As the three men rode off into the gloaming, Hawk-lan turned to Loman. ‘Strike the torches, but hood them,’ he said. ‘There’s no point announcing our numbers until we find out what’s been happening here. And take a small vanguard forward.’
Loman frowned slightly. ‘Dacu would’ve told us if there was any risk,’ he said.
‘Do it,’ Hawklan said peremptorily. ‘We’re all tired and we’re none of us battle-ready yet.’
Hawklan’s precautions proved unnecessary how-ever, as within the hour Agreth returned. He was accompanied by an elderly man seated straight and tall in his saddle.
‘Hawklan, this is Fendryc, second son of Fendarek, from the Haron branch of… ’ Agreth stopped and rubbed his nose with a rueful smile. ‘Fendryc is the Elder to the village ahead,’ he said briefly, with a quick look of knowing apology to his new companion. ‘It’s his runners whose tracks we’ve seen at the farms.’
Hawklan smiled and extended his hand to the old man.
Fendryc leaned forward and took the hand. Hawk-lan’s eyes narrowed in dismay.
‘Don’t dismount,’ he said softly. ‘Your joints pain you. You shouldn’t have come to greet us in this cold.’
The old man looked from Hawklan to Agreth, his stern expression fading into one of profound surprise.
‘I told you the Orthlundyn was no ordinary man, Elder,’ Agreth said simply. ‘Tell him your news.’
Hawklan mounted Serian to bring himself level with Fendryc. The old man was recovering his composure. ‘I thank you for your courtesy, young man,’ he said. ‘But to be in action again sets my discomfort well aside.’
Hawklan made to reply, but Fendryc continued, ‘My people are ahead marking out a good site for your night’s camp and we’ll let you have such fodder and radiant stones as you might need, but I have to ask you: why are you here?’
Hawklan raised his eyebrows. ‘The Morlider, Fen-dryc,’ he said. ‘The Drienvolk told us of their attack.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Drienvolk,’ he mut-tered, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief.
‘Drienvolk,’ Hawklan confirmed. ‘They saw the is-lands and the great flotilla of ships, and good fortune gave them the chance to warn us.
Fendryc lifted an unsteady hand for silence. ‘I don’t doubt you, Orthlundyn,’ he said. ‘The Morlider are indeed coming. They were sighted many days ago sneaking towards us in the wake of a great storm. Urthryn called the General Muster and almost all the Lines will be gathered there now.’ He clenched the waving hand. ‘A host the like of which has never been gathered before. We’ll destroy them as they land.’ He looked at Hawklan and repeated his question, ‘But why are you here?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Hawklan said.
The old man pointed into the darkness. ‘They’re gathered in the south, not here. It’s several days hard riding by fast horse even in summer. It would take weeks on foot.’
Urthryn slapped his gloved hands together as much in frustration as to warm them. With his knees he guided his horse to Girvan’s side. His face was concerned. ‘What does the fisherman say?’ he asked. ‘What did the watch boats see?’
Girvan shrugged. ‘Nothing new,’ he said. ‘And they were chased off like all the others. There’s a lot of activity going on out there but they couldn’t get close enough to see anything in detail.’
Urthryn shook his head and let out a long steaming breath. ‘Why should they delay like this? It makes no sense. The weather’s good. They had the benefit of some surprise when they arrived, but they must surely know we’ve gathered our strength by now.’
Girvan could offer no help. The waiting was not doing the morale of the Lines any good, not least because no one could see any reason for it. And it had been extensively discussed by Urthryn, his advisers, the Goraidin, and all the senior Line Leaders, not to mention Oslang and the other Cadwanwr who had arrived. He glanced around. The duty Lines were strung out across the cliffs and row upon row waited along the shore. Behind him the massive temporary camp dwarfed the small fishing village. He had never thought to see so many riders in one place at the same time. It was a logistical triumph: the Muster-the Riddinvolk-at their very finest.
But the enemy did not come.
Urthryn lifted his hand to his face and removing a glove, rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Oslang,’ he said, turning to the Cadwanwr. ‘Has a night’s rest given you any great inspiration?’
Oslang shook his head. ‘None, Ffyrst,’ he replied. ‘We detect no use of the Old Power. I’d like to think that they’ve decided not to attack having learned about your force in some way, but that’s hardly realistic. I can only imagine they’re hoping to destroy your morale by a prolonged delay.’
Urthryn grimaced. Same old thoughts treading a weary round. But he could scarcely reproach the Cadwanwr-they were not, after all, fighters, and couldn’t be expected to think as such. Even the Goraidin could offer little, though something was being missed and everyone knew it.
‘It’s a feint,’ Olvric had said after the first few days of waiting.
‘Cadmoryth’s boats have seen hundreds of ships moored by those islands, and swarms of men,’ Urthryn had replied.
‘Before they were conveniently chased away,’ Olvric retorted. ‘And why didn’t they capture your boats, or sink them?’
‘Because we took your good advice,’ Urthryn replied with some heat. ‘We’ve built boats like theirs. We were too quick for them.’
‘Cadmoryth?’ Olvric said, looking at the fisherman inquiringly.
Cadmoryth had looked apologetically at his Ffyrst. ‘I can’t be certain,’ he said. ‘But it’s a possibility that our boats were allowed to escape. At least two of our captains said they didn’t think the Morlider were trying very hard.’
Urthryn scowled again as he remembered the con-versation. Still, the Goraidin usually talked sense and at least restarting the coast watch to a couple of days’ riding north and south had helped with morale by giving the otherwise idle Lines something to do.
‘Ho!’ A loud cry cut across his musing.
Girvan seized his arm and pointed to one of the fishermen standing in a precariously rigged look-out tower on top of the cliff.
‘Ships ho!’ came a second cry.
Urthryn urged his horse up the steep path followed by Girvan and the two Goraidin. Oslang followed cautiously, one eye on the nearby edge of the cliff, the other on the silent ranks of patiently waiting riders watching him pass with some amusement. Cadmoryth did not move but stared out at the ragged horizon, his eyes narrowed.
When Urthryn reached the look-out tower, its occu-pant was clambering down with alarming agility. He was red-faced as he jumped down the last section making Urthryn’s horse start a little.
‘Hundreds of them, Ffyrst,’ he said, pointing out to sea. Urthryn reached into his pocket and retrieved a seeing stone. No sooner had he lifted it to his eyes than he drew in a sharp breath.
‘Signaller,’ he said. A young boy stepped out of the waiting ranks. Urthryn walked his horse to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the riders on the shore far below. ‘Sound the Alert,’ he said to the boy.
‘Ffyrst!’ the boy shouted excitedly, then, licking his lips, he lifted up a curved brass horn and blew a simple but piercing call.
The ranks lining the cliffs maintained their station, though a noticeable tremor ran through them. On the shore below and in the camp behind the cliffs, a purposeful surge of activity began.
‘Messenger!’ Urthryn shouted. Another figure stepped from the ranks. ‘Go down to the Line Leaders on the shore. Remind them that these brigands are not to land. They die in the water. We’ve arrows enough to sink their damned islands; see that they’re used well.’
Involuntarily, Oslang grimaced at Urthryn’s tone and for an instant the Ffyrst looked angry at this implicit reproach. His anger however, did not reach his voice. ‘Your friends will be brought up as part of the alert,’ he said. ‘Are you prepared?’ His voice was unexpectedly gentle.