by Roger Taylor
But the moment passed. The seizure of Riddin must surely be vital to Sumeral’s strategy and while the fate of the Morlider army as men doubtless meant little to Creost, as a tool for implementing the will of Sumeral, it was well wrought and powerful, the work of many years; it would not lightly be broken and destroyed if it fell within its creator’s remit to prevent it.
‘He would have destroyed half his army to destroy us!’ Atelon’s shocked words came back to Hawklan vividly. Had there been any doubt in his mind about that first assault by Creost, there was none now. Better to lose half the army than all of it.
Hawklan urged Serian forward. He knew nothing of the ways of the Old Power, but he knew that he was the chosen of the sword of Ethriss and that both he and the sword now belonged to the battle against Creost.
The cloying warmth ebbed and flowed as he gal-loped through the snow to bring this aid to the struggling Cadwanwr.
A quick glance showed him that the Helyadin body-guard had recovered, but all, save two, had lost their horses. He jumped down from Serian and, drawing the black sword, stepped forward to join Andawyr and Atelon.
Looking out over the battlefield, he saw the figure of the Uhriel, now more disturbing than ever in the aura that surrounded it. Should he place the sword in Andawyr’s hand as he had in Atelon’s? Should he hold it in front of himself as he had when Oklar had stood revealed before him? No instinct guided him, though something drew his gaze down to the sword itself. As he looked at it, he saw the twining strands in the black depths of the hilt shining and flickering triumphantly as they wound their way through countless brilliant stars into some unknown, unimaginable, distance.
A touch on his arm returned him to the field. It was Jenna, white-faced and shaking, but in control. She was pointing out to sea.
One of the two ships bringing reinforcements was heading towards the shore. Hawklan could not make out how many were on board but the danger lay not necessarily in the quantity of troops but in their quality. Could these perhaps be an elite like the Goraidin and the Helyadin? Such a group, fast, powerful, determined, could turn this battle even now. But Jenna shook him and redirected his attention to the other ship.
His eyes widened.
Oars plunging into the waves at what must have been a body-wrenching rate for the rowers, the ship was heading at great speed towards the boat on which stood the malevolent figure of Creost.
Then it struck.
Its bow reared out of the water as it rode up over the smaller vessel, then it seemed almost to pause before crushing it under the waves as if it had been some child’s toy. Hawklan saw the Uhriel hurled into the sea to be submerged as the rowers appeared to redouble their efforts and drove their ship over the splintering remains of the boat in a fury of thrashing destruction. Then, at the same frenzied pace, the ship turned towards the shore.
Before Hawklan could even react, however, a great dome of water swelled up and burst under the stem of the retreating ship, upending it totally. Hawklan saw men tumbling out of the ship to fall into the sea under a hail of oars and tackle. Then the ship itself fell on them in a great cloud of spume and spray.
He would have turned his face away from the horror of the sight, but a greater horror held him. Atop the crashing wave stood Creost, his rending presence tenfold what it had been. Instinctively, Hawklan raised the sword in front of himself.
There was a cry from both Andawyr and Atelon; a cry of both pain and triumph.
‘We have you, demon!’ Andawyr cried out.
Joining his triumphant shout came a terrible cry from the distant figure. A cry that Hawklan recognized; a cry that he had heard from the wounded Oklar. It filled him with the same nameless terrors, but he passed through them unmoved. The creature had been sorely hurt by some hand; now he must be destroyed. He felt dark forces of his own gathering within him.
‘The sword, Hawklan, the sword!’ It was Andawyr. His face was alive with both triumph and fear and Hawklan had the impression of a dazzling brilliance beneath the prosaic clothing as he had once before at the Gretmearc. ‘We’ve torn the islands from him. His army is lost but his rage in his agony may be far beyond our containing.’
The Cadwanwr’s words briefly disturbed Hawklan’s terrible focus and he looked at him uncertainly, then at the distant islands. They seemed to be unchanged, but even as he watched, a ragged white began to blur their edges.
Waves, Hawklan realized. Huge waves, to be seen at this distance. The long frustrated will of Enartion was asserting its ancient sway once more.
Hawklan’s purpose focused again, the clearer still for this new knowledge. With a cry he willed Serian forward at full gallop towards the still unbroken Morlider.
As he neared them he pointed his sword towards the sea.
‘Look to your homes,’ he roared repeatedly, gallop-ing along the line. ‘Creost is downed. Look to your homes.’
Few heard him over the din of the battle, but to their knowing eyes the merest glance confirmed the truth of his words and the news sped through the ranks faster even than the galloping Serian.
The Morlider army, ferocious and dangerous even in rout, was no more. Now the Riddin shore was filled with frightened men running desperately to reach the boats that alone could take them back to their lands.
For a moment, Hawklan’s heart ached at the pity of the transformation, but his mind did not turn, even briefly, from the true enemy on that field, and his dark, focused forces became a sinister battle fever.
‘Ho! Creost!’ he shouted. ‘Come. Face your destiny. Face the justice of the black sword of Ethriss for your crimes.’
As he rode to and fro, wending his dangerous way through the fleeing crowd, and shouting his challenge, he thought he heard again a distant screeching high above but, when he looked up, nothing was to be seen other then the brightening sky and high circling sea birds.
Some strange freak of the air carrying a dying crea-ture’s tormented cries, he thought. Yet it was a sound the like of which he had never heard before.
He thrust it from him and returned to his search for Creost. Now he could feel the creature’s presence all around him; but where was its heart?
Then, abruptly, the crowd parted, and he was there; malevolence and rage pouring from him. Serian reared.
Hawklan surveyed his foe, the true architect of this day’s horror. The Uhriel was smaller and broader than Dan-Tor and his skin had a pallid lustre that reminded Hawklan of his own arm after it had been seized by the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Worse though, were his eyes. Cold, black, and dead they were, but far beyond Gavor’s contemptuous epithet, fish-eyed. And, like Oklar, facing him at the Palace Gate in Vakloss, Creost seemed to intrude into this time and place with an appalling wrongness.
Despite the crush of the fleeing Morlider, none stepped near their erstwhile leader. It was as if his raging aura would destroy any who came too near.
Hawklan jumped down from Serian and walked towards him. Taking off his helm he stared, unblinking, into the Uhriel’s eyes. At Vakloss there had been ignorance and doubt, but here was knowledge and certainty. Here, no debate was needed; this creature must die and this sword would kill him.
Yet, even as he strode forward, Hawklan hesitated. The healer in him felt Creost’s pain.
‘We have torn the islands from him!’ Andawyr had cried. Now Hawklan understood the consequences, if not the nature, of this… victory. The Uhriel was indeed sorely hurt. Some part of it reached out to Hawklan and cried for rest and peace to recover from this pain.
The warrior in him set aside the healer, gently. The hurt was of his own making, it said. He is still malevo-lent and powerful, perhaps more powerful in his intent towards us, than before. He is beyond all help. He must die.
Hawklan gripped the black sword and strode for-ward.
Creost did not move but, abruptly, Hawklan felt the awful warmth that had seized him before become a burning horror all over him.
Creost’s mouth opened to reveal
a cavernous black-ness as cold and dead as his eyes.
‘So you are the bearer of the heretic Ethriss’s sword; the sender of arrogant messages, the one who would slay me.’
The voice’s withering contempt and certainty chilled Hawklan’s heart even as he felt his body burning.
‘Whatever chance threw that bauble into your hand, did you an ill turn. See how you wilt at the least of my touches and see how your vaunted sword protects you. Now stand aside, I have true foes to seek and punish for this day’s work.’
‘No,’ Hawklan managed to gasp out. ‘You will not pass me, Uhriel. You cannot pass me. I pinioned your loathsome soul-mate with a lesser weapon than this. You, I will kill for sure; for this day’s work, and many others.’
Still Creost did not move, but his black eyes seemed to expand. Though he made no sound, his demented fury screamed at Hawklan like a scarcely chained predator. He raised a pale hand towards his adversary. Hawklan forced his legs to move forward.
‘Hold, creature!’
The Uhriel’s gaze left Hawklan, and he felt his pain ease a little, though some power still held him back from his purpose.
Andawyr came to his side. A pace behind him stood Atelon.
Cadwanwr and Uhriel stared at one another in some unseen conflict of wills; a strange enclave of stillness in the midst of the whirling tide flowing across the battlefield.
‘Know this, pawn of the great Corrupter,’ Andawyr said, his voice powerful and clear even above the clamour of the fleeing Morlider. ‘While you slept, we waited. While you lay in the darkness, we searched in the light, and we learned. We are not the Cadwanwr of old, and you are not the Uhriel of old. Our knowledge and skill are greater by far and your vaunted Power is weaker by far. Turn from this awful road. Nothing but your doom lies at the end of it. He will deceive and desert you now, as He did aeons ago.’
Hawklan felt the Uhriel’s fury screaming and his own grew in unholy harmony with it.
‘You blaspheme, old man,’ Creost said, ‘And you misjudge both your skill and my Power grievously.’
Then there were no more words. The Uhriel’s fury burst forth to assail the Cadwanwr. Hawklan felt it swirl around him, but both Andawyr and Atelon stood unmoved.
For a moment, Hawklan saw and understood the Cadwanwr’s great skill. Even with Atelon’s aid, Andawyr did not have the power of this awesome creature now that it was freed from the burden of the islands; but while Creost’s fury ran unfettered and uncontrolled, his strength could be redirected against himself and his pain and injury made the worse.
He saw too, however, that Andawyr could not kill this thing. That task was his alone.
He took the sword in two hands and tried again to move forward, but still some force held him where he stood.
He was a mote, held motionless in some terrible deadlock of wills and powers.
Yet he was the mote that would tilt this great bal-ance and topple the monstrous enemy.
‘I will not be bound,’ he roared, though no sound came from his mouth.
But still he could not move forward; could not measure those few paces that would bring him within reach of the end of this horror.
Then the screeching came again. Thin, skin-tearing, and frightful, it shimmered through Hawklan’s resolve like a bright ringing crack in a fine glass.
It was not the sound of any wholesome creature. It had the quality of desecration about it that hallmarked His work.
With appalling suddenness, it grew until it over-topped both the commotion of the battlefield and the still grumbling sky.
Creost’s black eyes turned upwards, drawing Hawk-lan’s with them. A black shape was high above them. Gavor? But something was amiss. Hawklan screwed up his eyes as they refused to focus clearly on the descend-ing form, dark against the clearing sky.
It seemed that Gavor was coming too close, too quickly, but…
The screeching became unbearable.
It was not Gavor! It was some other bird. A huge bird. And someone was astride its back!
The awesome deadlock between Creost and the Cadwanwr shattered suddenly. Hawklan’s gaze returned to Creost and he felt his arms lift the sword high as they obeyed his long restrained will. As his legs prepared to carry him forward, however, someone seized him about the waist and sent him crashing to the ground.
Rolling over, he brought a mailed fist round to deal with this assailant, only to find that it was Andawyr.
Before he could speak however, the air was full of the sound of the beating of great wings, and the descending creature landed in front of Creost.
Hawklan gaped. The creature was a grotesque trav-esty of a bird. Its body was larger than Serian, its feet were taloned, and a serpentine neck supported a long pointed head that swayed to and fro menacingly. Astride its back, however, was a worse sight. Gaunt and deathly pale, with long tangled white hair that writhed as if it existed in a wind-blown universe of its own, sat the white-eyed figure of Dar Hastuin.
Hawklan recognized the Uhriel, though no name had been spoken; nothing else could so offend the time and place by its very presence.
Come in triumph to aid your ally and gloat over your victory, you obscenity? he thought.
Anger rose up through him like a sudden blazing fire as he struggled to his feet. Freed from whatever had held him, he knew he must slay these abominations while chance allowed. The black sword seemed to draw him onward, singing, to the deed.
As he dashed forward, he saw Dar Hastuin’s claw-like hand reach out to take Creost’s.
‘No!’ he cried. They must not escape the reach of the sword. He aimed a savage blow at the head of the frightful bird, but it pulled away from him with unexpected speed and, curling its long neck, struck at him like a serpent, screeching horribly as it did so.
Hawklan staggered as his reflexes moved him away from the blow, but he did not lose his footing.
Creost was astride the flapping creature now. Hawk-lan moved forward to strike again, but the bird struck first, making him fall over this time. As he rose to his feet, the bird began beating its wings so ferociously that he could scarcely keep his balance in the wind it created. Then it charged at him, making him dive desperately to one side.
As he rolled through the trampled snow he brought himself upright, sword still firmly gripped. But the bird was in the air, carrying its loathsome cargo.
‘My bow!’ he roared. ‘Serian!
The horse was by him in the instant, but even as he reached for the bow, Hawklan knew that the Uhriel were beyond even its range. Quickly he swung up into the saddle. Serian could surely outrun that bird!
Before he could move however, Andawyr stepped in front of Serian and laid a gentle hand on his muzzle.
‘Stand aside, man,’ Hawklan shouted angrily. ‘We can have them yet.’
Andawyr shook his head sadly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In the confusion of the moment we might indeed have slain them. But not now. Not together, and riding Usgreckan. They would slay us if we challenged them. Let them flee if they themselves haven’t realized that.’
‘No!’ Hawklan shouted, urging Serian forward to push Andawyr aside. But the horse did not move.
Hawklan’s anger foamed up into his eyes then drained away abruptly as it broke against Andawyr’s stillness. He leaned forward and looked into the old man’s face.
‘No,’ he said again, quietly, and in some despair. ‘It cannot be, Andawyr. Not when we’ve been so close.’
‘It is, my friend,’ Andawyr said gently. ‘It is. But the day is ours. Creost hurt, and his mortal allies broken and fleeing should give us the Muster by our side when we march into Narsindal. And we know that Dar Hastuin too was hurt, hurt at least as sorely as… ’
‘Hurt?’ Hawklan echoed, looking at him sharply.
Andawyr shrugged and looked upwards. ‘Whatever happened up there, he too was defeated.’
Hawklan looked up. Inland, the sky was dark and heavy with winter, but overhead and out to sea the cloud had been br
eaking up for some time as the tide turned. Now much of the sky was blue and filled with tiny blowing clouds. Directly overhead, and very high, a large white cloud moved slowly out to sea.
Though he could hear nothing above the noise around him, Hawklan felt the presence of the great cloud land. He raised his sword in salute. ‘Live well, and light be with you, Ynar Aesgin, and with your soarers, riders of the high paths. May you find the peace to heal all your pains,’ he said, quietly. ‘Forgive me if I failed you.’
He swung down from Serian and gazed at the pass-ing Viladrien for a moment in silence.
As he turned back to Andawyr, Isloman galloped up. His face was flustered and anxious. ‘Hawklan! Quickly!’ he shouted pointing to the south.
Hawklan followed the direction of his hand. There in the distance were horsemen; hundreds of them, spreading out as they approached.
‘Muster!’ he said softly, smiling as he remembered the call of the old lady he had met on his sunlit way to the Gretmearc. ‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ he heard her say.
But his smile faded almost immediately and, with a shout, he remounted Serian and drove him forward. The Muster were heading towards the fleeing Morlider with lances and drawn swords. Their intention was un-equivocally clear.
‘I will take you to the Line Leader,’ Serian said as he gathered speed. ‘But sheathe your sword or neither of us will live to reach him, they’re in full cry.’
Hawklan gave the horse his head marvelling again at his speed and power as he galloped forward towards the charging horsemen.
Looking at the Muster, Hawklan saw the wisdom of trusting to the horse. He could not have stopped the impending massacre single-handed, and he could not have found the leader amidst so many.
Indeed, in Hawklan’s eyes, the grey-bearded man before whom Serian eventually halted was scarcely distinguishable from any of the other riders, in his heavy clothing and helm.
‘Hawklan,’ cried the man riding next to him. The voice was Agreth’s and its tone was full of both pleasure and relief.