Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  The Morlider held for only a short time under this lethal rain, then they began to scatter in disorder. As they broke, the cavalry abandoned bows for swords and charged into them to complete the rout and expose the flank of the Morlider line utterly.

  During this assault, the Orthlundyn phalanx demonstrated a skill of its own. With parade-ground elegance it changed formation, making itself eight men deep instead of sixteen, and doubling its length to the left in the process. Then, as the cavalry tore away the flank guard, the extended phalanx increased speed and with a great shout, charged the Morlider’s right wing.

  As the rows of lowered pikes crashed into those of the Morlider, Hawklan ruthlessly quelled the reproaches that were rising up in him as loudly as the terrible noise of the battle. Now all were to be tested. Would the will and discipline of the Orthlundyn overcome the wild fighting frenzy of the Morlider?

  The thinning of the phalanx had been a risk, but it seemed that the speed with which it had been executed had justified it.

  The Morlider on the right flank, assailed by the cavalry, hastily discarded their now ineffective long pikes, and resorted to their traditional swords and axes. But though they fought bravely they took little toll of the cavalry and the disintegration and destruction of the right wing accelerated relentlessly.

  ‘Hawklan!’

  It was Andawyr, and his voice was taut with fear. He was pointing to the distant figure of Creost. Hawklan followed his gaze. The strange unreality that pervaded the Uhriel seemed to have intensified. Serian whinnied uneasily. Without realizing why, Hawklan drew his sword. Then suddenly, he began to feel an unnatural warmth, a warmth that rose inside him with a choking menace, as if a ravening fever had just seized him. Serian started to shiver.

  This was the touch of Creost. The touch of death. Hawklan’s eyes widened in helpless terror as sweat broke out all over him.

  Andawyr extended his arms as if both defying an enemy and welcoming an old friend. Atelon, beside him, bowed his head slightly and lifted his hands to his temples in concentration. Neither spoke, but Hawklan could feel their ringing opposition to Creost’s Power. As suddenly as it had come, the nauseous warmth that had pervaded him passed away, and he saw the figure on the boat stagger.

  Looking round, he saw that Isloman and the Helyadin were wide-eyed and flushed, and their horses restless.

  A strange quiet had come over the battlefield.

  ‘He would have destroyed half his own to destroy us,’ said a soft voice laden with horrified disbelief. Hawklan turned. It was Atelon. The Cadwanwr still sat with his head bowed but his face was riven with effort. He began to speak further but his voice was inaudible. Hawklan bent forward.

  ‘We hold him,’ came a faint whisper. ‘Fight, Hawklan!’

  Hawklan put his free hand on the young man’s shoulder in an involuntary gesture of comfort. At the touch, the Cadwanwr’s pain and torment crashed over him like a great icy wave. For a timeless moment he was no more; he was the least mote caught up and whirled around by forces beyond imagining. Yet, too, he was not; the deep stillness at his centre was beyond all such turmoil; it embraced and accepted the pain in silence, and in so doing rejected it utterly. Then it gave him his name again and showed him himself as healer and warrior. Through his outstretched hand, it told Atelon, and listened; and through the other, it told the black sword, and listened.

  And it showed Hawklan the balance of many futures that the touch of Creost had brought to the bloody, snow-covered field. Warrior and healer heard and, standing high in the stirrups of the great Muster horse, Hawklan raised the black sword of Ethriss, and roared his will to his people.

  ‘Orthlundyn. To the light!’

  As his cry sounded over the faltering warriors, it reached out and brought each back to the fray, and it was a mighty roar that returned to the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion.

  Still bemused by the unseen assault from their leader, the Morlider gave way before the Orthlundyn’s onslaught, and the right wing, after retreating for some way, broke and became a rout as men abandoned their long pikes and turned to flee from the swords of the cavalry and the relentless pointed hedge of the phalanx.

  The watching Helyadin cheered, but Hawklan himself was watching the motionless Andawyr and the distant scar that was Creost. The battle being waged there was beyond his understanding, but he knew it to be as terrible as that between the two armies. He could do no other than watch and wait, and act as his heart bade him.

  The battle between the two armies, however, he did understand, and he knew that for all the success of the Orthlundyn against the right wing of the Morlider, the army as a whole was far from defeated. Indeed, he noted that the Morlider’s left wing was beginning to wheel round to outflank the Orthlundyn and, of more immediate danger, the archers from the left flank were running along the line.

  In addition, small groups of Morlider were beginning to break ranks and attack the small cavalry contingent guarding the right flank of the phalanx.

  These were not unexpected manoeuvres, but Isloman came to Hawklan’s side anxiously.

  Hawklan raised a hand before he could speak. ‘Loman’s seen it,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  As he pointed, part of the cavalry broke off from the destruction of the Morlider’s right wing, and began galloping to intercept the approaching archers and to relieve their companions protecting the phalanx’s right flank.

  Without thinking, Hawklan drew off his mailed glove and wiped his brow. His fingers glistened with perspiration and he looked again at the two Cadwanwr. Andawyr seemed unchanged, sitting motionless on his horse, his arms still extended. His oval, battered face was quiet and oddly dignified, but Hawklan could sense a terrible strain in the man. It was as if he were facing a great wind that no other could feel. Atelon, on the other hand, was wilting visibly.

  Hawklan reached out and taking Atelon’s hand, thrust the black sword into it. ‘Feel the spirit that used the Old Power to make this blade, Cadwanwr,’ he said. ‘It will unmake Creost’s vile abuses and hurl him back into oblivion if you will it.’

  Atelon made no response, but slowly straightened. Gently, Hawklan took the sword from his hand and sheathed it.

  He looked again at the distant figure of Creost.

  ‘Dacu,’ he said. The Goraidin eased his horse forward. ‘Can we get out there and attack him directly.’

  ‘No,’ replied a familiar deep voice emphatically. Dar-volci emerged from Andawyr’s stout coat. ‘His Power is divided. It assaults you and it holds the islands. If you threaten him with death – and you could – he might let slip the islands and destroy you and all these in his extremity.’

  Hawklan opened his mouth to speak, but Dar-volci had retreated into Andawyr’s coat again.

  Dacu finished the idea. ‘We could only reach him by boat, and there’s too many people still in that camp for us to do that,’ he said. ‘We’d better leave him to Andawyr and concentrate on what we know about.’ He pointed to the battle.

  The Morlider left wing was moving purposefully round, its pikemen maintaining a disciplined formation. The archers had spread out, making themselves difficult targets for the volley fire which had destroyed the others. The cavalry however had succeeded in fighting back the assault on the right flank of the phalanx, though the Morlider who had abandoned that assault were now acting as shield bearers to the archers. More numerous than the cavalry, the archers were gradually easing forward and would soon pose a threat to the phalanx.

  Suddenly, a brilliant light lit the whole battlefield, glaring white off the snow and transforming the dark mass of the two armies into grey smudges. Then it was gone and in its wake came a terrible thunder clap. Though there were no mountains or cliffs nearby, the sound seemed reluctant to fade, rattling and echoing to and fro across the sky like a trapped and frenzied animal.

  All started violently at this din save Andawyr and Atelon, though Atelon turned to look up with consternation on his face. Andawyr merely nodded his head in the direct
ion of their lone enemy.

  The Helyadin were struggling to control their horses and even Serian was showing signs of alarm. ‘That wasn’t thunder,’ he cried.

  ‘No, it was someone else’s battle I fear,’ Hawklan replied, leaning forward and patting his neck. ‘But it’s done us no favours.’

  Nor had it. Their horses frightened by the lights and the noise, the cavalry were in some considerable disorder while the Morlider archers had recovered quickly and were using the confusion to advance rapidly.

  The Morlider left wing too was closing round inexorably.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed Hawklan’s arm and twisted him round. It was Dacu. He was pointing to a group of about fifty riders galloping round the Morlider’s left wing.

  ‘A large part of their cavalry, I suspect,’ Dacu said. ‘And not coming to discuss a truce by the look of it,’ he added, as the riders turned and headed directly towards the Helyadin.

  ‘Striking to the heart of the enemy, as they think,’ Hawklan said, nodding in agreement.

  ‘Or as they know,’ Dacu said, looking significantly at the Cadwanwr.

  Hawklan felt an ancient force stirring inside him. He singled out some of the Helyadin. ‘Tybek, Jenna, you . . . six, stay here,’ he said. ‘Protect Andawyr and Atelon at all costs. If things turn against us, get them to Fyorlund as we’ve arranged. The rest of you, come with me.’ Then turning Serian before Dacu could speak his inevitable protest, he took up two of the lances that had been stuck into the ground nearby in readiness for any defensive action the Helyadin might have to take. ‘Line abreast, then into wedge formation just before we hit them,’ he shouted.

  Serian reared up without any apparent command, and started towards the advancing riders. Dacu hesitated for a moment, then Isloman galloped past him on one side and a lance was thrust into his hand from the other.

  ‘Come on, Goraidin,’ shouted Yrain. ‘Shift yourself. He’s going to get himself slaughtered.’ And with a yell she was off after Isloman and Hawklan.

  Hawklan’s brief tactical instructions were only partially successful. Though barely seconds behind him, Dacu and the Helyadin could not hope to match the speed of the great Muster horse as it thundered towards the approaching Morlider at full gallop.

  To the few in the marching Morlider ranks who lifted their eyes briefly from the figures in front of them, it seemed that Hawklan, galloping on alone, his cloak streaming, and his great horse wild-eyed and pounding, was like a boulder crashing down a mountainside, while behind came the avalanche; Dacu, Isloman and the Helyadin, in a wide ragged line, shouting and screaming, with the polished points of their lances cold and final in the Riddin snowlight.

  The advancing Morlider horsemen, in loose formation, saw the tumult coming but did not waver. Instead, four of them split off to deal with this black-helmed apparition, charging at it in defiant echo of its challenge. The Morlider understood the berserk fighter.

  But though Hawklan had the all-consuming fury of the berserker, it was guided by his cold inner vision that saw always the true need, and thus it was that the first two Morlider who met him were not impaled on the shining lances from Anderras Darion, but unhorsed.

  Seeming to have selected the two riders on the left for his first assault, Hawklan swerved Serian at the last moment to attack the two in the centre. Surprised by the suddenness of this manoeuvre, both riders flinched away from the inexorability of Hawklan’s driving lances only to find their points passing narrowly by and the shafts guiding them effortlessly out of their saddles. Both men fell heavily.

  Dacu felt himself gasp at the sight of this superlative fighting technique and even as it happened, the memory returned to him vividly of Hawklan galloping through the sunlight to unseat the demented Ordan Fainson on their flight from Vakloss.

  Briefly he felt the ambivalence of motives in Hawklan’s actions; not to kill, through caring and compassion; not to kill, to burden the enemy with wounded. He swept the thoughts aside as the Helyadin moved into their wedge formation. Such choices were not his. Hawklan’s skills were as far from his as were his from the average High Guard; here he needed all his own just to survive, and a mind elsewhere would see him killed. Part of him however marvelled again as at the edge of his vision he saw Hawklan beat down an attacking sword with his lance, then bring it up to strike his assailant under the chin, unseating him.

  Dacu closed with his chosen target but, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he swung the point of his lance away suddenly and swung the aft end round to strike him in the face. As the Helyadin struck the Morlider, Hawklan was swinging his lance around to deliver a ringing blow to the head of the fourth rider who was struggling to turn his horse to face this explosive assault. The man tumbled out of his saddle, stunned, but a fifth rider joining the fray was less fortunate; Hawklan drove the aft point of his lance into his throat. As the Morlider crashed, choking, into the snow, Hawklan turned with a great roar to the entangled mass of fighting riders.

  The initial charge by the Helyadin had killed several of the Morlider and injured or unhorsed several others. It had not, however, scattered the attackers and, lances having been discarded, swords, axes and clubs were being used in savage close-quarter fighting.

  The Helyadin’s greater skills, both in riding and fighting, were prevailing against the Morlider’s numbers and brute power, but barely, and it was obvious that the Morlider were neither going to yield nor flee.

  With one lance, Hawklan impaled an axe-wielding giant who though badly hurt and on foot was about to hamstring Isloman’s horse. The second lance he drove into the ground between the legs of a horse to bring it down. Its rider, however, rolled as he fell and, coming upright almost immediately, ran forward as if to drag Hawklan from his saddle. Serian hit him broadside, but it took a powerful kick from Hawklan to end his part in the skirmish.

  Hawklan drew his sword and urged Serian into the middle of the mêlée.

  No sooner had he done so than he found himself in another place.

  Chapter 18

  ‘In the name of pity, Hawklan, help us!’

  The voice was that of Ynar Aesgin. It rang in Hawklan’s head and possessed his body, though the images in his eyes were still those of the Helyadin and Morlider locked in savage and bloody combat about him.

  A great rage and fear surged through him.

  ‘What have you done?’ he roared, though no sound was heard in Riddin. ‘Release me. I will die here, or others will die protecting my helplessness. Release me!’

  ‘This is not my doing,’ came the reply.

  ‘Release me!’

  ‘I do not bind you, neither can I release you,’ said Ynar. ‘Would I had such skills at my command, I’d have sought you before this extremity.’

  Faint and distant voices impinged on Hawklan, calling his name frantically as the images of his friends battling the Morlider around his helpless frame came before him with fearful clarity. An ancient part of his mind struggled desperately for release, but none came.

  ‘Help us, Hawklan,’ intruded Ynar again. ‘Hendar Gornath understood the great truth of the sword you bear and he has held firm. The Soarers Tarran have repelled Dar Hastuin’s terrible hordes . . . at great cost . . . but now he takes his tormented land to the higher paths . . . He will crush us . . . Destroy us utterly. Help us.’

  The despair in the Drienwr’s voice appalled Hawklan. ‘I cannot help you, Ynar,’ he cried.

  ‘He will destroy us!’

  ‘I cannot help you!’

  Ynar’s pain filled Hawklan. ‘What do you want of me?’ he cried.

  ‘Your strength, your knowledge, your wisdom, to guide us.’

  ‘If you understand the sword you are wiser than I am. You have what you need. Search your hearts.’

  Ynar’s despair did not abate.

  ‘But tell us what to . . .’

  Hawklan screamed. ‘Do what you must, Drienwr. I know nothing of your ways. You sought no conflict. You have the right to be. No one, no thin
g, can deny you that. Do . . .’

  Ynar was gone.

  The din of the battle broke over Hawklan deafeningly; Isloman’s voice roaring his name, others screaming and shouting, swords and shields clashing.

  He tightened his grip on the black sword but something struck his helm a ringing blow and the impact toppled him from Serian’s back to leave him rolling in the cold damp snow beneath the flailing hooves of friend and foe alike.

  A figure crashed down beside him, screaming and clutching a partly severed arm. The screaming stopped as a horse’s hoof struck the man’s head.

  Hawklan rolled away to avoid the same fate and then, leaning on his sword, staggered to his feet and shook his head to still the roaring in his ears that the blow had left. A horse buffeted him, and only some ancient reflex twisted him away from a descending sword blade. The same reflex cleared his vision and drove the black sword upwards under his attacker’s chin then tore the blade free from the ghastly grip of the man’s skull.

  Then Serian was there, rearing and prancing to keep his foes away.

  As Hawklan swung up into the saddle he gave a great howling cry of rage at his impotence before Ynar Aesgin’s terrible agony. And then there was a brief frenzied whirl of movement. A single thrust of the sword killed a Morlider pressing Jaldaric; a high lashing kick from Serian smashed the thigh of another, and a whistling cut scythed through the shield of a third, leaving him unscathed but unmanned before the black-helmed vision of his death. His flight from the field drew the few surviving attackers after him like water from a fractured bowl.

  The skirmish was ended.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Isloman was wide-eyed as he took Hawklan’s arm.

  Hawklan released the grip gently and raised his hand to forbid any further questions. He looked around at his companions. They were a grim sight, bloodstained and steaming in the cold air, but they were all there even though some were injured. Their faces reflected Isloman’s question.