by Roger Taylor
‘These buildings are like those monstrosities that Dan-Tor built outside Vakloss,’ Yatsu said.
Hawklan looked around at the drab grey buildings. They were obviously not old, but they had a worn, neglected look which was peculiarly depressing. Further, he found that his inability to see into the distance all around was disconcerting.
‘Let’s move out,’ he said. ‘My instincts are with Byroc’s, and we’ve wasted enough time here already.’
They moved through the eerily silent camp quickly and quietly, splitting into two groups and trotting down either side of the long street that ran through it. At its centre was a building with what appeared to be a watch-tower on top of it. As they passed it, Byroc paused and growled. ‘Stinking priest hole,’ but offered no further amplification of the remark when Hawklan looked at him.
They passed through the remainder of the camp without incident but as they reached the last buildings, Gavor came swooping along the street behind them. ‘Look out . . .’ he began, but his message was ended by the sudden appearance of a rider out of the scrubland that bounded the road where it left the camp.
He was a Mathidrin, and at his heels was a troop of some twenty of more Mandrocs.
‘Whoops,’ Gavor said as he landed on Hawklan’s shoulder briefly and then took off again.
‘Slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc said. ‘They will be looking for those who escaped.’
‘Yatsu, Lorac, Tel-Odrel, move to the sides and look as if you’re in charge,’ Hawklan said urgently. ‘The rest of you look beaten. Those at the back, string your bows discreetly. We’ll have to go through this lot whether we like it or not, and we’ll have to bring down as many as we can before they close with us.’
‘They’ll hardly take you for slaves, carrying swords and bows,’ Yatsu said as he and the others moved to the side of the group and assumed the typical arrogant pose of Mathidrin officers.
‘Your Mathidrin uniforms and Byroc here will confuse them for long enough,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Are you ready at the back?’
There was grunted confirmation.
‘On my command, come forward and start firing. Don’t worry about the man, he’ll be no problem. Take the Mandrocs, they’re an unknown quantity. The rest of you string up as quickly as you can once the action starts.’ He glanced at Andawyr. ‘When they close with us, stay together. Andawyr is to be protected at all costs.’
He caught a glimpse of Dacu’s hand signal, ‘And Hawklan, too.’
‘Yes, and me too,’ he confirmed reluctantly.
Andawyr touched his arm. ‘Don’t use the sword or the bow, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘I doubt I can keep that from Him.’
Hawklan frowned. ‘I understand,’ he said.
Suddenly Byroc froze, and his mouth curled up into a horrifying gape. ‘Dowynai Vraen!’ he snarled savagely.
Hawklan felt the intention of the Mandroc and reached out to dissuade him, but Byroc evaded his grip and with an angry cry, broke ranks; not to run forward at the approaching patrol, but to disappear into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
A flicker of surprise passed through Hawklan’s mind at this apparent cowardice, but there was no time to dwell on it. The sudden movement galvanized the hesitant patrol and the Mathidrin barked out an order. At the same time, so also did Hawklan. As the Mandrocs began running forward, Tirke, Jaldaric, Jenna and Yrain strode past their companions and released their four arrows. Three of them struck home, and even as the Mandrocs were falling, the four archers were firing again and the remainder of the group were preparing to fire.
For an instant the advancing Mandrocs faltered, then with a great cry of ‘Amrahl! Amrahl!’ they renewed their charge, seemingly oblivious to the hail of arrows being laid down by the archers.
The mindless ferocity of the attack took the defenders completely by surprise and they had barely chance to discard their bows and draw their swords before the Mandrocs struck. Several of the chanting creatures were already mortally wounded but the force of the charge scattered the group before it could form a defensive line.
Hawklan dragged Andawyr aside roughly and, pushing him against the wall of a building, stood in front of him.
A Mandroc charged at him, sword extended. Hawklan stepped forward and sideways outside the line of the attack. His right hand gripped the extended wrist and deflected the blade across his opponent causing him to turn. At the same time his left hand reached up to rest almost gently on the back of the Mandroc’s neck. Then, effortlessly, he lowered the hand and the Mandroc crashed heavily to the ground.
Hawklan followed him down and killed him instantly with a single crushing blow, at the same time seizing his sword.
It felt crude and ungainly in his hand, but its lack of finesse did not prevent him impaling a second Mandroc with a powerful upward blow as he rose to his feet.
He wrenched the sword free and thrust the dying creature into a third one who, catching the dreadful light in Hawklan’s green eyes, suddenly stopped his chanting and turned to flee. The impact of Hawklan’s hurled sword in his back sent him sprawling face downwards on to the hard stone ground.
Quickly Hawklan took in the condition of the others. He noted with a mixture of exhilaration and profound sadness that the beautiful and terrible fighting skills of the Helyadin and Goraidin were being practiced with a ferocity that equalled the Mandroc’s own. Weaving and turning, his companions were cutting and stabbing their way through their wild, chanting enemy, while threading through the scene moved the black shape of Gavor, bloodstained Mandrocs falling in his wake.
The dull grey street rang with the battle fury of the men and women who had chosen to join him in opposing Sumeral and who knew that to do so they must freely follow His way and accept the consequences that flowed from it.
As Hawklan paused, a blow in the back pushed him forward. Turning, he saw Andawyr delivering a powerful kick to the groin of a huge Mandroc who, less noisy and more experienced than the rest, had moved silently and swiftly along the side of the building. The creature looked more surprised than hurt at the blow, but as Hawklan made to attack him, Dar-volci emerged from behind Andawyr and clambered rapidly up to the hesitating Mandroc.
Hawklan was only half turned as the felci’s rock-crushing teeth closed on the Mandroc’s throat.
Then another sound rose above the din. It was a high-pitched, almost demented screaming. Alarmed at the prospect of perhaps some new and terrible foe, Hawklan instinctively reached for his sword. Andawyr’s hand gripped his wrist as the cause of the noise soon became apparent. It was Byroc. He came charging out from between two of the buildings wielding a large metal bar. The object of his attack, however, was not the body of the fray, but two Mandrocs who were standing aloof from it. They wore robes and strange headdresses as opposed to the rough leather tunics of the others.
Both of them held up their hands and made authoritative and haughty gestures at the approaching apparition but this, if anything, roused the demented Byroc even more and with a series of swift and terrifying blows, he dispatched both of them bloodily. He paused briefly and let out a great howl then, discarding the bar, he took out his sword and fell upon the remaining fighters.
Almost abruptly, the battle was over. The last two Mandrocs slithered to the ground and the victors stood motionless amid the gaping wounds and hacked limbs of their enemy.
Only the raucous sound of heavy breathing could be heard.
The silence was only momentary, however.
‘The rider. The Mathidrin. Where is he?’ Hawklan’s voice was strained as he ran forward into the middle of the street. ‘Gavor, find him’
But even as Gavor rose up into the air, Dacu had snatched up his bow and was running to the end of the street. Hawklan and the others ran after him.
As they reached him, he was drawing the bow back to fire. Galloping rapidly into the distance was the Mathidrin officer.
‘You’ll never . . .’ someone began.
Hawklan’s hands shot
out, fingers extended, imposing an absolute silence and stillness on the spectators.
Dacu, bloodstained and still panting, became suddenly very still. Then to Hawklan it seemed that the entire world was filled with the sound of the release of the arrow.
No sooner had the arrow left the bow, however, than a light of knowledge came into Dacu’s eyes; the shot was imperfect. Without a flicker of self-reproach or the least pause in his flowing movement, Dacu took a second arrow, nocked it on to the bow string, drew it and, slowly closing his eyes, released it.
The whole incident had been so rapid that the two arrows could be clearly seen arcing after the retreating Mathidrin like a pair of hunting hounds.
Not one of the watchers breathed.
The first arrow struck the horse, but before it stumbled, the second struck the rider. As both horse and rider crashed to the ground, Gavor dropped out of the sky on to them.
There was a brief flapping and thrashing, then he rose back into the air and headed towards the watchers.
Gently, Hawklan laid a hand on Dacu’s shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. Dacu was standing very still. He did not reply.
Turning to the others, Hawklan asked. ‘Is anybody hurt?’
So close still to the fighting, and with most of the company covered in blood, there was some doubt about this at first, but a little careful testing showed that no serious injuries had been suffered.
‘Good,’ Hawklan said. ‘You did well. Let’s hide these bodies somewhere and then get out of here. Someone will come looking for them eventually and it’s better they’re thought lost than slaughtered by an enemy.’
A little later, the joyless task completed, they were moving out of sight of the camp and following Byroc across the harsh countryside.
‘Were those two His priests?’ Hawklan asked the Mandroc.
Byroc snarled and made a gesture mimicking that made by the two Mandrocs he had smashed down. ‘Priests!’ he said viciously. ‘Dowynai Vraen. Too foul to blunt my blade on. We should have destroyed them generations ago.’
Hawklan frowned uncertainly, but Andawyr caught his eye and shook his head slightly. This was some deep tribal matter that would probably be beyond his true understanding. Suffice it that the Mandroc had fought with them, and fiercely at that.
He glanced at the others. They were in various degrees of shock; the younger ones, with the exception of Jaldaric, being the most subdued.
He could give no subtle counsel. ‘That was unfortunate,’ he said. ‘But you fought well and we survived with nothing more than some cuts and bruises. I won’t tell you to forget it, but remember that you had no choice, and that your full attention belongs here, now, if we’re to survive further. Remember also that the creatures charge on, fighting, even as they’re dying.’
‘Don’t fret,’ Isloman said to him later. ‘Gulda and Loman have trained them properly. They have clear sight.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Perhaps I was speaking for my sake, not theirs,’ he said. ‘But I am a little concerned about Jaldaric. He seems almost elated.’
‘He is,’ Isloman replied simply. ‘His burdens are being eased.’
Hawklan frowned.
Softly, Isloman enumerated Jaldaric’s problems. ‘He broke his High Guard’s Oath when he kidnapped Tirilen; was captured in his own tent by only three of us; faced with a Mandroc patrol.’ He looked significantly at Hawklan. ‘Remember what a shock that was for us let alone him. Then he was downed by that Mathidrin . . .’ He searched for the name. ‘. . . Aelang. Thrown in jail without trial, and threatened with execution. And when all that was over and he was working to find himself again, he had to stand by and watch while Aelang and the militia massacred the villagers at Ledvrin.’
Hawklan put his hand to his head briefly and let out a long breath. ‘I think I’ll take up carving when we get back to Orthlund,’ he said. ‘You can do the healing.’
Isloman smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Even I can’t see a rock that’s in front of me sometimes. Besides, you’ve helped him more than you know, as have Anderras Darion and Gulda and the Helyadin training.’
‘I’ll watch him more carefully in future,’ the healer said, while the warrior inside him coldly assessed the value of the young man’s torment as a goad to his fighting skill. The ambivalence no longer distressed him, however; both healer and warrior knew their roles and their worth.
He dropped back a little, thoughtfully, and found himself walking by Andawyr. The sight of the Cadwanwr with Dar-volci scuttling along beside him made him smile despite himself. The little man was scruffier than ever after their long journey and it was almost impossible to imagine him as their sole defence against the searching awareness of the terrible foe they were marching to meet.
Andawyr caught the scrutiny and returned it. Hawklan’s smile widened and Andawyr’s scowl deepened in proportion.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hawklan said. ‘I was just remembering you kicking that Mandroc. I’d no idea you were so . . . physical.’ Andawyr’s frown turned into the teacher’s look of exasperated despair such as Hawklan had seen so often on Gulda’s face. He quailed a little in anticipation of the coming rebuke.
Andawyr snorted and lifted his hand to his broken nose. ‘Some sight you have, healer,’ he said. ‘How did you think I got this?’
* * * *
Aelang looked down at the fidgeting Mandroc and counselled himself to be patient. It was difficult. Of all the Mandrocs he loathed, these slobbering dimwitted trackers and their keepers were the worst.
The sight of them made him look up. The mountains lowered above the patrol, dark and grim, and the funeral pyre of the mines still belched forth a dense black smoke. At night it became a mass of leaping flames. It had been like a beacon for the latter part of the journey and now it streamed overhead like a great finger pointing to the north.
Arriving at the mines, Aelang had found them completely destroyed. Judging from what information he could obtain from the few surviving members of the garrison, the attacking force had been very large, but his own conclusion was that it had merely been well organized and ruthless. Judging too from the smoke and the flames pouring unabated from every known shaft and adit, and no small number of hitherto unknown ones, he presumed that that obscenity of a creature and its birds down in the depths had also been destroyed.
No great loss there, he thought again as he turned from the mountains to look again at the Mandroc tracker. What that creature did to people was only entertaining to a point, even for him, and there was always the lingering doubt that he too could go the same way if Dan-Tor judged it worthwhile. He suppressed a shudder and returned to the matter of the moment.
Having discovered that the attackers had fled south towards Fyorlund, Aelang had abandoned any thought of pursuing them. What was the point? Their whole army was moving into Narsindal anyway. Why go looking for trouble, pursuing what were presumably elite troops through dangerous mountain terrain?
He had intended to return to Dan-Tor with the news and then go to join the army waiting for the Fyordyn and their allies, but now this snivelling tracker had caught wind of something and was creating a stir. He had a powerful urge to kick the half-witted creature, but he restrained it, knowing that such a deed against one of their ‘sighted ones’ could well override the Mandrocs’ otherwise dominant fear of Amrahl’s black-clad servants.
‘What does it want?’ he snapped at the tracker’s keeper. ‘We haven’t time to waste chasing slaves.’
‘He says some went this way,’ the keeper replied. ‘Very little spoor. Not slaves. Soft movers.’
Aelang frowned. Soft movers. It was an unusual expression; one the Mandrocs used about either particularly elusive game or their most skilled hunters.
‘How many?’ Aelang asked.
The keeper spoke to the tracker who grunted some unintelligible reply.
‘One cum two tens,’ the keeper said scissoring his hands together. ‘All soft movers.’
About fifteen ‘skilled hunters’! Aelang’s attention sprang to life. That was no small force. The departure of a force over the mountains must have been a feint. Perhaps the whole raid had been a feint. It was such a silent, behind-the-lines, attack that had cost them Vakloss, and with it all of Fyorlund.
He smiled, his pronounced canines predatory. Dan-Tor had told him to destroy any of the attacking force that had escaped to the north, but that had been in anticipation of their being random stragglers. Whoever these people were, they were certainly not that. But they would not have the speed of this patrol, nor be able to offer any effective resistance against such numbers. It occurred to him that the Ffyrst would appreciate having such a group captured alive for his later amusement, and that with the war about to be won and a distribution of the wealth of Fyorlund, Orthlund and Riddin imminent, the favour of Dan-Tor was well worth maintaining.
‘Bring the other trackers up,’ he ordered his Sirshiant. ‘Tell them we’re going after these “soft movers”. They’re to be captured for the Groundshaker.’
Chapter 30
Loman started at the sound of the alarm. The Mandroc night raids had continued steadily, becoming, if anything, worse, and certainly not abating despite the fearful casualties the Mandrocs were suffering. It was as if Sumeral were saying, ‘I have such resources here that you may slay until you fall with fatigue and it will avail you nothing.’ But surely they would not attack so early in the evening, when there was still sufficient light left for the Muster to pursue them with ease and make their casualties total?
He went to the entrance of his tent and looked out, but even as he did so the tone of the alarm changed. ‘Friends approaching,’ it said.
One of the sentries nearby signalled to him.
‘Muster riders.’
Loman’s concerned expression changed to a smile. Thanks to Sylvriss’s endeavours many more squadrons had ridden to join Urthryn than he had started with after the retreat of the Morlider, but part of him was still concerned about the turmoil amongst his own people that he had left behind unresolved. He made no great stir about it, but if more of his countrymen were now arriving then it would undoubtedly hearten him. Loman set off enthusiastically towards the south gate to receive the new arrivals.
