by Roger Taylor
Hawklan turned to Yrain. ‘Tell me about these patrols,’ he said. ‘Size, number, uniforms...’ There was a little laughter at this last. The Morlider might perhaps be united in spirit and intent but they were as individually and eccentrically dressed as could be imagined.
'Single patrols, about twenty men strong, uniforms—well-wrapped, but casual,’ Yrain replied. ‘So far they've come out at irregular intervals and they seem to be following different routes. I think they're just finding their way around.'
Hawklan thought for a moment. ‘Is there a patrol out now?'
Yrain nodded.
'It'll be dark when it returns?’ Hawklan continued.
Yrain nodded again.
* * * *
Pitch-soaked torches burned smokily along the wooden palisade, throwing uneasy dancing shadows on to the nearby line of tents. Near to one of the four gaps in the long defensive paling a large fire burned. Four figures crouched around it. The sound of waves breaking over the shore in the near distance formed a constant bass harmony to their conversation.
'What's he doing down there any way?’ said one irritably. ‘Why've we all got to sit up here freezing our backsides in the snow while he and his fancy guards swan around down south somewhere.'
His neighbour kicked him, none too gently. ‘Shut up, you blockhead,’ he said, looking around anxiously. ‘This place is full of those big-eared Vierlanders, and a comment like that could see you discussing your complaint with him face to face.'
The first speaker rubbed his leg and made a disparaging noise. ‘So what?’ he muttered.
His companion looked round hastily then seized him roughly and pulled him forward. ‘I'll tell you so-what, fish-brain,’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘He'll boil your blood in your veins with a look, that's what. I've seen him do it.’ He shuddered and released his charge. ‘Personally I don't give a crab's fart about that, but he's liable to do it to us as well for not skewering you on the spot. Now shut up.'
Chastened, the first speaker stirred the fire with his foot. A shower of sparks rose up through the falling snow.
'I meant no disrespect,’ he said awkwardly and more as if for the benefit of any listeners in the darkness around the fire than out of genuine regret. ‘But I came to kill Riddinvolk, not sit shivering behind a wooden fence at the top end of nowhere.'
'There'll be plenty of time for killing, don't you fret,’ replied another, older than most of the others. He drew a long knife and turned it over longingly. ‘The Chief knows what he's doing. That's why we've got decent tents, clothes, food; so that we can wait. Not like last time. Men's feet and hands turning black. Dying screaming in the night, or worse, just going ... quiet ... and lying down in the snow waiting to die. Trying to fight those damned horse riders and those poxed inlanders from over the mountains with your hands too cold to feel your sword; the chiefs quarrelling like old women and everyone fretting in case the islands moved off along the ways too soon.'
He spat into the fire and bared his teeth. The firelight bounced menacingly off his twisting knife. ‘None of that this time. This time we take this land.’ He paused and nodded reflectively. ‘I've some rare scores to settle I can tell you, and I intend to enjoy them. I've waited twenty years—a little longer's neither here nor there.'
Any further debate was precluded by the arrival through the opening of a group of men heavily muffled and hooded in furs.
The man with the knife looked up. ‘About time,’ he said unpleasantly. ‘Where the devil have you been? We've been freezing to death waiting for you.'
The new arrivals moved towards the fire eagerly, with much hand rubbing and foot stamping. The man watched them as they approached, then he leaned forward a little, his eyes narrowed, trying to peer into the darkness of the leader's hood.
Suddenly his hand curled around the handle of his knife and he started to rise. ‘You're not...'
Before he could finish, a sword emerged from the leader's fur coat and ran him through. There was not a flicker of hesitation in the deed, nor in the hand that shot out to silence any cry he might make. Before his knife had tumbled onto the snow, others from the group had killed the remaining three guards with the same ruthless expedition.
'Guards after all,’ Athyr said. ‘I hope the others are all right.’ He looked down at the dead men. ‘Still, first and last duty for this lot. Prop them up quickly and gather round as if you're warming yourselves.’ He wiped his sword on the dead man's coat and looked at Tirke. ‘See what's happened to the others,’ he said.
The young Fyordyn hesitated. The blood-stained sword in his hand was shaking.
'Tirke!’ Athyr hissed angrily.
'I'm sorry,’ Tirke said starting. ‘When I pulled my sword out, his...'
'Later.’ Athyr's voice was both understanding and grimly unequivocal. ‘You did well. You killed him before he knew what was happening, quickly and quietly; that's all that matters here. Keep it that way and we'll get back to camp safely.'
Tirke nodded awkwardly. ‘By numbers,’ he said.
Athyr patted him on the arm. ‘By numbers,’ he confirmed. ‘Now, signal.'
Tirke ran to the palisade and looked up and down its length intently. Producing a small signalling torch he sent a brief message in both directions.
The Morlider patrol had been ambushed and groups of Helyadin, suitably disguised, had arrived simultaneously at all four entrances in an attempt to ensure deep and silent penetration into the camp. Hawklan had told them to prepare for guards, but nonetheless they had been an unpleasant surprise.
'Groups one and three are all right,’ he said, returning to Athyr.’ But group four's met some resistance.'
Even as he spoke the faint sound of raised voices in the distance reached them. The entire group stood motionless and silent. The commotion mingled with the sound of the sea but showed no immediate signs of stopping.
Athyr ran through the anticipated options quickly. Three groups into the camp without disturbance was one of the better ones. Isloman's group would now act as diversion by holding for as long as they could before retreating.
'Three are going in a hundred paces,’ Tirke said.
Athyr nodded. ‘We'll go a hundred and fifty, tell one to go two hundred at their discretion.'
Tirke sent the message and then, without speaking, the group set off towards the sound of the breaking waves. They made no effort to quieten their footsteps, knowing that to the sleeping army around them a stealthy footfall would ring like a clarion call while the crunching indifference of their passing comrades would warrant no more than a mumbled oath.
The group encountered only two solitary wanderers and both met the same sudden and cruel fate as those at the gate.
Occasionally the distant sounds of Isloman's encounter drifted to them over the sound of the surf.
As they walked over the frozen sand and snow, churned up by the traffic of the camp, Athyr found flickering fireflies of sympathy beginning to dance in his mind. The layout of the camp was a bizarre mixture of imposed order and personal idiosyncrasy; all the tents were different and, for the most part, crudely made out of animal skins and various fabrics. Pitch torches and the remains of camp fires glowed and guttered everywhere. Athyr could not avoid feeling the personal endeavour and the fulfilment of modest skills that radiated from these details and his carver's soul could do no other than respond in some degree. He tried to scatter the thoughts, but they reformed. These people were trapped in and by their own ignorance, he saw. Blazing torches for light! Open wood fires for heat! Presumably they had the same inside their tents; tents that would let that meagre heat escape into the winter night with scarcely any hindrance; they had no conception of collection, or re-use; small things, but they typified the state of these benighted, misled people. They knew so very very little ... it was tragic that ...
His foot caught an extended guy rope and only the quick response of his neighbour prevented him from sprawling headlong.
Athyr nodded
his thanks and cursed himself darkly for a fool. Whatever had made the Morlider into what they were, they were what they were and, misled or no, they were numerous, dangerous, and more than capable of over-running the Orthlundyn army if they were given the opportunity. More urgently, they could destroy this tiny infiltrating force if they were roused by some such further act of carelessness. The Morlider could not now be retrieved by knowledge, especially as they had been welded into some semblance of a whole by Creost. That salvation might await them some other day, but ...
One hundred and fifty.
His training and his wiser instincts cut across his thoughts. This was far enough. The intermittent noise of the distant fighting had faded; Isloman must have done what he could and retreated. Would the Morlider rouse the whole camp, or would Isloman have been able to preoccupy them with the lure of pursuit?
Conjecture was irrelevant.
'Time to go,’ Athyr hand-signalled to his group. ‘You know what to do. Keep to your pairs, keep quiet, keep moving, and cut down anyone who gets in the way.'
The group spread out silently.
Athyr reached into his pouch and withdrew one of the specially prepared radiant stones. He placed it on the ground against the wall of a tent then, nervously and with a well extended arm, he struck it. Almost immediately it glowed a dark sinister red and he stepped back hastily. Quickly he moved to the next tent.
In a few seconds the stone would begin to release its stored energy; not in a steady hearth-warming flow, but in a great uncontrollable surge of heat that would continue for many minutes. In addition to his concern at being in the heart of the enemy's camp, Athyr's nervousness was aggravated by the fact that once struck, such stones were unstable and there was no indication how long it would be before this release occurred.
He was crouching down striking a fourth as the first one began to fire. He paused momentarily to watch it and suddenly a blow sent him sprawling. As he fell, the stone he had struck blazed up dazzlingly in front of him.
Momentarily blinded he rolled away from the heat, eyes closed. When he opened them he saw a blurred figure silhouetted against the glaring light. It was bending over him, arm extended. Reflexively Athyr tightened his grip on his striker to use it as a dagger against this assailant but, with unexpected speed, a foot pinned his wrist onto the frozen snow-filled sand.
'It's me!’ the figure hissed, its voice a mixture of alarm and exasperation. ‘I had to knock you away, you weren't looking and your stone was going. Get up for pity's sake!'
It was Tirke. The foot released Athyr's arm and he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. Tirke was looking at him anxiously and was about to speak.
Athyr forestalled him. ‘Come on,’ he said urgently, seizing his arm. He had recovered most of his composure as soon as he had recognized Tirke's voice but his heart was beating at a rate that he knew would not now diminish until he was clear of the Morlider camp.
Against the background of growing flames and mounting clamour, the Helyadin moved silently and swiftly between the crooked rows of tents, leaving the glowing red stones that would spread that clamour even further.
As they neared the palisade and the unguarded opening, a man came running towards them, sword in hand.
'The Gate watch have all been killed,’ he said, a murderous fury in his voice. ‘Those stinking horse riders must be in the camp.'
Athyr gripped his sword under his fur coat but before he could strike, three more armed figures came running in the same direction. Too many and too angry to kill either quickly or quietly. He had to get his group out urgently now.
He gesticulated frantically towards the sea. ‘The ships! The ships! Fire!’ he gasped hoarsely, as if he had been running desperately.
The words could not have been better chosen. The merest glance at the flickering skyline galvanized the four men who ran off shouting and banging tent ropes as they passed.
Athyr and Tirke ran on desperately until they reached the fire by the opening in the palisade. Two of the dead guards had tumbled over, and were staring upwards wide-eyed into the still falling snow. Tirke paused as he passed by, then wiping his hands down his sides as if they were dirty he moved to join Athyr who had slipped through the opening and was waiting in the shade beyond.
Four figures emerged from between the nearby tents, their rapid stealth identifying them as Helyadin. Athyr stepped forward and ushered them through the opening. They vanished into the darkness.
Almost immediately, others appeared. Athyr dismissed them after their companions. Tirke found himself examining faces and counting, just as he knew Athyr would be. So near the end of this mission he found his fear rising almost uncontrollably. Four more left! Come on! Come on! Yet Athyr seemed quite calm.
The din in the camp was now considerable and there were signs of waking activity in the nearby tents. Shadowy figures were emerging everywhere.
Where in Sumeral's name are you?
Tirke's agonized but silent question was answered by angry voices and the clash of arms nearby. Athyr ran towards the sound and, without thinking, Tirke followed him. As they reached the aisle from which the noise had come, two figures emerged, one supporting the other. Behind them two others were walking backwards holding their swords double-handed and keeping a group of about six hesitant Morlider at bay. In the gloom beyond them, Tirke thought he saw two figures sprawled on the ground. That would account for the Morlider's caution.
Athyr seized the free arm of the injured man and lifted it around his shoulder.
'Run,’ he shouted unnecessarily, to his fellow bearer.
Tirke joined the two men forming the rearguard. Abruptly three of the Morlider disappeared behind a tent.
'Watch your flanks,’ one of the Helyadin cried, followed immediately by the cry, ‘Run for it.'
Tirke and the other Helyadin needed no such injunction and, turning, they dashed for the opening. A figure came briefly into the edge of Tirke's vision and he lashed out at it wildly with his sword. The sword made contact with something and there was a cry of pain. Tirke did not pause in his flight; he suddenly had the impression that the entire Morlider army was being drawn towards him personally.
Outside the palisade, the ground sloped upwards slightly and the snow became increasingly deep, making both flight and chase awkward and lumbering. However, unburdened by any injured companions, the Morlider soon caught up with the retreating group. There was a brief untidy skirmish which left two Morlider bleeding and groaning in the snow, before they in their turn withdrew a little to surround the Helyadin comfortably beyond sword's length.
Rather to his surprise, Tirke saw that there were in fact only about a dozen or so, and that not all were armed.
Without command, the Helyadin formed a circle.
'Tend to your ships, Morlider,’ Athyr shouted, waving his sword towards the now roaring flames, but the lure did not have the effect it had had before.
Instead, one of the Morlider threw a small axe. Its blade glittered briefly in the flickering light, and somehow, Athyr managed to strike it with his sword and destroy most of its momentum. It travelled on, however, to catch Tirke a glancing blow on the shoulder. The impact made him stagger forward and two or three of the Morlider started towards him. The pain of the blow broke through Tirke's fear and released a darker creature. As he recovered his balance he took one hand from his sword hilt and drew a long knife. The attackers faltered, though it was as much the look on his face as the extra blade that made them hesitate.
Athyr glanced towards the camp. More Morlider were emerging; delay would be fatal. He hitched his injured companion into a more comfortable position then, speaking in the battle language, said, ‘Into the darkness.'
Abruptly the five men and their burden were running through the hindering snow. The surrounding circle burst open as, surprised by Athyr's alien command and this unexpected charge, the Morlider scattered to avoid the slashing blades of the Helyadin. The surprise was only momentary, however, and a
grim pursuit began again in earnest as yet more Morlider poured out of the camp.
Rage and terror mingled equally in Tirke as, gasping for breath, he forced his legs high to carry him through the deep snow and tried to keep near his companions in the deepening darkness that lay beyond the reach of the light from the blazing camp.
Very soon, however, he fell, almost bringing down a close pursuer. Turning as he fell he felt rather than saw a descending weapon. Some reflex twisted him from its path and he let out a startled cry.
As his attacker raised his weapon for a second blow, Tirke lashed out at him wildly with his sword. The blade raked across the man's thighs and Tirke felt it scraping along bone.
He had a sudden vision of Loman patiently and caringly teaching him how to use a sharpening stone. The Morlider gave an agonized cry and hurled himself backwards in a frenzied and belated attempt to avoid his terrible injury.
Tirke saw him rolling away frantically, still screaming, but he had little time to assimilate this scene, as he could also see Morlider closing in on him from all sides. He had a fleeting impression of his companions similarly assailed.
A blow from somewhere knocked the sword from his hand and he swung his knife in the general direction of this attack. He sensed a pair of legs leaping away, but in front of him appeared a looming figure lifting a spear high for a blow that must surely pass through him as easily as through the snow beneath him.
In the instant that it took for the spear to reach its zenith, Tirke felt his body futilely bracing itself for the dreadful impact, and the welling up of a great surge of cringing terror inside him. Yet even as the terror took shape, another emotion rose up and twined around it like a strangling serpent; a consuming fury, blazing from who could say what fire in his soul. Somehow he would kill this man even as he died.
This resolve had scarcely begun to reach his hand when the shadow of his doom went staggering backwards violently. The man took several flailing, unsteady paces and then crashed to the ground. Against the light of the blazing camp, Tirke saw him struggling to pull an arrow from his chest. After a moment he became still, though the arrow still swayed from side to side a little.
