by Roger Taylor
Hidden by the morning mists, however, they did not become visible to the City’s defenders until the autumn sun had turned from a sullen red to a brilliant gold.
‘Commander!’
Instinctively, Urssain lashed out and then reached for his knife as a hand shook him roughly from his slumbers. The offending sentry staggered across the tent, narrowly avoiding knocking over a table strewn with plans and documents.
‘I’m sorry, Commander,’ he gasped, before Urssain could speak. ‘Come quickly.’
Wide awake, his heart racing, and his hand offering his knife menacingly, Urssain took in the man at a single glance: one hand to his injured face, the other empty and extended to show no ill intent, he was unequivocally no assassin. And his whole manner indicated a concern greater than that occasioned by Urssain’s attack.
Urssain went cold. The Lords, he thought, but his face was set. Silently, he swung off the bunk and, snatching his tunic, motioned the sentry towards the entrance.
The sentry scurried out gratefully and Urssain strode after him, throwing his tunic over his shoulders. Without looking round, he was aware that he was the focus of many anxious looks, but he ignored them and went directly to where the sentry was now standing. The man was pointing towards the east.
They are here, he thought with a jolt, and his throat went tight with fear. Hours early. They’ve caught us unprepared. For an instant, Dan-Tor’s red-eyed wrath rose to dominate his mind, but somehow he still contrived to give no outward sign of this sudden inner turmoil.
However, as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the dazzling sunlight, the sight he had been anticipating over the past few days did not appear.
Instead of serried ranks of infantry and cavalry moving steadily forward across the distant fields, there was only the mist amp;mdashbright in the morning sun and at once tenuous and solid. For a moment he could see nothing except this strange silent white ocean, and his fear began to give way to annoyance at this unnecessary awakening. Then gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he began to make out tiny points protruding through the mist. They were like shoots of grass through a late snowfall, except that they came and went as the mist slowly shifted.
Pikes! Dozens of them.
His eyes flicked from side to side. Hundreds of them!
The fear returned, though now it was subservient to a growing excitement. Without turning round he snapped his fingers and beckoned the silent sentries towards him.
‘Battle stations,’ he said quietly, surprised at his own calmness. ‘Go and tell the Ffyrst. And rouse the other Commanders. At the double.’
Still without turning, he took the tunic from his shoulders and put it on as he listened to the retreating footsteps of his messengers. This was the last moment of silence and calm he would know for several hours, and for some reason he was loath to disturb it. Even his breathing became slow and deliberate. With meticulous care he fastened his tunic. Tonight I’ll be able to get out of this amp;mdashand this damned mail coat amp;mdashand sleep in comfort, he thought.
Then the silence and stillness were gone utterly as one of the sentries began beating out a frenzied clamour on the nearby alarm bell. The sound filled the air around him, then clattered out over the camp, waking its fellows as it went by.
Faintly, the unholy carillon drifted across the fields to the approaching army. It mingled with the steady tread of the troopers and the soft clinking jangle of the cavalry. The men were silent in the fading greyness, but a horse occasionally shook its head and whinnied softly.
Eldric turned to his companions. He had hoped to make some slight jest at this first contact with the enemy but none came. Instead, he found he was looking to them for a final confirmation of what they were about to do. Each nodded in turn. It was a dark and grim moment.
He looked around at his troops, and then upwards. The sky was visible in places, showing blue as the sun’s touch dissolved the mist. The air was full of the scents of autumn, so intense that it seemed as though they had been squeezed from the very earth by the relentless weight of the passing army. It was going to be a beautiful day. It would pursue its restful autumnal course to its golden red sunset as countless such days had done before, oblivious to the horrors that would be done here during its passage.
Jaldaric, riding by his father, looked down at the ground and then to left and right along the widely spaced ranks of troopers vanishing into the mist.
‘We’re destroying someone’s land,’ he said.
Eldric turned to him, and Jaldaric looked at him uncertainly as if perhaps expecting some small rebuke for this almost unintentional remark.
But Eldric simply nodded. ‘We’re destroying the crops, Jal,’ he said quietly. ‘The land’s beyond our hurting.’
‘Fortunately,’ he added after a brief pause.
* * * *
Dan-Tor joined Urssain on the rocky outcrop in front of the Command Post. Some way back from them stood messengers and signallers, restless with anticipation.
Immediately below them, the camp was becoming relatively calm and orderly, following the frenzy of activity that had accompanied the rousing of the various companies and their noisy dispersal to their stations on the battle line.
Dan-Tor gazed out towards the approaching army. It was now more clearly visible as the mist too had dispersed. He raised his hand to shade his eyes and then smiled. ‘I think it will take a little more than the morning sun in our faces to sway this day their way, Commander,’ he said. ‘I fear the Lords will regret their final hasty night’s marching before the sun shines in their faces.’ He chuckled.
Urssain froze.
‘Indeed, Ffyrst,’ he managed. Then, cautiously, as if the movement might offend, he raised his seeing stone to his eyes.
‘What are they doing?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘What kind of a formation is that?’
Dan-Tor did not reply.
Urssain peered through the seeing stone intently, raising a hand in front of it to shield it from the sun.
He could see pikemen and various other infantry; and there were riders; and they were in some semblance of rank and file, but… widely spaced? He screwed his eyes up and allowed himself a small inward curse; he had a far better seeing stone back in his quarters, but it was one of the old ones; the one he was using had been made in the Ffyrst’s workshops and was noticeably inferior.
Nevertheless, it confirmed the eccentric disposition of the enemy clearly enough. The Lords’ army was advancing in small groups, about eight in each, he judged, each individual standing well clear of his neighbour, and each group substantially clear of the next.
His brow furrowed. ‘They fear your power, Ffyrst,’ he said, his voice low but excited at seeing into the heart of his enemy’s intent; it was a good omen. ‘They daren’t close ranks because they fear they’ll meet the same fate as the City. It’s making them walk towards us as if they were strolling in the park. We could just… ’
He lowered the seeing stone and looked at Dan-Tor.
He had been about to say that if they maintained this formation, then a sudden, massed charge would scatter them like leaves in the wind, but it occurred to him briefly that such insolent challenging by the Lords of his master’s awesome power might actually bring that selfsame power down upon their heads. However, following the chilling, ambivalent response to his earlier reference to such a possibility he remained silent and, like a child awaiting a gift at Festival time, merely tried to will the deed from this lean, enigmatic and fearful creature to whom he had bound his fate.
But Dan-Tor gave no response, though his mind was similarly occupied.
Scorn and anger whirled inside him. You would defy me in your arrogance, Ethriss’s creatures? Me, the first of the Uhriel! His greatest servant! Who has raised mountains and rent open valleys, turned forests to deserts, drawn forth the terrible inner heat of this world to destroy whole lands and the peoples on them. Who tore the Morlider islands asunder. You would judge me by the petty spleen I
vented on your miserable City, and would seek to avoid my wrath by such antics?
Involuntarily, in his anger, Oklar put forth his power, deep underneath the approaching army, until he could feel the earth shaking to their tread.
* * * *
‘There he is,’ Hreldar said, his voice soft and menacing. ‘On that outcrop right above the centre of their line.’
The other Lords raised their seeing stones to follow his gaze. Eldric focussed on the tall figure of the Uhriel. It was still wearing the spartan brown robe of office that it had worn as the King’s physician and adviser. He shuddered. Even though the image was still small and distant, it seemed as though its eyes were staring straight into his soul.
Then abruptly they were rushing nearer and nearer.
Suddenly, a tremor shook the ground. Eldric tore his eyes away from the stone as his horse shied.
* * * *
‘Ffyrst!’ Urssain’s voice was alive with alarm as Dan-Tor suddenly staggered and clasped the arrow in his side. Urssain stepped forward and caught his arm.
‘Are you… ’ The Uhriel turned towards him and, with a terrified intake of breath, Urssain’s words stopped and he jerked his head away from the vision that was now his master’s face. Unashamedly afraid, he screwed his eyes tight shut as if the darkness might hide him from such terrors.
He felt the Ffyrst leaning heavily on him, then a voice drew him back to the light.
‘I am well, Commander,’ it said, without explana-tion.
Dan-Tor straightened up. His body was riven with terrible pain and Hawklan’s arrow hung gleefully in his side. End these Lords here, Uhriel, it taunted. Use your vaunted earth-rending power to its full, that I may return it and in turn rend your own miserable frame with it.
Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Mas-ter, Dan-Tor intoned to himself inwardly, as the agony slowly began to fade.
* * * *
Mindful of Eldric’s orders, the advancing army faltered.
‘He staggered!’ Hreldar cried out, turning to the others, his face alive with a furious triumph. ‘He staggered! He tried to use his power and he couldn’t.’ He stood up in his stirrups. ‘Close ranks, and halt,’ he roared. Eldric, still struggling with his alarmed horse, shot him an angry look, then his own words returned to him, ‘Use your judgement, it will be the same as mine.’ He looked from side to side. Hreldar’s powerful command was echoing along the ranks as successive officers took it up; the brief hesitation passed and purposeful activity was replacing it.
* * * *
Urssain, too, watched as the disparate groups began to merge into clear, identifiable patterns in the distance. As they did so, he recalled Dan-Tor’s words, ‘Men must fight men. The new Fyordyn must prove themselves in battle if they are to be of any value to me.’ He felt an inner hope die and realized that despite his best endeavours, a large part of him had indeed expected to see Oklar revealed again, his awesome power cutting through the Lords and their army as it had cut through the City. Now he knew with frightening clarity what the words meant, and that this salvation was not to be. Something in the Orthlundyn’s arrow prevented it, though Urssain knew that to inquire about this would be to court an immediate and unpleasant destruction, favoured Commander or not.
Unconsciously he rested his left hand on his sword hilt and loosened the weapon in its scabbard.
Bringing his mind back to the present realities, his eyes narrowed. The distant army had completed its manoeuvre. It had taken only minutes. That betokened discipline of a very high order.
The logic of what he had just seen unwound itself. The Lords had known that an appalling destruction might await them at Dan-Tor’s hands, yet they had come prepared to face it. That betokened great courage. Now, in some way they too had learned that his power would not be used against them
Discipline and courage, and now freedom from the terror of the unknown! Urssain glanced down at the ranks of the Mathidrin and Militia.
But we have the numbers, he thought. He looked again at the Lords’ army. The pikemen were now motionless, standing in orderly rows, presumably waiting for the order to advance. Sixteen rows, he presumed, barely a pace apart, but each man standing a little to one side of the man in front, and each holding his pike vertically; a pike some five, maybe six paces long.
Urssain knew the pattern; it was the traditional High Guards phalanx. The pike had a long metal blade at its tip, and a weighted spike at the other end so that it balanced about one fifth of the way along its length. When the first five ranks brought their pikes horizontal, they would all protrude in front of the first rank to form a long impenetrable row of pointed blades.
By reputation it was a formidable fighting array used to smash into an enemy line like a great hammer, splitting it open for attack by cavalry and lighter, more mobile infantry. But Urssain declined to be impressed. Had not the Mathidrin been trained in its use also? And they were hardened fighters, all with experience in Narsindal, not fops and dandies like Hreldar’s and Darek’s High Guards. A fleeting memory of Jaldaric’s patrol in Orthlund returned to him, but he dismissed it. The men for that had been chosen by the Ffyrst himself for his own protection. It was not typical. Urssain’s attention returned to the Lords.
At either end of the phalanx, to protect its otherwise highly vulnerable flanks, were cavalry, and beyond them and behind, further infantry, carrying shorter spears. In front of the whole was another small group on foot. Skirmishers, Urssain thought, archers and javelin-men probably, fast and mobile, to harry and disrupt the opposing front line prior to the advance of the phalanx.
* * * *
Hreldar gazed at Dan-Tor’s army. Two long blocks of men. At the rear were black-liveried Mathidrin armed with pikes, thin ranks motionless, while at the front were Militia. They seemed to be armed with a variety of spears and pikes, and though more numerous than the Mathidrin, their line was uneasy. At the front of the whole was a line of archers.
‘They’ve twice our numbers,’ he said, his tone mat-ter-of-fact. ‘But only a third of them are Mathidrin, and they’ve less cavalry than we have.’
He turned to Eldric, who nodded. That bore out the information that Lorac and Tel-Odrel had obtained from Dilrap. For some reason, Dan-Tor had not encouraged the development of cavalry. Eldric was reassured. He had been concerned about leaving four squadrons behind to blockade the Lords Valen and Shalmson, but it had been unavoidable. Valen had been unequivocal in his support for Dan-Tor. To Darek’s horror, though not totally to his surprise, he had arrived to find Valen’s High Guard were indeed sporting Mathidrin livery. His force had succeeded in containing them only by dint of surprise, arriving when they were all in the castle preparing to leave for Vakloss.
Shalmson had been more difficult, pleading this and pleading that, but Arinndier had cut across the debate and simply told him to stay in his castle if he valued his life.
‘Even so,’ Eldric said. ‘They have the higher ground and that long line could fold round on our flanks all too easily. And I’d like to know what’s in those four wagons in the Militia line. They don’t look like catapults, but…?’
* * * *
Urssain quickly estimated the now static force. Yes, we have the numbers, he confirmed to himself, and their cavalry was less than he had thought. But the speed and order with which that phalanx had been formed…?
The two armies faced each other.
Two men for every one of theirs. But…?
‘With your permission, Ffyrst, I’ll ride down and ensure that the Militia fully understand the conse-quences of failure to hold their line,’ Urssain said. Dan-Tor nodded.
* * * *
Eldric wheeled round to face his Commanders. ‘The Uhriel is bound,’ he said. ‘His battle line’s conventional. You know what to do. But watch those wagons care-fully.’ The men saluted and then rode off towards their companies. Eldric looked at his three companions and, without speaking, the four began to move forward.
* * * *
> Dan-Tor watched as Urssain rode along the ranks of the Militia. Faintly he could hear his voice. He knew the message he would be delivering; the man had learned a great deal over the past months. It would be a combina-tion of rabble-rousing encouragement and implied threat. The Mathidrin archers had orders to shoot any of the Militia who broke ranks, and while this was ostensibly a secret order, it had been sufficiently well rumoured to be effective.
The four Lords rode forward, accompanied by two standard bearers; one carrying a green flag of truce, the other carrying the Fyordyn flag: the Iron Ring set on a red background.
Urssain paused in his harangue of the Militia and turned to watch their approach. A parley? At this stage?
‘Look,’ he shouted to those around him. ‘They’ve seen our might, and they see their own destruction. They’ve come to plead for terms.’
But Eldric and the others had not come to debate. They had come to undermine their opponents with the truth.
All four were armed and armoured as Eldric had been for his accounting. With arms glinting and red cloaks brilliant in the bright sunshine, they rode with wilful slowness until they were almost within arrow range of the brown liveried ranks.
Then Eldric rode forward alone until he stood like a commanding officer inspecting his troops.
He pointed to the distant figure of Dan-Tor.
‘Men of Fyorlund,’ he said, his voice carrying power-fully in the autumn stillness. ‘You face me and your own kind armed to do war, but yonder is your true enemy. Yonder is the one who poisoned the mind and body of your King for twenty years and then brutally murdered him when, with your Queen’s aid, he sought to fight free of this bondage. Yonder is the one who has poisoned our whole country for twenty years, and would murder it too with this dreadful meeting today because, like its King, its spirit also refuses his yoke. Yonder is Oklar, the Uhriel, come to lay waste Fyorlund to clear the path for his Master, Sumeral. Sumeral, the ancient Enemy of Life, who has risen again in Narsindal while we turned our faces from our duty.’
