by Roger Taylor
Almost immediately the Morlider column wavered as shields were used indiscriminately for protection against the rain of fast and almost invisible missiles. The slingers moved forward and pressed home their attack, at first randomly, then concentrating their fire at the centre of the column. The assailed Morlider faltered initially then crouched behind their shields and stood their ground. To relieve their comrades, the archers began to fire at the slingers, only to find their arrows falling short.
Standing next to Hawklan, Andawyr watched as the archers began to edge forward cautiously to bring the slingers within range, and slowly the whole column began to curve markedly.
At this distance it was like watching an unusual board game, and, almost deliberately, he kept his mind from thinking of the grim reality that the participants were facing.
Abruptly the slingers changed their point of attack, leaving the centre and turning on a large group of archers at the front of the column who had ventured forward too far. Several of them went down under this unexpected and sudden assault, but the main damage resulted from the disordered retreat of the remainder. Seeing this, the slingers redoubled their efforts, at the same time moving forward towards the confusion. Andawyr noted a change in the tone of the angry cries that were reaching across the white expanse that separated him from the scene.
'Retreat,’ he heard Hawklan whisper.
A tremor seemed to run through the whole column, and then the far end began to fragment and swing around as the goaded Morlider began to break ranks and charge the slingers in both an excess of fury and an attempt to relieve their comrades.
Andawyr found he was gripping the edge of his saddle fiercely, and preparing to shout out, ‘Run!'
But his advice was unnecessary. The slingers were already retreating rapidly and riders were coming forward with horses to collect them.
Just as the Cadwanwr began to let out the breath he had been holding, one of the slingers, trailing the others, staggered and fell. Andawyr could not see what had happened but presumed the man had been struck by an arrow. A rider, a woman, galloped forward urgently to help him, leaping down from her horse as it came to a halt amid a great flurry of snow.
For an interminable moment, she struggled desperately to help the injured man into the saddle. Finally succeeding, she prepared to mount behind him.
However, startled by something, the horse darted forward unexpectedly and she fell heavily into the snow.
Standing up quickly but unsteadily, she looked around.
Behind her, her horse was bolting away carrying the injured slinger slumped across its neck. In front, Morlider were converging on her.
It needed no military skills to see that her companions could not reach her before the enemy.
Instinctively, Andawyr reached out to strike the approaching Morlider and protect the woman as she stood watching them, uncertain which way to run.
Before he could act, however, a hand took his extended arm and tightened round it powerfully. Looking up he met Hawklan's haunted face.
'No,’ the healer said. His voice was quiet and full of torment, but quite implacable.
Andawyr tugged at the grip ferociously, but it held him inexorably and pitilessly. After a brief, futile struggle, he found his gaze drawn inexorably to the distant tragedy about to be enacted.
The lone woman had seen the hopelessness of her position and turned to face the Morlider resolutely. Slowly she drew her sword with her right hand and a long knife with her left, then raising the sword above her head she began running to meet her foes. The advancing Morlider paused. Andawyr's hand closed into helpless fists as he heard her high-pitched cry of defiance.
She had not taken four paces when arrows began to hit her.
The Morlider archers were taking their first true revenge.
The stricken woman staggered forward a little further until another volley of arrows brought her to her knees. With her last strength she lifted her sword high and then fell forward into the snow. The impact of her fall broke some of the arrows and drove others right through her, but for a moment her body lay slumped across them until she slumped over incongruously sideways.
The hesitant Morlider rushed forward and in a convulsive spasm of vengeance-taking, began hacking the body frenziedly.
Andawyr turned away from the scene and Hawklan released his arm.
'Why?’ Andawyr said accusingly after brief silence.
'You know why,’ Hawklan replied, his voice icy with a terrible restraint. ‘Do you think my grip could curb your power?'
Andawyr bared his teeth as anger surged up inside him.
'Damn you,’ he said viciously.
'Don't damn me, damn Him,’ Hawklan said, his voice still cold. ‘There'll be worse than that done before we're free again. We all learn today...’ His rebuke ended abruptly with an in-drawn breath and Andawyr saw that he was looking again at the distant field.
The column had largely disintegrated as an ordered force after the fruitless pursuit of the riders, and the slaughter of the woman, and while a few individuals were dashing to and fro obviously trying to reform it, most of the Morlider were wandering about aimlessly or standing around in small agitated groups. This had been precisely the object of the slinger's attack but now a group of them had discovered the fate of their companion and were circling round to return to the field.
Hawklan's brow furrowed. Victory over the Morlider depended largely on breaking their discipline, but implicit in this intention was the assumption that the Orthlundyn would maintain theirs. Now, as the riders began to charge forward, Hawklan felt his great resolution falter.
Even as his doubts began to form, however, the cold voice within him spoke. You're standing too close, it said. Doing as Andawyr did. There are many currents in the sea, large and small, but the tides are inexorable, break the waves how they will. So also is your purpose.
We all learn today. His own words returned to him.
With an effort he set his fears to one side and turned as cruelly observant an eye as he could on the unfolding events.
Some twelve riders were heading straight for the broken body as fast as the snow would allow, gradually coming into close wedge formation. Their line of approach was for the most part bringing them through the disordered Morlider from the side and they were largely unnoticed for much of the way, except for those who were trampled underfoot and cut down by slashing blades.
Despite his enforced coldness, Hawklan felt part of him surging forward in this attempt to recover the body of a fallen comrade.
As the riders reached the woman's body, one of them dismounted and picked it up quickly with a strange gentleness while his companions circled wide around him in pairs using bows and swords to prevent the Morlider from reforming. Hastily he threw it over his saddle and remounted, only to dismount almost immediately to pick up a severed limb that had tumbled into the snow.
Then they were fleeing, holding the same close formation until they reached their waiting companions.
Hawklan weighed the incident in the balance. It had been impulsive and wrong; it may have given some shrewd-eyed Morlider commander a measure of their attacker's worth that Hawklan would not have preferred; but it had been well executed and successful and would have done much for the morale of those involved. If circumstances allowed that day, he would offer them commiseration and perhaps qualified praise.
As he made this cold command judgement the mingled emotions of the recovery party reached out to him. Dominant was anger; anger at the Morlider; anger at themselves, that their comrade had fallen unnoticed as they fled the field; anger and horror at the dreadful damage that had been wrought on the body. And, for the moment the most painful of all, guilt at their own swirling exhilaration at their deed.
Briefly too he felt other, different, emotions, almost too painful to be borne. A lover? A brother? The healer in him would seek these people out and ease what pain he could.
But circumstances did not allow him that healing
visit. The tactics used to break up the Morlider column proved equally successful on the other two and, by judiciously continuing the harrying, Loman kept them all in some disarray and eventually succeeded in bringing all three within sight of one another.
This done, he launched an infantry attack against one of them.
At the sight of the orderly lines of Orthlundyn approaching on foot the Morlider, angry and frustrated, broke ranks completely and began to move towards them in disorder, shouting abuse and threats, and waving their weapons in anticipation of the close quarter fighting that had been denied them so far that day.
Riding inconspicuously with the rearguard to the Orthlundyn, Hawklan heard other cries amongst the hubbub; the cries of officers trying to regain control of their men. After a while they faded away. It was another useful measure of the Morlider's discipline.
The second column, a little further away, also began to break up, and men came running across to help their comrades mete out justice to this taunting, elusive enemy.
The third column, however, was of a different mettle. It had been the least affected by the skirmishes, and now it maintained its ranks as it turned and began to move rapidly towards the closing antagonists.
Loman watched it carefully. Whoever was in command had assessed the events of the day more accurately than the others and was trying to interpose an ordered defensive line between this dangerous enemy and the loose-knit mob that the other Morlider had become.
Loman signalled the phalanx commander to slow the Orthlundyn's approach, then he turned and spoke to Athyr. The Helyadin galloped off to join the small contingent of cavalry that was guarding the infantry's left flank.
Hawklan noted the incident with approval. Loman's response had been his own. By surreptitiously slowing the Orthlundyn, he was ensuring that the third column would be able to move into position but almost certainly would not have time to form up properly or deploy their archers. Had they been left outside the conflict they could have moved to attack the Orthlundyn from either flank or rear; Hawklan judged that their discipline would carry them through any assault the cavalry could offer.
Good leader, Hawklan thought. But not good enough. In his anxiety to protect his fellows from their folly the Morlider was walking into Loman's trap. It was a mistake that would probably cost him his life. Even now Hawklan knew that Athyr would be passing Loman's order to the Helyadin among the cavalry. ‘Identify the leader and kill him; and any rank and file leaders.’ A glance confirmed it; several of the horsemen were preparing their bows.
A peculiar, almost snarling clap of thunder rattled overhead as if giving special sanction to this incisive and deliberate surgery that would occur amid the random butchery.
Damn you, Sumeral, Hawklan thought bitterly as the sound rumbled into the distance. Would that it were in my province to return to you all the pain you create.
A shout brought him back to the cold wintry Riddin countryside. It was an order from the phalanx commander and it echoed across the Orthlundyn as the file commanders took it up.
Almost as one man, the front rank of the Orthlundyn swung up their shields to form a continuous wall and the first three ranks lowered their short pikes.
Then they moved from their leisurely march to a jogging trot.
Loman's timing had been good. The third column was moving into position, amid resentful shouts from their fellows at being apparently deprived of their prey, when the approaching men were suddenly transformed into a single armoured unit carrying a serrated row of death before it.
Several of the Morlider made a valiant effort to form their own shield wall, but it was too late and the Orthlundyn pikes drove into them, killing and wounding many on first impact.
The dark part of Hawklan calculated as it watched the destruction of the best of the three columns.
Then the Orthlundyn's progress faltered as they tried to push through the dense mass of shouting and screaming men.
Push! thought Hawklan grimly, willing himself amongst the heaving pikemen. Push! Remember your drill. Watch your neighbour. Listen for your file commander. That way you'll live. Push!
For a moment, he was free. Free of doubt and debate. Now Sumeral's will would be tested at sword point. It was a good feeling for all that the events before him were horrific.
Briefly the Morlider held, as their disordered rear ranks, unaware of what was happening, continued to push forward. Then, though retreat was against the very heart of their fighting code, they broke as those at the front turned and crashed through those behind in a desperate attempt to avoid the relentless, terrible rows of jabbing spear points.
An attack now by the mounted archers could rout the Morlider entirely, sending them scattering across the snow at the mercy of the pursuing cavalry. But the destruction of one small group was not what was wanted. Today the entire invasion must be crushed. Today the Orthlundyn must overwhelm a vastly larger army and one of Sumeral's terrible Uhriel.
Loman let the Morlider retreat, slowing down the advance of the phalanx and then stopping it altogether once contact had been broken.
The Morlider had taken heavy losses, as was evidenced by the corpses and untended wounded decorating the blood-churned snow, yet they were still conspicuously more numerous than the unscathed Orthlundyn, and as they saw their smaller enemy faltering in its advance, the unspoken shame at their flight was redoubled. Cautiously, they began to move forward again.
Loman watched their confusion carefully, noting with satisfaction four men breaking away and heading back rapidly towards the camp. He took the phalanx forward again before the enemy could re-form properly and then he confined himself only to such manoeuvres as were necessary to maintain this modest disorder.
Outnumbering their troublesome opponents and yet unable to assail them because of their impenetrable shield wall with its lethal hedge of spear points, and the small but menacing cavalry flank guards, the Morlider's frustration grew apace. The odd individual would charge forward, roaring and screaming and hurl an arcing spear or whirling axe at the silent, waiting, ranks, only to see it brought down by waving pikes, or bounce ineffectually off raised shields. The same fate befell the occasional arrows.
Hawklan watched as Loman's tactics inexorably destroyed whatever ordered discipline the Morlider had acquired under Creost's tutelage. It was a good sign.
As the seemingly stalemated skirmish moved uneasily to and fro, Gavor dropped silently out of the sky and landed lightly on Hawklan's shoulder. ‘Time to go, dear boy,’ he said softly. ‘There are two more columns leaving the camp—at the double.'
Hawklan read the same message from a distant flickering signal. ‘Gavor, I thought I told you...'
'I haven't told a soul, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted petulantly. ‘I just thought you'd be interested.'
Hawklan let Gavor's injured tone release the dark smile that was in reality for the day's bloody success so far.
'I'm glad to see you enjoyed your flight,’ he said.
'Oh yes,’ Gavor said, with an enigmatic chuckle.
Hawklan turned sharply at this response. ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked suspiciously.
Gavor hopped up on to his head. ‘My, this is going to be fun,’ he said. ‘We're going to drive these beggars into the sea, aren't we, dear boy? And that fish-eyed creature Creost.'
Hawklan started and looked up, causing Gavor to tumble off with a squawk. ‘Steady on, dear boy,’ he cried, flapping back up awkwardly on to Serian's head.
'Gavor, where've you been?’ Hawklan asked urgently.
Before Gavor could reply Loman was by Hawklan's side.
'You saw the message?’ the smith asked rhetorically. ‘Two more columns coming. It's working. I've sent skirmishers out again and I'm bringing up a second company.'
Hawklan abandoned his interrogation of Gavor.
'Take care,’ he said. ‘We don't know how these people are organized. There was a marked difference in discipline between the third column and the other
two. Judge each one on its own. Disorder and confusion are more important than damage at this stage. Take no risks, there'll be plenty of those later.'
Loman gave him a mildly reproachful look, but Gavor was more direct. ‘He knows all this, dear boy,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does everyone else. Let's get on and leave them to it.'
Leaving the small, bloodied battlefield, Hawklan returned to Andawyr and the others waiting nearby.
He repeated Loman's comment when he reached them. ‘It's working.'
If the relief columns were leaving at the double, then the messengers who had carried news of the ambush back to the camp had carried with them a useful note of alarm and confusion. All that remained now was to see how far that would spread and how many troops would be lured out before Creost or his senior commanders realized fully what was happening.
Watching the movements of both Morlider and Orthlundyn, and reading the signals that flickered to and fro between the concealed Helyadin, Hawklan and his group returned to their silent overseeing of the battle plan.
Several more columns came out from the Morlider camp to be harried and taunted by skirmishers and then confronted by Orthlundyn infantry. As Hawklan had noted, they varied in discipline, but those that stood firm were attacked ruthlessly, and eventually all were broken.
Suffering considerable losses, the Morlider were gradually eased back towards their camp, shepherded by smaller but unbroken ranks of Orthlundyn.
Hawklan rode up on to a small hill from where he could see most of the separate but converging conflicts. A rumble of thunder greeted him. He looked at Andawyr; the thunder, if thunder it was, had been increasing steadily for several hours now. Andawyr met his gaze with open anxiety, but with an inclination of his head redirected him yet again to the earth-bound battle.
Hawklan nodded a reluctant acknowledgement then gazed around: at the sky, still grey and ominous, though lighter in places as if the sun were struggling to break through; at the clusters of fighting men, black scars against the snow; at the small portion of the Morlider camp that he could see. His mind and his intuition told him that the first part of the assault against the Morlider was ending; that a pivotal point had been reached beyond which the balance could only swing to the enemy if he did not now commit the entire army.