The deed was repeated along the whole of the Serens’ line. And repeated and repeated.
Arwain did not count how many died. He thought mainly of his next stride forward, knowing that to do otherwise could bring death to him as easily as he brought it to the surprised Bethlarii. Once he thought of those that this cruelty might save, but the thought vanished as he was obliged to deal with an armed Bethlarii who was more quickly aroused than his fellows.
Gradually the night silence began to fill with the cracking and snapping of the burning tower, the sounds of pounding feet, hacking effort, and, increasingly, agonizing cries of bewilderment and terror.
Then it was rent by the shrill alarm cries of escaping survivors. First one, then another, then many, dashing through the camp and rousing whoever they could in their flight.
As this clamouring news of the assault began to outpace the progress of the attackers, so the first rush of the black tide began to peter out, and the Serens found themselves meeting increasing resistance.
It was necessarily disorganized however, and by maintaining their close groups, the Serens were able to continue pushing relentlessly forward for some time, ruthlessly cutting down those Bethlarii who attempted to stand their ground.
For a brief period, and quite by chance, several of the groups came together to form a continuous marching line reminiscent of the traditional pike line in formal battle array. And for that same period, it seemed that panic would indeed overwhelm the Bethlarii as they fled before it.
The Serens’ line advanced triumphantly.
By the light from the burning tower, Arwain saw the group nearest his own accelerate and surge off into the darkness.
His stomach went cold. ‘Close up, close up. They've separated from us,’ he hissed to his own group.
Over to his right he heard the mounting noise of the wakening camp. He and Ryllans had discussed the many dangers inherent in this attack. The greatest, they concluded, was not the possibility of being overwhelmed by direct resistance, but in fact the contrary. It was the possibility that the Bethlarii immediately in front of the attack would crumble and that as a consequence, the Serens would move too far forward, perhaps even breaking through the Bethlarii circle, only to find it closing about them in awakened force and leaving them with their backs to the city wall.
And this was what was happening.
Arwain did not hesitate.
'Sound retreat, quickly!’ he shouted urgently to his signaller.
Even as the horn call rang out, it was echoed by an identical call from Ryllans’ signaller at the other end of the attack line. It did not surprise Arwain. The tactic was one of many that had been agreed in advance of the attack, in the knowledge that communications between the two principal officers would be impossible once the enemy was engaged.
Arwain peered anxiously into the darkness.
'Sound again, and keep sounding!’ he said.
'Lord!’ A hand seized his arm and turned him round. His companion was pointing back to the blazing tower. Against its light, Arwain saw a large group of Bethlarii forming around it, spears and swords silhouetted clearly. They were in some disorder, but even as he looked he saw the group's attention drawn towards the darkness from which came the invader's horn call.
Arwain's immediate response was to retreat, but now his group were effectively the rearguard to a large part of the battalion and these Bethlarii were the unwitting vanguard of the encircling movement that must inevitably cut off the Serens’ force if they did not retreat quickly.
'Form up around the signaller,’ he ordered. ‘Lock shields and hold.’ Then, to the signaller, he hissed, ‘Blow as you've never blown.'
The signaller needed no such instruction but acknowledged it with a glance of his whitened eye and a nod which made his horn call waver slightly.
Arwain's attention returned to the now cautiously advancing Bethlarii. They were visible against the light of the tower and, occasionally, a point or an edge reflected the firelight ominously. If they closed, then his small group would not be able to hold for more than a few minutes. He glanced over his shoulder. Other fires were springing up through the camp, but still there was no sign of the neighbouring groups returning.
Briefly a surge of self-reproach washed over him. Would this venture prove to be no more than the reckless loss of Ibris's famous bodyguard? The finest of Serenstad's troops massacred under the command of his bastard son?
He had a vision of the endless disastrous consequences of such an outcome and once more his wife's face appeared to him.
But the relentless sounding of the horn kept him anchored firmly to the present and the vision of his wife merely served as a centre around which he formed a stern resolve.
'Shout,’ he cried to his men. ‘They can't see us as well as we can see them. Shout! Swords and shields!'
The men obeyed, banging their swords on their shields and roaring fiercely. The advancing Bethlarii hesitated slightly, their leaders crouching slightly and peering into the gloom.
The horn blew.
'The charge chant!’ Arwain shouted to his men.
The shouting faded suddenly and was replaced by a rhythmic chanting punctuated by equally rhythmic tattoos of foot stamping and swords against shields. At this change, the Bethlarii halted and some of them began to edge back a little, though others, Arwain noted, began to close ranks.
As the chanting increased in intensity, Arwain desperately looked again into the darkness behind him. For the most part, the Bethlarii were still only a loose-knit crowd; they might scatter at the climax of the chant in anticipation of a solid line of shields and spears emerging out of the darkness towards them, but …?
Should he risk a short charge? Line abreast, he and his few men would look more numerous than they were.
The decision, however, was made for him. The Bethlarii might only have been a loose-knit group, but they were an angry one and their anger was growing in proportion to their hesitation. They needed only the slightest touch to release their building energy.
It came in the form of a tall figure who broke through to the front of the crowd and began haranguing them. Arwain noticed that he was dressed differently from the rest.
One of their damned priests, he thought.
But scarcely had the thought formed than the priest let out a great shriek, full of hatred and fury, and began to charge. Without even the slightest hesitation, the Bethlarii followed him.
'Lock shields! Hold the circle!’ Arwain shouted.
Cries of ‘Hyrdyn! Hyrdyn! Hyrdyn!’ reached him as his own men fell silent.
His legs began to shake.
'Hold,’ he said, commandingly. ‘The others will be retreating back towards us. We mustn't fail them.'
He braced himself for the impact.
Then, to his horror, he was aware of the circle breaking; space at his back. Before he could turn to confirm this, however, a spear flitted across his vision and struck the Bethlarii priest full in the mouth. His shrieking battle cry stopped in a stomach-churning squeal and the impact of the spear coupled with his forward movement sent him crashing backwards, his legs flailing in the air.
Two more spears followed, one striking another Bethlarii, the next narrowly missing a third. Just as the priest's arrival had ignited the crowd, so his abrupt demise doused it, and the Bethlarii began to retreat.
'They're back,’ one of Arwain's companions said, looking over his shoulder.
The remark was unnecessary.
'Retreat,’ Arwain ordered. That too was unnecessary.
But in the darkness the retreat proved more dangerous than the advance even though there was no immediate pursuit. Then, they had approached quietly and carefully in close formations, placing each foot with care. Now, they were carrying their dead and wounded. And with hatred and anger howling behind them, and retribution waiting in the near future, they were all fighting an almost overwhelming urge to flee. Despite the best efforts of the officers, they did not maintain a pace slow enough to be safe in the difficult terrain and several were injured in falls.