Then Ryllans was by his side. Arwain felt his urgency. The east was greying relentlessly. The mountains would slow the arrival of the morning light at Whendrak, but the attack must not be delayed further or it would be impossible to effect the clandestine retreat that was vital to their intention.
'I'm ready,’ Arwain said, turning towards the Mantynnai. Silence was to cover the vanguard of the Serens’ attack. A great roaring charge might possibly panic the first of the besiegers that they reached, but the Bethlarii were hardened fighters and the very din of battle would probably help them to recover and regroup quickly. In addition, the noise would certainly rouse those in more distant parts of the camp, bringing them to the scene armed and savage.
Thus those among the bodyguard with the skills for the task were now moving silently ahead to kill the sentries as quietly as possible. That done, the main force would move equally silently into the camp, killing and destroying all they could, and then retreat quickly at the first sign of the Bethlarii recovering.
The action had to be swift and lethal, and it was essential that the Bethlarii gain no measure of their true size or they would counter-attack recklessly at first light and Arwain had no illusions about the ability of his battalion to withstand what would surely be a massive and infuriated onslaught by a vastly more numerous army.
Slowly, crouching low, the Serens drew nearer to the camp.
Almost ritualistically, as if for comfort, Arwain's hand kept testing the metal buckles on his belt and scabbards to ensure that the cloths binding them were firm and secure to prevent them from rattling.
The force had been divided into small groups, each of which could fight as a close formation team in the event of unexpected opposition. At the same time, the groups would maintain close contact with their neighbours to minimize the risk of being separated and cut off. The use of such groups would also help to maintain discipline when the fighting-the killing-began.
'This is an action to cause damage and delay,’ Ryllans emphasized. ‘It's not a battle we can win. The last thing we want is anyone running amok, screaming and yelling like some berserker. The Bethlarii will be doing enough of that in due course, and the sooner the camp's roused, the sooner we have to retreat, and the sooner they'll regroup and come after us. Is that clear?'
The shadows around him nodded silently.
'Right. Just remember. Keep quiet, keep your wits about you, advance cautiously, keeping contact with your neighbouring groups, and do your jobs. That way you'll survive.'
Soft, whispering orders sighed through the darkness and the advance stopped. Arwain tightened his grip about his sword. He looked back to see that his group was in good order. They were very near to the camp now.
Presumably not anticipating an attack from either the city, or from along the valley, the Bethlarii had posted few sentries, though several were guarding a partially constructed siege tower. A few lamps revealed their vigil and it was the rapid destruction of these particular guards that Arwain had taken as the task for his own group.
There was a short, high-pitched cry from some way ahead, to the left, followed by some grunting and scuffling. Arwain jumped, as did several of his companions. The noise seemed to ring like a trumpet clarion through the darkness and Arwain felt his already racing heart pound even harder. Deliberately, he took in and released several slow breaths to calm himself, forcing himself to look at the men around the tower.
No stir came from the camp, however, though some of the guards looked about to see what had caused the noise.
Unnecessarily, Arwain held up his hand for both silence and stillness but, after a long moment, the tower guards fell back into their casual watch.
Then, like a poison-tipped arrow, the code-word he had been waiting for and dreading, hissed at him out of the night. The lone sentries were down, move in.
Arwain gestured to his two immediate companions and the three of them stood up and began walking forward casually. The remainder vanished into the darkness.
As they neared the tower, Arwain's companions put their arms about his shoulders, and he drooped his head as if he were sick or injured, and in need of support. They did not speak, but they made no attempt to walk quietly.
As they drew nearer, Arwain scuffed his feet along the ground and coughed.
The sound galvanized the tower guards. ‘Halt,’ one of them called, advancing, his spear levelled.
'It's all right,’ one of Arwain's companions called back with what they had agreed was a passable attempt at a Bethlarii accent. ‘Our mate's cracked his head open, we're looking for the…'
The accent was not good enough.
'Ye gods, they're Serens! Sound the…'
At the first exclamation, however, Arwain had relinquished his supporters and moved forward. He reached the man in three long, swift strides. The movement was so sudden and purposeful that the guard faltered momentarily, and, side-stepping the extended spear, Arwain drove his sword through the man's throat, silencing his cry instantly.
The guard's hands dropped the spear and came up reflexively and futilely to grip the lethal blade. For an instant, Arwain lost his balance. As he struggled to recover it and also retrieve his sword he felt his two companions move past him and engage the other guards. Then the rest of his group were there, at the rear of the distracted guards.
Even as Arwain registered this fact, a figure lunged towards him. Without thinking, he twisted sideways and felt the terrifying draught of a blade passing in front of him. His attacker lurched forward under the impetus of his missed blow and Arwain drove the palm of his free hand into the side of the man's face ferociously. He felt a bone crack, and heard the man utter a strange cry as he staggered under the blow. Arwain tore his sword free from the dying man and struck the reeling figure a blow on the shoulder. The man went down and Arwain struck him again.
Then there was a flare of light. A lamp had been knocked over and the spilled oil had ignited violently. Arwain took in the scene as if it had been some vivid picture hanging in his father's palace. A mass of shadows and men, swirling and moving in some unholy dance, something far away from him, aesthetic almost, to be viewed dispassionately, at leisure.
In the same instant he heard again a score of Ryllans’ training yard reproaches.
'Move, Arwain! Move!'
The distant vision passed from his mind and he saw the scene as it was: shadows and men swirling and moving in terror, rage and bloodlust. He saw too that the guards were losing, and that the fire would probably ignite the whole tower.
Good, he thought, as he drove his sword into a Bethlarii about to bring his foot down on a fallen figure. That'll be useful to the Whendreachi. He pushed the struggling Bethlarii off his sword with his foot and reached down to drag the downed Serens to his feet.
A glance showed him the last guard falling and that all his men were standing, though some appeared to be injured.
How long had it all taken? Scarcely twenty heartbeats something told him, but time had no meaning here. Here there was only now.
Quickly he checked that those injured could continue, then he looked out in the darkness away from the flickering flames beginning to rise up the tower. The night was alive with the shadows of his battalion, moving silently into the Bethlarii camp like a great, engulfing, black tide. Where it passed it would leave only death.
He pointed towards the nearest tent. A figure was crawling out of it. At the sight of the blazing tower, he, like the first guard, faltered, and like the first guard, he died for it as a single blow from Arwain almost severed his head. Then swords cut open the tent, and in a brief orgy of stabbing and hacking, killed the bewildered occupants, before moving swiftly to the next tent.