Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Another reason for speed,’ Loman mused to Eldric. ‘A long campaign in this place would sap the morale of even the finest soldiers.’

  Eldric agreed. ‘It took no great subversion by Dan-Tor to engineer the abandonment of the Watch,’ he said ruefully.

  There were no Mandroc attacks during the two nights they camped on the plain, though in the latter part of the second a long line of twinkling lights appeared on the northern horizon.

  Eldric drew in a long hissing breath as he watched them. Yengar’s words kept returning to him. ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’ One purpose of the Mandroc raids became clear to him. Hitherto, they had been creatures of terror in legend. Now they had been shown to be just such, in real flesh and blood. Oslang had pronounced that their reckless disregard for their own lives was probably due to their being possessed by some unholy religious fervour but that did nothing to allay the terrifying prospect of facing them in open combat. And so many of them!

  Worse, lurking in the mists of Eldric’s thoughts, was the question: how many more of the enemy might be lurking in the mists of this benighted land?

  Wilfully he repeated to himself Loman’s words to Urthryn. ‘We have bows, pikes and, above all, discipline.’ For a while before the dawn, his mood oscillated between fearful depression and exhilaration until, seemingly by accident, his hand touched the small carving that Isloman had given him as he and Sylvriss had prepared to leave his mountain stronghold.

  He sat down and looked at it quietly in the subdued torchlight of his tent. It had such depth and, as he moved it slightly, so the image of Hawklan riding Serian seemed to move, or rather, to become alive. And yet it was only a few scratches on a piece of stone. In his mind he saw again Isloman astride Serian, supporting the unconscious Hawklan. ‘. . . and I only had my knifepoint . . .’ the carver had said.

  A few scratches, yet . . . so much; the wisdom and skill of generations.

  He slipped the disc back into his pocket and found his mind full of the battle for Vakloss; how the army had force marched across Fyorlund to travel to the heart of its enemy like an arrow, and how, like the point of that arrow, he and his cavalry had crashed through the broken militia straight towards the distant figure of Dan-Tor.

  His wavering concerns vanished and, though still fearful, he became calmer. Stepping outside his tent he went to join Loman on a small watch-tower. Together they stood staring out at the lights filling the distant horizon.

  Then Loman turned to him. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked simply.

  Eldric nodded and took out the carving. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve just won the hardest part of my battle. Now we go straight for their heart.’

  Loman took the disc and looked at it for a long moment.

  ‘One day, I think my brother may look at this, and the one he gave the Queen, and say that for all their simplicity, they’re his finest works,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘But then, as he’d doubtless remind me, I’m no great judge of carving,’ he said mocking himself gently. ‘Suffice it that he tells us now that he’s here with us, and Hawklan, and Serian.’

  Then the camp was alive with activity.

  The Goraidin and Helyadin came and went with their information about the enemy behind and the enemy ahead.

  The cavalry – Muster, High Guard and Orthlundyn – checked their weapons and their horses and became one – more or less.

  Tirilen walked among the healers in the hospital tent and, from somewhere, found a quietness to help them face the bloody ordeal that must come. Gavor’s feather, wilted and worn now, still adorned her green gown.

  Quartermasters looked harassed.

  Engineers checked the palisade and earthworks around the camp.

  Bows were strung and tested, spare strings stowed safely, supplies of arrows confirmed with the runners. Slingers loosened their wrists and pocketed, ‘. . . just a few extra shot, Sirshiant.’ Cautiously, countless cold thumbs tested countless sharp edges – swords, knifes, axes. Long pikes were hefted and grips bound and rebound. Shield straps were adjusted, armours were wriggled into some degree of comfort.

  Some ate, some did not. Some sat silent, some swore, some wept – briefly. Some laughed – too much. Some checked their equipment – yet again.

  All were afraid, but all would go forward.

  Loman stood for a long time with Eldric on the watch-tower, watching the commotion. Relentlessly he willed his spirit into the vast gathering. And indeed, through all the ranks ran many of his words: ‘Remember your drills . . . your orders . . . watch, listen . . . keep your wits about you, and use them . . . discipline and trust in your neighbour will win us the day . . . discipline and trust in your neighbour will sustain you even if your courage falters for the moment . . . don’t be afraid to be afraid, it’ll keep you alive . . . it’ll fire your anger . . .’

  He wondered as he watched. The Riddinvolk and the Fyordyn had their military traditions, yet somehow it was the Orthlundyn and their unforeseen new aptitude that formed the heart of the army. An army whose members could fight as one, or in groups, or as individuals. An army whose every member knew why he or she was there.

  This is a fine tool you’ve made, smith, he thought, both sincerely and with bitter irony. Now use it as you must; as it deserves to be used.

  Eventually he moved to the Command Tent and the final tactics of the day were agreed in the light of the information brought by the Goraidin and the Helyadin. They needed little debate; tactics had been discussed and rehearsed endlessly and were understood at every level throughout the army. There could be no other way; communication across the battlefield, however well considered in advance, would almost certainly be disrupted once battle proper was joined; leaders and officers might be killed, or companies separated. ‘Use your judgement as need arises. Have no fear, it’ll be the same as mine,’ Eldric had said before the battle for Vakloss. Now Loman echoed it.

  As the various officers left, Loman turned his attention to the gathered Cadwanwr.

  ‘Are you prepared, my friends?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Oslang replied quietly.

  Loman shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m at a loss to know what to say to you,’ he said. ‘We’ll protect you from the fray, as far as we can protect ourselves, but . . .’ He shrugged again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Oslang replied. ‘That’s all you can do for us and it’s important to us.’ He smiled and put his hand on Loman’s shoulder with unexpected purposefulness. ‘Have no fear for us,’ he said. ‘Like the Orthlundyn, we’re not what we were but months ago. We’re soldiers now, also. And we’ve every intention of both defeating our foe and coming away alive.’

  Loman smiled in return, and echoed their earlier conversation. ‘I’m supposed to be the warrior here, wise man,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Oslang replied unapologetically, and the two men burst out laughing.

  Finally, Loman, with Sylvriss and her father and the Lords, rode along the length of the army. It took them some time and when they returned to the centre, the damp, unpleasant air of Narsindal rang to the sound of cheering – a sound the like of which it had not heard in countless generations.

  As the Queen and her son returned to the camp with her escort, Loman pulled on a grim helm, and began to ride slowly forward.

  Commands echoed along the line and the great army began to move after him.

  It began to rain again.

  * * * *

  Serian craned forward and examined the armoured figure in front of him intently, then he pranced a little, uncertain.

  ‘Will you carry me?’ the figure asked.

  Serian pranced again, then bowed his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing that the figure would hear him truly.

  * * * *

  From the shelter of a cluster of gnarled and dying trees, Isloman gazed from side to side along the road. Then he moved from his hiding place and walked on to the road and looked again.

  Satisfied, he signalled and, stealthily, the other
s ran forward to join him.

  ‘At least the mist is on our side now,’ he said as they set off.

  Hawklan and Andawyr exchanged glances. From now, their whole venture would be balanced more finely than a sword standing on its point. They had moved along by the side of the road for as long as they could, but the ground had become increasingly marshy and now they had no alternative but to use the road itself. Yatsu, Tel-Odrel and Lorac had salvaged what they could of their Mathidrin uniforms and Hawklan had donned that of the Captain they had killed.

  ‘You are slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc told them, tapping an insignia on Hawklan’s uniform.

  ‘Which means you’re not highly thought of, as far as we can tell, but at least you’re a Captain,’ Yatsu added.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, adding needlessly, ‘Stay aware, all of you.’

  As they walked, the road widened considerably, and twice it gave them the opportunity to hide rather than test their crude disguises. On both occasions a group of mounted Mathidrin trotted out of the mist, to be followed by a large column of armed Mandrocs. Hawklan and the others, having heard the approach, lay flat at the foot of the wide shallow embankments that led down from the road.

  The exercise demonstrated the correctness of Byroc’s advice as they found themselves lying immediately adjacent to what appeared to be a field of lush, tufted vegetation which extended away from them into the mist. A single step however, disabused them of any thoughts of travelling along this seemingly solid turf, as it yielded immediately with clinging relish, and emitted an appalling stench.

  The smell of decay indeed pervaded everything, and occasionally the mist thinned out to show beyond the vegetation a dark glistening surface which seemed to be both still and uneasily mobile. In the distance, faint flickering lights could sometimes be seem, and from time to time, strange noises came softly out of the encompassing greyness; splashing, slithering, bubbling.

  Indeed, Hawklan frequently felt live things reaching out to him, but there was a quality about them so unnatural that he could do no other than turn away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman asked him at one point, but Hawklan just shook his head. ‘Corruption,’ he answered. ‘Beyond any help I can offer.’

  Then a dense mist, barely waist-high, spilled over on to the road so that for a while they seemed to be wading through a shallow lake.

  ‘Walk slowly. Do not disturb it,’ Byroc said, without amplification.

  After a while, it seemed to Hawklan that although the road was flat, he was straining up some great slope.

  ‘How much further?’ Hawklan asked Byroc.

  ‘Not far,’ came the reply, but it was from Andawyr not the Mandroc. Hawklan turned round to look at him. The Cadwanwr’s face was grey with strain.

  Hawklan signalled the group to stop and put his arm around Andawyr to support him. Andawyr however, waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘It’s just that His presence is more appalling than I could have imagined.’ His face lightened momentarily. ‘But His Will is elsewhere. We must hurry. We must take Him while His attention is towards the army.’

  ‘Allow us then to escort you to His presence.’

  The voice was harsh and cold, and came out of the mist ahead.

  Chapter 32

  Loman and the four Lords surveyed the enemy line as the army drew nearer. It was truly enormous. Loman thought of a debate they had held at Anderras Darion concerning the social disruption involved in fielding a large army. They had concluded that Narsindal had become a warrior state and that to delay attacking it would benefit Sumeral and drain themselves. It had been one of the many small milestones they had passed on the journey to this point.

  And the conclusion had been largely correct, Loman thought. Except that they had not foreseen the awful flux that Sumeral would have used to join together the many disparate and quarrelsome Mandroc tribes. Oklar had almost destroyed the Fyordyn by slow and subtle corruption of their ancient, civilized, ways from within. Creost had unified the semi-civilized Morlider by a combination of traditional tribal brute force, and self-interest against a common foe. Sumeral, however, so Oslang surmised from his observations of the night-raiding Mandrocs, had united the Mandrocs by becoming a god to them as He had during the First Coming.

  Thus, obedience to His word would transcend all independent thought, all reason, all past traditions, everything. It was as savage and cruel an invention as war itself and its effectiveness was a shuddering affirmation of the power of ignorance. Who knew now what empty promises filled the minds of these demented creatures as they hurled themselves so frenziedly on to their enemies swords?

  A rider came into view. It was Yengar, bringing final details of the enemy’s disposition.

  Loman raised his hand.

  Commands echoed along the line and there was sound like the retreat of a wave down a pebbled beach as the advancing army halted. The forest of raised pikes wavered momentarily, like a field of tall grasses shaken by a sudden wind, then the air was full of the sound of thousands of waiting people, and the steadily falling rain.

  Yengar saluted Loman and the Lords. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ he said. ‘One huge line of infantry, mainly Mandrocs, fronted by a pike line, and flanked by Mathidrin cavalry – of sorts – perhaps only a fifth of our cavalry strength. And a few archers.’

  Loman nodded. ‘What about the discipline of their infantry?’ he asked.

  ‘Minimal, as far as we can tell,’ Yengar replied. ‘There seem to be one or two orderly pike phalanxes. Ex-militia and High Guard probably, but I think the intention is to overwhelm us by sheer numbers.’

  Loman looked at Yengar closely. ‘That much we envisaged, but you seem more uneasy than that,’ he said.

  Yengar pulled a wry face. ‘Something’s not what it seems,’ he replied. ‘But I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘Be explicit, Goraidin,’ Eldric said, frowning a little, but Loman raised a cautionary hand.

  ‘Let it go for the moment, Yengar,’ he said casually as he turned round to look at the Cadwanwr. Armed and armoured at Loman’s express command, and to their own initial amusement, they were situated amongst the rearguard infantry and were quite indistinguishable from the rest of the troops.

  Loman made a small hand signal and Oslang replied.

  No attack had been launched by the Uhriel.

  Loman turned back to Yengar thoughtfully.

  ‘Did you see the Uhriel?’ he asked.

  Uncharacteristically for a Goraidin making a formal report, Yengar’s reply betrayed his own feelings. ‘Yes,’ he said, almost snarling. He pointed, but even for Loman it was difficult to make out individuals. ‘All three are standing in the centre as we are here, but riding . . .’ His lip curled; Loman waited. ‘. . . things . . . things that might have been horses, once.’

  ‘You recognized them for certain?’ Darek said, craning forward and staring through the rain.

  ‘Oklar without a doubt, Lord, though he was out of his brown robe, and fully and foully armoured,’ Yengar replied. ‘The other two were also armoured but I knew them from the descriptions we got in Riddin.’

  ‘What about Him?’ Hreldar asked.

  Yengar shook his head. ‘Even to my eyes, those three stood stark and unnatural against all the others,’ he said. ‘There was no fourth figure.’ He paused and then spat. ‘But His flag was there. The One True Light – a silver star on a golden field.’

  The Lords seemed disturbed by this display of emotion from their Goraidin, but Loman nodded and looking round again, smiled. ‘Your people carry your ancient flag too, Goraidin. The Iron Ring on a red field. And the Muster have the flags of their houses.’ He winked. ‘And the flags of their cousins, and cousins’ cousins,’ he whispered.

  Yengar’s sourness faded before Loman’s light touch and he laughed a little. ‘But no flag from Orthlund,’ he said.

  Loman smiled and shrugged. ‘We never got round to it,’ he said.
‘We’re not soldiers really. We’ll ride to His flag and kill anyone who stands in the way.’

  Yengar laughed out loud, then stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes briefly. ‘The ground,’ he said. ‘The ground a few hundred paces in front of their line. It’s been disturbed and they’ve tried to cover it up I’m sure. There’s something wrong there. Yes – definitely.’

  ‘Pits, trenches, to stop the cavalry?’ Loman offered.

  Yengar shook his head. ‘It could be, but I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘The rock’s very near the surface here. We found it difficult to cut good observation trenches, that’s why we couldn’t get too near.’ He gathered up his reins. ‘I’ll see if we can get closer. Don’t send anyone in until you hear from us.’

  Loman nodded and Yengar galloped off.

  ‘Good advice, I think, Lords,’ Loman said to his companions. ‘Shall we continue slowly?’

  The great line clattered into motion again.

  ‘No changes of heart about our tactics, Lords?’ Loman asked as they rode forward.

  All four shook their heads. ‘More than ever, we’re right,’ Hreldar said. ‘From what we’ve seen of the Mandrocs I can’t see them yielding until they’ve been utterly crushed. And against that number we’ll have to crush them quickly if they’re not going to curl round and envelop us.’

  Loman looked up into the rain. The sky overhead was grey and lowering.

  Is there enough water there to wash away the blood that must be spilt today? he thought. Hawklan, Andawyr, in the name of pity, stop this if you can. I want to get back to my forge and my true life.

  It was the only time that day that Loman allowed his thoughts such a longing departure from the field.

  ‘What’s Yengar doing?’ Arinndier asked, peering into the distance.

  Loman wiped the rain off his face and followed the Lord’s pointing hand. He had presumed that Yengar would fade quietly into the landscape to rejoin his colleagues in some secret observation post, but the Goraidin was trotting straight towards the enemy’s centre.