Oslang gave him a grateful and slightly apologetic nod. ‘As far as I know,’ he said. Then, more reassuringly, ‘We’ll fight to our limits if Creost manifests himself, have no fear about our resolve. We know the cost of failure.’
Urthryn nodded.
‘Shall I recall the coast patrols?’ Girvan said. Urthryn looked at the distant islands and at the riders on the shore below. Then, as he looked up, his eye fell on Yengar. The Goraidin was looking upwards. Urthryn followed his gaze. Clambering nimbly on to the swaying platform of the watch tower high above, was Olvric.
Still watching the Goraidin, Urthryn said, ‘No. Tell them what’s happening and tell them to be on the alert in case it is some kind of elaborate trick.’ Then, to Olvric, he shouted, ‘What do you see, Goraidin?’
‘Ships,’ came the reply after a moment. ‘Maybe four hundred or more. In ranks and files as neat as your squadrons.’ Olvric’s voice was uncertain.
‘Your friend seems doubtful,’ Urthryn said to Yen-gar.
The Goraidin nodded. ‘So am I. They must know by now what they’re sailing into. I can’t imagine how they expect to land and establish a bridgehead against what they must surely see arrayed here. Your archers alone may destroy them.’
‘That’s my fervent hope,’ Urthryn said. But the Goraidin’s doubt disturbed him. What could possibly overwhelm the massive forces waiting on the shore?
Creost, came the thought.
He looked at Oslang, now greeting Ryath and the other Cadwanwr who had arrived over the past few weeks. They sit on horses like ill-tied baggage, he thought, in spite of himself, then he crushed the ungracious thought ruthlessly. He could not feel comfortable about the role these strange people were to play. Would they indeed fight to their very limits when need arose, as Oslang had promised? And what would those limits be? What power did this Uhriel command? He remembered Drago, knocked to the floor seemingly by a mere thought from Oslang. Then there was the power that Oslang had exerted over the Morlider’s mind. But these thoughts gave him no solace when he remembered a rather awkward Girvan telling him of the strange ‘unnatural’ storm that had blown so terribly before the islands appeared and when he recalled Sylvriss’s tale of the destruction of Vakloss by Oklar.
Again, he set the thoughts aside, though with diffi-culty. He had no alternative but to prepare his people to face a large and vicious army about to launch an unprovoked war of conquest. He would simply have to trust that the Cadwanwr knew what they were doing.
The approaching ships were clearly visible now. They were a magnificent sight, large colourful sails billowing to catch what slight breeze there was, white foam protesting round their bows, oars beating the waves rhythmically. Briefly, Urthryn felt a twinge of regret. How many good men and horses were to be killed and maimed today? Why were these people not content just to sail their beautiful ships and ride the oceans’ paths on their wondrous floating islands? Why must they seek always to destroy and ravage?
He let the thought pass by unhindered by debate. Perhaps the Morlider had their own answer to such questions, but now he had time only for killing strokes until those same ships were heading back whence they came.
The riders on the shore could now see the ships and were manoeuvring to ensure that no part of the shoreline would be unprotected. As the ships neared the beach, the riders would move to the sea’s edge and launch volley upon volley of arrows into them. Any who survived that onslaught would then have to wade through the water for perhaps a hundred paces or more through the same intensity of fire. Yet, they must know this, Urthryn thought again, as some ill-formed unease rumbled deep within him.
‘Ffyrst.’ It was Oslang. Urthryn turned.
‘Creost is putting forth his power,’ the Cadwanwr said, his face intent as if listening for a distant sound.
‘I feel nothing,’ Urthryn said, uncertain how to re-spond.
Oslang paused. ‘I think it drives the ships,’ he said. ‘But there’s something else as well that I can’t identify. It’s subtle. Shall we oppose the ships?’
Urthryn looked at the approaching fleet again. To his eye, nothing was untoward. He was distracted by a sharp whistle. It was Yengar signalling to Olvric, giving him Oslang’s news. High above, the Goraidin lifted his hands to shade his eyes.
‘No,’ said Urthryn, turning back to the Cadwanwr. ‘Let them come. Let’s settle this affair blade to blade.’ He looked down again to the riders on the shore. They were beginning to move forward, but something was different, though precisely what eluded him.
For a while there was silence except for the sound of the sea and the distant cries of the riders on the shore, then, ‘Ffyrst. Something’s wrong.’ It was Cadmoryth; he had followed Urthryn and the others up the cliff path slowly, on foot. He reached up and took Urthryn’s wrist in a powerful grip. His other hand was pointing to the shore. ‘The tide’s ebbing,’ he said.
Urthryn frowned. That was the change he had seen but not recognized-but what was the significance of a receding tide?
Cadmoryth answered the unspoken question. ‘It’s too fast and it’s not the time,’ he said. ‘I was so occu-pied, I didn’t notice. Get your people off the shore now!’
Urthryn snatched his hand free and took in at once the fisherman’s nervous face, the advancing ships, and the riders, walking their horses after the now rapidly retreating water.
‘I don’t understand… ’ he began.
His voice disappeared under a great cheer from the riders around him as the archers on the shore released their first volleys into the leading ships. Even on the cliffs, the rush of the arrows could be heard.
‘Ffyrst… ’ Cadmoryth seized his wrist again desper-ately. ‘For pity’s sake. Get them off the shore!’
But a more urgent cry caught Urthryn’s attention. It was Olvric. Looking up, he saw the Goraidin clambering down the watchtower. Uncharacteristically, he was shouting-shouting frantically. ‘The boats are empty. And there’s something out there, coming in fast. Get those people off the shore. Now!’
From the beach came the sound of yet more volleys of arrows and the crunching rattle of the ships beaching in the shallows. The riders were advancing relentlessly, following the receding water almost at the trot now and eagerly waiting for the first sight of the enemy that had chosen to threaten their land.
But Urthryn scarcely registered the unfolding saga beneath him. He was transfixed by Olvric. Normally emotionless and laconic, the Goraidin’s face was now alive with fear and he was staring out to sea. Urthryn followed his gaze. The distant islands were no longer visible. Instead, a blur now separated sea and sky.
Then a figure surged past him and went right to the edge of the cliff. It was Oslang, his hood thrown back and his arms extended.
Ryath and the others followed him.
‘Do as they say, Ffyrst,’ Oslang cried, without turn-ing round. ‘I think we can give you a little time. But hurry!’
Urthryn’s hesitation vanished. ‘Signaller, sound retreat,’ he shouted.
‘Retreat, Ffyrst?’ the youth inquired uncertainly.
‘Retreat, boy!’ Urthryn thundered. ‘As you’ve never blown it.’
Shaken by his leader’s sudden anger, the boy’s mouth dried and made him falter with the first notes. From some hitherto unknown depth of patience, Urthryn found a nod and a strained smile of encour-agement for the boy, and the call to retreat eventually burst out of the curved horn, clear and determined.
‘Louder, lad,’ Urthryn whispered to himself, as the nature of the advancing blur in the distance began to become apparent. It was a great foaming wave.
As the strident horn call reached the ordered ranks on the beach there was confusion. Battle-ready and on the verge of facing their enemy, the sudden urgent call to retreat was not heard by some, doubted by most others, and blatantly ignored by a few.
Urthryn’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the hesitation. Then, suddenly, a powerful wind struck the watchers on the cliff. The signaller faltered again as his horse shied, but Yengar caught its reins and steadied it. ‘Keep blowing, boy,’ he shouted above the noise of the wind and increasing roar of the oncoming wave.