by Roger Taylor
As they rode on, one of the Helyadin galloped ahead with the information about the approaching column and its archers while the others maintained a pace that drew them away from the Morlider only slowly.
Hawklan looked at Tybek. A mixture of exhilaration and disbelief lit the young man’s face, but there was also a new, stark, knowledge, in his eyes. The knowledge of the awesome reality of facing someone who was seeking to kill him. Tybek would be different ever after.
The sight and the thought took Hawklan’s mind back to the conspiracy that had silently provided a bodyguard for him and sent Tybek out on the danger-ous impromptu mission that he himself had casually been about to take. The Orthlundyn army was also changing, beginning to become an autonomous whole. It had learned what it needed of him and it would protect him whether he willed it or not; within certain limits it would not hesitate to constrain him for its greater good.
It occurred to him briefly that perhaps, after all, what he imagined to be leadership was no more than the pressure he exerted against such constraints. It was an uncomfortable thought and he did not dwell on it for, rather to his surprise, in thinking about the army, he found himself experiencing the unexpectedly turbulent emotions that he had seen in many a parent’s eye as they watched their offspring grow. Happy to see their child learning and achieving, yet sad to see it moving out and away on paths of its own choosing, increasingly less dependent on that which had been for so long the centre of its life.
He smiled at the whimsy of the thought, but was surprised again to find a parental fear swimming in its wake. What if I’ve not taught this child well enough? What if it should wander too far and become not a source of hope and light for the future, but some fearful monster.
The intermittent cries of the following Morlider, abusive and savage, ended his reverie. He looked around at his companions, their breath steaming and streaming behind them as their horses carried them through the cold morning air. It had better turn into a fearful monster, he concluded acidly. That was what it had been born for.
They rode on in silence for a while, with the Mor-lider column following them steadily and in good order. Eventually the Helyadin who had galloped ahead, returned. ‘Dacu has the message,’ he said to Hawklan.
Hawklan thanked him and looked around the white landscape. He could see nothing untoward other than the dark scar of the Morlider column, but he knew that Dacu and the other Helyadin would be watching their progress and relaying the information back to the waiting Orthlundyn army. In confirmation of this, Isloman hissed, ‘Message,’ and inclined his head towards a small cluster of trees in the distance. Hawklan looked up in time to see a torch flickering briefly.
‘What did it say?’ he asked.
Gavor sighed conspicuously. ‘Flashing lights,’ he muttered loudly with monumental contempt. ‘I don’t know why you don’t let me do all this message carrying.’
Hawklan had placed Gavor under the same injunc-tion as Andawyr; faced by men, the army must learn from the start to fight and live without the peculiarly valuable aids that those two could offer. ‘Soon you’ll have to leave them, then what will they do,’ he had said, adding by way of consolation, ‘Your time will come, have no fear.’ But the raven had taken the restraint with an ill grace and for the most part had been in a pro-found sulk ever since.
Hawklan’s jaw tightened at Gavor’s tone. ‘We’ve had all this out as you know full well,’ he said, in spite of a promise he had made to himself earlier not to rise to Gavor’s goading, adding, a little petulantly, ‘Besides, we have Creost and Dar Hastuin nearby somewhere and, if you remember, you tend to make a bad first impression on Uhriel.’
Gavor met the sarcasm with a dignified inclination of his head then, muttering something profane under his breath, he related the message, though with great distaste.
‘"Two more columns leaving the camp. Same size as first", flash, twinkle, flash,’ he said.
Hawklan favoured Gavor with a malevolent look, then threw a mute appeal to Isloman. Unsuccessfully trying not to laugh at this exchange, the carver nodded a confirmation.
Hawklan thanked him over-courteously, while Ga-vor whistled tunelessly to himself and looked with exaggerated interest about the snow-clad countryside.
A rumbling series of thunderclaps sounded an end to the interlude and once again Hawklan found himself gazing upwards into the concealing blank greyness of the sky. He felt an unreasoning anger at his ignorance about the Drienvolk. Had he known more about them, perhaps he would have been able to offer Ynar guidance at their brief and perhaps crucial meeting.
With his anger, however, came a deepening of his resolve. The Drienvolk were fighting the same war. The only help he could give them was to win his own battle. The Orthlundyn had resources beyond his reckoning and they looked to him to use them to the full. With that trust came the obligation to commit himself as fully to them as they had to him. They would not falter unless he did and, outnumbered or not, he must lead them forward until Creost and the Morlider were defeated, whatever the cost.
‘Riders ahead,’ Loman said.
They were Athyr and Yrain. Both were as unkempt as Hawklan and the others, though under their ragged clothes Hawklan knew they too would be armed and armoured for the task ahead.
Athyr’s face was stern and determined, and he waited on no invitation to speak. ‘I think the only way we’ll draw enough of them out of the camp is to bring the three columns together and then attack them with just enough infantry to make them send back for reinforcements. If we keep increasing our infantry and gradually easing them back, then they’ll probably send for more and more until… ’ He banged his fist into his open palm.
Hawklan looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded.
‘Loman?’ he said, turning to the smith.
‘I doubt the Memsa could have done much better,’ Loman said, smiling a little. ‘I certainly can’t. We’ll have to think as we go, anyway.’
‘Battle stations, then,’ Hawklan said simply. ‘Take command, Loman. Isloman and I will ride as observers with Andawyr and Atelon and… my… their… bodyguard. You know the final dispositions. Wait for my signal if we don’t meet again.’
Reaching forward, he took first Loman’s hand in both of his, and then Athyr’s and Yrain’s. ‘This will be our day,’ he said looking intently at each in turn.
As the three galloped away, Andawyr said quietly, ‘I wish I shared your certainty.’
Hawklan turned to the Cadwanwr. ‘You do, An-dawyr,’ he said. ‘You do.’
Andawyr’s eyes widened as the force of Hawklan’s personality seemed to become almost tangible around him. Whatever power lay in this man, he realized, was freely given to all who had the will, the courage, to accept it; its light illuminated his own resolves and, more alarmingly, his own dark skills with a fearsome clarity.
‘Why didn’t you take command yourself?’ he heard himself saying.
Hawklan eased Serian forward and Andawyr fell in beside him. ‘The Army’s a weapon of Loman’s forging,’ he said. ‘Loman’s and Gulda’s. He understands its heart far better than I ever could. He belongs here. I-we-belong elsewhere.’
Gavor flapped his wings noisily and then shook his wooden leg violently. ‘Can I at least go and watch, dear boy?’ he said, with forced politeness. ‘I’m getting cramp standing here.’
Hawklan looked at him suspiciously before conced-ing, ‘Go on,’ with reluctant indulgence. ‘But take care.’
Released, Gavor launched himself from Serian’s head and, after dipping briefly, began to climb purpose-fully until he was high above the cold landscape and the insignificant dots that were moving about it in their deadly game.
To the east the grey sky dwarfed the hazy Morlider Islands, and even the ugly stain that was the huge camp along the shore was diminished. A little to the west of the circling raven, the Orthlundyn camp blended with the terrain to become almost invisible.
It irked Gavor to be just a spectator to these mo-me
ntous happenings, though he understood the wisdom of Hawklan’s judgement. However, free now to travel the ways he knew, it soon occurred to him that sooner or later Hawklan would be the focus of trouble and that there would be plenty to do then, with no reproach to be offered. The thought made him chuckle conspiratorially to himself and in an excess of glee he tumbled over and, shaking his wooden leg threateningly at the clouds above, laughed to himself.
Hawklan looked up at the black figure gliding in smooth sweeping arcs and occasionally faltering and dropping vertically.
He smiled. It was good to have such a friend, who-ever he was.
‘Let’s find a high place of our own,’ he said to his companions.
As the morning proceeded, Hawklan moved his group to and fro for reasons that Andawyr could not always discern but which seemed to keep them fairly clear of the increasingly heated activity while enabling them to observe much of it. He began to see the truth of Hawklan’s comment about Loman and the army. No messages came to Hawklan asking for advice or help, yet frequently Andawyr saw Hawklan nodding approv-ingly at some manoeuvre by the skirmishers who were harrying the Morlider columns.
Groups of mounted archers attacked from first one direction then another, then from various directions simultaneously.
Carefully they avoided betraying the superior range of the Orthlundyn bows, but it was dangerous work and while it took a constant toll of the Morlider in dead and wounded, it also took some toll of the Orthlundyn, several being wounded.
‘They’re very different from what they were twenty years ago,’ Isloman remarked at one point. ‘Their discipline under fire is far superior.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘They’re certainly keeping their stations well and using their shields to some effect,’ he said. ‘I think Loman should send in some foot slingers now, that should… ’
Isloman caught his arm and pointed. A group of figures had dismounted and were approaching one of the columns on foot. Hawklan left his sentence unfin-ished and leaned forward intently.
At Dacu’s suggestion, the slingers were armed with lead shot rather than the shaped stones that their natural inclination drew them to. With these, the range of the slings was markedly superior to the Morlider bows and, coupling their expertise with jeering abuse, the slingers exploited it fully.
Almost immediately the Morlider column wavered as shields were used indiscriminately for protection against the rain of fast and almost invisible missiles. The slingers moved forward and pressed home their attack, at first randomly, then concentrating their fire at the centre of the column. The assailed Morlider faltered initially then crouched behind their shields and stood their ground. To relieve their comrades, the archers began to fire at the slingers, only to find their arrows falling short.
Standing next to Hawklan, Andawyr watched as the archers began to edge forward cautiously to bring the slingers within range, and slowly the whole column began to curve markedly.
At this distance it was like watching an unusual board game, and, almost deliberately, he kept his mind from thinking of the grim reality that the participants were facing.
Abruptly the slingers changed their point of attack, leaving the centre and turning on a large group of archers at the front of the column who had ventured forward too far. Several of them went down under this unexpected and sudden assault, but the main damage resulted from the disordered retreat of the remainder. Seeing this, the slingers redoubled their efforts, at the same time moving forward towards the confusion. Andawyr noted a change in the tone of the angry cries that were reaching across the white expanse that separated him from the scene.
‘Retreat,’ he heard Hawklan whisper.
A tremor seemed to run through the whole column, and then the far end began to fragment and swing around as the goaded Morlider began to break ranks and charge the slingers in both an excess of fury and an attempt to relieve their comrades.
Andawyr found he was gripping the edge of his saddle fiercely, and preparing to shout out, ‘Run!’
But his advice was unnecessary. The slingers were already retreating rapidly and riders were coming forward with horses to collect them.
Just as the Cadwanwr began to let out the breath he had been holding, one of the slingers, trailing the others, staggered and fell. Andawyr could not see what had happened but presumed the man had been struck by an arrow. A rider, a woman, galloped forward urgently to help him, leaping down from her horse as it came to a halt amid a great flurry of snow.
For an interminable moment, she struggled desper-ately to help the injured man into the saddle. Finally succeeding, she prepared to mount behind him.
However, startled by something, the horse darted forward unexpectedly and she fell heavily into the snow.
Standing up quickly but unsteadily, she looked around.
Behind her, her horse was bolting away carrying the injured slinger slumped across its neck. In front, Morlider were converging on her.
It needed no military skills to see that her compan-ions could not reach her before the enemy.
Instinctively, Andawyr reached out to strike the approaching Morlider and protect the woman as she stood watching them, uncertain which way to run.
Before he could act, however, a hand took his ex-tended arm and tightened round it powerfully. Looking up he met Hawklan’s haunted face.
‘No,’ the healer said. His voice was quiet and full of torment, but quite implacable.
Andawyr tugged at the grip ferociously, but it held him inexorably and pitilessly. After a brief, futile struggle, he found his gaze drawn inexorably to the distant tragedy about to be enacted.
The lone woman had seen the hopelessness of her position and turned to face the Morlider resolutely. Slowly she drew her sword with her right hand and a long knife with her left, then raising the sword above her head she began running to meet her foes. The advancing Morlider paused. Andawyr’s hand closed into helpless fists as he heard her high-pitched cry of defiance.
She had not taken four paces when arrows began to hit her.
The Morlider archers were taking their first true revenge.
The stricken woman staggered forward a little fur-ther until another volley of arrows brought her to her knees. With her last strength she lifted her sword high and then fell forward into the snow. The impact of her fall broke some of the arrows and drove others right through her, but for a moment her body lay slumped across them until she slumped over incongruously sideways.
The hesitant Morlider rushed forward and in a con-vulsive spasm of vengeance-taking, began hacking the body frenziedly.
Andawyr turned away from the scene and Hawklan released his arm.
‘Why?’ Andawyr said accusingly after brief silence.
‘You know why,’ Hawklan replied, his voice icy with a terrible restraint. ‘Do you think my grip could curb your power?’
Andawyr bared his teeth as anger surged up inside him.
‘Damn you,’ he said viciously.
‘Don’t damn me, damn Him,’ Hawklan said, his voice still cold. ‘There’ll be worse than that done before we’re free again. We all learn today… ’ His rebuke ended abruptly with an in-drawn breath and Andawyr saw that he was looking again at the distant field.
The column had largely disintegrated as an ordered force after the fruitless pursuit of the riders, and the slaughter of the woman, and while a few individuals were dashing to and fro obviously trying to reform it, most of the Morlider were wandering about aimlessly or standing around in small agitated groups. This had been precisely the object of the slinger’s attack but now a group of them had discovered the fate of their compan-ion and were circling round to return to the field.
Hawklan’s brow furrowed. Victory over the Morlider depended largely on breaking their discipline, but implicit in this intention was the assumption that the Orthlundyn would maintain theirs. Now, as the riders began to charge forward, Hawklan felt his great resolution falter.
Even as his doubts began to
form, however, the cold voice within him spoke. You’re standing too close, it said. Doing as Andawyr did. There are many currents in the sea, large and small, but the tides are inexorable, break the waves how they will. So also is your purpose.
We all learn today. His own words returned to him.
With an effort he set his fears to one side and turned as cruelly observant an eye as he could on the unfolding events.
Some twelve riders were heading straight for the broken body as fast as the snow would allow, gradually coming into close wedge formation. Their line of approach was for the most part bringing them through the disordered Morlider from the side and they were largely unnoticed for much of the way, except for those who were trampled underfoot and cut down by slashing blades.
Despite his enforced coldness, Hawklan felt part of him surging forward in this attempt to recover the body of a fallen comrade.
As the riders reached the woman’s body, one of them dismounted and picked it up quickly with a strange gentleness while his companions circled wide around him in pairs using bows and swords to prevent the Morlider from reforming. Hastily he threw it over his saddle and remounted, only to dismount almost immediately to pick up a severed limb that had tumbled into the snow.
Then they were fleeing, holding the same close for-mation until they reached their waiting companions.
Hawklan weighed the incident in the balance. It had been impulsive and wrong; it may have given some shrewd-eyed Morlider commander a measure of their attacker’s worth that Hawklan would not have preferred; but it had been well executed and successful and would have done much for the morale of those involved. If circumstances allowed that day, he would offer them commiseration and perhaps qualified praise.
As he made this cold command judgement the min-gled emotions of the recovery party reached out to him. Dominant was anger; anger at the Morlider; anger at themselves, that their comrade had fallen unnoticed as they fled the field; anger and horror at the dreadful damage that had been wrought on the body. And, for the moment the most painful of all, guilt at their own swirling exhilaration at their deed.
