by Roger Taylor
Almost immediately, others appeared. Athyr dis-missed them after their companions. Tirke found himself examining faces and counting, just as he knew Athyr would be. So near the end of this mission he found his fear rising almost uncontrollably. Four more left! Come on! Come on! Yet Athyr seemed quite calm.
The din in the camp was now considerable and there were signs of waking activity in the nearby tents. Shadowy figures were emerging everywhere.
Where in Sumeral’s name are you?
Tirke’s agonized but silent question was answered by angry voices and the clash of arms nearby. Athyr ran towards the sound and, without thinking, Tirke followed him. As they reached the aisle from which the noise had come, two figures emerged, one supporting the other. Behind them two others were walking backwards holding their swords double-handed and keeping a group of about six hesitant Morlider at bay. In the gloom beyond them, Tirke thought he saw two figures sprawled on the ground. That would account for the Morlider’s caution.
Athyr seized the free arm of the injured man and lifted it around his shoulder.
‘Run,’ he shouted unnecessarily, to his fellow bearer.
Tirke joined the two men forming the rearguard. Abruptly three of the Morlider disappeared behind a tent.
‘Watch your flanks,’ one of the Helyadin cried, fol-lowed immediately by the cry, ‘Run for it.’
Tirke and the other Helyadin needed no such in-junction and, turning, they dashed for the opening. A figure came briefly into the edge of Tirke’s vision and he lashed out at it wildly with his sword. The sword made contact with something and there was a cry of pain. Tirke did not pause in his flight; he suddenly had the impression that the entire Morlider army was being drawn towards him personally.
Outside the palisade, the ground sloped upwards slightly and the snow became increasingly deep, making both flight and chase awkward and lumbering. However, unburdened by any injured companions, the Morlider soon caught up with the retreating group. There was a brief untidy skirmish which left two Morlider bleeding and groaning in the snow, before they in their turn withdrew a little to surround the Helyadin comfortably beyond sword’s length.
Rather to his surprise, Tirke saw that there were in fact only about a dozen or so, and that not all were armed.
Without command, the Helyadin formed a circle.
‘Tend to your ships, Morlider,’ Athyr shouted, wav-ing his sword towards the now roaring flames, but the lure did not have the effect it had had before.
Instead, one of the Morlider threw a small axe. Its blade glittered briefly in the flickering light, and somehow, Athyr managed to strike it with his sword and destroy most of its momentum. It travelled on, however, to catch Tirke a glancing blow on the shoulder. The impact made him stagger forward and two or three of the Morlider started towards him. The pain of the blow broke through Tirke’s fear and released a darker creature. As he recovered his balance he took one hand from his sword hilt and drew a long knife. The attackers faltered, though it was as much the look on his face as the extra blade that made them hesitate.
Athyr glanced towards the camp. More Morlider were emerging; delay would be fatal. He hitched his injured companion into a more comfortable position then, speaking in the battle language, said, ‘Into the darkness.’
Abruptly the five men and their burden were run-ning through the hindering snow. The surrounding circle burst open as, surprised by Athyr’s alien com-mand and this unexpected charge, the Morlider scattered to avoid the slashing blades of the Helyadin. The surprise was only momentary, however, and a grim pursuit began again in earnest as yet more Morlider poured out of the camp.
Rage and terror mingled equally in Tirke as, gasping for breath, he forced his legs high to carry him through the deep snow and tried to keep near his companions in the deepening darkness that lay beyond the reach of the light from the blazing camp.
Very soon, however, he fell, almost bringing down a close pursuer. Turning as he fell he felt rather than saw a descending weapon. Some reflex twisted him from its path and he let out a startled cry. Loman gaped. It wasn’t possible. The column was here already?
As his attacker raised his weapon for a second blow, Tirke lashed out at him wildly with his sword. The blade raked across the man’s thighs and Tirke felt it scraping along bone. He looked at Hreldar’s Guards. They would take a toll, but they were very few, even in this narrow part of the valley. This was going to be bad if the reinforce-ments didn’t arrive soon.
He had a sudden vision of Loman patiently and caringly teaching him how to use a sharpening stone. The Morlider gave an agonized cry and hurled himself backwards in a frenzied and belated attempt to avoid his terrible injury. He motioned Atelon to follow him then drew his sword and rode forward. Hreldar galloped across to join them.
Tirke saw him rolling away frantically, still scream-ing, but he had little time to assimilate this scene, as he could also see Morlider closing in on him from all sides. He had a fleeting impression of his companions similarly assailed. As they reached the small line of pikemen and arch-ers there was another whistle from above and abruptly the column came into sight.
A blow from somewhere knocked the sword from his hand and he swung his knife in the general direction of this attack. He sensed a pair of legs leaping away, but in front of him appeared a looming figure lifting a spear high for a blow that must surely pass through him as easily as through the snow beneath him. It was cavalry, and moving fast.
In the instant that it took for the spear to reach its zenith, Tirke felt his body futilely bracing itself for the dreadful impact, and the welling up of a great surge of cringing terror inside him. Yet even as the terror took shape, another emotion rose up and twined around it like a strangling serpent; a consuming fury, blazing from who could say what fire in his soul. Somehow he would kill this man even as he died. The pikes came down and the archers drew their bows.
This resolve had scarcely begun to reach his hand when the shadow of his doom went staggering back-wards violently. The man took several flailing, unsteady paces and then crashed to the ground. Against the light of the blazing camp, Tirke saw him struggling to pull an arrow from his chest. After a moment he became still, though the arrow still swayed from side to side a little. Loman peered into the darkening light, his Orthlundyn sight searching desperately into the approaching mass.
Then Tirke realized that he was also watching the other Morlider running away. Suddenly he urged his horse forward.
He struggled into a sitting position and looked be-hind 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. ‘Put up your weapons!’ he shouted to the Guards. ‘Put up your weapons! It’s Fyndal and the others with the Muster.’
Relief almost as powerful as his terror overwhelmed him briefly and he found his legs were shaking violently as he staggered to his feet. Later, as the senior officers of the various armies gathered in one of the spartan rooms of the tower fortress, Loman found himself the butt of some considerable banter.
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. ‘A rare welcome, Orthlundyn,’ Urthryn said, laugh-ing as he settled into his chair. ‘We ride down the Pass of Elewart and all through southern Narsindal unhin-dered, to be greeted by our allies with archers and pikemen.’
‘Come on, Tirke,’ a voice said. ‘Shift yourself, you’re frightening the horses standing gaping like that.’ Loman raised his hands. ‘You have my surrender, Ffyrst,’ he announced. ‘But I’ll not apologize again. I’ve been doing it since you arrived. I see now that this is a barrack-room version of your Helangai; dragging the hapless defeated about from rider to rider.’
It was Jaldaric. Tirke looked at him vacantly for a moment and then, taking his proffered hand, swung up behind him clumsily. Urthryn laughed again, and slapped his legs. Loman saw Sylvriss’s features written in her
father’s.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, as Jaldaric clicked to the horse. ‘Peace, then, Loman,’ Urthryn said. ‘I’ll concede that when I saw your pikes waving in the gloom you gave me a rare fright. I thought that Dan-Tor had caught you napping and locked you in your own tower.’
Jaldaric paused. ‘Their tower,’ Loman corrected, nodding towards Eldric and the others.
Tirke looked back through the gently falling snow at the Helyadin’s handiwork. Urthryn made a dismissive gesture. ‘Still, I’d hate to think that our companions in this venture were so careless that they’d have let us arrive unnoticed.’
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. He became more pensive. ‘It was a good response, indeed,’ he said. ‘Events are moving so fast these past weeks. Good and bad. So many of my people killed by that… creature’s… treachery. My countrymen squabbling like children in their pain. A great battle fought to defend our soil and avenge our dead and us not there.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet, on the other hand, we travel that accursed Pass and through the enemy’s own land without hurt. My daughter rallies my people and then gallops off across the mountains to drop her foal in a Fyordyn farmhouse.’ He gave a sombre chuckle. ‘It’s like something out of one of our old tales.’
It was a grim, tormented sight, yet he knew it had been a good start to the night’s work. His face became serious and, leaning forward, he held out his hands, cupped as if to help someone into the saddle. ‘I accept my daughter’s decision without reservation, Loman,’ he said. ‘The Muster will ride at your command.’
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. Loman bowed.
‘Did everyone get back safely?’ he asked. Urthryn relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘If it’s possible I’d like to go to Vakloss and see my child and grandchild.’
‘Some injuries I think, but no one killed as far as I know,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘You and the others were the last out.’ ‘It isn’t possible, Ffyrst.’
Injuries. The word brought back to Tirke the mem-ory 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.’ Gulda spared Loman the decision. He gave her a surreptitious look of gratitude.
Tirke and Jaldaric watched as the cavalry caught up with the fleeing Morlider. There would be little wound-ing in that melee. ‘It’ll take too long for you to get to Vakloss and back,’ she said. ‘We know nothing of our enemy’s forces or intentions, but we do know that the three Uhriel are together in Narsindal again, and that Oklar’s force has been gone from here for some time. Sumeral will gain strength from delay; we’ll lose it. We must ride to meet Him as soon as the Muster and the army here can be integrated. That’s going to mean hard, detailed work. Work that can’t be done without you, we can’t afford any delay.’
* * * * Urthryn looked down, and passed his hand over his face briefly. ‘Yes,’ he said softly after a moment. ‘I understand. There’ll be other times.’
From a higher vantage, Hawklan, Andawyr and Loman watched the same scene. Gulda leaned forward and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm, and the room fell silent.
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. ‘Tell us about your journey,’ she said after a while. ‘Did you truly meet no opposition?’
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. Urthryn came out of his reverie. ‘Yes,’ he said, nod-ding, his manner mildly surprised. ‘The Pass was grim and unpleasant. It’s a forbidding, awful place. I’ve never ridden along it before. I’d always thought the tales about the wind to be just that-tales. But it howls and moans almost constantly. You’ve never heard such sounds! I can see now why they call it the Discourse of Sumeral
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
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.
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.
fell dully into the ranks of tents and flared up only after the riders had passed. Urthryn frowned a little. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘Perhaps sad would be a better word, but it’s a woefully inadequate one.’ He looked at Gulda. ‘Do you know the tale of Elewart and Gwelayne, Memsa?’ he asked.
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 consid-erable 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 a
nd 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 them 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.’
