke and Jaldaric watched as the cavalry caught up with the fleeing Morlider. There would be little wounding in that mêlée.
* * * *
From a higher vantage, Hawklan, Andawyr and Loman watched the same scene.
While some of the cavalry, yelling raucously, were dealing with the Morlider, others were flinging ropes and grappling hooks over the palisade. Very soon, large gaps had been torn in the defensive wall.
Hawklan nodded approvingly. The Orthlundyn were not natural horsemen by any means, but they had absorbed fully such teaching as Agreth had been able to give them and were mastering the necessary skills competently enough.
The first wave of cavalry retreated and for a moment a strange stillness pervaded the scene. Hawklan ran his eye along the still extensive remains of the palisade. Here and there groups of Morlider seemed to be forming in some semblance of order. Then, as though the night itself were moving to assault the camp, the second wave of cavalry surged forward. Silent this time, in tight formation, and without illumination, they were suddenly there, riding through the firelit night.
As they rode they shot volleys of arrows deep into the camp, arrows carrying the same radiant stones that the Helyadin had used. Some of them glowed white so quickly that they consumed the arrows that carried them, to fall fluttering and flaring out of the air; others fell dully into the ranks of tents and flared up only after the riders had passed.
Hawklan saw a movement in the nearest group of Morlider. He leaned forward. ‘Wheel!’ he muttered urgently. The leader of the riders saw the danger at the same time and, as if Hawklan’s will had reached out through the night, he turned the line back towards the darkness. But it was almost too late. The Morlider stepped forward and released a small but accurate volley of arrows at their assailants.
Two horses went down immediately and a third stumbled trying to avoid them. Both Andawyr and Loman breathed in sharply and Hawklan felt Serian trembling underneath him. He laid a hand on the horse’s neck and watched, his face unreadable. Now was the first of many real testing times, for both him and the Orthlundyn.
The sound of shouted commands came faintly to the watchers.
Two riders broke off to pursue the third horse, which had recovered itself almost immediately. Other riders picked up their unhorsed companions while the remainder returned the Morlider’s fire, causing them to scatter for shelter behind the palisade. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the riders merged back into the darkness.
Andawyr turned to speak, but Hawklan held up his hand for silence. Again there was an almost eerie stillness in front of the camp. The Morlider archers re-formed.
Suddenly two adjacent groups of archers further along broke up rapidly. Hawklan could not see what was happening, but he knew that the Orthlundyn were standing back and firing from the cover of darkness. As soon as the defenders were routed, albeit temporarily, the cavalry rode in again to fire further volleys of flaming arrows into the camp. Hawklan nodded approvingly.
The harassment continued through the night and for much of the time the Morlider camp was in considerable disarray.
‘If only we had the numbers, we could drive them into the sea,’ Loman reflected.
Hawklan grunted. ‘A good word to choke on, if,’ he said. ‘But even if we drove them to their boats, they’d be back, wouldn’t they, Andawyr?’
The Cadwanwr started. He had been watching the unfolding saga with mounting distress. No amount of knowledge, he realized, could have fully prepared him for the frightening ordinariness that framed this reality. The horse shifting underneath him, the creaking of harness, Loman softly clearing his throat, the occasional snowflake landing cold on his now clammy face. Hawklan still Hawklan. The crackling flames and the terrible tactical games being played before him should have meant . . . more than they did. But they were outside his protective cocoon of darkness, and they were so . . . distant . . . unreal.
Hawklan’s voice reached out and brought him to the present with a jolt.
‘Yes. Yes,’ he stammered, catching the vanishing gist of the question. ‘I doubt they’ll leave until Creost abandons them.’
Hawklan turned and looked at him. As their eyes met, Andawyr said, almost shamefacedly, ‘Thank you. I couldn’t have helped.’
Hawklan did not reply, but the understanding and compassion of both warrior prince and healer showed in his eyes and comforted the Cadwanwr. Earlier, as the details of the attack were being discussed, Andawyr had asked if he could help: he had devices of his own that would not extend him; a breeze to fan the flames, some fires of his own, something to tear out that palisade? Hawklan had shaken his head. ‘Another time,’ he had replied. ‘Your Power’s for another purpose, you know that. Men must fight men. Here particularly, the Orthlundyn must learn those final lessons which can only be learned in combat. To ease their way with weapons they themselves can’t wield would be to mislead them and betray them in some future battle.’ Then, practical as ever: ‘Besides, you don’t want to betray your presence to Creost if he’s there, do you?’
‘He isn’t,’ Andawyr had replied positively, but Hawklan’s silent green-eyed gaze had said, ‘Can you take that risk?’
As time passed, however, the Morlider began to recover from the initial impact of the Orthlundyn assault.
‘They’ve realized we’re not intending an all-out attack,’ Hawklan said, as gradually the fires were doused and the archers defending the gaps in the palisade became both more cautious and more effective. ‘Pull back. We can do no more tonight. We’d be risking riders and horses needlessly if we persisted.’ Loman nodded in agreement. ‘I doubt they’ll venture out,’ Hawklan continued. ‘But leave pickets out in case, and have the army deployed by first light. They’ll come out then with a vengeance.’
* * * *
In the command tent, Hawklan looked purposefully at his friends. ‘We’ve done them some harm,’ he said. ‘And shaken their nerve. Have we learned anything that would make us change our basic tactics?’
‘Loman tells me their archers are more organized than they used to be,’ Isloman said. ‘But that crowd we ran into were the same as ever – wild and dangerous.’ Old memories of close-quarter fighting rose like vomit to mingle with the new, but with an angry grimace he dismissed them. ‘I t
hink if we can crack their discipline, they’ll revert to type – individual warriors looking to fight and kill. Then we’re in with a chance. I see no reason to change anything.’
No one disagreed. The conduct of the Morlider that night had shown the veterans enough to confirm that their enemy was both the same, and profoundly changed.
Hawklan reached up and touched Gavor’s beak absently. ‘The tactics stand, then,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow . . .’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Today, rather. We will drive them into the sea. They’ll have been training to deal with cavalry and they’ll expect to meet cavalry not disciplined infantry. We still have surprise on . . .’
Andawyr stood up suddenly. ‘Wake Atelon,’ he said, cutting across Hawklan. ‘Quickly. Bring him here.’ His voice was strange and distant.
After a momentary hesitation Dacu ran out.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan said, concerned by Andawyr’s manner.
A distant roll of thunder sounded softly through the tent.
‘Dar Hastuin,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘He’s above us. And putting forth great power.’
Hawklan looked alarmed. ‘Against us?’ he said.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I think he’s found the Drienvolk.’
Gavor flapped his wings restlessly and Hawklan reached up to him again. ‘There’s nothing we can do, old friend,’ he said. ‘We touched briefly, but the Drienvolk must fight their own kind in their own way. Stay here and guard my back.’
Before Gavor could reply, the entrance to the tent burst open and Atelon staggered in, supported by Dacu. His young face was haunted and fearful and his mouth was working though no coherent sounds were emerging.
‘He was like this when I found him,’ Dacu said, his own face riven with concern.
Andawyr looked at his student for a moment and then walked over to him very calmly and took his hands. Hawklan saw again the man who had destroyed the lair of the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Dacu released his charge.
