by Roger Taylor
Yet above all this had come the mention of Him; and His plans. That had been more than a surprise. Urssain could not remember when he had last heard Dan-Tor refer to these world-spanning intentions, and certainly he had never heard them aired so freely.
He felt excitement, ambition and fear-terror, even-ring within him. Part of him wanted to flee; flee back to a life of petty thieving in the old unchanging Fyorlund of Rgoric and the Geadrol, of village Redes and their Pentadrols. But even had he not participated in the destruction of that order, he had been shown too much now for such thoughts to be ever more than fleeting distractions on his journey forward in the wake of his master.
Yet what kind of a man could it be to whom even Dan-Tor would bend his knee? And what kind of a place was Derras Ustramel, His great fortress, whose very name was whispered nervously, if it was mentioned at all? No one that Urssain knew of, save Dan-Tor himself, had ever been there, and even his visits were rare.
In front of Urssain glowed some of the genuine radiant stones he had had the foresight to ensure would be stored for him here in preference to those concocted in Dan-Tor’s workshops. But even their sunlight could not reach the inner chill that possessed him when he thought about the dank mists that for most of the year pervaded the outer reaches of Lake Kedrieth and the great Mandroc barracks that lay there. And beyond the mists…
Involuntarily, Urssain wrapped his arms about him-self and gazed into the glowing stones.
* * * *
Mimicking his aide, Dan-Tor too sat still and silent in his eyrie, high in the mist-shrouded tower. The arrow in his side ached dully through his use of the Old Power in dealing with Groniev but he scarcely noticed it. The very triviality of the events had heightened his growing inner turmoil at the bleak impotence of his position.
Silence.
All was silence. Here, in Narsindal, His will could reach out and touch His servant, but…
Silence.
And darkness too. The seeing stones of Narsindal-vak saw the surrounding mountains and valleys, even, to some extent, through the mist, but what of Fyorlund and Orthlund and Riddin? Where was that silent, elusive demon, Hawklan? Had that horse witch Sylvriss truly reached Dremark and perhaps raised the Muster to seek vengeance for her husband’s death?
These were matters of no small tactical importance.
Then, thoughts that had not come to him for eons. How fared his detested comrades, Creost and Dar Hastuin? Sent forth, as he had been, to seize the peoples of their old domains, had they returned in triumph while he languished in this prison, bound and blind, and contending yet with these feckless and inadequate humans? Was that why He sent no word? Was Oklar, first and greatest of the Uhriel to be the butt of their mockery because chance had wrenched Fyorlund from him? Was he to place his hand beneath the feet of Creost and Dar Hastuin? The thought was unsupportable.
He stood up and turned to the window; a circle of dark grey in the darkness of his room. No double mocked him here. Nor would any mock him ever, save Him… until…
Red glaring eyes blazed in at him from the mist.
It was his own gaze. He turned away from it sud-denly as if, even at this great height, some unseen observer might read this last, dangerous, scarce-formed thought, in his face.
He must have his true sight again! The thought burned inside him as never before. The bird held by the Cadwanol must be torn free so that the Vrwystin a Goleg could see again!
But with this accursed arrow in his side he could not use the power, and if he could, there still lingered the fear that such use might inadvertently awaken Ethriss.
The thought of the Guardian, terrible and vengeful, rose before him. Yet even as it formed, other, quieter, thoughts came with it. The Cadwanol, alerted now to the wakening of Sumeral must surely be putting forth their greatest power to find and waken their erstwhile master. And their power was not trivial if it could bind the Vrwystin a Goleg.
Yet Ethriss slept still.
Wherever he was, he was beyond their reach! And beyond the reach of any casual disturbance.
New patterns formed in the Uhriel’s dark mind. Calm resolve entwined itself around his mounting rage to form an unholy duo. The bird must surely lie at the heart of the Cadwanol’s stronghold. Released, it would not only give Dan-Tor his eyes again, but it would show where that heart lay and, with that, the destruction of the Order could be assured. For destroyed they must be. At best they were an unknown factor in any impending conflict, while at the worst they might yet awaken the Guardian; their very survival through the ages beto-kened a patience and will not to be ignored lightly.
And with his eyes and his power restored, he would once again have the true vision of an Uhriel. He could tolerate the cloying masquerade that he was obliged to maintain to fire these creatures about him, and no enemy could stand against him; not the Muster, the Lords, that seeping, corrosive sprite, Hawklan, nor those upstarts for His favour, Creost and Dar Hastuin.
Dan-Tor nodded to himself. Several ends could be served here.
His surging passion burst through its restraint and he reached out his power deep and distant; under the cold mountains and across the plains of Fyorlund until, reluctantly, it shied away from the touch of the Great Harmony of Orthlund. For an instant he felt an almost overwhelming urge to shake this, his domain, and tumble these irksome creatures into oblivion, though it shatter his mortal frame utterly.
He would tolerate this impotence no longer.
He would wait His will no longer.
He would do that which had never been done.
He would go to Derras Ustramel. He would seek an audience.
Chapter 17
A great cheer spread through the waiting ranks of the Orthlundyn as Hawklan’s message flickered from its last sender and was read directly by many of them.
The day had been chill and tedious; a day of foot stamping, arm beating, and endless last-minute checking of equipment and weapons as the Orthlundyn waited and watched, gaining relief only from the relayed messages detailing the successes of the companies assaulting the Morlider columns.
But now, the message had arrived and the myriad irritations of the long wait were ended. All doubts and fears dissolved, momentarily at least, in a wave of exhilaration as shouted orders penetrated the din, and the advance began.
Hawklan, Isloman and Andawyr together with their Helyadin bodyguard took station at the top of a small rise that lay in the army’s path.
‘A fine sight but a sad one,’ Isloman said, as they waited.
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Remember your mines, carver,’ he replied. Much of his face was hidden in his helm, but his voice bore a stern reproach and the will behind it struck Isloman almost like a physical blow. ‘We’re here out of necessity and now we’re committed totally. Sadness is for another time and will be the greater if we ponder it here. Now, there is only this moment, and victory. All else are traitors to our true need, old friend.’
Still the healer, warrior, Isloman thought, as he felt the last two words seal the small wound to his pride that the rebuke had offered. He bowed slightly in acknowl-edgement, then put on his own helm.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr and Atelon and looked at them both intently. Much rested on this strange couple, he knew. They it was who must resist the Old Power that Creost would inevitably send against them before the day was through. If they failed, then the Orthlundyn would fall like corn before a scythe at this terrible touch. It was an awesome burden for such seemingly frail creatures.
‘You are prepared to oppose and destroy Creost,’ he said. It was not a question and for all its simplicity it carried the same will that would soon fire the entire Orthlundyn army.
Like Isloman, both inclined their heads in acknowl-edgement.
Loman galloped up. His face was flushed, and showed a grim satisfaction. ‘I threw two more compa-nies in on your signal, and attacked. You should have seen them scatter.’ He laughed. ‘They’re running back in total disorder,’ he went on
. ‘Athyr will pursue them as far as possible and then do what he can to lure out the rest of the camp.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan said, smiling. ‘I think we’ve done enough to make them angry, and while they’re angry, their training won’t stick, and we have them.’ His mailed hand reached out and patted Loman’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s join our army, commander,’ he said. ‘We’ll ride with you until we see the enemy’s response.’
It took them only a few minutes to reach the ad-vancing army and as they did so, another spate of cheering broke out. Spontaneously the front rows began lowering and raising their long pikes in salute, making waves ripple along the entire front, so that it looked like a field of tall grass ruffled by a summer wind.
Gavor and Serian caught and responded to the mood of the people immediately, Gavor letting out a cry of delight and rising up into the air, Serian prancing a little, and then shying and kicking out his forelegs to throw up great flurries of snow.
Hawklan too could do no other than respond. He drew the black sword and, holding it high above his head, trotted Serian along the rows of bobbing pikes. Gavor flew to and fro around his head.
The cheering echoed along the line as they passed.
Then Hawklan rode amongst the various companies, satisfying himself that all were prepared, and quietly ensuring that his implacable determination pervaded the whole army.
While Hawklan was being greeted by the advancing army, Athyr was walking to the top of the long slope down to the shore and the Morlider camp. As Loman had reported, the Morlider columns, having suffered heavy losses, were fleeing in complete disarray back to their camp. Had Athyr launched even his small cavalry units against them, their losses would have been magnified appallingly. Instead, however, he withdrew the riders, and dispatched them back to join the army. The Morlider had prepared themselves to face the Muster; if they saw cavalry cutting down their fleeing companions, there was a strong chance that they would either stay where they were, or form up into the disciplined phalanxes they had obviously rehearsed. Neither of these alternatives was desirable. If, on the other hand, they saw their comrades being pursued simply by the now superior numbers of foot-soldiers, it was probable they would continue to come out as a disordered and vengeful mass.
To tempt the Morlider further, and to some extent to protect the Orthlundyn from the Power of Creost should it be brought against them, Athyr had the several companies break ranks before they came in sight of the camp so that they would appear to the majority there to be no more than a large but disorganized group of raiders.
It was thus this seemingly motley group that ap-peared on the skyline behind the fleeing Morlider. Maintaining the charade, Athyr had the Orthlundyn straggle a long way down the slope before halting.
Almost immediately, large numbers of Morlider began to emerge purposefully from the camp. Athyr smiled in satisfaction as he watched them.
Slowly however, his smile began to fade. The num-ber of Morlider coming from the camp was unexpectedly large, and while many of them were heading towards the Orthlundyn in an angry mob, a substantial proportion were lining up in ordered ranks and files.
The smile became a frown. Athyr had little doubt that if need arose his companies could come together and hold the undisciplined charges of the mob, but the group forming outside the camp, he noted, were already substantially larger than his own force and were armed with long pikes. They were a different matter. They could destroy his people in a single leisurely charge.
For a moment he began to wonder who was luring whom. Had Creost been aware of their presence all the time? Did he have his own Helyadin moving silent and unseen through this chilly landscape, or did he have a Gavor amongst the seagulls that squabbled noisily around the camp? Had he allowed so many of his troops to be sacrificed just to lure the Orthlundyn into full battle? It occurred to Athyr that because he would not be prepared to countenance such savagery he should not have assumed that his enemy would be similarly constrained.
Angrily, he dismissed the thoughts, knowing they were no more than the corrosive products of his own fear and self-doubt. Circumstances had dictated Hawklan’s strategy and the probability was that Creost, or his commanders were simply reacting. In any event, such considerations were irrelevant. No matter at whose behest, battle was about to be joined. His task had been to lure out the enemy if possible and in this he had been successful; too successful, he thought ruefully looking at the growing mass of Morlider outside the camp. Now his task was to protect his companies and perhaps do some further damage to the enemy in the process.
The intention had always been to retreat, but now came the question of the manner in which this should be done. His people had been marching and fighting for several hours; if he ordered a retreat from their present disordered positions there was no guarantee that they could outstrip the Morlider whose greater freshness was being amply demonstrated by the speed of their advance.
He must bring his people together.
But if he left it too late, the Morlider would be run-ning berserk amongst them, and if he did it too soon, the very suddenness of the manoeuvre might perhaps give too much information to the calmer minds forming the phalanx in front of the camp.
As he watched the advancing crowd he realized that the choice had been made for him. The Morlider were too many and coming too quickly. Suddenly he seemed to see them very clearly and as if from some other place. His fear had slipped away and been replaced by a dark and terrible resolve.
He would have to engage and destroy them if he was to be able to retreat.
‘We will kill every one of you,’ the resolve said si-lently to the Morlider. ‘Every death will weaken your army further and help draw forth your massing companions below.’
Then the strangeness was gone. But everything was changed.
Athyr placed his fingers in his mouth and blew the penetrating whistle that his friends had been willing from him for some time past. Faster than for any drill they had ever performed; the Orthlundyn converged on him.
The angry Morlider misunderstood the sudden movement, taking it for a headlong charge, and with a great roar they ran even faster in their desire to close with this treacherous and elusive enemy.
Few survived to benefit from the realization of this mistake.
The scattered, scurrying Orthlundyn became, very suddenly, a long, solid, armoured mass protected by a jagged row of glistening pike heads.
Like many of their compatriots that day, most of the Morlider either perished directly in the first impact between the two forces, or in the subsequent melee as the front ranks struggled frantically to escape the relentlessly thrusting pikes.
Athyr saw the exercise fulfilling his cold resolve though, perversely, he was pleased that the voice of his conscience made itself heard briefly, railing at the profound pity and futility of such carnage.
As the Morlider broke and began running back to the camp, the archers who were guarding the flanks of the phalanx killed and injured many more.
Again, the Orthlundyn had taken no losses.
As the remnants of the Morlider fled, Athyr turned his attention back to those gathering outside the camp. The sight made his stomach leaden with fear. In exaggerated mimicry of his own force, a huge swaying forest of pikes stood silent and waiting. What appeared to be massed ranks of archers guarded the flanks, and archers and shield bearers were strung out in front of this terrifying vision.
Too successful, he thought again with bitter irony. This must be their entire army. Once they start to move, they’ll pursue us for ever. How can even Hawklan…? His legs started to tremble and this time no stern resolve came to aid him.
Then, faintly, there was a distant cry. It echoed along the waiting line and, slowly, as though a soft breeze had blown through it, the great forest wavered and began to move forward.
‘Time to leave,’ Athyr heard himself saying, in a voice whose quiet calm almost had him searching for some other speaker. ‘Break ranks and retreat at th
e double.’
The Orthlundyn needed little urging and were soon energetically widening the distance between themselves and the advancing enemy.
As they ran, a solitary figure on horseback appeared on the skyline ahead of them, black and forbidding. Then, one on each side of him, came two others, armoured, helmed and grim. Athyr started, his mind suddenly flooded with thoughts of the three Uhriel and the terrible unknown powers that they could bring to bear on these insignificant humans who had had the temerity to take up arms against them.
Then a familiar voice intruded. ‘Come along, dear boy, this is no time to be dawdling. You seem to have made yourself distinctly unpopular.’
The voice was Gavor’s, and Athyr’s vision cleared to identify the three riders as Hawklan flanked by Loman and Isloman.
Hawklan took off his mailed glove as Athyr ran towards him. ‘You’ve done well, Athyr,’ he said, leaning forward and taking the man’s hand. ‘Tend to your people. Take them to the rear so that they can get a little rest, then get your horse and come back here.’
As Athyr shouted orders to his companies, Hawklan turned to look at the advancing Morlider.
‘Many of these will die today,’ he said, his voice cold with distaste. ‘Send a herald out with a flag of truce. Tell them we want to talk.’
Both Loman and Isloman looked at him in disbelief. ‘They’ll kill him,’ they said in surprised unison.
