A screaming horse crashed down beside him and as he snatched its rider upright, the momentum of Loman’s purpose reasserted itself. He wrapped both hands about the grip of the sword, and charged towards the most densely packed section of the line in front of him with a great roar. He felt others, mounted and on foot, falling in behind him.
For an unknowable, timeless age, the world became only a swirling, hacking, red-stained blaze of light, as the smith’s forging will and his terrible strength cut through all that stood before him.
Slowly, somewhere in the turmoil, the fluttering, inspiring mote that was Loman felt the currents about him change; heard the all-pervasive rumbling ground bass rise into a whining, fleeing scream.
But then a sudden silence fell; and Loman stood shoulder to shoulder with Yengar and Olvric, staring down an aisle of white-eyed Mandroc faces into the grim-helmed visages of Oklar, Creost and Dar-Hastuin.
Chapter 33
Andawyr laid a hand on Hawklan’s arm as he reached for his sword, but all the others drew theirs.
‘I should prefer not to kill you all,’ said the voice ahead of them. ‘But the choice is yours.’
A solitary figure emerged from the mist, sword in hand.
It was Aelang.
As he walked forward, swaying shadows in the mist behind him darkened and slowly took form to reveal his Mandroc patrol.
Yatsu and the others slowly closed in front of Hawk-lan and Andawyr, but Jaldaric pushed past his companions and strode forward to stand in front of the Mathidrin, his sword levelled.
Aelang made no move other than to incline his head quizzically. ‘Ah,’ he said after a moment, his tone contemptuous. ‘I remember you. The solitary twig from Eldric’s creaking tree. Stand aside, child, I’m in no mood for trifling with you as I did in Orthlund. Indeed I’m in no mood for trifling with any of you. We’ve been waiting for you for some time, and we’re missing the slaughter of your friends.’
Jaldaric continued to stare at his erstwhile captor. ‘Nor will I trifle with you, Aelang,’ he said in a tone that, though calm, made his companions look at one another uneasily. Tirke made to step forward but Hawklan put a hand on his shoulder.
‘In due course, you’ll be charged with other crimes,’ Jaldaric went on. ‘But now I’m arresting you in the Queen’s name for the crime that I witnessed: for the murders you committed at the village of Ledvrin. You’ll be taken to Vakloss where’ll you’ll be given the oppor-tunity for a full Accounting. I must ask you to surrender your sword.’
His manner was so authoritative that for a moment a flicker of doubt passed over Aelang’s face and he glanced uncertainly at the swords behind his accuser. Then his face became livid. ‘I see that blow to the head I gave you has addled what few wits you had,’ he snarled. ‘However, this one will end your confusion perma-nently.’
Without warning, he swung his sword round to beat Jaldaric’s blade down. It was a swift and sudden blow, but Jaldaric avoided it almost casually, and in turn beat Aelang’s blade down.
‘That was one more chance than was allowed to anyone at Ledvrin,’ Jaldaric said, a hint of his inner rage creeping into his voice. ‘You’ll have no other if you don’t surrender.’
For an instant disbelief, then fear, filled Aelang’s eyes as he stared into Jaldaric’s emotionless face. He stepped back a pace, uncertain again.
Hawklan’s hand tightened about Tirke’s shoulder in anxious anticipation.
Then Aelang spun round, the sword following him with a scything power that would surely cleave the young Helyadin in two, from neck to hip.
Aelang had risen through the Mathidrin ranks not only by cunning and ruthlessness but also by displaying a fearsome prowess in all manner of fighting tech-niques. He would have been a match even for the experienced Goraidin and as a swordsman he was far superior to Jaldaric.
But as Aelang had emerged out of the gloomy Narsindal mist, Jaldaric had recognized a terrible opportunity and knew that he must be prepared to accept death now if he was to be free of the doubts and guilt which lined the path of his life like mocking ghosts.
Thus it was with a deep inner stillness that Jaldaric entered the swirling maelstrom of Aelang’s attack. As the Mathidrin’s sword swept down, Jaldaric moved with the blow and stepping aside, drove his sword straight through his attacker.
‘Go stand for your Accounting before your victims, then, Commander, if that’s your wish,’ Jaldaric said as disbelief returned to Aelang’s eyes.
Jaldaric tugged at his sword, but the blade was wedged. Aelang made a strange noise and danced a brief, obscene dance. Gritting his teeth savagely, Jaldaric wrenched the sword free.
Aelang took a single step forward and stood for a moment like a stricken marionette. Then he dropped to his knees and slowly tumbled face forward onto the road.
His sword clattered noisily from his hand.
There was an eerie silence.
‘Close ranks and follow at the double!’ Yatsu’s command was soft, whispered almost, but its power galvanized the stunned watchers.
Then they were all running, Tirke seizing Jaldaric and dragging him forward, the others forming up around Hawklan and Andawyr.
Yatsu led them down and along the embankment past the Mandrocs who were standing bewildered by this sudden, unexpected happening.
Apart from his initial command, Yatsu made no sound as he ran, nor did any of the others, knowing that the silence would give them precious seconds where a roaring battle cry would soon bring their enemies to their senses.
Thus they were running back up on to the road before the Mandrocs began to respond.
‘Hawklan, Andawyr, go!’ Yatsu shouted. ‘We’ll hold them off.’
Hawklan hesitated briefly, but Andawyr grabbed his arm and dragged him forward along the road.
As the two men ran into the mist, the sound of des-perate fighting began to follow them. Hawklan clenched his teeth as part of him rebelled against this flight from his friends in need. But the other part of him drove him forward beside the Cadwanwr. His friends might die without his help, but they might die with it, and their deaths then would be one of utter futility. They were here, in this awful land, solely that he could flee now, to find and face his true enemy.
Gradually, the sounds of battle faded, to be replaced by the sound of their footsteps and gasping breaths.
Suddenly, Andawyr tripped and fell awkwardly, crying out in pain. Hawklan bent to pick him, but as he did so, figures came running out of the mist ahead.
They were Mandrocs, Aelang’s rearguard, Hawklan realized. Left here against the possibility of anyone escaping his trap.
One of them came charging forward, spear levelled. Another followed close behind. Hawklan reached for his sword, but a glimpse of Andawyr’s imploring face stopped him drawing it.
Instead, he twisted sideways and laid his hand on the shaft of the first spear as it passed by him. He pressed it downwards as it ran under his hand, and the sudden change in direction drove the point into the ground. The charging Mandroc ran into the butt end of the shaft with a grunt and then pivoted incongruously over it to fall heavily some distance away.
Even as the Mandroc was falling, Hawklan had swung the spear up and pushed it between the out-stretched arms of the second attacker. Stepping forward, he twisted the spear to entangle the arms and then turned to send the creature hurtling through the air to join its fellow.
A straight thrust drove the butt of the spear into the gaping mouth of another and as it fell to the ground choking, Hawklan impaled a fourth.
The destruction of all four had taken scarcely as many heartbeats and the remainder pulled back a little way, uncertainly. Hawklan yanked Andawyr to his feet, but the Cadwanwr cried out in anguish, and Hawklan winced as the healer in him felt the jagged pain of a damaged ankle.