by Roger Taylor
No one disagreed. The conduct of the Morlider that night had shown the veterans enough to confirm that their enemy was both the same, and profoundly changed.
Hawklan reached up and touched Gavor’s beak absently. ‘The tactics stand, then,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow… ’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Today, rather. We will drive them into the sea. They’ll have been training to deal with cavalry and they’ll expect to meet cavalry not disciplined infantry. We still have surprise on… ’
Andawyr stood up suddenly. ‘Wake Atelon,’ he said, cutting across Hawklan. ‘Quickly. Bring him here.’ His voice was strange and distant.
After a momentary hesitation Dacu ran out.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan said, concerned by Andawyr’s manner.
A distant roll of thunder sounded softly through the tent.
‘Dar Hastuin,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘He’s above us. And putting forth great power.’
Hawklan looked alarmed. ‘Against us?’ he said.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I think he’s found the Drienvolk.’
Gavor flapped his wings restlessly and Hawklan reached up to him again. ‘There’s nothing we can do, old friend,’ he said. ‘We touched briefly, but the Drienvolk must fight their own kind in their own way. Stay here and guard my back.’
Before Gavor could reply, the entrance to the tent burst open and Atelon staggered in, supported by Dacu. His young face was haunted and fearful and his mouth was working though no coherent sounds were emerging.
‘He was like this when I found him,’ Dacu said, his own face riven with concern.
Andawyr looked at his student for a moment and then walked over to him very calmly and took his hands. Hawklan saw again the man who had destroyed the lair of the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Dacu released his charge.
At the touch of his master, Atelon recovered some of his composure.
‘Don’t be… ’ Andawyr froze, and his words of sol-ace faltered. Atelon’s legs buckled and Dacu stepped forward quickly to catch him.
‘Andawyr, what’s happening?’ Hawklan said, his eyes now wide with anxiety.
Andawyr lifted a hand for silence but kept his atten-tion on Atelon. The young man’s eyes opened and with an effort he straightened up. Hawklan winced inwardly as the healer in him felt Atelon’s pain and fear.
‘You feel it all?’ Andawyr said. ‘Both of them?’
Atelon nodded.
‘That’s good,’ Andawyr said, his voice gentle but filled with a great resolve. ‘I’ll not exhort you to be brave, I’ll ask you only to be a Cadwanwr, and do what must be done. Can you accept that?’
Atelon nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said faintly, but clearly.
Andawyr turned to Hawklan.
‘Very shortly, you’ll lead the Orthlundyn against the superior numbers of the Morlider army, and fight to the very limits of your skill and strength to destroy them,’ he said. ‘Atelon and I will accompany you to do the same against their new leader.’
Hawklan’s eyes narrowed with an unnecessary ques-tion. Andawyr answered it. ‘What Dar Hastuin is doing above I do not know, but whatever Creost’s purpose was in the south, it’s ended; for good or for ill. He’s here, now.’
Chapter 15
The long flight of stone steps led down from one of the Palace’s many side doors. It was a little-used entrance and the steps had not been routinely swept clear of snow, thus ensuring that such use as they had received had trodden a ragged pathway down the centre that had the texture of uneven, but polished, alabaster.
It glistened treacherously in the sunlight as Eldric emerged from the doorway.
Blinking in the sudden brightness, he eyed his pro-posed path suspiciously. Then, pulling his large cloak about his shoulders, he began a cautious descent, using his gloved hand freely on top of the stone balustrade to retain his balance.
Reaching the bottom without mishap or excessive loss of dignity, he made a note to return by another route and then crossed a narrow courtyard which brought him out into the Palace gardens.
It had not snowed for several days and though the extensive lawns and shrubs were brilliant in the winter sunshine they had lost that silent perfection which the first falls had given them. Untidy heaps of snow lay around the trees where the wind and the fluttering birds had dislodged it from the branches; human footsteps respectfully marked out the now hidden pathways, while the imprints of claws and padded feet showed no such restraint and were strung out purposefully across the lawns in an intricate tracery. Here and there a riot of destruction in the snow indicated the activity of the Palace children, not all of whom were particularly young.
Eldric took in the scene and smiled, then stepped forward to add his own marks to this great marring.
As he walked, he turned his mind to the message he had just received from Arinndier. Viladrien! Alphraan! Cadwanwr! Creost moving the Morlider against Riddin, and Hawklan leading half the Orthlundyn army into the snow-filled mountains to meet them while the other half was preparing to move north to join the High Guards for an assault on Narsindal!
Arinndier had laid out the facts simply and clearly. Indeed, Eldric could almost hear him speaking as he read the Lord’s characteristic hand.
He looked south. The Orthlundyn armed and ready for war. And with an army that was good enough to impress Arinndier. But for half of it to venture across the mountains at this time of year! Could even Hawklan bring his people through such an ordeal in a condition fit to fight a battle, or worse, a series of battles against the savage and numerous Morlider? By all accounts the journey north had been difficult enough for the two men who had brought Arinndier’s message; how much more so then for an army? And if Riddin fell, what then? What of Sylvriss and her child, the heir to Fyorlund’s throne? And what of Fyorlund’s southern and eastern borders?
Eldric weighed the thoughts briefly, then, with some difficulty, let them go. He could do nothing about these matters, he knew. Nothing except wait for further messages-tend his crops and keep his sword sharp as his father would have said. Urthryn would surely protect his daughter, no matter what happened. And if the rest of the Orthlundyn army was moving north then presumably they had made their own arrangements for the defence of their land should Hawklan be lost. As for Fyorlund’s border with Riddin, a few regiments of High Guards could always be left to protect that if need arose. Whatever force might come over those mountains certainly wouldn’t come quickly, winter or no.
It was too vague and untidy a resolution to be satis-factory, but it would have to suffice for the time being, though Eldric found that even the thought of Hawklan being lost in battle was deeply unsettling.
He reacted to his unease almost immediately. ‘We must stand on our own,’ he muttered into the cold air. To look to one man, however remarkable, as some kind of saviour, someone who would bear the responsibilities and fulfil the duties of others, would be a profound error. ‘Another betrayal of the people and our trust,’ he concluded.
He could allow himself to cling to the fatherly con-cern that he had felt on reading that Jaldaric was now training ‘with the Orthlundyn Helyadin-similar to our Goraidin,’ but apart from that he must continue to occupy himself with his own duty; with stern practicali-ties. Send messengers to welcome the approaching Orthlundyn. And find somewhere to put them all! Send the news to Hreldar and Darek currently out in the field, training and co-ordinating the different regiments of High Guards. This new army would radically affect the plans being laid for the assault on Narsindalvak and thence Narsindal. And to Yatsu, busy in the east with some of the Goraidin and their new recruits, preparing to assault Dan-Tor’s mines.
He straightened up and took a deep breath. As al-ways, when he did this, the cold air felt as if it were a light shining inside him, seeking out and exposing the lingering, stagnant memories of the imprisonment that returned to haunt him in his darker moments. It was a small, personal reaffirmation.
Remembering the trea
cherous stairway, he turned and set off briskly towards the front of the Palace.
* * * *
With Gavor perched awkwardly in front of him, Hawklan walked Serian towards the top of the long slope that led down to the Morlider’s camp on the shore. Andawyr, on his smaller mare, rode by him, accompa-nied by Atelon. Loman, Isloman and a group of Helyadin maintained close station around the three. They were an unprepossessing sight, as Hawklan had told them to cover their light mail armour with rough cloaks to give the impression that they were a hastily levied local defence group.
A faint roll of thunder reached them. Several such had echoed down through the darkness since Andawyr’s announcement of the arrival of Dar Hastuin. Each time, Hawklan had looked at the Cadwanwr who had simply nodded helplessly in reply. Both knew that while the Morlider and the Orthlundyn were waiting for their battle, the Drienvolk were probably fighting theirs.
The slowly lightening sky, however, was an unbro-ken mass of grey, lowering cloud and gave no sign of this strange and alien combat.
‘Our tasks are here,’ was Andawyr’s final comment. ‘We mustn’t burden ourselves with their pain when we can’t alleviate it.’
Reaching the top of the slope, Hawklan reined Serian to a halt. In the far distance, the vague, misty horizon was broken by three islands which only the local Riddinvolk could have denounced as being unnaturally there. Nearer, on the shore, the rope-strewn masts of beached ships canted this way and that, and in front of them ragged columns of smoke rose from the camp. Hawklan viewed the scene with some satisfaction, though how much of the smoke was due to the previous night’s attack and how much due to the Morlider’s crude cooking and heating fires he could not tell.
Not that it was of any great moment now. The attack had doubtless done some useful damage to both materials and morale but its primary purpose had been to draw the Morlider out of their enclave to join battle. The only question taxing Hawklan as he gazed through the morning greyness was, had this been successful? If the Morlider simply repaired their defences and stayed behind them then the Orthlundyn would have to continue their harassing attacks, and while the previous night’s had cost them only two horses and various relatively minor injuries, future forays, being expected, would necessarily take a far greater toll.
It was with some relief therefore that he saw a large column of men forming up outside the camp, and he urged Serian forward to ensure he stood clear and bold on the skyline. At his signal the others joined him.
‘Careful,’ Andawyr urged softly to Hawklan. ‘I can feel Creost’s presence all around.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Hawklan asked.
Andawyr looked at him impatiently. ‘How could I know?’ he said, a little more sharply than he had intended. ‘He’s not attacking us for sure, you’ll not need me to tell you when he does that.’ Then, repenting a little, ‘He’s exerting Power in some way… wrongly, but not… against anyone… not destructively.’ He brushed his hand across his face as though irritated by morning spider threads. ‘It’s probably to do with preventing the islands from moving.
He paused thoughtfully, then leaned across to Ate-lon and spoke to him softly.
Another, loud, roll of thunder interrupted this con-versation and made everyone look upwards. Hawklan suddenly felt his flesh crawl. He had not felt such a sensation since he had approached Vakloss to confront Dan-Tor, but this, though fainter, was in some way far worse.
‘The Drienvolk are suffering,’ he said to Andawyr.
‘We can do nothing,’ Andawyr reiterated. ‘Look to your front; to the enemy you can fight.’
Hawklan pulled his mind from the invisible torment high above him and looked again at the smoking camp and the gathering men. As he had expected, the appearance of riders on the skyline had caused some commotion, and angry voices were now reaching him above the ubiquitous sound of the sea.
‘Have your bows ready,’ he said, nudging Serian forward.
‘Let’s see if our estimate of their temperament-and range-is correct.’
The small party began moving down towards the camp, two of the Helyadin discreetly falling in on either side of Andawyr whose horsemanship would be decidedly uncertain if as they anticipated, they were obliged to leave quickly.
As they neared, someone shouted an order, and the abuse that had been directed at them died down unexpectedly. Abruptly, some of the Morlider broke ranks and spread out in a line to face them. They were archers, silent and waiting. Their bows were lowered, but their arrows were nocked, and the manoeuvre was executed with some efficiency. Hawklan redirected his group a little to approach the other side of the column. There was another order and archers appeared on that side only.
Hawklan stopped and examined the watching men. ‘Loman. First impression. How do they compare with the Morlider you fought?’ he asked.
‘Badly,’ Loman answered tersely. ‘From our point of view. Somebody’s really knocked them into shape. The ones we faced would have been charging at us in a mob by now.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Stay here. We have to make sure they keep coming after us. I’m going forward to see if I can provoke them a little. Be ready to run quickly.’
Gavor flapped his wings in anticipation but as Hawklan was about to move forward Tybek rode past him and at the same time Loman surreptitiously leaned across and took Hawklan’s reins.
Caught unawares by these movements, Hawklan looked from Loman to the retreating Tybek open-mouthed. Loman casually handed him his reins back. ‘Don’t make yourself conspicuous, Commander,’ he said, his tone slightly mocking. ‘You have a bodyguard now.’
In spite of the mounting tension in the group as Tybek neared the silent column, Isloman, riding on Hawklan’s other side, chuckled at the expression on Hawklan’s face. ‘We thought it was best not to tell you,’ he said.
Hawklan was about to answer when Tybek stopped. He was some distance from the archers but, Hawklan judged, within range.
Hawklan found he was making himself breathe quietly and deeply.
Tybek stood in his stirrups and slowly looked over the waiting column. His manner was arrogant and he offered them no preamble.
‘We visited you last night, Morlider, to let you know what will happen if you choose to stay,’ he shouted. ‘Go back to your islands. We want no fighting but there’ll be nothing but pain and death for you if you remain.’
For a moment there was no response, then a short, stocky figure stepped forward out of the front rank. He cocked his head on one side and looked at Tybek narrowly.
‘We’ll put up with the pain and death, horse rider,’ he responded. ‘After all, it’s going to be yours, not ours.’ Jeering laughter rose up from the waiting column. The man continued. ‘We’re not here to debate, we’re here to take this country. If you’ll take my advice you and your scruffy mates’ll turn your nags round and not stop riding until you’re on the other side of the mountains. It’ll be a month or two before we get over there.’ His followers endorsed this remark with vigour and obscenity.
Tybek waved the din aside airily. ‘Don’t mistake us for what’s waiting for you out there,’ he said, pointing back up the slope.
The stocky man clapped his hands and then folded his arms. ‘That wouldn’t be… horses… would it?’ he said, laying a mocking and ponderous emphasis on the word. ‘It’s nice to know you’ve got one or two left. We thought they’d all gone south.’
More laughter greeted this remark. Someone shouted. ‘Fresh meat at least, lads!’ The stocky man smiled and gave Tybek an apologetic shrug.
‘It seems that horses don’t worry us like they used to,’ he said. Then his face changed, the smile vanishing. ‘Anyway, my men are getting cold standing about like this. We’ll have to be on our way. We’ve a camp to find and burn; a murdering sneaking night thieves’ camp. If there’s horses-or riders-in it, so much the better.’ His voice rasped with a viciousness that was like the drawing of a sword. Tybek made his horse shy and prance as if it were startled, sur
reptitiously using the movement to edge it backwards and preparing it to turn and run.
‘Get Andawyr out of here, now,’ Hawklan said ur-gently.
‘The rest of you get ready to move in and help Ty-bek.’ Before the Cadwanwr could protest, the two Helyadin were quietly leading him away.
Still affecting to be having difficulty in controlling his horse, Tybek was continuing his debate. ‘You’ve been warned. If you’re too stupid to learn from a little warning like last night’s then take your chances against a full Line of the Muster.’ He pointed back up the slope again. ‘We could use the practice.’
He paused and curled his lip. ‘And if anyone should know about sneaking, murdering thieves, it’s you, you fish-stinking scum.’
‘Shoot him down,’ roared the Morlider, rising more to the sneering contempt in Tybek’s voice than to the words. But as the Helyadin turned his horse again, he brought his own bow up and released an arrow at one of the extended lines of archers.
Then, urging his horse forward up the slope with his knees, he turned in the saddle and released a second arrow at the other line.
It was an ineffective assault, both arrows falling short, but it was so sudden that it caused a brief hesitation in the two lines and when they had recovered and released their volleys, Tybek was at the limit of their range.
‘Our bows have a longer range,’ Loman said with some considerable satisfaction as Tybek caught up with the now retreating group.
Tybek glowered at him, his face flushed. ‘Wonder-ful,’ he said caustically, adding, rhetorically, ‘Did I volunteer for that?’
Loman laughed and patted him on the back. ‘You did, and you did well,’ he said.
