by Roger Taylor
The Lords seemed disturbed by this display of emotion from their Goraidin, but Loman nodded and looking round again, smiled. ‘Your people carry your ancient flag too, Goraidin. The Iron Ring on a red field. And the Muster have the flags of their houses.’ He winked. ‘And the flags of their cousins, and cousins’ cousins,’ he whispered.
Yengar's sourness faded before Loman's light touch and he laughed a little. ‘But no flag from Orthlund,’ he said.
Loman smiled and shrugged. ‘We never got round to it,’ he said. ‘We're not soldiers really. We'll ride to His flag and kill anyone who stands in the way.'
Yengar laughed out loud, then stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes briefly. ‘The ground,’ he said. ‘The ground a few hundred paces in front of their line. It's been disturbed and they've tried to cover it up I'm sure. There's something wrong there. Yes—definitely.'
'Pits, trenches, to stop the cavalry?’ Loman offered.
Yengar shook his head. ‘It could be, but I don't think so,’ he said. ‘The rock's very near the surface here. We found it difficult to cut good observation trenches, that's why we couldn't get too near.’ He gathered up his reins. ‘I'll see if we can get closer. Don't send anyone in until you hear from us.'
Loman nodded and Yengar galloped off.
'Good advice, I think, Lords,’ Loman said to his companions. ‘Shall we continue slowly?'
The great line clattered into motion again.
'No changes of heart about our tactics, Lords?’ Loman asked as they rode forward.
All four shook their heads. ‘More than ever, we're right,’ Hreldar said. ‘From what we've seen of the Mandrocs I can't see them yielding until they've been utterly crushed. And against that number we'll have to crush them quickly if they're not going to curl round and envelop us.'
Loman looked up into the rain. The sky overhead was grey and lowering.
Is there enough water there to wash away the blood that must be spilt today? he thought. Hawklan, Andawyr, in the name of pity, stop this if you can. I want to get back to my forge and my true life.
It was the only time that day that Loman allowed his thoughts such a longing departure from the field.
'What's Yengar doing?’ Arinndier asked, peering into the distance.
Loman wiped the rain off his face and followed the Lord's pointing hand. He had presumed that Yengar would fade quietly into the landscape to rejoin his colleagues in some secret observation post, but the Goraidin was trotting straight towards the enemy's centre.
Loman turned and signalled urgently to Oslang. The Cadwanwr broke ranks and galloped forward.
'Protect him,’ Loman said pointing towards the distant figure of Yengar.
Oslang opened his mouth to speak.
'He'll take his chance against arrows and swords,’ Loman said urgently. ‘But protect him from the Uhriel. It's important.'
As he spoke, Yengar halted some way in front of the great horde. The allies’ army continued to move relentlessly forward.
Yengar drew his sword, made a sweeping ceremonial salute, and began to parade up and down in front of the enemy. The rumble of distant voices began to make itself heard over the footsteps and rattling tackle of the advancing army.
'I don't believe it,’ Arinndier exclaimed. ‘He's doing a formal sword drill.'
As they watched, Yengar continued brandishing his sword and moving his horse to and fro: cut to the left, to the right, change hands, repeat, protect the head, protect the flank, change hands again, swing low out of the saddle to take a fallen weapon, to the right, to the left, on and on, the manoeuvres becoming progressively more complex and faster. The horse too twisted and turned, as it galloped round and round in increasingly wider patterns. Then, with the horse rearing, he hurled the sword into the air several times, each higher than the last, finally sending it up in a great spinning arc, and galloping beneath to catch it as it tumbled back down.
It was an impressive display and an involuntary cheer went up from those in the army who could see what was happening.
Yengar completed his performance with another ceremonial bow to the enemy, backing his horse away as courtesy dictated.
There was no response from the Mandroc army other than what appeared to be jeers and cries of abuse but, as Yengar finally turned to leave, Oklar raised a hand towards him. Loman became aware of Oslang beside him breathing deeply.
Yengar's horse suddenly tumbled, throwing him. The Goraidin rolled over several times and lay still. The sound of a distant triumphant roar reached the advancing army and there was a brief but perceptible surge in the enemy ranks. Oslang winced as if he had been struck, then he swore and, closing his eyes, extended both arms with his hands palm upwards. It was a gentle, open gesture, but Loman sensed the power being released next to him and found himself holding his breath.
Then he saw Oklar clearly. The Uhriel's horse reared, and Oklar himself raised a hand suddenly as if to protect himself from an unexpected blow. Yengar's horse struggled to its feet and began running away from the enemy. As it passed the motionless form of the Goraidin, Yengar surged up and began to run alongside it. For a moment, he seemed to be struggling for a grip, then he bounced twice off the sodden ground and swung up into the saddle.
As Yengar galloped a zig-zag course away from him at full speed, Oklar regained control of his mount, but he did not seem inclined to resume his assault on the fleeing Goraidin.
Loman looked at Oslang.
'He may have been bound at Vakloss, but he's bound no more,’ Oslang said, squeezing his palms together as though in pain. ‘And he's angry now. He didn't expect to be so accurately thwarted in his petty spleen.’ The Cadwanwr scowled. ‘I presume that was done for a good reason, Loman, but send no more out on such antics,’ he concluded. ‘The cost of protecting them is too high, and they'll learn too much about us. I must return to the others now. The assault will begin in earnest soon I fear.'
'It was for a good reason, Oslang,’ Loman said quietly. ‘Thank you for what you did.'
Yengar did not return directly but seemingly fell exhausted from his horse near an advanced group of skirmishers who ran to tend to him. Eldric started forward, but Loman stopped him. ‘He's all right,’ he said. ‘He's found something and he doesn't want to be seen bringing it directly to us.'
The army moved on, and the rumble of the Mandrocs grew louder and louder. Gradually, the familiar ‘Amrahl, Amrahl', began to punctuate the noise at regular intervals.
After a while, Yengar, on a different mount, emerged casually from the ranks alongside a messenger and rode up to Loman.
He was still trembling.
'That was bravely done,’ Loman said. ‘But you owe your life to Oslang as well as to your horse and your wits. Thank him when you see him.'
'I will,’ Yengar replied. ‘It's Oklar's touch that's still making me shake. It was appalling. I've never been so frightened.’ He shuddered. ‘Then someone ... something ... lifted it from me like a spring breeze. I'm sorry if it's caused problems but I couldn't think of anything else to do. We couldn't get closer and I needed to see that ground. To be honest, I didn't think he'd bother to attack one foolish posturing soldier.'
'Never mind,’ Loman said. ‘What did you find?'
A few minutes later, after some coming and going of riders, the four Lords, their red cloaks resplendent even in the grey rain, were galloping to their respective units.
The chanting, with its periodic responses of, ‘Amrahl, Amrahl', grew louder and louder, and a rhythmic accompaniment of stamping feet and swords banged against shields began to complement it. It was a prodigious, intimidating noise.
Loman grimaced then leaned over to one of his messengers and asked him a question. When the man answered, Loman motioned him towards the swaying mass of pikes following behind. The messenger galloped over to the nearest company leader.
Very soon the sound of the Fyordyn's Emin Rithid rose up to oppose the Mandroc's rumbling paean. It spread rapidly through the ranks and the pace dru
mmers began to beat a determined tattoo about its imposing rhythm. As it reached the flanking and rearguard cavalry, the sound of the Muster's horns joined it in a sonorous counterpoint.
The length of the line meant that those near the flanks were singing well behind those at the centre, but the sound was massive and stirring and as it washed to and fro along the line like a great wave, Loman smiled.
'Gavor, my old tormentor, wherever you are,’ he said to himself. ‘You would appreciate this piece of theatre.’ Then, more darkly, ‘And the one that's about to follow, if we can do it right.'
For, just as Oklar had sought to destroy the Fyordyn High Guards by fire, so now he intended to destroy the allies.
He had failed in Fyorlund because of the discipline of his enemy. Now, one brave man out of the thousands on that plain had perhaps seen his scheme.
Steadily, the army drew nearer to Sumeral's waiting horde, and Oklar's fearful trap. Loman watched the skirmishers slowly falling back as he had ordered.
Then, the time was right.
Loman sent a signal down the line, and with a great shout, a section of the Lords’ cavalry began to gallop forward raggedly.
The chanting from the Mandrocs rose in anticipation as the noisy charge gathered momentum, but as the two leading riders reached the area where Yengar had performed his spectacular reconnaissance, they turned away suddenly and each threw something in the general direction of the enemy.
As the two objects landed, they burst into flames. But the two riders saw nothing; they, along with their companions, were galloping back to the lines desperately.
Loman saw Oklar raise his hand, but he was too late. Almost immediately the whole area was engulfed by a roaring white sheet of flame.
Involuntarily the entire allied army halted and took several paces backwards with a precision that no Drill Sirshiant could ever have inculcated.
Somehow, Loman managed to control his startled horse, though he found himself gaping as he stared up at the huge fiery wall that was tearing through the ground between the two armies. He looked from side to side and saw the flames were spreading along the entire length of the two armies.
Had they continued to advance, the whole army would have been utterly and horribly destroyed in the conflagration.
A vision of his forge back in Pedhavin came to him vividly; of times when in thoughtless absorption he had set his hand to metal just cooled below red heat. Even at this distance from the flames, the heat beat on his face appallingly. He had heard of the blazing destruction of the warehouse at Vakloss, but had taken tales of the escapade with some scepticism. Now however ...
Something dark stirred deep within him.
Turning quietly to the wide-eyed signaller at his side, he sent a single message to every company. ‘See the true nature of our enemy. His device has failed through our knowledge of the ways of His servants. Now He has only wild numbers, bathed in ignorance, to fight for His corruption, while we have discipline, skill and knowledge, to fight for our simple right to be. Look to one another today and light be with you all.'
Then, the army, hidden from the enemy by Oklar's own massive wall of fire, turned and began marching quickly to the left, while the High Guards’ cavalry and some of the Muster trotted to the right.
Loman smiled broadly as the two riders who had ignited the trap fell in beside him. ‘You're becoming rarely gifted incendiaries,’ he said, shouting a little to make himself heard over the din of the roaring flames.
'I doubt there'll be much call for such skills when this is over,’ Fel-Astian replied.
'Nor for many of the skills we've re-learned of late,’ Loman agreed. ‘But it doesn't alter their value. Still, this is no place for debate. How long is this going to last?'
Idrace glanced up at the flames, his eyes screwed tight against their brightness. ‘They're dropping already,’ he said. ‘I'd say start preparing to move when they're about pike height.’ He raised a cautionary finger. ‘This is no ordinary fire, Loman,’ he went on. ‘At the end the flames will flicker out very quickly. You must be ready. Don't be too concerned about the temperature underfoot, this stuff burns to nothing. It leaves little ash or residue, and the ground won't be as hot as you'd imagine.'
As the flames gradually fell, Loman eyed them carefully and then turned the army forward to advance straight across them, though not without some trepidation. Idrace's comments about the flames however, proved accurate and, almost incongruously, the terrible blazing barrier suddenly disappeared. The flames did not gutter into leisurely extinction like a spent bonfire, but parted from the ground and rose into the air as they finally died, so that for a moment a low, blazing cloud hovered between the two armies.
The hissing of the rain falling on to the warm rock rose up to fill the strange silence that followed the roaring of the flames, and a low dense mist formed over the blighted area.
Slowly the sounds of the moving army began to dominate once more; the resolute tapping of the pace drummers, the clatter of thousands of silently marching people. Then, from the left came the horn calls that Loman had been anticipating, and several squadrons of the Muster slowly began to advance towards the enemy's right flank cavalry.
The phalanx infantry lowered their pikes into attack position and increased their speed to a fast walk.
Very rapidly, the Muster gathered speed and their battle cries began.
Loman glanced to the right to confirm that the Muster and the Lords’ cavalry were also advancing. As he watched they began to move into close column formation.
Loman rode along the ranks to join his own squadron of Helyadin and Goraidin.
His decree had been that the enemy was to be crushed as quickly and totally as possible, and the Mathidrin cavalry guarding the right flank found themselves facing superior numbers, superior skills and pitiless intent as the unbroken wall of Urthryn's squadrons came towards them at full gallop with lances levelled and in almost parade ground order. Ahead of them, the air filled with the roaring of the men and the terrifying ululating cries of the women.
Such a sight was it, that the rout of the Mathidrin began even before contact was made; the few that had the courage to remain being eventually carried away by their wiser horses.
Those who survived the first, terrible, impact were cut down in the ensuing mêlée or fled blindly through and over the ranks of infantry they were supposed to be protecting. The Muster began its retribution for the drowning of its kin with awesome, vengeful, and bloody relish.
At the same time, the serried rows of glittering and unyielding pikes struck into the mass of Mandrocs and men that formed the enemy's right wing, sweeping aside the disordered pike lines that faced them and driving the surviving front ranks backwards in panic.
'Oklar put too much faith in his fire wall,’ Yengar said, leaning across to Loman. ‘Their fervour fades a little against such opposition.'
Loman nodded, but even as he watched this initial success, he felt the ground shake ominously. Then a feverish warmth passed through him and he began to gasp desperately as the air in his lungs seemed to be torn out of him.
From the attack in Riddin, he recognized the hand of the Uhriel in the attack and knew that he could do nothing about it. For a moment he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, and he began to scream in terror and impotent rage, though no sound reached his lips. Around him he could see the others suffering similarly.
Then there was an uneasy stillness, and he could feel his body being fought over by other wills. Slowly and fitfully the fearful sensation passed away and, as he recovered, his gaze was drawn to Oslang and the Cadwanwr. They were standing motionless. He galloped across to them.
'Can you hold them?’ he shouted to Oslang above the din of the fighting.
Oslang turned to him, his eyes distant. He nodded slightly. Loman wanted to say more, but felt again his impotence in this battle within a battle. ‘Fight the army, Loman,’ Oslang said as if reading his mind. His voice was faint, but not weak
.
As Loman turned to leave, Oslang spoke again. Loman had to lean forward to catch the words. ‘They are here,’ the Cadwanwr said. ‘The Guardians. Such consciousness as they have, is with us. Go now.’ There was great strain in his voice, but also an unusual strength—triumph almost.
Loman seized a nearby messenger. ‘Send to all the companies that the Uhriel are held and that the Guardians are among us.'
He returned to his companions and looked at the damage that had been wrought by the Uhriel's attack. It was considerable. The phalanx had lost some of its cohesion and had been broken at two points. He could see frantic hand-to-hand combat occurring as the infantry sought to beat back the incursion. The Muster too had been disarrayed by the attack and though they had not broken off contact, their advance had slowed considerably and they were beginning to suffer casualties in the mud-spattered mêlée where their mobility and power were less effective.
Break off, Urthryn, he thought. Pull back and use your archers against their infantry. We can't match them blow for blow.
The thought turned him to his right where the cavalry should have been assailing the enemy's left wing with arrow storms to prevent them moving round and surrounding the attacking infantry. But they too had been thrown into confusion by the Uhriel's brief attack and though they were recovering quickly, they themselves were being threatened by the huge mass of the now advancing left wing.
As he watched, the fear that had haunted Loman ever since the first Mandroc attacks on their night camps, returned to him in full vigour.
It was only by turning the momentum of a large army against itself that a smaller one could hope to prevail. And yet while the discipline of the Mandrocs was less even than that of the Morlider, and the slaughter that they were suffering would have broken a normal army and sent them crashing over one another in rout, this was not happening. Certainly, sections of them were panicking and turning to flee through their own, but the majority were standing their ground. They would have to be cut down one at a time—and they took some killing.
Loman felt the strange stirring deep within him again.
