by Roger Taylor
To tempt the Morlider further, and to some extent to protect the Orthlundyn from the Power of Creost should it be brought against them, Athyr had the several companies break ranks before they came in sight of the camp so that they would appear to the majority there to be no more than a large but disorganized group of raiders.
It was thus this seemingly motley group that appeared on the skyline behind the fleeing Morlider. Maintaining the charade, Athyr had the Orthlundyn straggle a long way down the slope before halting.
Almost immediately, large numbers of Morlider began to emerge purposefully from the camp. Athyr smiled in satisfaction as he watched them.
Slowly however, his smile began to fade. The number of Morlider coming from the camp was unexpectedly large, and while many of them were heading towards the Orthlundyn in an angry mob, a substantial proportion were lining up in ordered ranks and files.
The smile became a frown. Athyr had little doubt that if need arose his companies could come together and hold the undisciplined charges of the mob, but the group forming outside the camp, he noted, were already substantially larger than his own force and were armed with long pikes. They were a different matter. They could destroy his people in a single leisurely charge.
For a moment he began to wonder who was luring whom. Had Creost been aware of their presence all the time? Did he have his own Helyadin moving silent and unseen through this chilly landscape, or did he have a Gavor amongst the seagulls that squabbled noisily around the camp? Had he allowed so many of his troops to be sacrificed just to lure the Orthlundyn into full battle? It occurred to Athyr that because he would not be prepared to countenance such savagery he should not have assumed that his enemy would be similarly constrained.
Angrily, he dismissed the thoughts, knowing they were no more than the corrosive products of his own fear and self-doubt. Circumstances had dictated Hawklan's strategy and the probability was that Creost, or his commanders were simply reacting. In any event, such considerations were irrelevant. No matter at whose behest, battle was about to be joined. His task had been to lure out the enemy if possible and in this he had been successful; too successful, he thought ruefully looking at the growing mass of Morlider outside the camp. Now his task was to protect his companies and perhaps do some further damage to the enemy in the process.
The intention had always been to retreat, but now came the question of the manner in which this should be done. His people had been marching and fighting for several hours; if he ordered a retreat from their present disordered positions there was no guarantee that they could outstrip the Morlider whose greater freshness was being amply demonstrated by the speed of their advance.
He must bring his people together.
But if he left it too late, the Morlider would be running berserk amongst them, and if he did it too soon, the very suddenness of the manoeuvre might perhaps give too much information to the calmer minds forming the phalanx in front of the camp.
As he watched the advancing crowd he realized that the choice had been made for him. The Morlider were too many and coming too quickly. Suddenly he seemed to see them very clearly and as if from some other place. His fear had slipped away and been replaced by a dark and terrible resolve.
He would have to engage and destroy them if he was to be able to retreat.
'We will kill every one of you,’ the resolve said silently to the Morlider. ‘Every death will weaken your army further and help draw forth your massing companions below.'
Then the strangeness was gone. But everything was changed.
Athyr placed his fingers in his mouth and blew the penetrating whistle that his friends had been willing from him for some time past. Faster than for any drill they had ever performed; the Orthlundyn converged on him.
The angry Morlider misunderstood the sudden movement, taking it for a headlong charge, and with a great roar they ran even faster in their desire to close with this treacherous and elusive enemy.
Few survived to benefit from the realization of this mistake.
The scattered, scurrying Orthlundyn became, very suddenly, a long, solid, armoured mass protected by a jagged row of glistening pike heads.
Like many of their compatriots that day, most of the Morlider either perished directly in the first impact between the two forces, or in the subsequent mêlée as the front ranks struggled frantically to escape the relentlessly thrusting pikes.
Athyr saw the exercise fulfilling his cold resolve though, perversely, he was pleased that the voice of his conscience made itself heard briefly, railing at the profound pity and futility of such carnage.
As the Morlider broke and began running back to the camp, the archers who were guarding the flanks of the phalanx killed and injured many more.
Again, the Orthlundyn had taken no losses.
As the remnants of the Morlider fled, Athyr turned his attention back to those gathering outside the camp. The sight made his stomach leaden with fear. In exaggerated mimicry of his own force, a huge swaying forest of pikes stood silent and waiting. What appeared to be massed ranks of archers guarded the flanks, and archers and shield bearers were strung out in front of this terrifying vision.
Too successful, he thought again with bitter irony. This must be their entire army. Once they start to move, they'll pursue us for ever. How can even Hawklan ... ? His legs started to tremble and this time no stern resolve came to aid him.
Then, faintly, there was a distant cry. It echoed along the waiting line and, slowly, as though a soft breeze had blown through it, the great forest wavered and began to move forward.
'Time to leave,’ Athyr heard himself saying, in a voice whose quiet calm almost had him searching for some other speaker. ‘Break ranks and retreat at the double.'
The Orthlundyn needed little urging and were soon energetically widening the distance between themselves and the advancing enemy.
As they ran, a solitary figure on horseback appeared on the skyline ahead of them, black and forbidding. Then, one on each side of him, came two others, armoured, helmed and grim. Athyr started, his mind suddenly flooded with thoughts of the three Uhriel and the terrible unknown powers that they could bring to bear on these insignificant humans who had had the temerity to take up arms against them.
Then a familiar voice intruded. ‘Come along, dear boy, this is no time to be dawdling. You seem to have made yourself distinctly unpopular.'
The voice was Gavor's, and Athyr's vision cleared to identify the three riders as Hawklan flanked by Loman and Isloman.
Hawklan took off his mailed glove as Athyr ran towards him. ‘You've done well, Athyr,’ he said, leaning forward and taking the man's hand. ‘Tend to your people. Take them to the rear so that they can get a little rest, then get your horse and come back here.'
As Athyr shouted orders to his companies, Hawklan turned to look at the advancing Morlider.
'Many of these will die today,’ he said, his voice cold with distaste. ‘Send a herald out with a flag of truce. Tell them we want to talk.'
Both Loman and Isloman looked at him in disbelief. ‘They'll kill him,’ they said in surprised unison.
Hawklan's brow furrowed in ironic surprise at this unexpectedly positive and unanimous advice. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Get me the flag.
Andawyr and I will go down—with our bodyguard,’ he added reassuringly.
A loud clap of thunder rolled over the two brothers’ replies.
'Good,’ Hawklan said, wilfully misunderstanding their unheard protests. ‘I'm glad you agree. There may yet be a chance to talk our way out of this. You two stay here. Bring the cavalry and the front ranks into sight on my signal.'
His manner was so authoritative that Loman and Isloman could only exchange a brief look of resignation. However, as Hawklan turned away, Loman flicked out an emphatic hand signal to the Helyadin bodyguard.
'Language, dear boy,’ Gavor tutted reproachfully. ‘A simple “Take care,” would have sufficed.’ Then he was flying after the already
retreating party.
Holding the green flag of truce himself, Hawklan led his small entourage towards the approaching Morlider. He stopped just in front of the scattered bodies that were the remains of the crowd that had fallen before Athyr's force.
'Halt!’ His voice, commanding and powerful, rose above the clatter of the moving army.
Another voice repeated the command and rapidly it passed from officer to officer through the extended ranks and the great line came to a lumbering stop.
There was another command and the file in front of Hawklan opened to make a broad pathway. Along it came one man on horseback flanked by what appeared to be either advisers or bodyguards. The rider was a large and imposing man, untypical of his fellows to the extent that his heavy-boned face was beardless. He exuded a menacing physical power and he sat his horse as if defying it to disturb him in any way.
Hawklan felt Serian react, but it was too subtle for him to understand.
The man stopped some way from Hawklan and looked at him appraisingly. Then, almost surreptitiously, he glanced at Andawyr.
'Who are you that chooses to stand in our way, horse rider?’ he called out. ‘And what do you want? We're anxious to settle some debts today.'
Hawklan gave his name. ‘I am one of the defenders of this coast who've cost you so dear so far,’ he said. ‘I come under a flag of truce to speak to your people.'
The Morlider curled his lip and bared his teeth viciously. ‘Speak to me then,’ he replied. ‘I'm Toran Agrasson. I command this ... little patrol. But hurry, we're impatient to try real knocks with you.'
Hawklan pointed to the distant islands. ‘Do you speak for all the peoples of your united lands?’ he asked.
The Morlider's eyes narrowed slightly but his voice showed no uncertainty. He glanced from side to side at the waiting army. ‘I speak for these,’ he replied. ‘That's all you need to concern yourself with.'
Hawklan shook his head. ‘I speak for all my people,’ he said. ‘And I must speak to the one who speaks for all of yours or terrible harm will be done here today. Send a messenger for Karios.'
Agrasson started visibly and an alarmed murmur rose up from the army.
'Isn't he with you?’ Hawklan asked, before Agrasson could answer.
Agrasson recovered himself. ‘Our chieftain is where he wills to be,’ he replied. ‘But don't seek to meet him too soon, leader of your people.’ His tone was sneering. ‘Aside from your deeds of last night and today, each careless mention of his name will cost you a year's torment when he has you in his thrall...’ He looked up at the lightening sky overhead. Thin skeins of bright blue sky were appearing in the greyness. ‘Which will be long before the sun sets today—if you survive.’ This brought some laughter and jeering from the nearby ranks.
Hawklan looked down for a moment then straightened, took off his helm, and peered slowly over the vast expanse of the waiting army. Finally he looked again at Agrasson. ‘Very well, Toran Agrasson, I'll speak with you, but know first that if you speak only for these gathered here, you speak for a doomed and betrayed people.’ He waved again towards the distant islands. ‘If your leader is too timorous to face the consequences of his own deeds, then let us at least, as true men, as warriors, not degrade this place further with lies and deceit. Let us call your chieftain by his true name.'
Agrasson frowned angrily and for a moment seemed inclined to ride forward.
Hawklan raised a hand to stop him. ‘Creost,’ he said, his voice becoming more powerful. ‘Creost. The Uhriel. One of the creatures of Sumeral who is risen again and seeks once more to spread his evil over the world.'
This time Agrasson backed his horse away from Hawklan, as if fearful of being caught in some awful retribution. He pointed an unsteady hand at Hawklan. ‘You weave a terrible doom for yourself with such words, horse rider,’ he said. ‘Seek earnestly to die today. It's the happiest of the futures now before you.'
'No!’ Hawklan roared. ‘I weave nothing. I come here to cut the threads that bind you all and that have led you to this folly. I come here to tell you the truth.'
'Enough!’ Agrasson shouted, but Hawklan waved his protest aside.
'Do you truly think that this ... abomination ... from another time will lead you to glory, to wealth, to whatever it is he has promised you?’ he said, projecting his voice out over the now silent army. ‘This creature, who has already slaughtered so many of your kin and torn your islands from the ancient ways of Enartion. You are a brave people. People of the sea. You, more than I, must know the price that will have to be paid for such folly.'
'Archers!’ Agrasson roared. But his men, held by Hawklan's voice, hesitated, and the Helyadin had drawn and aimed their bows at Agrasson and his companions before the nearest Morlider archers could bring theirs to bear. Hawklan held up his hand.
'No,’ he said, gently. ‘You'll die before us, and our deaths will not kill the truth; they'll serve no end but his. Like the Fyordyn you've been cruelly misled by forces beyond your knowledge. They're free now, and arm against Sumeral Himself, though they have paid a terrible price. You...'
'You're lying,’ Agrasson burst out, though seemingly more for the benefit of his own men than for Hawklan. ‘Our chieftain's brought us unity and strength...'
'He's deceived you in every way,’ Hawklan shouted, cutting across him. ‘Even here. Did he not tell you that the Muster would be far to the south? That there would be no one here to oppose you?'
He turned and signalled to Loman.
There was a brief silence then, slowly, a long row of points began to rise from the skyline like tiny shoots of grass.
Hawklan watched the faces of the Morlider soldiers carefully as the front ranks of the Orthlundyn infantry marched forward.
Behind them a forest, of pikes waved gently, indicating an unknown strength to the rear; two close-ranked formations of cavalry appeared on the flanks.
As they halted, the sun broke through a gap in the clouds and the unfamiliar sunlight danced and sparkled on bright surcoats, and polished shields and helms and weapons. It was a daunting spectacle, made all the more intense by the dark grey winter sky that formed the backdrop.
'Nice timing,’ whispered Gavor into Hawklan's ear with untypical awe.
Hawklan ignored him. ‘Turn away from this,’ he said to the Morlider. ‘Go back to your islands and the true ways of the sea. Make no widows and orphans for this cold land that you do not belong to. If truly you did not know his deceit, then see it writ large in the glittering edges and points waiting for you up there, and in the blood and gore of your companions right here.’ He waved his hand over the carnage that lay between himself and Agrasson.
The sunlight faded as the clouds closed again and a cold breeze ruffled the clothing of the waiting men. Hawklan felt his faint hopes shrivel at its touch. Such doubts as he had seen stir in those Morlider near to him, were gone, and only a savage, driven intent remained. Here, as in Fyorlund, the heart of the disease would have to be excised before peace could be found.
What Agrasson thought, he could not tell; the man's face had become a mask.
'You don't reply,’ Hawklan said after a long silence.
Agrasson indicated the army with a nod of his head. ‘They're reply enough,’ he said impassively, adding scornfully, ‘It was thoughtful of you to bring your army to us, it'll save us a great deal of searching.'
Hawklan nodded sadly. ‘Then carry a message to Creost for me,’ he said. ‘Tell him that Hawklan, the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion, has pinioned Oklar and now comes to seek out the lesser Uhriel for an account of his misdeeds. Look at me, Toran Agrasson.’ His voice was soft but extraordinarily commanding and, reluctantly, Agrasson's eyes met his. ‘Tell Creost there is no escape from the forces that have been set against him and that today he will be killed or bound.'
With an effort, Agrasson broke free from Hawklan's gaze. ‘He'll hear your message, horse rider, have no fear,’ he said. ‘And I'll repeat my advice; seek earnestly to die
today, Hawklan, Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion and speaker of fine words. Seek earnestly to die.'
Hawklan bowed slightly and, replacing his helm, began to walk Serian backwards. The Helyadin did the same, keeping their bows levelled at Agrasson and his companions until they were beyond bow shot.
'I could have told you that would happen,’ Gavor said. ‘So could Loman and Isloman. All that lot understands is fighting.'
Hawklan handed the green flag to one of the Helyadin. ‘I could do no other than try, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Besides, I've left some darts of self-doubt stuck in some of them, and every little helps.'
Gavor condescended a cluck of mild approval.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr. ‘What did you learn?’ he asked.
Andawyr shrugged a little. ‘He's there somewhere,’ he said. ‘But not truly exerting himself. I doubt he's any idea of the threat we can pose.'
Hawklan nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let's keep it that way for as long as possible. But we have to face him today no matter what else happens, and I'd like to know where he is.'
'He's on that boat there.’ The voice was Gavor's. He was nodding towards a small boat anchored off shore, well away from the other vessels that were plying to and from the islands.
Hawklan frowned at him. ‘I thought I told you...’ he began, then with a resigned shake of his head, ‘Never mind ... A seagull told you, I suppose,’ he said.
'No,’ Gavor replied with some scorn. ‘They're very dim. Not a thought in their heads except family squabbles and ... fish. I found him on my own.'
'They're coming.’ One of the Helyadin ended this exchange.
Glancing back, Hawklan saw the great mass of the Morlider army moving forward again. He galloped Serian up to Loman who was waiting anxiously with a group of company leaders.