by Roger Taylor
On the cliff edge, Oslang and the other Cadwanwr stood motionless, faces set in profound concentration. Suddenly, the wind faltered and the advancing wave rose and fumed as if it had struck some unseen barrier.
They are giving us time, Urthryn realized. Though how it was being achieved, he could not tell. Below, he saw the leading riders at last reaching the village and turning to head up the cliffs towards the sound of the horn.
Urthryn held his breath as the wave continued to be held by the unknown skills of the Cadwanwr. His riders were streaming off the shore. But the ramps and walkways up into the village were narrow and the great mass of riders were slowed virtually to a halt. For a moment Urthryn was almost overcome with emotion as he watched the impeccable discipline of the Muster holding. Fear and urgency surged up to him from the waiting riders, but no panic.
Then, one of the Cadwanwr sank slowly to his knees. The others ignored him. Another fell; heavily. Urthryn's gaze moved from his riders to the fallen man. Without examination, he knew the man was dead. Whatever these men were doing it was taking some grim toll. A third faltered, his folding body feeling to Urthryn like the curling finger of a cold hand closing about his stomach.
'Hold, Oslang!’ he shouted. ‘Hold!'
Below, a great black mass of riders oozed slowly towards the constricting exits from the beach.
'Hold, Oslang!’ he whispered.
But he could see that all the Cadwanwr were nearly spent. Not from their actions, for they stood as silent and stern as before, but from the beached ships now being lifted by the nearing tide, and beginning to jostle one another like a crowd of excited children at a party.
Then the rest of the Cadwanwr yielded, slowly and painfully. Oslang was the last. He alone remained standing at the end, though he staggered back, exhausted. Urthryn leaned forward in his saddle, and caught him. Oslang looked up at him, his face full of a great weariness and a terrible remorse and grief.
'I'm sorry,’ he said faintly. Urthryn put a protective arm round him and held him firmly against the horse for support and comfort.
Looking up, Urthryn confirmed the scene that he knew would be unfolding. The wave was moving forward again. Even from above, its size and speed were terrifying. The colourful ships were jigging and rolling in anticipation. Immediately below him, the dark crowd of riders became darker as instinctively they urged their horses forward to reach the safety of the higher ground.
Abruptly, the horn call stopped and the signaller, overcome by his exertions and by the now obvious futility of his actions, let the instrument slip from his hands as his head slumped forward. He was sobbing.
The shouting crowd lining the cliff tops fell silent too as, gathering up the bobbing ships, the wave reached its destination and, crashing over the crowded Muster squadrons, roared angrily up the cliff face as if it would not be sated unless it overwhelmed even the high watchers.
Urthryn watched in empty helplessness as, in seconds, thousands of his charges were destroyed. Some were crushed in the great rolling mêlée of men and horses, some were smashed against the rocks, or by the empty, charging ships; others were drowned as they were towed out to sea by the retreating wave, and some were suffocated in the clinging sand made suddenly soft and quick.
Yet, it transpired, there were miraculous escapes also. A father and son, swept up on to a narrow rocky ledge, a woman who awoke bruised and shaken to find herself in one of the empty Morlider ships. And many others found themselves thrust to the surface where they could swim ashore or cling to debris until the villagers, manning such boats as were undamaged, were able to rescue them.
Despite his agony, some reflex of leadership galvanized Urthryn even as the wave was foaming around the foot of the cliff. ‘Yengar, Olvric, help the Cadwanwr,’ he shouted, then shaking the signaller had him blow, ‘Stand Firm'. If all the riders present descended on the beach in impromptu rescue missions, who knew what further harm might ensue in the crush?
As Urthryn turned and galloped off down the cliff path to take personal command of the rescue, Oslang reached out and took Yengar's arm to steady himself. ‘Ryath,’ he said, none too gently prodding his prostrate friend with his foot. ‘Ryath, get up. We must still the water before it retreats too far and returns again. Get up! And we must find Creost and the islands before they move beyond us.
Olvric and Yengar exchanged a glance. ‘Find the islands first, then still the water, Oslang,’ Olvric said. ‘We need to know whether to move north or south. Riddin is defenceless while we wait here. The Morlider may be landing and moving against us at this very moment.'
* * *
Chapter 13
Dacu swung down from his horse. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed.
Hawklan did not alter his steady pace through the snow and Dacu fell in with him.
'Well?’ Hawklan asked.
'They're there,’ Dacu said, between great breaths. ‘Right where the Drienvolk said they were heading. There must be forty thousand and more landing while we watched. And they've been there for some time. They've established a large camp and a lot of it's being fortified.'
Hawklan did not try to keep the relief from his face. After the old man's news that the Muster was gathering in the south to face the Morlider, there had been a considerable debate about where the Orthlundyn army should go.
Agreth had wanted to march south, hoping to find some Muster outpost still manned that could ride to Urthryn with news of their arrival and arrange for supplies to carry them over the long journey. Others had suggested dividing the army, with one section moving south and the other continuing across Riddin to the sea.
Hawklan's instinct had been to heed the Drienvolk's warning. Tactically it made more sense and, according to an unyielding Gavor, it had been unequivocal. ‘Their greatest islands have come north, carrying many men, and such numbers of boats as we have never seen—a great and powerful host. We watched them for much of their journey. They defied the ways of Enartion.’ This observation, Gavor declared, had distressed Ynar greatly and for a little while the Drienwr had been unable to conclude his warning. ‘But now they are waiting.'
Waiting for what? Hawklan had thought. A feint to the south, or an attack? Or had the Drienvolk been subtly deceived in some way, looking down from their high vantage? That was a doubt he had carried all the way from Orthlund, but about which he could do nothing other than trust his intuition.
In the end he had overruled the suggestions. They could not possibly leave the north without knowing what was happening on its shores. Dacu and the Helyadin would ride to the bay where the Morlider were supposed to be, and the Orthlundyn would march after them until they returned with definite news.
Now it was here, and his relief faded as quickly as it had bloomed. The number and seemingly well established position of the Morlider was appalling. ‘Have they any scouts out?’ he asked.
Dacu shook his head. ‘None that we saw. Not even perimeter guards in fact. They're not expecting anyone.'
Hawklan looked puzzled. ‘Any horses?’ he asked after a moment.
'Very few that we could see,’ Dacu replied. ‘Probably too difficult to transport.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides I doubt they're going to risk facing the Muster on its own terms.'
Hawklan agreed. This was true and, with the absence of guards, was a stroke of fortune. The Morlider had effectively contained themselves. Though they had considerably superior numbers and it would not be possible to prevent reinforcements and supplies arriving by sea, the Orthlundyn could perhaps stop them breaking out until the Muster could be roused.
If the Muster could be roused!
Hawklan's doubts returned. What if the Morlider indeed had a second army attacking to the south? It was a grim thought, for if it were true, then the Orthlundyn would have to attack the Morlider ahead of them immediately, or risk being caught between two armies themselves. He set the thought aside. It was not a realistic choice unless circumstances changed radically. The Orthlundyn were i
n good heart but they were tired and would fight well for only a limited period. They could not expect to overwhelm such a substantially larger, well entrenched force easily, and even if they were victorious, what would they do next? A forced march south after such a battle, carrying their wounded and the subtler burden of battle-fatigue would be impossible. They would probably have to retire to Orthlund, leaving who knew what confusion behind. For a little while he had no alternative but to wait and watch and move as his enemy did.
He looked at Agreth, who had run up at the arrival of Dacu and listened intently to his report. Taking the Riddinwr's arm, he said, ‘Now you go south, Muster rider. Take the horses and supplies you need, and ride with this news until you come to someone who can carry it faster.'
Agreth nodded. ‘And what will you do?’ he said anxiously. ‘You don't have the resources to face such numbers.'
Hawklan looked at him squarely. ‘One horseman in our ranks isn't going to make any difference,’ he said. ‘Do what you do best—ride. Our actions here will be decided by those of the Morlider, the state of our supplies, or any news that comes from the south. If we have to engage them we'll stand and hold for as long as we can.'
Suddenly granted his wish, Agreth found himself torn between his desire to ride over the snow-covered countryside to his own kind and his strange new loyalty to these people who, unasked, had undertaken this long exhausting march to defend his country, and who now found themselves in such a perilous position.
Unexpectedly, Hawklan smiled. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘They don't seem to be in a hurry to move. We'll just wait until they do—the rest won't go amiss. Besides, we have the advantage of surprise,’ he added. ‘You heard Dacu. They think they're alone up here. They're waiting for a message from Creost probably. The last thing they'll be expecting is an army waiting for them if they leave their camp. Now go. Straight away. Find out what's happening to your people and tell them that we're here.’ He paused, then, ‘Tell Urthryn I trust implicitly the judgement of a man who could father such a Queen as Sylvriss.'
As Agreth strode off, Gavor's head appeared out of Hawklan's cloak. ‘Rather glib, dear boy,’ he said. ‘My own assessment of the situation is that we're in a mess.'
Hawklan pushed the raven back under his cloak without replying.
* * * *
'It was an act of monstrous folly, and we've paid a terrible price for it,’ Bragald shouted, his face livid. ‘I spoke against the General Muster and the manning of the beach at the time, and I was right. Step down and face the judgement of the Moot, Urthryn.'
Angry cries filled the great tent, both in favour and against the Riddinwr's outburst.
Urthryn stood up and raised his hands. The din faded. He looked at his accuser.
'Yes, Bragald,’ he said, uncharacteristically omitting the man's formal address in his irritation. ‘You spoke against it, but you offered no alternative.’ There were more cries from the gathered riders. ‘You'd have let them sail in and build a camp on the beach unhindered.'
'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.