Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Then Tirke realized that he was also watching the other Morlider running away.

  He struggled into a sitting position and looked behind him. As he did so, a long row of swaying lights appeared in the blackness; the second phase of the attack on the camp was beginning.

  Relief almost as powerful as his terror overwhelmed him briefly and he found his legs were shaking violently as he staggered to his feet.

  Suddenly he was with his companions and there were horses all around. Someone was carrying the injured man away and hands were reaching down to help the others.

  'Come on, Tirke,’ a voice said. ‘Shift yourself, you're frightening the horses standing gaping like that.'

  It was Jaldaric. Tirke looked at him vacantly for a moment and then, taking his proffered hand, swung up behind him clumsily.

  'Just a moment,’ he said, as Jaldaric clicked to the horse.

  Jaldaric paused.

  Tirke looked back through the gently falling snow at the Helyadin's handiwork.

  The gentle slope he had just scrambled over was lit orange and yellow by the flames rising from the camp. Three substantial areas were ablaze, figures could be seen running in all directions and the noise of the flames and the shouting and screaming rose above the sound of the distant surf.

  It was a grim, tormented sight, yet he knew it had been a good start to the night's work.

  Now the cavalry would take over. Already their line was beginning to gather speed and Tirke could see that few of the Morlider who had ventured out of the camp would return. The thought reminded him of the rest of his own companions.

  'Did everyone get back safely?’ he asked.

  'Some injuries I think, but no one killed as far as I know,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘You and the others were the last out.'

  Injuries. The word brought back to Tirke the memory of the hurts he had caused that night and, in its wake, one of Hawklan's injunctions: ‘Take no risks, but, if circumstances permit, wound rather than kill. An injured man is more trouble to the enemy than a dead one. He absorbs resources and he saps morale.’ Then he had paused. ‘And it'll burden you less at some happier time in the future.'

  Tirke and Jaldaric watched as the cavalry caught up with the fleeing Morlider. There would be little wounding in that mêlée.

  * * * *

  From a higher vantage, Hawklan, Andawyr and Loman watched the same scene.

  While some of the cavalry, yelling raucously, were dealing with the Morlider, others were flinging ropes and grappling hooks over the palisade. Very soon, large gaps had been torn in the defensive wall.

  Hawklan nodded approvingly. The Orthlundyn were not natural horsemen by any means, but they had absorbed fully such teaching as Agreth had been able to give them and were mastering the necessary skills competently enough.

  The first wave of cavalry retreated and for a moment a strange stillness pervaded the scene. Hawklan ran his eye along the still extensive remains of the palisade. Here and there groups of Morlider seemed to be forming in some semblance of order. Then, as though the night itself were moving to assault the camp, the second wave of cavalry surged forward. Silent this time, in tight formation, and without illumination, they were suddenly there, riding through the firelit night.

  As they rode they shot volleys of arrows deep into the camp, arrows carrying the same radiant stones that the Helyadin had used. Some of them glowed white so quickly that they consumed the arrows that carried them, to fall fluttering and flaring out of the air; others fell dully into the ranks of tents and flared up only after the riders had passed.

  Hawklan saw a movement in the nearest group of Morlider. He leaned forward. ‘Wheel!’ he muttered urgently. The leader of the riders saw the danger at the same time and, as if Hawklan's will had reached out through the night, he turned the line back towards the darkness. But it was almost too late. The Morlider stepped forward and released a small but accurate volley of arrows at their assailants.

  Two horses went down immediately and a third stumbled trying to avoid them. Both Andawyr and Loman breathed in sharply and Hawklan felt Serian trembling underneath him. He laid a hand on the horse's neck and watched, his face unreadable. Now was the first of many real testing times, for both him and the Orthlundyn.

  The sound of shouted commands came faintly to the watchers.

  Two riders broke off to pursue the third horse, which had recovered itself almost immediately. Other riders picked up their unhorsed companions while the remainder returned the Morlider's fire, causing them to scatter for shelter behind the palisade. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the riders merged back into the darkness.

  Andawyr turned to speak, but Hawklan held up his hand for silence. Again there was an almost eerie stillness in front of the camp. The Morlider archers re-formed.

  Suddenly two adjacent groups of archers further along broke up rapidly. Hawklan could not see what was happening, but he knew that the Orthlundyn were standing back and firing from the cover of darkness. As soon as the defenders were routed, albeit temporarily, the cavalry rode in again to fire further volleys of flaming arrows into the camp. Hawklan nodded approvingly.

  The harassment continued through the night and for much of the time the Morlider camp was in considerable disarray.

  'If only we had the numbers, we could drive them into the sea,’ Loman reflected.

  Hawklan grunted. ‘A good word to choke on, if,’ he said. ‘But even if we drove them to their boats, they'd be back, wouldn't they, Andawyr?'

  The Cadwanwr started. He had been watching the unfolding saga with mounting distress. No amount of knowledge, he realized, could have fully prepared him for the frightening ordinariness that framed this reality. The horse shifting underneath him, the creaking of harness, Loman softly clearing his throat, the occasional snowflake landing cold on his now clammy face. Hawklan still Hawklan. The crackling flames and the terrible tactical games being played before him should have meant ... more than they did. But they were outside his protective cocoon of darkness, and they were so ... distant ... unreal.

  Hawklan's voice reached out and brought him to the present with a jolt.

  'Yes. Yes,’ he stammered, catching the vanishing gist of the question. ‘I doubt they'll leave until Creost abandons them.'

  Hawklan turned and looked at him. As their eyes met, Andawyr said, almost shamefacedly, ‘Thank you. I couldn't have helped.'

  Hawklan did not reply, but the understanding and compassion of both warrior prince and healer showed in his eyes and comforted the Cadwanwr. Earlier, as the details of the attack were being discussed, Andawyr had asked if he could help: he had devices of his own that would not extend him; a breeze to fan the flames, some fires of his own, something to tear out that palisade? Hawklan had shaken his head. ‘Another time,’ he had replied. ‘Your Power's for another purpose, you know that. Men must fight men. Here particularly, the Orthlundyn must learn those final lessons which can only be learned in combat. To ease their way with weapons they themselves can't wield would be to mislead them and betray them in some future battle.’ Then, practical as ever: ‘Besides, you don't want to betray your presence to Creost if he's there, do you?'

  'He isn't,’ Andawyr had replied positively, but Hawklan's silent green-eyed gaze had said, ‘Can you take that risk?'

  As time passed, however, the Morlider began to recover from the initial impact of the Orthlundyn assault.

  'They've realized we're not intending an all-out attack,’ Hawklan said, as gradually the fires were doused and the archers defending the gaps in the palisade became both more cautious and more effective. ‘Pull back. We can do no more tonight. We'd be risking riders and horses needlessly if we persisted.’ Loman nodded in agreement. ‘I doubt they'll venture out,’ Hawklan continued. ‘But leave pickets out in case, and have the army deployed by first light. They'll come out then with a vengeance.'

  * * * *

  In the command tent, Hawklan looked purposefully at his friends. ‘We've done th
em some harm,’ he said. ‘And shaken their nerve. Have we learned anything that would make us change our basic tactics?'

  'Loman tells me their archers are more organized than they used to be,’ Isloman said. ‘But that crowd we ran into were the same as ever—wild and dangerous.’ Old memories of close-quarter fighting rose like vomit to mingle with the new, but with an angry grimace he dismissed them. ‘I think if we can crack their discipline, they'll revert to type—individual warriors looking to fight and kill. Then we're in with a chance. I see no reason to change anything.'

  No one disagreed. The conduct of the Morlider that night had shown the veterans enough to confirm that their enemy was both the same, and profoundly changed.

  Hawklan reached up and touched Gavor's beak absently. ‘The tactics stand, then,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow...’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Today, rather. We will drive them into the sea. They'll have been training to deal with cavalry and they'll expect to meet cavalry not disciplined infantry. We still have surprise on...'

  Andawyr stood up suddenly. ‘Wake Atelon,’ he said, cutting across Hawklan. ‘Quickly. Bring him here.’ His voice was strange and distant.

  After a momentary hesitation Dacu ran out.

  'What's the matter?’ Hawklan said, concerned by Andawyr's manner.

  A distant roll of thunder sounded softly through the tent.

  'Dar Hastuin,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘He's above us. And putting forth great power.'

  Hawklan looked alarmed. ‘Against us?’ he said.

  Andawyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I think he's found the Drienvolk.'

  Gavor flapped his wings restlessly and Hawklan reached up to him again. ‘There's nothing we can do, old friend,’ he said. ‘We touched briefly, but the Drienvolk must fight their own kind in their own way. Stay here and guard my back.'

  Before Gavor could reply, the entrance to the tent burst open and Atelon staggered in, supported by Dacu. His young face was haunted and fearful and his mouth was working though no coherent sounds were emerging.

  'He was like this when I found him,’ Dacu said, his own face riven with concern.

  Andawyr looked at his student for a moment and then walked over to him very calmly and took his hands. Hawklan saw again the man who had destroyed the lair of the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Dacu released his charge.

  At the touch of his master, Atelon recovered some of his composure.

  'Don't be...’ Andawyr froze, and his words of solace faltered. Atelon's legs buckled and Dacu stepped forward quickly to catch him.

  'Andawyr, what's happening?’ Hawklan said, his eyes now wide with anxiety.

  Andawyr lifted a hand for silence but kept his attention on Atelon. The young man's eyes opened and with an effort he straightened up. Hawklan winced inwardly as the healer in him felt Atelon's pain and fear.

  'You feel it all?’ Andawyr said. ‘Both of them?'

  Atelon nodded.

  'That's good,’ Andawyr said, his voice gentle but filled with a great resolve. ‘I'll not exhort you to be brave, I'll ask you only to be a Cadwanwr, and do what must be done. Can you accept that?'

  Atelon nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said faintly, but clearly.

  Andawyr turned to Hawklan.

  'Very shortly, you'll lead the Orthlundyn against the superior numbers of the Morlider army, and fight to the very limits of your skill and strength to destroy them,’ he said. ‘Atelon and I will accompany you to do the same against their new leader.'

  Hawklan's eyes narrowed with an unnecessary question. Andawyr answered it. ‘What Dar Hastuin is doing above I do not know, but whatever Creost's purpose was in the south, it's ended; for good or for ill. He's here, now.'

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  The long flight of stone steps led down from one of the Palace's many side doors. It was a little-used entrance and the steps had not been routinely swept clear of snow, thus ensuring that such use as they had received had trodden a ragged pathway down the centre that had the texture of uneven, but polished, alabaster.

  It glistened treacherously in the sunlight as Eldric emerged from the doorway.

  Blinking in the sudden brightness, he eyed his proposed path suspiciously. Then, pulling his large cloak about his shoulders, he began a cautious descent, using his gloved hand freely on top of the stone balustrade to retain his balance.

  Reaching the bottom without mishap or excessive loss of dignity, he made a note to return by another route and then crossed a narrow courtyard which brought him out into the Palace gardens.

  It had not snowed for several days and though the extensive lawns and shrubs were brilliant in the winter sunshine they had lost that silent perfection which the first falls had given them. Untidy heaps of snow lay around the trees where the wind and the fluttering birds had dislodged it from the branches; human footsteps respectfully marked out the now hidden pathways, while the imprints of claws and padded feet showed no such restraint and were strung out purposefully across the lawns in an intricate tracery. Here and there a riot of destruction in the snow indicated the activity of the Palace children, not all of whom were particularly young.

  Eldric took in the scene and smiled, then stepped forward to add his own marks to this great marring.

  As he walked, he turned his mind to the message he had just received from Arinndier. Viladrien! Alphraan! Cadwanwr! Creost moving the Morlider against Riddin, and Hawklan leading half the Orthlundyn army into the snow-filled mountains to meet them while the other half was preparing to move north to join the High Guards for an assault on Narsindal!

  Arinndier had laid out the facts simply and clearly. Indeed, Eldric could almost hear him speaking as he read the Lord's characteristic hand.

  He looked south. The Orthlundyn armed and ready for war. And with an army that was good enough to impress Arinndier. But for half of it to venture across the mountains at this time of year! Could even Hawklan bring his people through such an ordeal in a condition fit to fight a battle, or worse, a series of battles against the savage and numerous Morlider? By all accounts the journey north had been difficult enough for the two men who had brought Arinndier's message; how much more so then for an army? And if Riddin fell, what then? What of Sylvriss and her child, the heir to Fyorlund's throne? And what of Fyorlund's southern and eastern borders?

  Eldric weighed the thoughts briefly, then, with some difficulty, let them go. He could do nothing about these matters, he knew. Nothing except wait for further messages—tend his crops and keep his sword sharp as his father would have said. Urthryn would surely protect his daughter, no matter what happened. And if the rest of the Orthlundyn army was moving north then presumably they had made their own arrangements for the defence of their land should Hawklan be lost. As for Fyorlund's border with Riddin, a few regiments of High Guards could always be left to protect that if need arose. Whatever force might come over those mountains certainly wouldn't come quickly, winter or no.

  It was too vague and untidy a resolution to be satisfactory, but it would have to suffice for the time being, though Eldric found that even the thought of Hawklan being lost in battle was deeply unsettling.

  He reacted to his unease almost immediately. ‘We must stand on our own,’ he muttered into the cold air. To look to one man, however remarkable, as some kind of saviour, someone who would bear the responsibilities and fulfil the duties of others, would be a profound error. ‘Another betrayal of the people and our trust,’ he concluded.

  He could allow himself to cling to the fatherly concern that he had felt on reading that Jaldaric was now training ‘with the Orthlundyn Helyadin—similar to our Goraidin,’ but apart from that he must continue to occupy himself with his own duty; with stern practicalities. Send messengers to welcome the approaching Orthlundyn. And find somewhere to put them all! Send the news to Hreldar and Darek currently out in the field, training and co-ordinating the different regiments of High Guards. This new army would radically affect the plans
being laid for the assault on Narsindalvak and thence Narsindal. And to Yatsu, busy in the east with some of the Goraidin and their new recruits, preparing to assault Dan-Tor's mines.

  He straightened up and took a deep breath. As always, when he did this, the cold air felt as if it were a light shining inside him, seeking out and exposing the lingering, stagnant memories of the imprisonment that returned to haunt him in his darker moments. It was a small, personal reaffirmation.

  Remembering the treacherous stairway, he turned and set off briskly towards the front of the Palace.

  * * * *

  With Gavor perched awkwardly in front of him, Hawklan walked Serian towards the top of the long slope that led down to the Morlider's camp on the shore. Andawyr, on his smaller mare, rode by him, accompanied by Atelon. Loman, Isloman and a group of Helyadin maintained close station around the three. They were an unprepossessing sight, as Hawklan had told them to cover their light mail armour with rough cloaks to give the impression that they were a hastily levied local defence group.

  A faint roll of thunder reached them. Several such had echoed down through the darkness since Andawyr's announcement of the arrival of Dar Hastuin. Each time, Hawklan had looked at the Cadwanwr who had simply nodded helplessly in reply. Both knew that while the Morlider and the Orthlundyn were waiting for their battle, the Drienvolk were probably fighting theirs.

  The slowly lightening sky, however, was an unbroken mass of grey, lowering cloud and gave no sign of this strange and alien combat.

  'Our tasks are here,’ was Andawyr's final comment. ‘We mustn't burden ourselves with their pain when we can't alleviate it.'

  Reaching the top of the slope, Hawklan reined Serian to a halt. In the far distance, the vague, misty horizon was broken by three islands which only the local Riddinvolk could have denounced as being unnaturally there. Nearer, on the shore, the rope-strewn masts of beached ships canted this way and that, and in front of them ragged columns of smoke rose from the camp. Hawklan viewed the scene with some satisfaction, though how much of the smoke was due to the previous night's attack and how much due to the Morlider's crude cooking and heating fires he could not tell.