by Roger Taylor
‘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 qui-etly. ‘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 Man-drocs 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… some-thing… 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, ‘Am-rahl, 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 drum-mers 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 anticipa-tion 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 desper-ately.
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 knowl-edge, 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 care-fully and then turned the army forward to advance straight across them, though not without some trepida-tion. 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 rap
idly, the Muster gathered speed and their battle cries began.
Loman glanced to the right to confirm that the Mus-ter and the Lords’ cavalry were also advancing. As he watched they began to move into close column forma-tion.
Loman rode along the ranks to join his own squad-ron 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 melee 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. Lo-man 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 melee 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 cav-alry 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 them-selves 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.
Then it erupted to fill him like a living thing. A ter-rible dark knowledge, hung about with raging, soul-shaking anger at the horror he was having to create. The Mandrocs would be put to flight only by the face of a will, an intention, more terrible, more inexorable, than that of their god and His servants.
He turned to the elite squadron around him. The two Goraidin, Yengar and Olvric were either side of him. Helmed and grim, he knew they saw what he saw and assessed it as he did.
Olvric drew his sword as if anticipating Loman’s order.
Yengar closed his eyes briefly and tightened his mouth, then he too drew his sword.
Loman looked at the others, his eyes cold and frightening. ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘We are His creatures now. If we are to be ourselves again we can be nothing less. Will you ride with me to cut out the heart of this monster He has sent against us?’
He waited for no reply, but turned and urged his horse forward. There was a great roar from behind him and he felt his companions closing behind him in a tight wedge formation as his horse began to gather speed.
He was aware of the horse beneath him, and the wind, and the cold, tainted rain on his face. He was aware of the whole battle as if he were flying high above it, like Gavor, and yet he was present at every frighten-ing, fearful, part of it; he was the hardened High Guard trooper counting his arrows and picking a target as he controlled his horse with his legs; he was the bewildered carving apprentice with rain in his eyes, gripping his pike and desperately keeping station with his friends, though his feet were slipping in the mud and his world was filled with the pounding of his heart; he was the unhorsed Muster rider repeatedly hacking a screaming Mandroc until it was still and then treading on its face to pull his sword free as he called desperately to his horse. He was their will and he was aware of them all.
But above all he was aware of His presence, watch-ful, malign, and patient.
You in your turn, you demon, came the thought through his unbridled rage.
Suddenly there were other riders ahead of and around him: Muster riders. Seeing his charge, some of the rearguard squadrons had been drawn inexorably after him-‘Use your judgement… it will be the same as mine.’ Now they were shepherding and guiding him.
‘We’ll carry you through, commander,’ came a voice from somewhere, and for a moment Loman was at one with the heart of the Muster; understood the bond between these wild-eyed riders and their wild-eyed horses; revelled in the straining sinews, the flying manes, the earth-shaking thunder of their hooves.
Then he was Loman the smith again, wielding the terrible tool he had forged to fill this terrible need.
And finally he was Loman the man again, as the Muster carried him into and over the Mandrocs who had rushed forward to protect the Uhriel from this onslaught.
Loman saw them flailing under the hooves of the horses, then abruptly the charge was over and he was part of a floundering, tumultuous mass of rearing horses and slashing blades. His horse lost its footing and fell heavily. Loman’s own fall was softened by the bodies that he landed on, but his sword bounced from his hand.
He curled up and rolled over to avoid the stamping hooves and the momentum of his roll
carried him to his feet in long-practiced manner. His two open hands followed the movement, driving upwards under the chin of a Mandroc in front of him. As the creature fell, Loman seized the axe it was holding and, spinning round, swung it into another approaching from his right.
The axe embedded itself in the Mandroc’s side and Loman made no effort to relinquish it as the howling creature staggered back. A horse jostled him and he was aware of a high-pitched female shriek as a sword blade scythed past him to beat down a spear point driving towards him.
The Mandroc holding the spear towered over Lo-man, but the woman’s blow had unbalanced it and, seizing the descending shaft, Loman caught the creature’s momentum and sent it hurtling through the air to bring down several others as it landed.
He saw riders attempting to close about him but they were drawn away by their own needs. Two Mandrocs charged him.
He swung the spear round and one fell with its throat cut by a short, flicking, lunge, while the other crashed to the sodden ground as it moved back to avoid another lunge only to have the spear swing over its head and sweep down to take its legs from under it. Loman finished it with a single blow.
A backward thrust sent a third reeling and a dread-ful thrust sent the spear clear through a wildly charging fourth. As the dying creature fell forward, it slithered down the shaft, and the bloody spearhead rose to the vertical like an obscene plant before falling slowly to the ground.
Loman glanced round as he bent down to seize a long sword lying nearby. Several of his companions were fighting on foot; the Goraidin and the Helyadin with their terrible and strangely beautiful precision; the Muster riders, as savage, but less assured, in small self-protecting groups until they could remount or ride double. The majority, however, were still mounted and were forcing back the Mandrocs with terrible slaughter; swords and axes rose and fell against the grey sky and skeins of blood and gore flew up to join the incessant tumbling rain spattering down onto the mounds of dead and wounded.
A screaming horse crashed down beside him and as he snatched its rider upright, the momentum of Loman’s purpose reasserted itself. He wrapped both hands about the grip of the sword, and charged towards the most densely packed section of the line in front of him with a great roar. He felt others, mounted and on foot, falling in behind him.
