by Roger Taylor
'Are Dacu and all the Helyadin back? Hawklan asked.
'With the cavalry on the left flank,’ Loman replied, pointing.
Hawklan nodded. ‘Isloman, Andawyr, Atelon and I will join them,’ he said. ‘We'll stay there unless we're needed. Have you worked out your battle plan?'
Loman looked around at the company leaders. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Unless you saw anything special down there.'
Hawklan shook his head. ‘They're as nasty looking as you always told me. And strong, but nothing your rock heavers can't handle. Their pikes aren't as strong as ours by the look of them—and they've got a motley assortment of close quarter weapons so I doubt they've learned how to fight in phalanx other than with pikes.'
'Good,’ said Loman, signalling his companions back to their posts.
Then he took Hawklan's elbow and led him aside a little way. When he turned to speak, his eyes were fearful and his face grim, ‘Look how many there are,’ he whispered. ‘Can we truly win against such numbers. Can I...’ His voice faltered.
Hawklan reached down to his quiver and drew one of the black arrows that Loman had made for Ethriss's bow. He held it out in front of the smith.
'In this, you made a weapon that brought down an Uhriel,’ he said. ‘A deed none other could have done.’ Then, motioning towards the army: ‘And in them, you, Gulda and all the others have made a weapon just as fine. You've talked and debated together, trained and shared hardships together, sought out and corrected flaws together just as you would at a Guild meeting. You're many and yet one.’ He smiled. ‘Unlike me, your whole army's already been told your battle plan by now and they'll implement it because they'll see its soundness.’ He raised an emphatic finger. ‘Or they'll change it as need arises. And that change will accord with your will—you know that, don't you?'
He paused and looked back at the approaching Morlider.
'Unlike them. People who fight because they're driven by fear or who fight for fighting's sake. They understand nothing of the true purpose of combat; or why they're here. Our cause, our understanding, our discipline, our training, our will; all these are superior to theirs.’ He turned back to Loman, his face purposeful and implacable. ‘Destroy these invaders, Loman, we've other battles to fight.'
Loman reached out and gripped Hawklan's hand powerfully, then, without speaking, he spun his horse round and trotted back to Isloman and the others.
Hawklan remembered Loman's concerned face as they had parted once before, outside Anderras Darion. Referring to the decision to train the Orthlundyn, Loman had said unexpectedly, ‘I've never had a tool on my bench that I haven't used eventually.'
A perceptive and tragically accurate remark, Hawklan thought, as he watched Loman embracing his brother and exchanging battle farewells with the others.
His own reply returned to him.
'All choices ... carry responsibility ... Having seen what we've seen and learned what we've learned can we do anything other than tell the people the truth and teach them what we can?'
He looked at the ranks of the Orthlundyn.
The people had chosen. Chosen to learn, chosen to face the truth, and chosen to defend what they valued.
Then a great certainty rose up inside him to shine like a dazzling summer sunrise.
And they had chosen to win this day!
Hawklan drew Ethriss's black sword and held it high. Gavor rose powerfully into the air with a raucous, laughing cry and Serian reared and screamed his own challenge to the invaders of his land. Then overtopping both, and ringing out across the waiting people, Hawklan's voice was heard, crying,
'To the light!'
The cry spread through the army, washing to and fro like a great roaring wave.
Then, Hawklan and the others were galloping to join the Helyadin, Loman was shouting orders and the whole army began to move forward.
The long phalanx, sixteen men deep, moved forward very slowly, but the cavalry squadron guarding the right flank set off at the trot, leaving behind only a small flank guard. As they advanced, they gathered speed and took up a column formation as if to launch a direct charge against the centre of the Morlider front. The Morlider halted and their vanguard of archers prepared to greet this folly with the destruction it deserved.
Abruptly, however, while still out of range, the column swung round and half of the riders dismounted. Within seconds, the defending archers found themselves under a hail of lead shot. At first there were few casualties as the Orthlundyn tested out the archers’ shield bearers. Then they began to concentrate their fire and casualties began to mount rapidly.
The Morlider began to move forward again; the skirmishing slingers were comparatively few and to remain stationary under their assault would have been to incur far more losses than if they kept moving.
The slingers held for a little while, still concentrating on the destruction of the archers, then quickly retreated and remounted. The squadron, however, did not withdraw immediately. Instead, the second half charged forward and released three volleys of arrows in rapid succession.
Many of the arrows were brought down by the waving pikes or deflected by shields, but many too found more effective marks.
Watching the foray, both Atelon and Andawyr started suddenly.
'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked, concerned.
'I think he has your message,’ Andawyr replied, a little breathlessly.
'I feel nothing,’ Hawklan said, remembering the sensations he had experienced when approaching Oklar.
'You will, healer,’ Andawyr said knowingly. ‘And very soon, I imagine.'
'Look,’ said Isloman pointing. ‘There's someone coming out onto the deck of the boat.'
Hawklan looked at the solitary boat then abruptly he felt the presence of the Uhriel. Even at this distance, the figure seemed, like Oklar, to be a rent in the reality around him. A great wrongness. Unconsciously Hawklan's left hand moved to the hilt of the black sword.
'What will he do?’ he asked, but neither Andawyr nor Atelon were listening. They were moving forward from the group and looking fixedly at the distant figure. Hawklan signalled to the Helyadin. ‘Protect Andawyr above all; then Atelon, then me.'
Quietly a group of the Helyadin positioned themselves behind the two Cadwanwr.
Hawklan turned his attention back to the advancing Morlider. The first cavalry squadron was riding to and fro in loose formation, generally harassing the enemy's centre with bursts of slinging, while the second had advanced and was using the same tactics as the first further along the Morlider's left wing.
Several times this sequence was repeated, with the squadrons concentrating their assaults on the Morlider's centre and left.
At the rear of his army, Toran Agrasson looked puzzled.
'These aren't the Muster I remember,’ he said to one of his officers. ‘Archers, stone throwers and spear carriers, with only a handful of horsemen.’ The frown deepened, then a realization dawned. ‘They're not Riddinvolk,’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew that big fellow's accent was funny. They must be those northerners.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Fyordyn. That's it, they're Fyordyn. I'll wager the horse riders had asked them for help and they've come on us by accident.’ He laughed loudly. ‘And look at what they're doing. Outnumbered more than two to one and trying to break our centre. They always were arrogant bastards. This is going to be fun. Pass the word, keep some of them alive for sport afterwards.'
* * * *
Hawklan watched Loman's battle plan unfold gradually. Because of its great length and with the centre and left constantly faltering under the attacks from the cavalry, the Morlider's line had become distorted. In particular, the unhindered right was moving forward rapidly and pivoting inwards. At the same time, largely hidden by the confusion of galloping horsemen, the Orthlundyn phalanx was marching and counter-marching but drifting slowly, inexorably to its left—towards the Morlider's pivoting flank.
Then the second squadron was charging forward as if to repeat its two
-pronged assault yet again. The archers and shield-bearers at the centre prepared themselves for the anticipated assault and once again the line slowed a little.
But the assault did not occur. Instead, the cavalry, keeping comfortably out of range, thundered past at full gallop, hooves pounding and throwing up flurries of snow.
The Morlider pikemen and archers at the centre relaxed and began to move forward again, warily watching the retreating spectacle. Soon the riders would break formation and return again, but they'd have to come to grips sooner or later.
This time however, the cavalry showed no signs of dispersing. And sweeping round in a great curving arc the first squadron galloped down to join them.
Still to some extent obscured behind them, the Orthlundyn phalanx quickened its pace.
'They're going for our right flank,’ Agrasson said in growing disbelief.
'Shall I order the left to swing round?’ asked the officer by his side.
Agrasson shook his head. ‘No, not yet. They might have more over the hill. There's no real danger. The flank archers will bring them down by the net-full once they're in range.'
The cavalry however, did not move within range of the Morlider archers. They remained carefully beyond it, and for the first time that day demonstrated the longer range of the Orthlundyn bows; demonstrated it with volley upon volley into the massed archers guarding the right flank of the Morlider line.
The Morlider held for only a short time under this lethal rain, then they began to scatter in disorder. As they broke, the cavalry abandoned bows for swords and charged into them to complete the rout and expose the flank of the Morlider line utterly.
During this assault, the Orthlundyn phalanx demonstrated a skill of its own. With parade-ground elegance it changed formation, making itself eight men deep instead of sixteen, and doubling its length to the left in the process. Then, as the cavalry tore away the flank guard, the extended phalanx increased speed and with a great shout, charged the Morlider's right wing.
As the rows of lowered pikes crashed into those of the Morlider, Hawklan ruthlessly quelled the reproaches that were rising up in him as loudly as the terrible noise of the battle. Now all were to be tested. Would the will and discipline of the Orthlundyn overcome the wild fighting frenzy of the Morlider?
The thinning of the phalanx had been a risk, but it seemed that the speed with which it had been executed had justified it.
The Morlider on the right flank, assailed by the cavalry, hastily discarded their now ineffective long pikes, and resorted to their traditional swords and axes. But though they fought bravely they took little toll of the cavalry and the disintegration and destruction of the right wing accelerated relentlessly.
'Hawklan!'
It was Andawyr, and his voice was taut with fear. He was pointing to the distant figure of Creost. Hawklan followed his gaze. The strange unreality that pervaded the Uhriel seemed to have intensified. Serian whinnied uneasily. Without realizing why, Hawklan drew his sword. Then suddenly, he began to feel an unnatural warmth, a warmth that rose inside him with a choking menace, as if a ravening fever had just seized him. Serian started to shiver.
This was the touch of Creost. The touch of death. Hawklan's eyes widened in helpless terror as sweat broke out all over him.
Andawyr extended his arms as if both defying an enemy and welcoming an old friend. Atelon, beside him, bowed his head slightly and lifted his hands to his temples in concentration. Neither spoke, but Hawklan could feel their ringing opposition to Creost's Power. As suddenly as it had come, the nauseous warmth that had pervaded him passed away, and he saw the figure on the boat stagger.
Looking round, he saw that Isloman and the Helyadin were wide-eyed and flushed, and their horses restless.
A strange quiet had come over the battlefield.
'He would have destroyed half his own to destroy us,’ said a soft voice laden with horrified disbelief. Hawklan turned. It was Atelon. The Cadwanwr still sat with his head bowed but his face was riven with effort. He began to speak further but his voice was inaudible. Hawklan bent forward.
'We hold him,’ came a faint whisper. ‘Fight, Hawklan!'
Hawklan put his free hand on the young man's shoulder in an involuntary gesture of comfort. At the touch, the Cadwanwr's pain and torment crashed over him like a great icy wave. For a timeless moment he was no more; he was the least mote caught up and whirled around by forces beyond imagining. Yet, too, he was not; the deep stillness at his centre was beyond all such turmoil; it embraced and accepted the pain in silence, and in so doing rejected it utterly. Then it gave him his name again and showed him himself as healer and warrior. Through his outstretched hand, it told Atelon, and listened; and through the other, it told the black sword, and listened.
And it showed Hawklan the balance of many futures that the touch of Creost had brought to the bloody, snow-covered field. Warrior and healer heard and, standing high in the stirrups of the great Muster horse, Hawklan raised the black sword of Ethriss, and roared his will to his people.
'Orthlundyn. To the light!'
As his cry sounded over the faltering warriors, it reached out and brought each back to the fray, and it was a mighty roar that returned to the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion.
Still bemused by the unseen assault from their leader, the Morlider gave way before the Orthlundyn's onslaught, and the right wing, after retreating for some way, broke and became a rout as men abandoned their long pikes and turned to flee from the swords of the cavalry and the relentless pointed hedge of the phalanx.
The watching Helyadin cheered, but Hawklan himself was watching the motionless Andawyr and the distant scar that was Creost. The battle being waged there was beyond his understanding, but he knew it to be as terrible as that between the two armies. He could do no other than watch and wait, and act as his heart bade him.
The battle between the two armies, however, he did understand, and he knew that for all the success of the Orthlundyn against the right wing of the Morlider, the army as a whole was far from defeated. Indeed, he noted that the Morlider's left wing was beginning to wheel round to outflank the Orthlundyn and, of more immediate danger, the archers from the left flank were running along the line.
In addition, small groups of Morlider were beginning to break ranks and attack the small cavalry contingent guarding the right flank of the phalanx.
These were not unexpected manoeuvres, but Isloman came to Hawklan's side anxiously.
Hawklan raised a hand before he could speak. ‘Loman's seen it,’ he said. ‘Look.'
As he pointed, part of the cavalry broke off from the destruction of the Morlider's right wing, and began galloping to intercept the approaching archers and to relieve their companions protecting the phalanx's right flank.
Without thinking, Hawklan drew off his mailed glove and wiped his brow. His fingers glistened with perspiration and he looked again at the two Cadwanwr. Andawyr seemed unchanged, sitting motionless on his horse, his arms still extended. His oval, battered face was quiet and oddly dignified, but Hawklan could sense a terrible strain in the man. It was as if he were facing a great wind that no other could feel. Atelon, on the other hand, was wilting visibly.
Hawklan reached out and taking Atelon's hand, thrust the black sword into it. ‘Feel the spirit that used the Old Power to make this blade, Cadwanwr,’ he said. ‘It will unmake Creost's vile abuses and hurl him back into oblivion if you will it.'
Atelon made no response, but slowly straightened. Gently, Hawklan took the sword from his hand and sheathed it.
He looked again at the distant figure of Creost.
'Dacu,’ he said. The Goraidin eased his horse forward. ‘Can we get out there and attack him directly.'
'No,’ replied a familiar deep voice emphatically. Dar-volci emerged from Andawyr's stout coat. ‘His Power is divided. It assaults you and it holds the islands. If you threaten him with death—and you could—he might let slip the islands and destroy you and all these in his e
xtremity.'
Hawklan opened his mouth to speak, but Dar-volci had retreated into Andawyr's coat again.
Dacu finished the idea. ‘We could only reach him by boat, and there's too many people still in that camp for us to do that,’ he said. ‘We'd better leave him to Andawyr and concentrate on what we know about.’ He pointed to the battle.
The Morlider left wing was moving purposefully round, its pikemen maintaining a disciplined formation. The archers had spread out, making themselves difficult targets for the volley fire which had destroyed the others. The cavalry however had succeeded in fighting back the assault on the right flank of the phalanx, though the Morlider who had abandoned that assault were now acting as shield bearers to the archers. More numerous than the cavalry, the archers were gradually easing forward and would soon pose a threat to the phalanx.
Suddenly, a brilliant light lit the whole battlefield, glaring white off the snow and transforming the dark mass of the two armies into grey smudges. Then it was gone and in its wake came a terrible thunder clap. Though there were no mountains or cliffs nearby, the sound seemed reluctant to fade, rattling and echoing to and fro across the sky like a trapped and frenzied animal.
All started violently at this din save Andawyr and Atelon, though Atelon turned to look up with consternation on his face. Andawyr merely nodded his head in the direction of their lone enemy.
The Helyadin were struggling to control their horses and even Serian was showing signs of alarm. ‘That wasn't thunder,’ he cried.
'No, it was someone else's battle I fear,’ Hawklan replied, leaning forward and patting his neck. ‘But it's done us no favours.'
Nor had it. Their horses frightened by the lights and the noise, the cavalry were in some considerable disorder while the Morlider archers had recovered quickly and were using the confusion to advance rapidly.
The Morlider left wing too was closing round inexorably.
Suddenly a hand grabbed Hawklan's arm and twisted him round. It was Dacu. He was pointing to a group of about fifty riders galloping round the Morlider's left wing.
