by Roger Taylor
The stark simplicity of his statement was chilling. He leaned forward in his saddle and continued, his tone darker yet.
‘There will, however, be a dire accounting for some of you. Those of you who rode into Ledvrin recently. Rode in and cut down men and women as if they were no more than troublesome weeds.’ His horse became restive, sensing his restrained anger. ‘I promise you this, though. You will be allowed more than your victims were. You will be allowed a fair and honest hearing when the courts and the Geadrol are re-established. But I promise you this also.’ His anger seeped through into his voice. ‘No arm is strong enough to shield you, no shade too dark to hide you, no distance too far, nor time too long. You will be searched out and found and brought for accounting somewhere, sometime, even if it is at your dying breath.’
He swung his horse round and galloped back to the others, then turning, he called out. ‘Think on what I have said. Lay down your arms while you can.’
In common with all the other listeners, Urssain had been held by Eldric’s tone and manner, and this sudden manoeuvre took him by surprise.
‘Archers, cut them down,’ he shouted, coming to himself.
A few desultory arrows arced after the retreating Lords to land forlornly in the dew-soaked grass.
Urssain swore to himself. He had neither Eldric’s presence nor his eloquence, and he certainly did not have the rightness of a cause to expound.
‘Hold your ground,’ he bellowed angrily as he began riding along the ranks of the Militia again, his tone making his earlier, subtler threats unequivocal.
‘The Militia will break,’ he thought, as he turned finally to return to Dan-Tor.
* * * *
‘The Militia will break,’ Hreldar said to his companions as they rode back to their troops.
At a nod from Eldric, the rider carrying the flag of truce dipped it and, without any further signal, the Army of the Four Lords began to move forward.
* * * *
The four Mathidrin marched purposefully along the broad aisle between two of the largest workshops. Despite the bright autumn sunshine, the buildings looked drab and desolate, showing no outward sign of their function, unlike the large work-halls of the traditional craftsmen which were invariably bedecked with virtuoso demonstrations of their tenants’ skills. Indeed, the only outward signs that Dan-Tor’s workshops gave were of neglect and decay, or, more correctly, indifference to the space they occupied. An appropriate craft sign for the goods that were produced here, Dan-Tor’s enemies declared knowingly; and even his most ardent supporters were obliged to concede that the buildings were eyesores.
‘But Lord Dan-Tor has brought work for . . .’
‘. . . those whose crafts he’s ruined,’ had gone the arguments, round and round. But the workshops had been built regardless of opposition; a strange unpleasant scar at the edge of the City. Their appearance now was not improved by the charred remains of those buildings which had been destroyed by fire during the rescue of the Lords. Random sections of jagged, broken walls stood black and solitary amidst tangled masses of twisted metal and charred timber. When the wind blew, it carried an acrid stinging dust into the other workshops and about the neighbouring streets while, when it rained, the dust became an unpleasant clinging slime which stank of retching decay and leached into ditches to poison nearby streams and fields.
The small patrol halted by the largest building and its Sirshiant looked about uncertainly. As he did so, a figure appeared in the shade of the doorway to the building. It hesitated briefly as if debating whether to flee.
‘You,’ shouted the Sirshiant, forestalling any action. ‘Come here.’
The figure stepped out into the sunlight uncertainly. It was a stocky man with a hooked nose and deep-set angry eyes; he was wearing a soiled overall typical of those who worked for Dan-Tor. As he came forward, his hands twitched nervously.
The Sirshiant shot a glance to the three troopers who immediately dashed past the man and, after a brief consultation, rushed through the open doorway. Within seconds, the sound of a violent struggle emerged.
Hearing the noise, the workman produced a large metal bar from under his overall and aimed a mighty swing at the Sirshiant’s head.
With apparent slowness, the Mathidrin stepped a little to one side and, almost gently, caught the moving arm, causing his attacker to lose his balance completely. As the man recovered, it was to find his wrist and arm twisted so that he was completely under the control of his captor. He struggled briefly but the increased pressure on his wrist soon stopped him, and he felt his hand opening involuntarily, to release the metal bar. It fell on the hard roadway with an echoing clang.
The troopers emerged from the building similarly restraining a taller, fair-haired man.
The Sirshiant’s eyes were cold. ‘What are High Guards doing here, disguised as workmen?’ he asked his prisoner.
The man twisted round to look at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘We’re not High Guards. We are workmen. We’re caretakers here.’
The Sirshiant shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think not. Caretakers don’t use the hand language to say things like “I’ll deal with this one and draw the others inside.” Do they?’
The Sirshiant released his captive and, at his signal, the troopers released theirs.
Rubbing his wrist, the stocky man looked at the Mathidrin narrowly. ‘And cockroaches don’t know the hand language, do they?’ he echoed cautiously. He looked at his companion and came to a decision.
‘My name is Idrace . . .’ he began.
The Sirshiant’s eyes widened in surprise and he raised his hand and placed a silencing finger on Idrace’s mouth. He looked at the other workman. ‘And that is Fel-Astian. Apart from Jaldaric, the only two Fyordyn from Dan-Tor’s escort to survive the Mandroc attack in Orthlund.’
Idrace gaped.
‘What was the name of the Orthlundyn who rode with you, High Guard?’ the Sirshiant demanded before Idrace could speak.
‘There were two,’ Idrace stammered. ‘Hawklan and Isloman. How . . .?’
‘Later,’ replied the Sirshiant. ‘We’ve no more time.’
He looked up at the building from which the two had emerged.
‘Will this place burn as well as the others?’ he asked.
Idrace gave Fel-Astian a nervous glance, and swallowed. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, very softly. ‘It’ll burn all right.’ His voice contained such strange tensions that the Sirshiant’s eyes narrowed uncertainly.
‘It’s a good job you met us,’ Idrace continued significantly. ‘You’d have killed yourselves for sure.’
* * * *
As the phalanx of the Lords’ army moved nearer to the waiting defenders, the harrying of the Militia begun by Eldric with words was continued by skirmishers. Urssain had been wrong in his earlier assessment of these. They were neither archers nor javelin-men; they were slingers.
The traditional High Guards echoed still the training methods of the huge armies of the Great Alliance that had followed Ethriss, in that each individual was trained in many fighting skills; from the highly disciplined close order drilling required in the phalanx, to marksmanship with bow, sling and javelin and, not least, close-quarter fighting, both unarmed and with sword and spear.
This ensured that the High Guards maintained a high degree of flexibility, with individual units being able to assess each others’ tactical needs in the field and to some extent even replace one other as circumstances dictated.
It also ensured that the particular skills of each trooper were assessed to the full and hence that a high level of expertise was maintained in each discipline. Thus the Militia found themselves facing a lethal hail of heavy lead shot hurled by slingers of no mean ability.
Though more difficult to use, the slings could throw their shot farther than the short bows of the Militia and Mathidrin could fire their arrows, and the defenders found themselves effectively unable to retaliate. Even when the skirmishers ve
ntured forward, it availed the Militia little, as their attackers were lightly armoured and extremely mobile. Slowly, casualties began to occur amongst the Militia, and as tension mounted, the Mathidrin Sirshiants and Captains placed strategically amongst them began to find it increasingly difficult to prevent their charges breaking the line and rushing forward to end this calculated and dangerous taunting.
Dan-Tor watched these preliminaries impassively. Ancient memories returned to him at the sight of the disciplined battle array moving relentlessly towards him and he felt black anger and hatred stirring deep inside him. No parleying, Lords? he thought. No attempt to use your early arrival to swing wide around the City and attempt a flanking action? No hesitation of any kind. Just straight towards the heart of your problem. Straight towards me. Like that accursed Orthlundyn’s arrow.
But you’re driven by anger still. And your arrogance. You imagine nothing can stand against your vaunted High Guards now you judge my power to be bound. Well, you were opposed and defeated in the past, and you will be now.
Dan-Tor’s battle line was almost twice as long as that of the Lords. Very soon, as the phalanx neared his centre, he would order the wings to wheel forward to move against his enemies flanks. True, these were protected by cavalry and light infantry and together these might well break the Militia. But the Mathidrin were behind them and their close-quarter fighting, together with the archers, and, of course, the wagons, would crush this guttering flame of rebellion once and for all.
Then, the phalanx stopped, and the skirmishers withdrew.
The pikemen stood in silence. To talk now would be to miss the orders of the individual phalanx officers, and the consequences of that could be dire. This was no drill. Round shield hung around your neck to protect your left side, both hands free to hold the pike, you kept your station in rank and file at whatever cost, and you watched and listened!
Charge! thought Dan-Tor.
But the phalanx remained motionless.
Dan-Tor frowned.
Abruptly, to no command that the defenders could hear, the front ranks of the phalanx raised their pikes vertically and the whole turned and began marching to the left, leaving their entire flank exposed. They were some distance away, but a determined charge now would scatter them utterly. Involuntarily, Urssain stepped to Dan-Tor’s side. ‘Ffyrst . . .’
Dan-Tor raised an arm to silence him. Then, with the same silent precision, the pikemen turned back to face the defenders and the first five ranks brought their pikes horizontal again to restore the gleaming serrated edge along which such a charge would have foundered.
Urssain’s left hand tightened around his sword hilt. He had not expected this. He had expected a headlong, brawling clash of arms and a straightforward trial of strength. He glanced cautiously at Dan-Tor. The Ffyrst was impassive.
Worse was to follow for Urssain. The phalanx began marching to and fro as if it were on a parade ground; backwards, forwards, changing formation; a chilling display of discipline.
Periodically during this performance, the skirmishers moved in and renewed their vicious bombardment of the defenders. As the rain of lead shot continued, brown liveried bodies began to litter the field.
Urssain scowled. Despite the sunshine, it was not warm. His men would be suffering from the combined effects of cold and inaction, not to say the same frustration that he himself was feeling. Who could say what effect this tournament exhibition would be having on them? What in thunder were these Lords playing at?
Dan-Tor’s eyes narrowed. ‘They come a little closer each time,’ he said.
The phalanx turned yet again and began marching to its right but on a slightly oblique line that would bring it nearer and nearer to the watching Militia. It continued in this direction for longer than it had previously.
‘They’re going for our left wing,’ Dan-Tor said abruptly. Urssain was startled by the unexpected urgency in his voice.
Turning round rapidly, Dan-Tor snapped his fingers at one of the waiting messengers.
His order was simple. The right wing infantry was to wheel round immediately and attack the cavalry and light infantry that were guarding what was now the rear of the phalanx.
As the messenger galloped off, Dan-Tor looked back at the phalanx, still pressing forward. Soon they would be past the centre of his line.
He nodded. ‘Release the wagons,’ he said to another messenger.
Urssain smiled. Now things would start to happen, the wagons would soon break up this parade ground display.
There was a strange timeless pause while the messengers galloped through the lines. It seemed to Urssain that his heartbeat filled the world, its rhythm matching that of the relentlessly marching feet of the pikemen. As he had willed Dan-Tor to use his power, so now he willed leaden lethargy into these legs that had trekked so tirelessly across the country to meet their fate.
Then the moment was gone and he was in the present again. The Militia lines in front of him opened and the four heavy wagons were carefully eased forward down the slope. They were very large, and some indication of their weight could be gained from the two lines of men who were straining on ropes to prevent them rolling forward. A Sirshiant by each one reached inside and then stepped back quickly. As he did so, the men released the ropes and the wagons slowly began to move towards the unguarded flank of the marching phalanx.
The slope was gradual, but the wagons gathered speed rapidly. Then, almost simultaneously, each one burst into flames. Not the crackling flames of burning hay and straw fanned by the wind, but flames that roared with a whiteness and intensity that was like the centre of a furnace.
Urssain leaned forward. This was the beginning of the end.
When they struck the phalanx . . .
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the right wing of the army begin to wheel to attack the phalanx’s rearguard.
The wagons rolled on, accelerating inexorably. Now they were going faster than horses at full gallop.
A great cry went up.
Not so silent now, Lords’ men, Urssain gloated. Not with Dan-Tor’s blazing torment about to crush you.
But a hissed intake of breath from Dan-Tor cut across his celebration. He looked up. The cry was not from the doomed pikemen, but from the right wing of the Lords’ army. The cavalry, which had been keeping station loosely with the manoeuvring phalanx, had suddenly adopted a solid wedge formation, and with two red-cloaked figures at its head, was charging at full gallop, lances levelled, into the Mathidrin riders who were protecting the left flank of Dan-Tor’s army. At the same time the leading section of the phalanx had faced left, lowered their pikes and, still in formation, begun charging up the slope. The rear ranks had partly lowered their pikes to break up the brief flurry of arrows and spears that arced up from the Militia’s front line.
Urssain’s thoughts whirled. In the instant he saw the Lords’ strategy. The cavalry charge must surely overwhelm the few Mathidrin riders, probably driving them into their own men, then both Mathidrin and Militia would flee before such an onslaught. Trapped between the thunderous hooves of the tightly grouped cavalry and the hedged points of the charging phalanx, they could escape only by retreating or panicking through the rest of the line.
Yet even as the fear of this conclusion began to take hold of him, it turned into elation. The left wing might be lost, but in seconds the wagons would destroy the latter half of the long phalanx and Dan-Tor would order the whole centre to join the right wing in wheeling round to envelop the confused survivors. So intense was Urssain’s awareness that his thoughts encompassed all this and were turning to the details of the victory parade even as his eyes returned to the careering wagons. The pikemen had turned to face them.
Now! his mind screamed. Die, all of you!
But instead of breaking in panic, the phalanx split open in front of the wagons to leave each a broad unrestricted avenue for its passage. The rearguard infantry did the same, and the four wagons, now virtually solid masses of flame, caree
ned on impotently until, destroyed by their own fire, they tumbled over, spewing great cascades of blazing liquid and debris into the air and across the fresh-trampled autumn fields.
The phalanx closed again in silence.
Urssain watched in disbelief, his throat tight and dry. Desperately he kept his eyes from Dan-Tor.
Then the mounting din from the left wing intruded on him.
Eldric had lost his lance, torn from his grasp as he had impaled some floundering militiaman. Now he was laying about with his sword. Struggling through the panicking mass of Militiamen and Mathidrin, the squadron had lost some of its speed, but a quick glance behind showed Eldric that the formation still held, its widening bulk cutting through the shattered enemy like a scythe through grass. To his left was Arinndier, still in possession of his lance, he noted, and around them was their elite bodyguard.
Both he and Arinndier had protested this, but Yatsu had overridden them. ‘You’re too old and too important,’ he had said unequivocally. When Eldric had leaned forward angrily, the Goraidin’s eyes had widened as if he had just been confronted by an insolent cadet. ‘There’ll be no debate,’ he said. ‘You’ll have a bodyguard.’ As a small concession, he added, ‘It’ll make the men feel easier.’
Now he was glad of it. He was too old for this kind of butchery. Old faces and old memories rode alongside him, and knowledge of consequences rode at his heels.
A hand clutched at his bridle. It was a pleading hand, he knew, but he slashed at it and both saw and felt it separate from its arm. There was an animal squeal and it was gone, into the bloody mêlée underneath the advancing squadron.
What had you crafted with that hand? he thought. What music had you made, or loved one’s hair caressed? A massive rage welled up inside him. A selfish rage, he knew. I will grind you under the hooves of my horses for bringing me to this again, you abomination!
A spear struck his cuirass. It was a timely reminder that here only the needs of the moment existed. His left hand reflexively seized its shaft and his right hand brought his sword down savagely across the extended arms that held it; this time there was no regret.