Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'Quiet your own, before they recover their wits enough to flee,’ he shouted, then he ran among the stunned Helyadin, dragging them to their feet, staring into shocked eyes, slapping faces, thrusting unsteady forms on to equally unsteady horses, and roaring his will at all of them.

  Two others were doing the same, he noted. One was Isloman; the great carver, though patently terrified, was unceremoniously dumping the Helyadin into their saddles. The second was Dacu. Fleetingly the memory returned to Hawklan of the great silence that had awakened him in the mountains and how it had so moved the Goraidin. ‘A gift to guide me forever,’ he had said. The memory eased his own pain in some way.

  'Through the archers and rally the phalanx!’ he shouted to the two men, signalling at the same time.

  Both acknowledged his cry and mounted their own horses.

  Hawklan spun Serian round in front of the recovering group and drew the black sword. He was an ominous figure, cutting as starkly into the minds of his shaken troops as he did through the baleful, shifting, red light still pouring from the blazing sky.

  'To me, Helyadin, to me!’ he shouted, his voice still lost in the dying din from above, but his meaning unmistakable. The Helyadin started forward, first at the trot then at the gallop, as their leader drew them forward and as the rhythm of their movement began to displace the terrible possession of the noise.

  As they rose, Hawklan's own vision cleared. The Morlider who had been riding to attack Andawyr were scattered, most of them unhorsed by their panicking mounts, but so too were the Orthlundyn cavalry. The great blocks of infantry, both Orthlundyn and Morlider, were motionless.

  He could not bring himself to look up, as if fearing to see some awful livid wound torn into the very fabric of the sky. Whatever had come to pass in the Drienvolk's conflict, this battle here had to be won, and Creost defeated.

  The thought took his gaze briefly to Andawyr and Atelon and thence to the Uhriel. Though their bodyguards were gone, both the Cadwanwr were seemingly unmoved by the happenings around them, as was the distant figure of Creost, still jagged and awful in Hawklan's sight.

  At the edge of his vision, he saw the two ships bearing reinforcements for the Morlider. In the eerie stillness of the fallen armies and the whirling confusion of the demented horses, the smooth purposeful movement of the two vessels seemed strangely grotesque.

  Soon the enemy's reinforcements would be ashore.

  Then the Helyadin were crashing through and over the Morlider archers, swords rising and falling, arcing red in the reflected cloud light and the blood of their hapless enemy. The swathe they cut, however, caused no great panic as most were too occupied with the terrors still shaking the sky above them.

  Nearing the Orthlundyn infantry, Hawklan saw that, like his brother, Loman, though unhorsed, had recovered quickly from the ordeal. The smith was running along the ranks of fallen and crouching figures as desperately as Hawklan had run amongst the Helyadin. Under his exhortations, individuals were rising to their feet and struggling to help their neighbours.

  'Spread out. Get these people moving,’ Hawklan thundered, leaping down from Serian at the run and dashing forward to join Loman.

  Then, as the infantry climbed up from its knees, he and the Helyadin were through to the broken front line of the Morlider, a thin strand of frenzied, hacking, skirmishers spreading out before the recovering Orthlundyn like a ripple presaging the arrival of a great wave.

  The rumbling above continued to fade but, as it did, so the Orthlundyn filled the incipient silence with their own thunder as once again they began their relentless advance.

  Hawklan and the Helyadin retreated through the phalanx and remounted.

  'We'll not re-form the cavalry,’ Dacu said anxiously. ‘There's hardly anyone mounted and the horses are scattered everywhere.'

  Hawklan did not answer immediately, but glanced quickly upwards. Through the residual rumbling, he thought he heard a thin, flesh-crawling screeching high above, but it disappeared under the mounting pandemonium of the battlefield and he dismissed it.

  He turned back to Dacu and his concerns. ‘Most of them have still got their bows,’ he said. ‘Get them guarding this flank, and skirmishing. Then do what you can with the horses; we need them.'

  As the Helyadin dispersed to execute this command, Hawklan turned and rode back towards Andawyr. On the way he passed the sled that the Riddin boy had driven by him so apparently recklessly but minutes ago. It had overturned and the horse was struggling white-eyed and foaming in its harness. Hawklan drew his sword and cut the animal free. Serian backed away as, with much kicking and stumbling, the terrified horse stood up.

  'Calm it, Serian,’ Hawklan said.

  'Tend your own, Hawklan,’ the horse replied with an inclination of his head towards the far side of the sled.

  Hawklan looked where Serian indicated and saw a small form lying in the snow. He dismounted quickly and ran to the boy, but even as he bent over him, he knew that the child was beyond any aid he could offer. From the impressions in the snow, it seemed that the sled had rolled over him when it overturned.

  A surge of memories swept through him. Memories of the children of Pedhavin, shouting, running, silently watching, as they played their eternally secret games about the winding sunlit streets of the village, and around the courtyards and halls of Anderras Darion. And somewhere was the glow from his own golden childhood in another age.

  He let the vision unfold without restraint until he found his vision blurring, then colder, adult needs made him lay it aside; though gently.

  The freed horse came and stood beside him. It lowered its head and touched the boy.

  'Not your fault,’ Hawklan said, stroking it. Then, to the boy, he whispered, ‘I'm sorry,’ very softly. ‘Fear no more.'

  Remounting Serian, he turned again towards the Cadwanwr. As Hawklan approached, Andawyr moved slightly as if he had been struck, and Hawklan felt again the choking warmth rising up inside him that had marked Creost's entry into the fray. He turned and looked over the battlefield.

  The right wing of the Morlider was being routed as its bewildered and shocked fighters struggled to escape the renewed advance of the Orthlundyn pikes. The left wing, disarrayed to some extent by the Helyadin's quiet but savage assault, had stopped its advance and was faltering in some confusion. Dacu and the Helyadin were rallying the broken cavalry to protect the Orthlundyn's vulnerable flank on foot.

  Hawklan felt both the exhilaration of the Orthlundyn and the terror of the fleeing Morlider. If the attack could be sustained, the Morlider would soon break utterly.

  Creost was acting now not to destroy his enemy, but to save his army! From somewhere, the Uhriel had found the resource to beat back the opposition that the two Cadwanwr had offered him. For a chilling moment, it occurred to Hawklan that perhaps this foul agent of Sumeral had only been toying with these irksome creatures that scuttled irritatingly about its feet.

  But the moment passed. The seizure of Riddin must surely be vital to Sumeral's strategy and while the fate of the Morlider army as men doubtless meant little to Creost, as a tool for implementing the will of Sumeral, it was well wrought and powerful, the work of many years; it would not lightly be broken and destroyed if it fell within its creator's remit to prevent it.

  'He would have destroyed half his army to destroy us!’ Atelon's shocked words came back to Hawklan vividly. Had there been any doubt in his mind about that first assault by Creost, there was none now. Better to lose half the army than all of it.

  Hawklan urged Serian forward. He knew nothing of the ways of the Old Power, but he knew that he was the chosen of the sword of Ethriss and that both he and the sword now belonged to the battle against Creost.

  The cloying warmth ebbed and flowed as he galloped through the snow to bring this aid to the struggling Cadwanwr.

  A quick glance showed him that the Helyadin bodyguard had recovered, but all, save two, had lost their horses. He jumped down from Serian and, drawing the
black sword, stepped forward to join Andawyr and Atelon.

  Looking out over the battlefield, he saw the figure of the Uhriel, now more disturbing than ever in the aura that surrounded it. Should he place the sword in Andawyr's hand as he had in Atelon's? Should he hold it in front of himself as he had when Oklar had stood revealed before him? No instinct guided him, though something drew his gaze down to the sword itself. As he looked at it, he saw the twining strands in the black depths of the hilt shining and flickering triumphantly as they wound their way through countless brilliant stars into some unknown, unimaginable, distance.

  A touch on his arm returned him to the field. It was Jenna, white-faced and shaking, but in control. She was pointing out to sea.

  One of the two ships bringing reinforcements was heading towards the shore. Hawklan could not make out how many were on board but the danger lay not necessarily in the quantity of troops but in their quality. Could these perhaps be an elite like the Goraidin and the Helyadin? Such a group, fast, powerful, determined, could turn this battle even now. But Jenna shook him and redirected his attention to the other ship.

  His eyes widened.

  Oars plunging into the waves at what must have been a body-wrenching rate for the rowers, the ship was heading at great speed towards the boat on which stood the malevolent figure of Creost.

  Then it struck.

  Its bow reared out of the water as it rode up over the smaller vessel, then it seemed almost to pause before crushing it under the waves as if it had been some child's toy. Hawklan saw the Uhriel hurled into the sea to be submerged as the rowers appeared to redouble their efforts and drove their ship over the splintering remains of the boat in a fury of thrashing destruction. Then, at the same frenzied pace, the ship turned towards the shore.

  Before Hawklan could even react, however, a great dome of water swelled up and burst under the stem of the retreating ship, upending it totally. Hawklan saw men tumbling out of the ship to fall into the sea under a hail of oars and tackle. Then the ship itself fell on them in a great cloud of spume and spray.

  He would have turned his face away from the horror of the sight, but a greater horror held him. Atop the crashing wave stood Creost, his rending presence tenfold what it had been. Instinctively, Hawklan raised the sword in front of himself.

  There was a cry from both Andawyr and Atelon; a cry of both pain and triumph.

  'We have you, demon!’ Andawyr cried out.

  Joining his triumphant shout came a terrible cry from the distant figure. A cry that Hawklan recognized; a cry that he had heard from the wounded Oklar. It filled him with the same nameless terrors, but he passed through them unmoved. The creature had been sorely hurt by some hand; now he must be destroyed. He felt dark forces of his own gathering within him.

  'The sword, Hawklan, the sword!’ It was Andawyr. His face was alive with both triumph and fear and Hawklan had the impression of a dazzling brilliance beneath the prosaic clothing as he had once before at the Gretmearc. ‘We've torn the islands from him. His army is lost but his rage in his agony may be far beyond our containing.'

  The Cadwanwr's words briefly disturbed Hawklan's terrible focus and he looked at him uncertainly, then at the distant islands. They seemed to be unchanged, but even as he watched, a ragged white began to blur their edges.

  Waves, Hawklan realized. Huge waves, to be seen at this distance. The long frustrated will of Enartion was asserting its ancient sway once more.

  Hawklan's purpose focused again, the clearer still for this new knowledge. With a cry he willed Serian forward at full gallop towards the still unbroken Morlider.

  As he neared them he pointed his sword towards the sea.

  'Look to your homes,’ he roared repeatedly, galloping along the line. ‘Creost is downed. Look to your homes.'

  Few heard him over the din of the battle, but to their knowing eyes the merest glance confirmed the truth of his words and the news sped through the ranks faster even than the galloping Serian.

  The Morlider army, ferocious and dangerous even in rout, was no more. Now the Riddin shore was filled with frightened men running desperately to reach the boats that alone could take them back to their lands.

  For a moment, Hawklan's heart ached at the pity of the transformation, but his mind did not turn, even briefly, from the true enemy on that field, and his dark, focused forces became a sinister battle fever.

  'Ho! Creost!’ he shouted. ‘Come. Face your destiny. Face the justice of the black sword of Ethriss for your crimes.'

  As he rode to and fro, wending his dangerous way through the fleeing crowd, and shouting his challenge, he thought he heard again a distant screeching high above but, when he looked up, nothing was to be seen other then the brightening sky and high circling sea birds.

  Some strange freak of the air carrying a dying creature's tormented cries, he thought. Yet it was a sound the like of which he had never heard before.

  He thrust it from him and returned to his search for Creost. Now he could feel the creature's presence all around him; but where was its heart?

  Then, abruptly, the crowd parted, and he was there; malevolence and rage pouring from him. Serian reared.

  Hawklan surveyed his foe, the true architect of this day's horror. The Uhriel was smaller and broader than Dan-Tor and his skin had a pallid lustre that reminded Hawklan of his own arm after it had been seized by the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Worse though, were his eyes. Cold, black, and dead they were, but far beyond Gavor's contemptuous epithet, fish-eyed. And, like Oklar, facing him at the Palace Gate in Vakloss, Creost seemed to intrude into this time and place with an appalling wrongness.

  Despite the crush of the fleeing Morlider, none stepped near their erstwhile leader. It was as if his raging aura would destroy any who came too near.

  Hawklan jumped down from Serian and walked towards him. Taking off his helm he stared, unblinking, into the Uhriel's eyes. At Vakloss there had been ignorance and doubt, but here was knowledge and certainty. Here, no debate was needed; this creature must die and this sword would kill him.

  Yet, even as he strode forward, Hawklan hesitated. The healer in him felt Creost's pain.

  'We have torn the islands from him!’ Andawyr had cried. Now Hawklan understood the consequences, if not the nature, of this ... victory. The Uhriel was indeed sorely hurt. Some part of it reached out to Hawklan and cried for rest and peace to recover from this pain.

  The warrior in him set aside the healer, gently. The hurt was of his own making, it said. He is still malevolent and powerful, perhaps more powerful in his intent towards us, than before. He is beyond all help. He must die.

  Hawklan gripped the black sword and strode forward.

  Creost did not move but, abruptly, Hawklan felt the awful warmth that had seized him before become a burning horror all over him.

  Creost's mouth opened to reveal a cavernous blackness as cold and dead as his eyes.

  'So you are the bearer of the heretic Ethriss's sword; the sender of arrogant messages, the one who would slay me.'

  The voice's withering contempt and certainty chilled Hawklan's heart even as he felt his body burning.

  'Whatever chance threw that bauble into your hand, did you an ill turn. See how you wilt at the least of my touches and see how your vaunted sword protects you. Now stand aside, I have true foes to seek and punish for this day's work.'

  'No,’ Hawklan managed to gasp out. ‘You will not pass me, Uhriel. You cannot pass me. I pinioned your loathsome soul-mate with a lesser weapon than this. You, I will kill for sure; for this day's work, and many others.'

  Still Creost did not move, but his black eyes seemed to expand. Though he made no sound, his demented fury screamed at Hawklan like a scarcely chained predator. He raised a pale hand towards his adversary. Hawklan forced his legs to move forward.

  'Hold, creature!'

  The Uhriel's gaze left Hawklan, and he felt his pain ease a little, though some power still held him back from his purpose.<
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  Andawyr came to his side. A pace behind him stood Atelon.

  Cadwanwr and Uhriel stared at one another in some unseen conflict of wills; a strange enclave of stillness in the midst of the whirling tide flowing across the battlefield.

  'Know this, pawn of the great Corrupter,’ Andawyr said, his voice powerful and clear even above the clamour of the fleeing Morlider. ‘While you slept, we waited. While you lay in the darkness, we searched in the light, and we learned. We are not the Cadwanwr of old, and you are not the Uhriel of old. Our knowledge and skill are greater by far and your vaunted Power is weaker by far. Turn from this awful road. Nothing but your doom lies at the end of it. He will deceive and desert you now, as He did aeons ago.'

  Hawklan felt the Uhriel's fury screaming and his own grew in unholy harmony with it.

  'You blaspheme, old man,’ Creost said, ‘And you misjudge both your skill and my Power grievously.'

  Then there were no more words. The Uhriel's fury burst forth to assail the Cadwanwr. Hawklan felt it swirl around him, but both Andawyr and Atelon stood unmoved.

  For a moment, Hawklan saw and understood the Cadwanwr's great skill. Even with Atelon's aid, Andawyr did not have the power of this awesome creature now that it was freed from the burden of the islands; but while Creost's fury ran unfettered and uncontrolled, his strength could be redirected against himself and his pain and injury made the worse.

  He saw too, however, that Andawyr could not kill this thing. That task was his alone.

  He took the sword in two hands and tried again to move forward, but still some force held him where he stood.

  He was a mote, held motionless in some terrible deadlock of wills and powers.

  Yet he was the mote that would tilt this great balance and topple the monstrous enemy.

  'I will not be bound,’ he roared, though no sound came from his mouth.

  But still he could not move forward; could not measure those few paces that would bring him within reach of the end of this horror.

  Then the screeching came again. Thin, skin-tearing, and frightful, it shimmered through Hawklan's resolve like a bright ringing crack in a fine glass.