by Roger Taylor
'A large part of their cavalry, I suspect,’ Dacu said. ‘And not coming to discuss a truce by the look of it,’ he added, as the riders turned and headed directly towards the Helyadin.
'Striking to the heart of the enemy, as they think,’ Hawklan said, nodding in agreement.
'Or as they know,’ Dacu said, looking significantly at the Cadwanwr.
Hawklan felt an ancient force stirring inside him. He singled out some of the Helyadin. ‘Tybek, Jenna, you ... six, stay here,’ he said. ‘Protect Andawyr and Atelon at all costs. If things turn against us, get them to Fyorlund as we've arranged. The rest of you, come with me.’ Then turning Serian before Dacu could speak his inevitable protest, he took up two of the lances that had been stuck into the ground nearby in readiness for any defensive action the Helyadin might have to take. ‘Line abreast, then into wedge formation just before we hit them,’ he shouted.
Serian reared up without any apparent command, and started towards the advancing riders. Dacu hesitated for a moment, then Isloman galloped past him on one side and a lance was thrust into his hand from the other.
'Come on, Goraidin,’ shouted Yrain. ‘Shift yourself. He's going to get himself slaughtered.’ And with a yell she was off after Isloman and Hawklan.
Hawklan's brief tactical instructions were only partially successful. Though barely seconds behind him, Dacu and the Helyadin could not hope to match the speed of the great Muster horse as it thundered towards the approaching Morlider at full gallop.
To the few in the marching Morlider ranks who lifted their eyes briefly from the figures in front of them, it seemed that Hawklan, galloping on alone, his cloak streaming, and his great horse wild-eyed and pounding, was like a boulder crashing down a mountainside, while behind came the avalanche; Dacu, Isloman and the Helyadin, in a wide ragged line, shouting and screaming, with the polished points of their lances cold and final in the Riddin snowlight.
The advancing Morlider horsemen, in loose formation, saw the tumult coming but did not waver. Instead, four of them split off to deal with this black-helmed apparition, charging at it in defiant echo of its challenge. The Morlider understood the berserk fighter.
But though Hawklan had the all-consuming fury of the berserker, it was guided by his cold inner vision that saw always the true need, and thus it was that the first two Morlider who met him were not impaled on the shining lances from Anderras Darion, but unhorsed.
Seeming to have selected the two riders on the left for his first assault, Hawklan swerved Serian at the last moment to attack the two in the centre. Surprised by the suddenness of this manoeuvre, both riders flinched away from the inexorability of Hawklan's driving lances only to find their points passing narrowly by and the shafts guiding them effortlessly out of their saddles. Both men fell heavily.
Dacu felt himself gasp at the sight of this superlative fighting technique and even as it happened, the memory returned to him vividly of Hawklan galloping through the sunlight to unseat the demented Ordan Fainson on their flight from Vakloss.
Briefly he felt the ambivalence of motives in Hawklan's actions; not to kill, through caring and compassion; not to kill, to burden the enemy with wounded. He swept the thoughts aside as the Helyadin moved into their wedge formation. Such choices were not his. Hawklan's skills were as far from his as were his from the average High Guard; here he needed all his own just to survive, and a mind elsewhere would see him killed. Part of him however marvelled again as at the edge of his vision he saw Hawklan beat down an attacking sword with his lance, then bring it up to strike his assailant under the chin, unseating him.
Dacu closed with his chosen target but, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he swung the point of his lance away suddenly and swung the aft end round to strike him in the face. As the Helyadin struck the Morlider, Hawklan was swinging his lance around to deliver a ringing blow to the head of the fourth rider who was struggling to turn his horse to face this explosive assault. The man tumbled out of his saddle, stunned, but a fifth rider joining the fray was less fortunate; Hawklan drove the aft point of his lance into his throat. As the Morlider crashed, choking, into the snow, Hawklan turned with a great roar to the entangled mass of fighting riders.
The initial charge by the Helyadin had killed several of the Morlider and injured or unhorsed several others. It had not, however, scattered the attackers and, lances having been discarded, swords, axes and clubs were being used in savage close-quarter fighting.
The Helyadin's greater skills, both in riding and fighting, were prevailing against the Morlider's numbers and brute power, but barely, and it was obvious that the Morlider were neither going to yield nor flee.
With one lance, Hawklan impaled an axe-wielding giant who though badly hurt and on foot was about to hamstring Isloman's horse. The second lance he drove into the ground between the legs of a horse to bring it down. Its rider, however, rolled as he fell and, coming upright almost immediately, ran forward as if to drag Hawklan from his saddle. Serian hit him broadside, but it took a powerful kick from Hawklan to end his part in the skirmish.
Hawklan drew his sword and urged Serian into the middle of the mêlée.
No sooner had he done so than he found himself in another place.
* * *
Chapter 18
'In the name of pity, Hawklan, help us!'
The voice was that of Ynar Aesgin. It rang in Hawklan's head and possessed his body, though the images in his eyes were still those of the Helyadin and Morlider locked in savage and bloody combat about him.
A great rage and fear surged through him.
'What have you done?’ he roared, though no sound was heard in Riddin. ‘Release me. I will die here, or others will die protecting my helplessness. Release me!'
'This is not my doing,’ came the reply.
'Release me!'
'I do not bind you, neither can I release you,’ said Ynar. ‘Would I had such skills at my command, I'd have sought you before this extremity.'
Faint and distant voices impinged on Hawklan, calling his name frantically as the images of his friends battling the Morlider around his helpless frame came before him with fearful clarity. An ancient part of his mind struggled desperately for release, but none came.
'Help us, Hawklan,’ intruded Ynar again. ‘Hendar Gornath understood the great truth of the sword you bear and he has held firm. The Soarers Tarran have repelled Dar Hastuin's terrible hordes ... at great cost ... but now he takes his tormented land to the higher paths ... He will crush us ... Destroy us utterly. Help us.'
The despair in the Drienwr's voice appalled Hawklan. ‘I cannot help you, Ynar,’ he cried.
'He will destroy us!'
'I cannot help you!'
Ynar's pain filled Hawklan. ‘What do you want of me?’ he cried.
'Your strength, your knowledge, your wisdom, to guide us.'
'If you understand the sword you are wiser than I am. You have what you need. Search your hearts.'
Ynar's despair did not abate.
'But tell us what to...'
Hawklan screamed. ‘Do what you must, Drienwr. I know nothing of your ways. You sought no conflict. You have the right to be. No one, no thing, can deny you that. Do...'
Ynar was gone.
The din of the battle broke over Hawklan deafeningly; Isloman's voice roaring his name, others screaming and shouting, swords and shields clashing.
He tightened his grip on the black sword but something struck his helm a ringing blow and the impact toppled him from Serian's back to leave him rolling in the cold damp snow beneath the flailing hooves of friend and foe alike.
A figure crashed down beside him, screaming and clutching a partly severed arm. The screaming stopped as a horse's hoof struck the man's head.
Hawklan rolled away to avoid the same fate and then, leaning on his sword, staggered to his feet and shook his head to still the roaring in his ears that the blow had left. A horse buffeted him, and only some ancient reflex twisted him away f
rom a descending sword blade. The same reflex cleared his vision and drove the black sword upwards under his attacker's chin then tore the blade free from the ghastly grip of the man's skull.
Then Serian was there, rearing and prancing to keep his foes away.
As Hawklan swung up into the saddle he gave a great howling cry of rage at his impotence before Ynar Aesgin's terrible agony. And then there was a brief frenzied whirl of movement. A single thrust of the sword killed a Morlider pressing Jaldaric; a high lashing kick from Serian smashed the thigh of another, and a whistling cut scythed through the shield of a third, leaving him unscathed but unmanned before the black-helmed vision of his death. His flight from the field drew the few surviving attackers after him like water from a fractured bowl.
The skirmish was ended.
'What happened to you?’ Isloman was wide-eyed as he took Hawklan's arm.
Hawklan released the grip gently and raised his hand to forbid any further questions. He looked around at his companions. They were a grim sight, bloodstained and steaming in the cold air, but they were all there even though some were injured. Their faces reflected Isloman's question.
'Later,’ he said, turning the Helyadin's gaze back to the battle with a nod of his head.
The Orthlundyn phalanx had turned and was driving along the Morlider line, but was coming under attack from the Morlider archers. The cavalry had withdrawn and was re-grouping, presumably with a view to attacking the Morlider archers before the circling left wing outflanked the phalanx. Once again, Hawklan felt the battle come to a balancing point. The Morlider were fearsome and brave fighters and, despite their dreadful losses, they were beginning to slow down the phalanx, even holding it in places, as some of wilder spirits among them actually seized the ends of the long pikes and hacked at them with swords and axes in an attempt to reach their foes.
Hawklan had no doubt that the phalanx would hold and that the mounted archers could do great harm to the approaching Morlider wing: but would it be enough? He sensed perhaps not; their position was becoming increasingly defensive. And, despite the considerable panic in certain places, the Morlider's mood seemed to have shifted from surprise and anger into indiscriminate battle fury. Thus fired and uncaring about their fate, their sheer weight of numbers could give them the day.
Would give them the day, if action was not taken.
He led the Helyadin back to Andawyr and the others. The Cadwanwr were still motionless, both now with arms extended, but it seemed to Hawklan that the unseen wind which buffeted them was taking a toll.
It came to him that if their conflict was not ended soon then Andawyr and Atelon must surely crumble, standing alone against this terrible Uhriel. Out on his solitary vessel, the sinister figure of Creost stood, equally motionless.
Hawklan frowned as his gaze took in two approaching ships. Reinforcements, he thought.
He looked again at the disposition of the Orthlundyn forces. He could have done no better, he saw. Loman's command had been sound and shrewd but ...
Reinforcements! What other forces still lay on those distant islands?
A horse-pulled sled galloped past, swaying ominously. It was one of several that the Orthlundyn had made for carrying supplies about the battlefield, and it was stacked high with bundles of arrows. Riding the horse was a young boy.
Drawn from his thoughts by the sled's seemingly reckless progress, Hawklan pointed.
'Who ... ?’ he began.
'He's from the village,’ said one of the Helyadin. ‘Fendryc's village. There's a few knocking about. They just turned up and started helping with the horses.'
Hawklan swore. The Riddin village with its population of the too old and the too young left to tend the surrounding farms! The Riddinvolk had thrown their every able resource into meeting this enemy. Now even the frail were stepping forward.
How could he do less? Now, more clearly than ever he saw that he too must commit his last resource to try to tilt this battle if the Morlider were bringing in reinforcements.
He set the calculation aside, and his resolve, buried by the sudden burden of Ynar Aesgin's fears, reasserted itself.
Turning to the Helyadin he said quietly, ‘String your bows, friends. We're going to stop that Morlider left wing.'
Despite himself, Isloman expressed the immediate response of the group. ‘It's not possible,’ he said, his voice full of alarm. ‘There's not remotely enough of us.'
Hawklan looked at him for a long moment and then smiled. ‘Since when is the possible so easily measured, carver?’ he asked. Then he patted Isloman's arm affectionately. ‘Tirke, Athyr, keep our quivers filled. We've a battle to win.'
Turning Serian, he began walking towards the ordered ranks of advancing Morlider. Except for those trusted with the protection of the two Cadwanwr, the others rode after him.
As they moved forward, Hawklan glanced upwards. The sky had been silent since the lights and thunder that had panicked the cavalry, but as he looked at the grey, mottled clouds he felt a strange sense of foreboding.
What extremity had the Drienwr been in to have reached out, unknowing, to seize him thus? He remembered how Andawyr had appeared before him as he sat drowsing in the library at Anderras Darion and in that dusty sunlit storeroom in Vakloss. But here he had been about to enter battle.
He set the questions aside. If even Andawyr did not truly understand how such things had happened, how could anyone else? But still the foreboding persisted and the lingering regret that perhaps yet again he had turned away the Drienvolk when they had sought his aid. That he could have done no other in such circumstances offered him little consolation.
'Here,’ he said, reining Serian to a halt. ‘Dismount. Line abreast. Pick your targets and take your time. If they break and charge us, maintain your aimed fire into the leading ranks until my command, then remount and move down line.'
The Helyadin obeyed Hawklan's order in silence, and their flimsy line stretched itself out in front of the dark mass of the Morlider and their waving pikes with the easy leisure of companions about to enjoy an afternoon's friendly archery practice.
Their assault did not have the immediate morale-breaking impact of the massed volleys that had shattered the Morlider's flank guards, but the Helyadin were expert shots and almost every arrow struck its target. Very soon a length of the approaching wing was in complete disarray.
Eventually, as Hawklan had envisaged, a section of the assailed infantry began to charge forward in desperate fury in an attempt to end this peculiarly dreadful attack.
He watched them come. ‘Keep firing,’ he said unhurriedly. ‘Take your time. Three more shots at least. Aim for those still holding their stations.'
Nearer.
'One more.'
Nearer.
'Mount up.'
And the Helyadin were gone, leaving the charging Morlider to hurl axes, swords, and abuse after them with equal futility.
Twice more the group reformed and attacked the relentlessly advancing line, doing great harm.
As they pulled away for the third time, Hawklan looked at the frayed and straggling line that had marked their assault.
It was not enough. The whole wing had slowed a little as a result of the attack, but much of it was still intact. The Helyadin's attack was having an effect quite disproportionate to their numbers, but they were still very few.
For the first time that day, Hawklan's mind turned to Agreth. A single Muster squadron could smash the unprotected flanks and rear of the Morlider line.
Had the Riddinwr reached an outpost that might carry his news swiftly south? Had he been able to draw away the Muster from whatever treachery had led them there? Despite himself, Hawklan found his eyes looking to the misty horizon in the hope of seeing the quivering movement that would be riders approaching.
But all was still.
'Riders.’ The urgent voice was Dacu's. Hawklan took in a sharp expectant breath. But Dacu was not pointing to the horizon, he was pointing to another grou
p of riders emerging from behind the Morlider line. Fewer than before, but galloping again towards the Cadwanwr and their small guard.
Still attacking the heart, Agrasson, Hawklan thought.
Quickly he dispatched half the Helyadin to intercept them. ‘Don't close with them,’ he shouted. ‘Shoot the horses, then the men. I want no survivors. Then get back here as quickly...'
His orders froze in his throat as the foreboding he had felt before suddenly returned, though far worse, doubling and redoubling, as if a great power were descending from above to crush the whole loathsome field and all on it.
Then the sky ignited.
A dazzling incandescence flooded the two armies and the snow-covered arena with a light so bright that it seemed that no matter could stay its flow sufficiently to cast a shadow.
Yet even as hands rose to cover tormented eyes, there came a noise that swept such concerns into nothingness. It filled the sky and enfolded the battling peoples in an embrace so powerful that not one there could hear his own screams. The swaying lines of pikes wavered and fell like corn before hail as Morlider and Orthlundyn alike tumbled to the ground vainly trying to avoid this overpowering and terrifying onslaught.
Hawklan fell forward and clasped his arms around Serian's neck. Faint but sure, an inner light held firm amid the tumult within him and showed him that now above all times, the outcome of this battle lay in his hands.
He tightened his grip around Serian's neck. His voice would not be heard, but the healer in him would reach the horse.
'Hold, Serian,’ it said. ‘Listen to the sires within you who know me and who know the truth. This is the doom of another world not ours. Who rises first from this, carries the day.'
The great horse reared and screamed unheard as its spirit fought against the fears that would have its body flee from this horror, but Hawklan entered into it and for a timeless moment the two sustained each other, moving beyond the light and the noise.
Then, as the dreadful brilliance lessened and became a shifting, ghastly, bloodstained iridescence, and the sound dwindled into a cascade of tumbling thunderclaps, Hawklan leapt down from Serian.
