by Roger Taylor
‘We could’ve attacked them as they built it,’ Bragald interrupted.
Urthryn’s temper snapped. ‘Rubbish,’ he shouted. ‘We went through all this before. Had those ships been full of men, how could we possibly have got sufficient squadrons down there fast enough? And do you seriously think that we could have held the village and all those steep winding pathways up the cliffs against determined infantry?’
‘But the ships weren’t full of men!’ Bragald shouted in reply.
Hiron, sitting next to Urthryn, reached up and laid a restraining hand on the Ffyrst’s arm. Urthryn sat down.
‘Bragald, your ability to state the obvious never ceases to astound me,’ Hiron said, coldly. ‘Urthryn’s tactics were both right and wrong. Right because there was no other way to defend that beach, and you know it, but wrong because he did not foresee the nature of Creost’s attack.’ He stood up and leaned forward to the audience. ‘And who of you here could have foreseen such an assault?’ he said, almost viciously.
‘What about these Cave dwellers you set such store by?’ Bragald spluttered. ‘Couldn’t they have foreseen it?’
Urthryn glowered at him. ‘I know nothing of their skills,’ he said. ‘But they it was who discovered the threat to us, and they paid a price amongst their own, holding back that . . . demon’s . . . wave.’
‘One old man,’ Bragald sneered.
‘Number for number, they lost as we did,’ Urthryn said furiously. ‘And their efforts saved hundreds of our people. Could you have stayed that wave, Line Leader? And it’s infamous that you should abuse such allies when they may not speak here.’
For a moment a sullen silence filled the tent.
‘More to the point,’ Hiron said, ‘we waste time with these futile recriminations. Even while we talk, the Morlider might be landing somewhere . . .’
‘And thanks to Urthryn’s General Muster, our coastal watch has been effectively abandoned,’ Bragald said.
‘The coast is watched for two days’ riding both north and south,’ Urthryn said, defensively. ‘Have you forgotten already the numbers that the Morlider came in last time, when they were fragmented and disunited? We needed the Orthlundyn and the Fyordyn to defeat them then. Now we know they’re united under Creost. How could we do other than put the greater part of our power where they threatened to land?’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘But Hiron’s right. What are we sitting in Moot for? Why aren’t we . . .’
‘We’re sitting in Moot to choose our Ffyrst,’ Bragald shouted. ‘My house lost kin in that . . .’
‘We all lost kin, Bragald,’ Urthryn thundered, standing up and stepping forward. ‘You can burden me no more than I already burden myself.’ His voice fell suddenly. ‘Do you think I’m unaware of how it might all have been otherwise? Not a moment seems to pass when I don’t see that dreadful destruction sweeping over our people . . . or walk through that wreckage again, and those . . . broken bodies . . . men, women, strewn about the shore like . . .’ He faltered. ‘But that scene will be repeated endlessly if we waste further time in futile debate. We can only honour our dead by performing our duty to the living.’
‘You can honour our dead by relinquishing your office, before the Moot votes you out,’ Bragald said.
Urthryn’s face set. ‘You do not listen, Bragald,’ he said grimly. ‘You never listen and you never think.’ Bragald bridled at the sudden quiet menace in Urthryn’s tone. ‘We are attacked. We are at war. A war which, at the moment, we’re losing. We’ve lost a day with this nonsense of yours, and who knows what else we’ve lost in the way of unity through your clattering rhetoric and petty ambition.’ He swept up his cloak from the chair and fastened it about himself. ‘Our Law aside, the office of Ffyrst ceases to exist when its holder doesn’t have the hearts of all the Lines. If you seek those, Bragald, then set yourself before the Moot here and rant to your heart’s content, but know this.’ He raised his voice. ‘Know this all of you. Cadmoryth’s people – the fishermen – are not here, talking. They’ve patched the enemy’s boats and gone in search of them. Oslang’s people too are searching in their own way to find and face this . . . Uhriel. I can do no less. The House of Urthryn will waste no more time in pointless debate. We ride to find the Morlider, and we ride now. Follow me who will.’
Chapter 14
Hawklan stood at the entrance to his tent and looked up at the grey sky. It seemed to be strangely oppressive and the air around him felt as though a summer storm were pending.
Andawyr joined him.
‘Shut the door,’ came Dar-volci’s deep voice from within the tent.
Hawklan glanced back through the opening. Dar-volci was curled up in front of a small fire of radiant stones and Gavor was asleep with his claw clutching the back of a chair.
He sealed the flap and pulled his cloak about himself.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
Hawklan shrugged. ‘The weather,’ he said looking around. ‘It’s still snowing, but it feels like a thunderstorm building up.’ He shook his head. ‘And my ears are ringing.’
Andawyr looked puzzled. ‘It feels odd for sure,’ he said. ‘But I can’t hear anything.’
‘It’s rather like the song of the Viladrien,’ Hawklan said tentatively. ‘But . . . harsher in some way.’
Andawyr looked up at the featureless sky and shrugged. ‘It probably is a thunderstorm building up, as you say. I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Then, taking Hawklan’s arm, he said, ‘It’s very peaceful. Let’s walk.’
And peaceful it was. The two men walked slowly down the ranks of snow-covered tents, largely silent except for the occasional muffled conversation and the odd individual pursuing some duty.
‘This weather’s opportune,’ Hawklan said. ‘It keeps us as well hidden as we can expect in the absence of any convenient forest.’
He rubbed his arms uncertainly.
‘What are we going to do?’ Andawyr said abruptly.
Hawklan stopped and turned around. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a moment. ‘But we haven’t much time. They’re not showing any signs of moving out, but they’re growing in strength daily; we’ve only got limited supplies and now that we’re rested a little we’re likely to have a morale problem.’
‘And we’ve no idea what’s happening in the south.’ Andawyr completed the list.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘Nor are we likely to have for several days, even if Agreth doesn’t run into any difficulties.’
Hawklan looked at the sky again. ‘Something’s happening up there,’ he said.
Andawyr followed his gaze, but the snowflakes falling towards him, dark against the greyness, told him nothing. Casually he took hold of the cord around his waist.
‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘It’s been going on for some time. Someone somewhere is using the Old Power. But it’s a long way away.
Hawklan looked at him anxiously. ‘Creost?’ he said.
Andawyr shook his head and cast a knowing glance upwards.
‘Dar Hastuin?’ Hawklan said, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
Andawyr hesitated. ‘I can think of no other,’ he said. ‘The Power’s being used for no good, that I can tell. And it seems to be . . . up there. But it’s way beyond anything we can influence.’
The memory of Ynar Aesgin’s pain and fear returned to Hawklan, but further discussion was ended by the appearance of Gavor. He landed on Hawklan’s shoulder and shook the snow from his feathers. ‘Jaldaric and Athyr have just got back,’ he said. ‘They want to see you right away.’
The two Helyadin, still wearing their white camouflage, were pacing up and down outside Hawklan’s tent when he and Andawyr returned.
‘What’s happened?’ he said, motioning them inside.
‘They’ve started to send out foot patrols,’ Athyr said, loosening his coat and throwing his hood back. ‘They nearly spotted us.’
‘It’s about time,’ Hawklan said, then, anxiously, ‘What about
Tirke and Yrain?’
‘They should be all right if they keep their wits about them,’ said Athyr. ‘But I don’t think they’ll be able to move until nightfall.’
‘Gavor, find Loman and Isloman will you?’ Hawklan said. ‘Ask them to come here straight away.’
‘And Dacu, dear boy,’ Gavor added.
‘And Dacu,’ Hawklan confirmed.
Within minutes, the bulk of the two brothers was filling the small tent. When Dacu arrived, Dar-volci reluctantly yielded his place at the fireside and clambered on to Andawyr’s lap.
‘Decision time I think,’ Hawklan said when Athyr had given his news to the new arrivals. ‘Presumably it’s only a matter of time before they find us if they’re sending out patrols, and we can’t lose the one advantage we have – surprise.’
No one disagreed, though the atmosphere in the tent seemed to become suddenly heavy.
Dacu crouched down and stared into the small fire.
‘When shall we attack?’ he said.
‘Unless Tirke and Yrain tell us something different when they get back, we’ll have to make the first raid tonight,’ Hawklan said, without pause. ‘And be ready for a major encounter tomorrow or perhaps the day after.’
Dacu closed his eyes. ‘With no cavalry worth speaking of,’ he said.
Hawklan nodded. ‘But such as we have is better than theirs,’ he said. ‘And they’ve almost certainly been training to face cavalry and not infantry.’ He waved the conjectures aside. ‘It’s of no importance anyway. We’re going to face the reality of it all soon enough, and our people are as well prepared as they can be.’ He looked around the tent. ‘Does anyone want to change any of the battle plan?’ he asked. Dacu smiled wryly. ‘Other than to march back to Orthlund,’ Hawklan added in reply to the unspoken suggestion.
But the mirth could not survive in the stultifying atmosphere of the tent. ‘Come on,’ Hawklan said understandingly. ‘We’ve no choice, you know that. There’s nowhere we can hide or seriously disguise our numbers out here, and if they find us they’ll move out to meet us and against such numbers we’ll have a real problem on our hands. Added to which we’re going to start running into serious supply problems very soon.’
He looked round at his friends again. All, except Dacu, were looking at him. The focus of all their attention, he felt a great loneliness rise up inside him like a black, engulfing shadow. The familiar, terrible images that had so often returned to haunt him, images of war and defeat in a long gone time, came with the darkness and, for a moment, it seemed that the tent and the waiting people were receding into an unreal distance.
But his mind would not allow it. He rested high on the shoulders of these people, like a mountain peak on its broad base, yet, paradoxically, he alone must support their entire weight now. He knew that if he faltered then all would fall. Many things may sway a battle, but the resolution of an army was paramount and this was merely a measure of the resolution of its leader. Wilfully he looked into the ancient darkness and then scattered it with the light of his twenty years at Anderras Darion. Whatever the Morlider had been, they were His creatures now. They must be defeated utterly; crushed. The only choice that he, Hawklan, could give them was flight or death.
The atmosphere in the tent changed palpably. Andawyr inclined his head and looked at Hawklan narrowly. Dacu turned from the fire as if someone had spoken to him.
Hawklan stood up. His presence was suddenly almost frightening and, despite the softness of his voice, everyone in the tent held their breath.
‘Dacu.’ The Goraidin stood up. ‘Extend our perimeter guards and double your observation patrols. We need to know exactly where they are at all times if they’re going to move about. If any come near this camp, destroy them totally. Act on your own initiative if Tirke and Yrain run into difficulty, but jeopardize nothing, you understand?’ Dacu nodded and turned to leave.
‘Loman,’ Hawklan continued. ‘Rouse the company commanders. Tell them what’s happened and issue the battle orders. Isloman, Athyr, get your group ready to move tonight. We’ll meet in the command tent and go through the final details at sunset or whenever Tirke and Yrain get back.’
As Dacu and the others were leaving, a sentry appeared outside the tent escorting a slouching figure wearing a bedraggled and over-sized fur coat, and carrying a large pack.
‘What’s this?’ Hawklan asked, looking at the vision with some amusement.
‘It just wandered in from the north and asked for Andawyr,’ replied the sentry.
Hearing his name, the little Cadwanwr stepped forward, setting aside Hawklan’s cautionary hand. He peered into the deep hood. The figure extended its arms, and two gloved hands eventually appeared from the long sleeves of the coat.
‘Atelon?’ Andawyr said in a mixture of delight and concern. The hands flicked back the figure’s hood to reveal the tired but smiling face of the young Cadwanwr.
Andawyr embraced him and then ushered him quickly into Hawklan’s tent.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, removing the young man’s snow-clogged coat busily. He stepped outside before Atelon could answer and Hawklan could hear the coat being shaken vigorously. Atelon gave him a nervous smile and Hawklan introduced himself. The Cadwanwr looked at him uncertainly as he took the offered hand and gave his own name.
‘Sit down,’ Hawklan said. ‘You look very tired.’
The young man needed little bidding and he was warming himself in front of the radiant stones when Andawyr returned.
‘What are you doing here?’ Andawyr repeated, sitting down beside him.
Atelon looked mildly surprised. ‘The felci brought your message,’ he answered. ‘We didn’t know what to think. Oslang had sent the Muster to take us down south when the Morlider islands appeared.’ He cast a glance at the seemingly sleeping Dar-volci and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And the felci have been behaving most peculiarly lately. Rambling on about the Alphraan, and opening the ways . . . all sorts of things. We didn’t know what to make of it. But they were adamant about what you’d said. The Morlider were landing in the north – here. And the Orthlundyn were coming. So, in the end we decided we’d better find out. It was all we could do.’
Andawyr nodded and patted his arm. His face was concerned. ‘We?’ he said. ‘Where are the others?’
‘There was only Philean and Hath left, of the Senior Brothers,’ Atelon said. ‘And they’re far too old for such journeying. I was the only one who could possibly . . .’ He stopped; Andawyr was gaping.
‘Only Philean and Hath and you!’ he said, his voice rising. ‘How many went south?’
Atelon gesticulated vaguely. ‘All the senior brothers who were still there, except we three,’ he replied. ‘But most of the students and junior brothers are still at the Caves,’ he added reassuringly.
Andawyr stood up. ‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked. The Cadwanwr frowned a little. ‘The Caves are vulnerable,’ he said.
‘All the defences are sound,’ Atelon said, a little reproachfully. ‘And the seals to the lower levels. We checked them thoroughly before I left.’ He met Andawyr’s gaze. ‘The Pass has been as quiet as ever since we put the watch stones out. And while Philean and Hath mightn’t be up to a winter hike they’re . . .’
Andawyr raised his hand. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve done everything that was necessary. It’s just that your news startled me. It’s a long time since the Caves have been so empty.’ He managed a forced smile. ‘But it’s good to see you. To be honest, I had my doubts about whether the message would even arrive and I didn’t seriously think that anyone would venture out in this weather if it did. I’m indebted to you.’
Atelon returned the smile, but his face too was concerned. ‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘Have the Morlider come north as well as south?’
Hawklan interrupted. ‘Take him to your tent, Andawyr,’ he said, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder and easing a little of the strain and fatigue he felt there.
‘Tell him what’s been happening while he eats, and then let him have a rest. He might be needed soon.’
As the two Cadwanwr strolled through the falling snow, with Dar-volci loping along behind, the camp was coming alive. Well-wrapped figures were moving purposefully hither and thither through the greyness as Hawklan’s battle orders began to be implemented. Atelon kept glancing upwards nervously.
‘He’s a strange man, Hawklan,’ Atelon said. ‘Very powerful. More even than I’d imagined from your description of him.’
Andawyr nodded. ‘He’s changed,’ he said. ‘Very much changed. And you’ve caught him at a . . . crucial moment. But I’ll tell you about that shortly. Tell me about your journey.’ He looked at the young Cadwanwr solemnly. ‘It was hardly an act of wisdom to venture out on your own in these conditions.’
Atelon shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much fun,’ he conceded. ‘And I got lost a few times. I know this area a little but I’d forgotten how the snow changes the countryside. That sentry frightened me to death appearing out of nowhere, but I’ll admit I was glad to hear that Orthlundyn accent when he challenged me . . .’ He glanced upwards again.
‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked.
Atelon looked awkward. ‘I thought it was because I was tired,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But it’s still there, coming and going, and not pleasant.’
‘What is?’ Andawyr persisted.
‘The Old Power,’ Atelon said, rather hastily, as if to get an anticipated reproof over with quickly. ‘I think. No, I’m sure it is. It’s faint and distant and . . .’ He extended a finger upwards. ‘It’s . . . up there . . . but . . .’
Andawyr did not let him continue. ‘Did you use the Old Power yourself to get through your journey?’ he asked.
Atelon shook his head. ‘No. Except once, a little, to light some bad radiant stones – I’m sure they’d been baked you know,’ he said with mild indignation. Dar-volci cleared his throat conspicuously but Andawyr said nothing, and Atelon returned to his answer. ‘I’d no idea what I was walking into. I didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone – anything – I couldn’t cope with. Especially after I began to feel that.’ He looked upwards again.