Hawklan knelt down beside her.
She turned to look at him. Hawklan could see no part of her face, but he could see tears shining in her eyes.
He touched her gently and she bowed her head gratefully.
Then she reached out and, picking up Ethriss’s sword, handed it to him. ‘Your people are dying, prince,’ she said. ‘All hangs at the point of balance and all His power is returned to Him. You must destroy Him.’
Hawklan took hold of the sword and, for the first time, felt its true power. He turned and looked at Andawyr. The little man nodded urgently, his eyes wide and desperate.
And then Hawklan was running along the broad causeway, the only sound his soft footsteps and the icy lapping of Lake Kedrieth.
He felt the warrior in him listening, peering into the subtle shadows within the dense mist, and preparing every part of him for combat against any foe. He felt the healer too, silent but acquiescent, waiting for the terrible healing work that was to be done.
But above all, he felt alone.
Then a great coldness spoke inside him, like that which had touched him as he had fallen before Oklar’s fury at the palace gate. But it was worse by far. And as beautiful as it was fearful.
‘Welcome, Hawklan, Prince of Orthlund, and great-est of My Uhriel.’
Chapter 34
Sylvriss’s eyes opened in alarm and dismay as she looked at the group of men trudging wearily back into the camp. She wrapped her arms about her child protectively.
Since news had reached the camp that the battle had been joined, she had been pacing to and fro fretfully. Her responsibility to her child, and her deep need to be with her people, both Rgoric’s Fyordyn and the Muster, shifted and changed relentlessly, and like ill-matched horses yoked together they twisted and turned her as they rampaged through the day.
Tirilen, bloodstained and strangely vital, had dis-missed her from the groaning butchery of the Hospital Tent.
‘You can do nothing here,’ she had said without pausing in her work. ‘We were prepared and you are not. You’ll burden us.’ There was no reproach or bitterness in the remark, just a gentle certainty. Sylvriss’s baby cried out suddenly, the thin sound incongruous amid the inarticulate pain and the urgent tending that clamoured about them. Tirilen moved towards a young man standing nearby. His eyes were brave and afraid, and a portion of his upper arm had been hacked away to reveal torn muscles and white, splintered bone. Tirilen gave Sylvriss the healer’s portion that her wounds merited. ‘Look to your child and your army,’ she said. ‘The one needs you now, and as I read men’s eyes here, the other may need you before the day’s through.’
The remark had struck through to Sylvriss’s heart in some way and she left silently.
She had found no solace with Gulda either. The comforting form of the old woman was nowhere to be seen and her tent stood strangely still and silent under the noisy, pelting rain, as if it were a faded picture in an ancient book of tales.
Now, Sylvriss ran forward to the leader of the group entering the camp. His face was grey with strain.
‘Oslang, what’s happened?’ she cried out.
Oslang looked at her distantly and then, with diffi-culty, focused on her.
‘What’s happened?’ she repeated almost desperately. ‘Why are all your people here?’
‘They’re gone,’ Oslang replied uncertainly after a moment.
‘Gone? Who’s gone?’ Sylvriss exclaimed.
Oslang leaned against the wooden palisade and slowly sank down on to the wet ground. Ryath answered for him. ‘The Uhriel, lady. They’ve gone.’ His voice too, was weak.
Sylvriss put her fingers to her temples in an effort to understand what she was hearing.
‘They’re defeated?’ she said. ‘The Uhriel are de-feated?’
‘They’re gone, lady.’ Ryath repeated Oslang’s words indifferently as he sat down on the damp earth beside him and, closing his eyes, turned his face up into the rain. ‘Whether fled or dead we don’t know, but their horror menaces us no more.’
Sylvriss’s bewildered expression slowly changed to one of triumph, then it darkened. ‘If they’re gone, why are you here?’ her voice was strident with reproach. ‘Why aren’t you on the field? Using your power on the enemy as Oklar did on Vakloss?’
Oslang started, as if out of a trance. He looked up at her, his face grim and angry. ‘We cannot,’ he said coldly.
‘Cannot?’ Sylvriss echoed. ‘Cannot, or will not do you mean?’ Her hand clutched at her child and her mouth curled into a vicious snarl. ‘Would you protect His army with your misguided compassion, Cadwanwr?’
Oslang’s own face became a mirror to the Queen’s in its savagery. ‘We cannot, lady,’ he said, his eyes blazing. ‘Do you think we’d stay our hand from anything that might bring an end to that horror out there?’
He struggled to his feet. The Queen’s anger abated a little at the effort this simple deed required.
‘We cannot lady,’ he said again, more softly. ‘We have the skill and the knowledge to redirect what is sent against us; even great Power. We know that now; these last hours have made us wiser by generations. But we are ordinary men. To use the Old Power as the Uhriel can use it would destroy our feeble frames before we brought down a fraction of that host.’
Sylvriss shook her head. ‘But they’re mortal men,’ she said uncertainly.
Oslang took her arm. ‘They’re mortal, surely,’ he said, more composed now. ‘As even is Sumeral. And, unlike Him, they were men. But they’re His limbs now. They exist in many planes, and their mortality is no longer that of ordinary men. We’ve done all we can.’
Sylvriss bowed her head before Oslang’s pain.
‘How goes the battle?’ she said without looking up.
‘The balance swings against us, I fear,’ Oslang said. ‘The enemy dead are legion, but they have such numbers.’
‘Be specific,’ the Queen said, looking up calmly.
Oslang met her gaze. ‘The lines hold,’ he said. ‘Infantry and cavalry. But they’re nearly surrounded, and the circle tightens despite the carnage.’
Sylvriss closed her eyes briefly as if to picture the scene. The Uhriel might be gone from the field, but, as all had known from the beginning, men must fight men. His army could prevail yet.
‘If need arises can you use such skill as you have with your Power to defend the injured in this camp?’ she asked urgently.
Oslang nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, frowning. ‘For a while we could use the Power thus.’
Slowly Sylvriss lifted the straps of the baby’s sling from her shoulders and handed it to the Cadwanwr. Then, gently, she set aside its protective hood a little, and, removing her sodden glove, ran her finger over the warm, sleeping, face of her child.
‘I shall withdraw the squadrons guarding our south-ern flank, and those guarding the camp, and lead them into the battle,’ she said.
Oslang stared at her fearfully.
‘This day will not be won unless we commit our every resource,’ Sylvriss said simply, in answer to his unspoken question. She drew on her glove and straight-ened up. ‘Guard this camp as… Hawklan would,’ she said, smiling wanly. ‘And my… ’ Her voice broke a little. ‘… my baby… as I would. Forgive my reproach to you and your brothers. It was hasty and intemperate.’
Oslang folded his arms around the child and bowed.
‘Light be with you, Lady,’ he said hoarsely.
Denial screamed through every fibre of Hawklan’s body, but the cold words inside him allowed no escape.
‘Greatest of My Uhriel.’
Hawklan’s mind tumbled wildly in their icy wind. Only his hand tight about the hilt of his sword seemed still.
‘No,’ he cried out silently. ‘I am… Ethriss’s chosen. His hand snatched me from my very death to face you on this day.’
‘That hand was Mine, Hawklan. Ethriss spared none of his creations. I saw your true worth and I took you to be Mine when I should rise again. Now you have brought Me My enemies and destroyed those who betrayed Me by their weakness and folly. You are worthy indeed. Their mantle becomes yours. See your inheritance, and deny it if you can. ’