Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  Good leader, Hawklan thought. But not good enough. In his anxiety to protect his fellows from their folly the Morlider was walking into Loman’s trap. It was a mistake that would probably cost him his life. Even now Hawklan knew that Athyr would be passing Loman’s order to the Helyadin among the cavalry. ‘Identify the leader and kill him; and any rank and file leaders.’ A glance confirmed it; several of the horsemen were preparing their bows.

  A peculiar, almost snarling clap of thunder rattled overhead as if giving special sanction to this incisive and deliberate surgery that would occur amid the random butchery.

  Damn you, Sumeral, Hawklan thought bitterly as the sound rumbled into the distance. Would that it were in my province to return to you all the pain you create.

  A shout brought him back to the cold wintry Riddin countryside. It was an order from the phalanx commander and it echoed across the Orthlundyn as the file commanders took it up.

  Almost as one man, the front rank of the Orthlundyn swung up their shields to form a continuous wall and the first three ranks lowered their short pikes.

  Then they moved from their leisurely march to a jogging trot.

  Loman’s timing had been good. The third column was moving into position, amid resentful shouts from their fellows at being apparently deprived of their prey, when the approaching men were suddenly transformed into a single armoured unit carrying a serrated row of death before it.

  Several of the Morlider made a valiant effort to form their own shield wall, but it was too late and the Orthlundyn pikes drove into them, killing and wounding many on first impact.

  The dark part of Hawklan calculated as it watched the destruction of the best of the three columns.

  Then the Orthlundyn’s progress faltered as they tried to push through the dense mass of shouting and screaming men.

  Push! thought Hawklan grimly, willing himself amongst the heaving pikemen. Push! Remember your drill. Watch your neighbour. Listen for your file commander. That way you’ll live. Push!

  For a moment, he was free. Free of doubt and debate. Now Sumeral’s will would be tested at sword point. It was a good feeling for all that the events before him were horrific.

  Briefly the Morlider held, as their disordered rear ranks, unaware of what was happening, continued to push forward. Then, though retreat was against the very heart of their fighting code, they broke as those at the front turned and crashed through those behind in a desperate attempt to avoid the relentless, terrible rows of jabbing spear points.

  An attack now by the mounted archers could rout the Morlider entirely, sending them scattering across the snow at the mercy of the pursuing cavalry. But the destruction of one small group was not what was wanted. Today the entire invasion must be crushed. Today the Orthlundyn must overwhelm a vastly larger army and one of Sumeral’s terrible Uhriel.

  Loman let the Morlider retreat, slowing down the advance of the phalanx and then stopping it altogether once contact had been broken.

  The Morlider had taken heavy losses, as was evidenced by the corpses and untended wounded decorating the blood-churned snow, yet they were still conspicuously more numerous than the unscathed Orthlundyn, and as they saw their smaller enemy faltering in its advance, the unspoken shame at their flight was redoubled. Cautiously, they began to move forward again.

  Loman watched their confusion carefully, noting with satisfaction four men breaking away and heading back rapidly towards the camp. He took the phalanx forward again before the enemy could re-form properly and then he confined himself only to such manoeuvres as were necessary to maintain this modest disorder.

  Outnumbering their troublesome opponents and yet unable to assail them because of their impenetrable shield wall with its lethal hedge of spear points, and the small but menacing cavalry flank guards, the Morlider’s frustration grew apace. The odd individual would charge forward, roaring and screaming and hurl an arcing spear or whirling axe at the silent, waiting, ranks, only to see it brought down by waving pikes, or bounce ineffectually off raised shields. The same fate befell the occasional arrows.

  Hawklan watched as Loman’s tactics inexorably destroyed whatever ordered discipline the Morlider had acquired under Creost’s tutelage. It was a good sign.

  As the seemingly stalemated skirmish moved uneasily to and fro, Gavor dropped silently out of the sky and landed lightly on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘Time to go, dear boy,’ he said softly. ‘There are two more columns leaving the camp – at the double.’

  Hawklan read the same message from a distant flickering signal. ‘Gavor, I thought I told you . . .’

  ‘I haven’t told a soul, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted petulantly. ‘I just thought you’d be interested.’

  Hawklan let Gavor’s injured tone release the dark smile that was in reality for the day’s bloody success so far.

  ‘I’m glad to see you enjoyed your flight,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Gavor said, with an enigmatic chuckle.

  Hawklan turned sharply at this response. ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Gavor hopped up on to his head. ‘My, this is going to be fun,’ he said. ‘We’re going to drive these beggars into the sea, aren’t we, dear boy? And that fish-eyed creature Creost.’

  Hawklan started and looked up, causing Gavor to tumble off with a squawk. ‘Steady on, dear boy,’ he cried, flapping back up awkwardly on to Serian’s head.

  ‘Gavor, where’ve you been?’ Hawklan asked urgently.

  Before Gavor could reply Loman was by Hawklan’s side.

  ‘You saw the message?’ the smith asked rhetorically. ‘Two more columns coming. It’s working. I’ve sent skirmishers out again and I’m bringing up a second company.’

  Hawklan abandoned his interrogation of Gavor.

  ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how these people are organized. There was a marked difference in discipline between the third column and the other two. Judge each one on its own. Disorder and confusion are more important than damage at this stage. Take no risks, there’ll be plenty of those later.’

  Loman gave him a mildly reproachful look, but Gavor was more direct. ‘He knows all this, dear boy,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does everyone else. Let’s get on and leave them to it.’

  Leaving the small, bloodied battlefield, Hawklan returned to Andawyr and the others waiting nearby.

  He repeated Loman’s comment when he reached them. ‘It’s working.’

  If the relief columns were leaving at the double, then the messengers who had carried news of the ambush back to the camp had carried with them a useful note of alarm and confusion. All that remained now was to see how far that would spread and how many troops would be lured out before Creost or his senior commanders realized fully what was happening.

  Watching the movements of both Morlider and Orthlundyn, and reading the signals that flickered to and fro between the concealed Helyadin, Hawklan and his group returned to their silent overseeing of the battle plan.

  Several more columns came out from the Morlider camp to be harried and taunted by skirmishers and then confronted by Orthlundyn infantry. As Hawklan had noted, they varied in discipline, but those that stood firm were attacked ruthlessly, and eventually all were broken.

  Suffering considerable losses, the Morlider were gradually eased back towards their camp, shepherded by smaller but unbroken ranks of Orthlundyn.

  Hawklan rode up on to a small hill from where he could see most of the separate but converging conflicts. A rumble of thunder greeted him. He looked at Andawyr; the thunder, if thunder it was, had been increasing steadily for several hours now. Andawyr met his gaze with open anxiety, but with an inclination of his head redirected him yet again to the earth-bound battle.

  Hawklan nodded a reluctant acknowledgement then gazed around: at the sky, still grey and ominous, though lighter in places as if the sun were struggling to break through; at the clusters of fighting men, black scars against the snow; at the small portion of the Mo
rlider camp that he could see. His mind and his intuition told him that the first part of the assault against the Morlider was ending; that a pivotal point had been reached beyond which the balance could only swing to the enemy if he did not now commit the entire army.

  He hesitated.

  Memories of Orthlund and its people, sunlit, peaceful and glorious rose to stand against the stark, bloodstained, winter greyness of the present.

  He reached up and touched Gavor’s beak. ‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘And guard Andawyr as you’d guard me.’

  Gavor bowed his head and looked at him beadily like an old schoolmaster. ‘Now, dear boy,’ he said purposefully. ‘Dar Hastuin and Creost foul my air.’

  Hawklan frowned and then patted Serian’s neck. ‘Now, Hawklan,’ the horse said, with the same resolve as Gavor. ‘This is my land, and I would ride to save it.’

  Hawklan nodded and turned to one of his Helyadin bodyguard. ‘Signal to Loman, “Now”,’ he said.

  The young man spurred his horse clear of the group to obey the order.

  Hawklan watched him for a moment and then took off his gloves and reached up to unfasten the laces that held his ragged cloak.

  They were stiff in the cold air and gave him a little difficulty, but he eventually freed them and with a broad gesture swung the cloak from his shoulders to reveal a black surcoat covering the fine black mail armour that Loman had made for him. It bore no emblem. Ethriss’s sword hung by his side.

  Isloman looked at him, his face impassive. The sight brought back vividly to the carver the memory of Tirilen prinking out the healer for his trip to the Gretmearc; of his shock at the sudden appearance of a figure that might have stepped down from one of the many carvings that decorated Anderras Darion. Now, however, the presence of the man set all such comparisons at naught. Hawklan was here, now, powerful as much because of his doubts as his certainties; a whole man.

  Who masters one art masters all, Isloman thought as, with quiet gentleness, Hawklan folded his old cloak and placed it in his saddle bag.

  Then with the same calm, Hawklan lifted up the grim black helm that Loman had also made. As he held it up he looked round at his companions.

  ‘To the light, my friends,’ he said quietly.

  Serian lifted his head and shook it as Hawklan urged him forward and, with a powerful beat of his wings, Gavor launched himself into the air to glide, black and stark, against the white Riddin snow.

  Chapter 16

  Dan-Tor stared out into the greyness that encompassed Narsindalvak. The garish light from the globes illuminating the room turned the slowly swirling mist outside the window a pallid white. At the Ffyrst’s feet was a small constellation of dull red stars where his blood had dripped from the barbed end of Hawklan’s arrow still protruding from his side.

  Behind him, Urssain and Aelang stood silent and watchful; like the Mathidrin as a whole, loath to be there but bound to him more than ever.

  ‘How serious is this?’ Dan-Tor asked eventually, without turning round.

  The two men exchanged a glance. ‘Very serious, Ffyrst,’ Aelang said. ‘We think that commanders Faron and Groniev are committed to it – and most of their senior officers. Their men will follow them almost certainly, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Dan-Tor echoed softly. ‘And the other commanders?’

  ‘They’ll wait,’ Aelang said awkwardly, after a dangerously long pause.

  Dan-Tor’s lips parted to reveal his white teeth in an expression that was neither smile nor snarl. His own image stared back at him from outside, faint and transparent, and seemingly surrounded by the glowing white mist. It taunted him. Great Uhriel, where is your power now? Your vaulting ambition? Bound and blind, and surrounded by ants who think themselves ravening wolves. Will you still be here when Creost and Dar Hastuin are fawning at His feet and receiving His favours? Toying with your remnant soldiers and bleating over the ill-chance that took Fyorlund from you and stuck you like a hunted pig?

  ‘No,’ Dan-Tor muttered.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Ffyrst?’ Aelang said, leaning forward intently.

  ‘No!’ came an awesome, cavernous, voice in reply.

  The two Mathidrin froze. The voice was the voice of Oklar. His presence, his malice, filled the room, filled their bodies and their minds leaving space for nothing but himself.

  ‘It will not be!’

  Both Urssain and Aelang had seen the anger of the Uhriel rise up within the Ffyrst before, and even though its terrible purpose had never been directed towards them, they found it terrifying beyond words. It was as if they were falling into the infinitely deep maw of some flaring, malevolent, volcano.

  Neither dared to move. Both knew that if one had committed some inadvertent folly, then for the other to seek to aid him would be to do the same, and meet the same fate.

  But, as quickly as it had come, the awesome presence faded until it was like a thunderstorm in some far distant valley. Both men remained silent.

  ‘Why do you bring this to me?’ Dan-Tor said eventually, his voice and presence normal again. ‘You’re more than able to attend to such . . . administrative . . . problems without my aid.’

  ‘With respect, Ffyrst, this is more than a minor problem,’ Urssain said, speaking for the first time. ‘We knew something was being plotted, but we presumed it was against us, as usual. It was only when two of our informants in Faron’s company met with “accidents” that we even began to suspect how serious it was . . .’ He paused.

  ‘And?’ Dan-Tor prompted.

  Urssain looked quickly at Aelang, who nodded.

  ‘They intend to seize the tower and attempt to make a peace with the Lords.’ Urssain concluded his denunciation more hurriedly than he had intended.

  There was a long silence. Eventually Dan-Tor raised a hand delicately. ‘And where am I in this . . . new peace?’ he asked quietly.

  Urssain hesitated momentarily. ‘You are to be . . . assassinated, Ffyrst.’

  Dan-Tor frowned uncertainly at his mist-shrouded double hovering outside as a long forgotten sensation stirred within him. It took him some time to identify it. It was amusement.

  Its rebirth however, was brief, as Dan-Tor’s black corrosive scorn choked its faltering sunlight.

  He turned away from the window and sat down.

  ‘And you are concerned for my welfare, commanders? he inquired, looking first at Urssain and then Aelang.

  Urssain had stood next to the Ffyrst too long to even attempt the lie that the question seemingly sought. He could however risk an oblique statement of the stark truth.

  ‘You destroyed half of Vakloss with a gesture of your hands, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘You have powers beyond our understanding. No one could assail you and hope to live. It’s a measure of Faron and Groniev’s folly that they should even contemplate such an idea. But if their treason is allowed to take too strong a root in the men before it’s torn out then we could find ourselves fighting our own, and that would be disastrous for our cause.’

  Dan-Tor appreciated Urssain’s attempted subtlety, especially the reference to ‘our cause’, but suddenly he felt irritated.

  It was as if Dilrap was buzzing about him again with his eternal mind-clogging swathes of regulations, procedures, ‘respected traditions’, and who knew what other petty restrictions that he deemed necessary for the quiet, subtle overthrow of Fyorlund.

  Here, however, on the borders of Narsindal, Dan-Tor’s vision and purpose were clearer and he refused to have either clouded by such pettifogging human trivia. Yet Aelang and Urssain were correct. A major upheaval amongst the Mathidrin and the renegade High Guards would risk destroying them as a fighting force, especially if it occurred within the claustrophobic confines of Narsindalvak. It might be a measure of Faron and Groniev’s folly that they imagined they could eliminate him as though he was just another Mathidrin officer standing in their ambitious way, but it was also a measure of the seriousness of their intention that he had not detected it himself.


  In dwelling too long on the fate that had brought him here and on the deep, silent, purpose of his Master, he had allowed himself to drift too far away from these unreliable and fickle creatures upon whose backs he must necessarily ride to achieve victory.

  It was a salutary reminder, he realized. Now, it seemed, others too were in need of the same.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, standing up abruptly.

  * * * *

  Faron and Groniev were holding an officer’s meeting when Dan-Tor entered with Aelang and Urssain in his wake. On the wall behind the two conspirators was a large map showing Narsindalvak and most of what had been Dan-Tor’s estates in northern Fyorlund. Marked on it were the dispositions of the watching High Guards.

  The two commanders came smartly to attention and there was a great scraping and clattering of chairs as their officers hastily stood up.

  ‘Sit down,’ Dan-Tor said tersely. ‘I have something to show you which it will be in your best interests to take full note of.’

  Aelang and Urssain kept their faces impassive, though Aelang’s eyes gleamed at the tone of the Ffyrst’s voice.

  ‘Ah, you’re still studying our position, I see,’ Dan-Tor went on. Walking to the map he turned his back on Faron and Groniev and began to study it thoughtfully.

  ‘What’s your assessment of our position, gentlemen?’ he said after a moment.

  Faron’s eyes flickered uneasily to Aelang and Urssain. He was visibly disconcerted by this unexpected appearance of the Ffyrst, so long ensconced and distant in his eyrie. Groniev however, answered calmly and immediately.

  ‘It’s adequate for our present needs, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘But leaves much to be desired if the High Guards move against us in force, as they probably will when the snows have cleared.’

  Dan-Tor continued examining the map. ‘This tower fortress is the symbol of the High Guards’ faith and strength, commander,’ he said. ‘It’s generally regarded as being unassailable. Do you think it can be lightly taken from us?’