Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  The Morlider curled his lip and bared his teeth viciously. ‘Speak to me then,’ he replied. ‘I’m Toran Agrasson. I command this . . . little patrol. But hurry, we’re impatient to try real knocks with you.’

  Hawklan pointed to the distant islands. ‘Do you speak for all the peoples of your united lands?’ he asked.

  The Morlider’s eyes narrowed slightly but his voice showed no uncertainty. He glanced from side to side at the waiting army. ‘I speak for these,’ he replied. ‘That’s all you need to concern yourself with.’

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘I speak for all my people,’ he said. ‘And I must speak to the one who speaks for all of yours or terrible harm will be done here today. Send a messenger for Karios.’

  Agrasson started visibly and an alarmed murmur rose up from the army.

  ‘Isn’t he with you?’ Hawklan asked, before Agrasson could answer.

  Agrasson recovered himself. ‘Our chieftain is where he wills to be,’ he replied. ‘But don’t seek to meet him too soon, leader of your people.’ His tone was sneering. ‘Aside from your deeds of last night and today, each careless mention of his name will cost you a year’s torment when he has you in his thrall . . .’ He looked up at the lightening sky overhead. Thin skeins of bright blue sky were appearing in the greyness. ‘Which will be long before the sun sets today – if you survive.’ This brought some laughter and jeering from the nearby ranks.

  Hawklan looked down for a moment then straightened, took off his helm, and peered slowly over the vast expanse of the waiting army. Finally he looked again at Agrasson. ‘Very well, Toran Agrasson, I’ll speak with you, but know first that if you speak only for these gathered here, you speak for a doomed and betrayed people.’ He waved again towards the distant islands. ‘If your leader is too timorous to face the consequences of his own deeds, then let us at least, as true men, as warriors, not degrade this place further with lies and deceit. Let us call your chieftain by his true name.’

  Agrasson frowned angrily and for a moment seemed inclined to ride forward.

  Hawklan raised a hand to stop him. ‘Creost,’ he said, his voice becoming more powerful. ‘Creost. The Uhriel. One of the creatures of Sumeral who is risen again and seeks once more to spread his evil over the world.’

  This time Agrasson backed his horse away from Hawklan, as if fearful of being caught in some awful retribution. He pointed an unsteady hand at Hawklan. ‘You weave a terrible doom for yourself with such words, horse rider,’ he said. ‘Seek earnestly to die today. It’s the happiest of the futures now before you.’

  ‘No!’ Hawklan roared. ‘I weave nothing. I come here to cut the threads that bind you all and that have led you to this folly. I come here to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Enough!’ Agrasson shouted, but Hawklan waved his protest aside.

  ‘Do you truly think that this . . . abomination . . . from another time will lead you to glory, to wealth, to whatever it is he has promised you?’ he said, projecting his voice out over the now silent army. ‘This creature, who has already slaughtered so many of your kin and torn your islands from the ancient ways of Enartion. You are a brave people. People of the sea. You, more than I, must know the price that will have to be paid for such folly.’

  ‘Archers!’ Agrasson roared. But his men, held by Hawklan’s voice, hesitated, and the Helyadin had drawn and aimed their bows at Agrasson and his companions before the nearest Morlider archers could bring theirs to bear. Hawklan held up his hand.

  ‘No,’ he said, gently. ‘You’ll die before us, and our deaths will not kill the truth; they’ll serve no end but his. Like the Fyordyn you’ve been cruelly misled by forces beyond your knowledge. They’re free now, and arm against Sumeral Himself, though they have paid a terrible price. You . . .’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Agrasson burst out, though seemingly more for the benefit of his own men than for Hawklan. ‘Our chieftain’s brought us unity and strength . . .’

  ‘He’s deceived you in every way,’ Hawklan shouted, cutting across him. ‘Even here. Did he not tell you that the Muster would be far to the south? That there would be no one here to oppose you?’

  He turned and signalled to Loman.

  There was a brief silence then, slowly, a long row of points began to rise from the skyline like tiny shoots of grass.

  Hawklan watched the faces of the Morlider soldiers carefully as the front ranks of the Orthlundyn infantry marched forward.

  Behind them a forest, of pikes waved gently, indicating an unknown strength to the rear; two close-ranked formations of cavalry appeared on the flanks.

  As they halted, the sun broke through a gap in the clouds and the unfamiliar sunlight danced and sparkled on bright surcoats, and polished shields and helms and weapons. It was a daunting spectacle, made all the more intense by the dark grey winter sky that formed the backdrop.

  ‘Nice timing,’ whispered Gavor into Hawklan’s ear with untypical awe.

  Hawklan ignored him. ‘Turn away from this,’ he said to the Morlider. ‘Go back to your islands and the true ways of the sea. Make no widows and orphans for this cold land that you do not belong to. If truly you did not know his deceit, then see it writ large in the glittering edges and points waiting for you up there, and in the blood and gore of your companions right here.’ He waved his hand over the carnage that lay between himself and Agrasson.

  The sunlight faded as the clouds closed again and a cold breeze ruffled the clothing of the waiting men. Hawklan felt his faint hopes shrivel at its touch. Such doubts as he had seen stir in those Morlider near to him, were gone, and only a savage, driven intent remained. Here, as in Fyorlund, the heart of the disease would have to be excised before peace could be found.

  What Agrasson thought, he could not tell; the man’s face had become a mask.

  ‘You don’t reply,’ Hawklan said after a long silence.

  Agrasson indicated the army with a nod of his head. ‘They’re reply enough,’ he said impassively, adding scornfully, ‘It was thoughtful of you to bring your army to us, it’ll save us a great deal of searching.’

  Hawklan nodded sadly. ‘Then carry a message to Creost for me,’ he said. ‘Tell him that Hawklan, the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion, has pinioned Oklar and now comes to seek out the lesser Uhriel for an account of his misdeeds. Look at me, Toran Agrasson.’ His voice was soft but extraordinarily commanding and, reluctantly, Agrasson’s eyes met his. ‘Tell Creost there is no escape from the forces that have been set against him and that today he will be killed or bound.’

  With an effort, Agrasson broke free from Hawklan’s gaze. ‘He’ll hear your message, horse rider, have no fear,’ he said. ‘And I’ll repeat my advice; seek earnestly to die today, Hawklan, Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion and speaker of fine words. Seek earnestly to die.’

  Hawklan bowed slightly and, replacing his helm, began to walk Serian backwards. The Helyadin did the same, keeping their bows levelled at Agrasson and his companions until they were beyond bow shot.

  ‘I could have told you that would happen,’ Gavor said. ‘So could Loman and Isloman. All that lot understands is fighting.’

  Hawklan handed the green flag to one of the Helyadin. ‘I could do no other than try, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’ve left some darts of self-doubt stuck in some of them, and every little helps.’

  Gavor condescended a cluck of mild approval.

  Hawklan turned to Andawyr. ‘What did you learn?’ he asked.

  Andawyr shrugged a little. ‘He’s there somewhere,’ he said. ‘But not truly exerting himself. I doubt he’s any idea of the threat we can pose.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep it that way for as long as possible. But we have to face him today no matter what else happens, and I’d like to know where he is.’

  ‘He’s on that boat there.’ The voice was Gavor’s. He was nodding towards a small boat anchored off shore, well away from the other vessels that were plying to and from the islands.

 
Hawklan frowned at him. ‘I thought I told you . . .’ he began, then with a resigned shake of his head, ‘Never mind . . . A seagull told you, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Gavor replied with some scorn. ‘They’re very dim. Not a thought in their heads except family squabbles and . . . fish. I found him on my own.’

  ‘They’re coming.’ One of the Helyadin ended this exchange.

  Glancing back, Hawklan saw the great mass of the Morlider army moving forward again. He galloped Serian up to Loman who was waiting anxiously with a group of company leaders.

  ‘Are Dacu and all the Helyadin back? Hawklan asked.

  ‘With the cavalry on the left flank,’ Loman replied, pointing.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Isloman, Andawyr, Atelon and I will join them,’ he said. ‘We’ll stay there unless we’re needed. Have you worked out your battle plan?’

  Loman looked around at the company leaders. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Unless you saw anything special down there.’

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘They’re as nasty looking as you always told me. And strong, but nothing your rock heavers can’t handle. Their pikes aren’t as strong as ours by the look of them – and they’ve got a motley assortment of close quarter weapons so I doubt they’ve learned how to fight in phalanx other than with pikes.’

  ‘Good,’ said Loman, signalling his companions back to their posts.

  Then he took Hawklan’s elbow and led him aside a little way. When he turned to speak, his eyes were fearful and his face grim, ‘Look how many there are,’ he whispered. ‘Can we truly win against such numbers. Can I . . .’ His voice faltered.

  Hawklan reached down to his quiver and drew one of the black arrows that Loman had made for Ethriss’s bow. He held it out in front of the smith.

  ‘In this, you made a weapon that brought down an Uhriel,’ he said. ‘A deed none other could have done.’ Then, motioning towards the army: ‘And in them, you, Gulda and all the others have made a weapon just as fine. You’ve talked and debated together, trained and shared hardships together, sought out and corrected flaws together just as you would at a Guild meeting. You’re many and yet one.’ He smiled. ‘Unlike me, your whole army’s already been told your battle plan by now and they’ll implement it because they’ll see its soundness.’ He raised an emphatic finger. ‘Or they’ll change it as need arises. And that change will accord with your will – you know that, don’t you?’

  He paused and looked back at the approaching Morlider.

  ‘Unlike them. People who fight because they’re driven by fear or who fight for fighting’s sake. They understand nothing of the true purpose of combat; or why they’re here. Our cause, our understanding, our discipline, our training, our will; all these are superior to theirs.’ He turned back to Loman, his face purposeful and implacable. ‘Destroy these invaders, Loman, we’ve other battles to fight.’

  Loman reached out and gripped Hawklan’s hand powerfully, then, without speaking, he spun his horse round and trotted back to Isloman and the others.

  Hawklan remembered Loman’s concerned face as they had parted once before, outside Anderras Darion. Referring to the decision to train the Orthlundyn, Loman had said unexpectedly, ‘I’ve never had a tool on my bench that I haven’t used eventually.’

  A perceptive and tragically accurate remark, Hawklan thought, as he watched Loman embracing his brother and exchanging battle farewells with the others.

  His own reply returned to him.

  ‘All choices . . . carry responsibility . . . Having seen what we’ve seen and learned what we’ve learned can we do anything other than tell the people the truth and teach them what we can?’

  He looked at the ranks of the Orthlundyn.

  The people had chosen. Chosen to learn, chosen to face the truth, and chosen to defend what they valued.

  Then a great certainty rose up inside him to shine like a dazzling summer sunrise.

  And they had chosen to win this day!

  Hawklan drew Ethriss’s black sword and held it high. Gavor rose powerfully into the air with a raucous, laughing cry and Serian reared and screamed his own challenge to the invaders of his land. Then overtopping both, and ringing out across the waiting people, Hawklan’s voice was heard, crying,

  ‘To the light!’

  The cry spread through the army, washing to and fro like a great roaring wave.

  Then, Hawklan and the others were galloping to join the Helyadin, Loman was shouting orders and the whole army began to move forward.

  The long phalanx, sixteen men deep, moved forward very slowly, but the cavalry squadron guarding the right flank set off at the trot, leaving behind only a small flank guard. As they advanced, they gathered speed and took up a column formation as if to launch a direct charge against the centre of the Morlider front. The Morlider halted and their vanguard of archers prepared to greet this folly with the destruction it deserved.

  Abruptly, however, while still out of range, the column swung round and half of the riders dismounted. Within seconds, the defending archers found themselves under a hail of lead shot. At first there were few casualties as the Orthlundyn tested out the archers’ shield bearers. Then they began to concentrate their fire and casualties began to mount rapidly.

  The Morlider began to move forward again; the skirmishing slingers were comparatively few and to remain stationary under their assault would have been to incur far more losses than if they kept moving.

  The slingers held for a little while, still concentrating on the destruction of the archers, then quickly retreated and remounted. The squadron, however, did not withdraw immediately. Instead, the second half charged forward and released three volleys of arrows in rapid succession.

  Many of the arrows were brought down by the waving pikes or deflected by shields, but many too found more effective marks.

  Watching the foray, both Atelon and Andawyr started suddenly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked, concerned.

  ‘I think he has your message,’ Andawyr replied, a little breathlessly.

  ‘I feel nothing,’ Hawklan said, remembering the sensations he had experienced when approaching Oklar.

  ‘You will, healer,’ Andawyr said knowingly. ‘And very soon, I imagine.’

  ‘Look,’ said Isloman pointing. ‘There’s someone coming out onto the deck of the boat.’

  Hawklan looked at the solitary boat then abruptly he felt the presence of the Uhriel. Even at this distance, the figure seemed, like Oklar, to be a rent in the reality around him. A great wrongness. Unconsciously Hawklan’s left hand moved to the hilt of the black sword.

  ‘What will he do?’ he asked, but neither Andawyr nor Atelon were listening. They were moving forward from the group and looking fixedly at the distant figure. Hawklan signalled to the Helyadin. ‘Protect Andawyr above all; then Atelon, then me.’

  Quietly a group of the Helyadin positioned themselves behind the two Cadwanwr.

  Hawklan turned his attention back to the advancing Morlider. The first cavalry squadron was riding to and fro in loose formation, generally harassing the enemy’s centre with bursts of slinging, while the second had advanced and was using the same tactics as the first further along the Morlider’s left wing.

  Several times this sequence was repeated, with the squadrons concentrating their assaults on the Morlider’s centre and left.

  At the rear of his army, Toran Agrasson looked puzzled.

  ‘These aren’t the Muster I remember,’ he said to one of his officers. ‘Archers, stone throwers and spear carriers, with only a handful of horsemen.’ The frown deepened, then a realization dawned. ‘They’re not Riddinvolk,’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew that big fellow’s accent was funny. They must be those northerners.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Fyordyn. That’s it, they’re Fyordyn. I’ll wager the horse riders had asked them for help and they’ve come on us by accident.’ He laughed loudly. ‘And look at what they’re doing. Outnumbered more than two to one and trying to break our cent
re. They always were arrogant bastards. This is going to be fun. Pass the word, keep some of them alive for sport afterwards.’

  * * * *

  Hawklan watched Loman’s battle plan unfold gradually. Because of its great length and with the centre and left constantly faltering under the attacks from the cavalry, the Morlider’s line had become distorted. In particular, the unhindered right was moving forward rapidly and pivoting inwards. At the same time, largely hidden by the confusion of galloping horsemen, the Orthlundyn phalanx was marching and counter-marching but drifting slowly, inexorably to its left – towards the Morlider’s pivoting flank.

  Then the second squadron was charging forward as if to repeat its two-pronged assault yet again. The archers and shield-bearers at the centre prepared themselves for the anticipated assault and once again the line slowed a little.

  But the assault did not occur. Instead, the cavalry, keeping comfortably out of range, thundered past at full gallop, hooves pounding and throwing up flurries of snow.

  The Morlider pikemen and archers at the centre relaxed and began to move forward again, warily watching the retreating spectacle. Soon the riders would break formation and return again, but they’d have to come to grips sooner or later.

  This time however, the cavalry showed no signs of dispersing. And sweeping round in a great curving arc the first squadron galloped down to join them.

  Still to some extent obscured behind them, the Orthlundyn phalanx quickened its pace.

  ‘They’re going for our right flank,’ Agrasson said in growing disbelief.

  ‘Shall I order the left to swing round?’ asked the officer by his side.

  Agrasson shook his head. ‘No, not yet. They might have more over the hill. There’s no real danger. The flank archers will bring them down by the net-full once they’re in range.’

  The cavalry however, did not move within range of the Morlider archers. They remained carefully beyond it, and for the first time that day demonstrated the longer range of the Orthlundyn bows; demonstrated it with volley upon volley into the massed archers guarding the right flank of the Morlider line.