It felt crude and ungainly in his hand, but its lack of finesse did not prevent him impaling a second Mandroc with a powerful upward blow as he rose to his feet.
He wrenched the sword free and thrust the dying creature into a third one who, catching the dreadful light in Hawklan’s green eyes, suddenly stopped his chanting and turned to flee. The impact of Hawklan’s hurled sword in his back sent him sprawling face downwards on to the hard stone ground.
Quickly Hawklan took in the condition of the others. He noted with a mixture of exhilaration and profound sadness that the beautiful and terrible fighting skills of the Helyadin and Goraidin were being practiced with a ferocity that equalled the Mandroc’s own. Weaving and turning, his companions were cutting and stabbing their way through their wild, chanting enemy, while thread-ing through the scene moved the black shape of Gavor, bloodstained Mandrocs falling in his wake.
The dull grey street rang with the battle fury of the men and women who had chosen to join him in opposing Sumeral and who knew that to do so they must freely follow His way and accept the consequences that flowed from it.
As Hawklan paused, a blow in the back pushed him forward. Turning, he saw Andawyr delivering a powerful kick to the groin of a huge Mandroc who, less noisy and more experienced than the rest, had moved silently and swiftly along the side of the building. The creature looked more surprised than hurt at the blow, but as Hawklan made to attack him, Dar-volci emerged from behind Andawyr and clambered rapidly up to the hesitating Mandroc.
Hawklan was only half turned as the felci’s rock-crushing teeth closed on the Mandroc’s throat.
Then another sound rose above the din. It was a high-pitched, almost demented screaming. Alarmed at the prospect of perhaps some new and terrible foe, Hawklan instinctively reached for his sword. Andawyr’s hand gripped his wrist as the cause of the noise soon became apparent. It was Byroc. He came charging out from between two of the buildings wielding a large metal bar. The object of his attack, however, was not the body of the fray, but two Mandrocs who were standing aloof from it. They wore robes and strange headdresses as opposed to the rough leather tunics of the others.
Both of them held up their hands and made authori-tative and haughty gestures at the approaching apparition but this, if anything, roused the demented Byroc even more and with a series of swift and terrifying blows, he dispatched both of them bloodily. He paused briefly and let out a great howl then, discarding the bar, he took out his sword and fell upon the remaining fighters.
Almost abruptly, the battle was over. The last two Mandrocs slithered to the ground and the victors stood motionless amid the gaping wounds and hacked limbs of their enemy.
Only the raucous sound of heavy breathing could be heard.
The silence was only momentary, however.
‘The rider. The Mathidrin. Where is he?’ Hawklan’s voice was strained as he ran forward into the middle of the street. ‘Gavor, find him’
But even as Gavor rose up into the air, Dacu had snatched up his bow and was running to the end of the street. Hawklan and the others ran after him.
As they reached him, he was drawing the bow back to fire. Galloping rapidly into the distance was the Mathidrin officer.
‘You’ll never… ’ someone began.
Hawklan’s hands shot out, fingers extended, impos-ing an absolute silence and stillness on the spectators.
Dacu, bloodstained and still panting, became sud-denly very still. Then to Hawklan it seemed that the entire world was filled with the sound of the release of the arrow.
No sooner had the arrow left the bow, however, than a light of knowledge came into Dacu’s eyes; the shot was imperfect. Without a flicker of self-reproach or the least pause in his flowing movement, Dacu took a second arrow, nocked it on to the bow string, drew it and, slowly closing his eyes, released it.
The whole incident had been so rapid that the two arrows could be clearly seen arcing after the retreating Mathidrin like a pair of hunting hounds.
Not one of the watchers breathed.
The first arrow struck the horse, but before it stum-bled, the second struck the rider. As both horse and rider crashed to the ground, Gavor dropped out of the sky on to them.
There was a brief flapping and thrashing, then he rose back into the air and headed towards the watchers.
Gently, Hawklan laid a hand on Dacu’s shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. Dacu was standing very still. He did not reply.
Turning to the others, Hawklan asked. ‘Is anybody hurt?’
So close still to the fighting, and with most of the company covered in blood, there was some doubt about this at first, but a little careful testing showed that no serious injuries had been suffered.
‘Good,’ Hawklan said. ‘You did well. Let’s hide these bodies somewhere and then get out of here. Someone will come looking for them eventually and it’s better they’re thought lost than slaughtered by an enemy.’
A little later, the joyless task completed, they were moving out of sight of the camp and following Byroc across the harsh countryside.
‘Were those two His priests?’ Hawklan asked the Mandroc.
Byroc snarled and made a gesture mimicking that made by the two Mandrocs he had smashed down. ‘Priests!’ he said viciously. ‘Dowynai Vraen. Too foul to blunt my blade on. We should have destroyed them generations ago.’
Hawklan frowned uncertainly, but Andawyr caught his eye and shook his head slightly. This was some deep tribal matter that would probably be beyond his true understanding. Suffice it that the Mandroc had fought with them, and fiercely at that.
He glanced at the others. They were in various de-grees of shock; the younger ones, with the exception of Jaldaric, being the most subdued.
He could give no subtle counsel. ‘That was unfortu-nate,’ he said. ‘But you fought well and we survived with nothing more than some cuts and bruises. I won’t tell you to forget it, but remember that you had no choice, and that your full attention belongs here, now, if we’re to survive further. Remember also that the creatures charge on, fighting, even as they’re dying.’
‘Don’t fret,’ Isloman said to him later. ‘Gulda and Loman have trained them properly. They have clear sight.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Perhaps I was speaking for my sake, not theirs,’ he said. ‘But I am a little concerned about Jaldaric. He seems almost elated.’
‘He is,’ Isloman replied simply. ‘His burdens are being eased.’
Hawklan frowned.
Softly, Isloman enumerated Jaldaric’s problems. ‘He broke his High Guard’s Oath when he kidnapped Tirilen; was captured in his own tent by only three of us; faced with a Mandroc patrol.’ He looked significantly at Hawklan. ‘Remember what a shock that was for us let alone him. Then he was downed by that Mathidrin… ’ He searched for the name. ‘… Aelang. Thrown in jail without trial, and threatened with execution. And when all that was over and he was working to find himself again, he had to stand by and watch while Aelang and the militia massacred the villagers at Ledvrin.’
Hawklan put his hand to his head briefly and let out a long breath. ‘I think I’ll take up carving when we get back to Orthlund,’ he said. ‘You can do the healing.’
Isloman smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Even I can’t see a rock that’s in front of me sometimes. Besides, you’ve helped him more than you know, as have Anderras Darion and Gulda and the Helyadin training.’
‘I’ll watch him more carefully in future,’ the healer said, while the warrior inside him coldly assessed the value of the young man’s torment as a goad to his fighting skill. The ambivalence no longer distressed him, however; both healer and warrior knew their roles and their worth.
He dropped back a little, thoughtfully, and found himself walking by Andawyr. The sight of the Cadwanwr with Dar-volci scuttling along beside him made him smile despite himself. The little man was scruffier than ever after their long journey and it was almost impossi-ble to imagine him as their sole defence against the searching awareness of the terrible foe they were marching to meet.