It seemed to Urthryn, as he watched, that the squad-rons below, still confused, were blundering and floundering with infinite slowness, and that the dreadful wave was lingering like some taunting hunting animal waiting its pleasure before launching its final, speeding, attack.
Everywhere was dominated by its distant thunder carried on the wind, but somewhere in the din he heard his own voice rising up to join with those around him in shouting fruitless encouragement to the riders below.
On the shore, Muster discipline was beginning to assert itself, aided in no small degree by the eerie silence that greeted the attack on the grounded ships. Arrows had flown over their sides and thudded into their capacious interiors, but not a sound had emerged. No cries of pain, or rage, or fear, no rattle of arms; nothing. And as more ships crunched into the shallows the silence seemed to deepen. The only sound that emerged from the ships was the flapping of their impotent sails in the sudden wind. It had a mocking quality about it.
Then the other sounds began to impinge on the riders; the desperate clamour behind them and, worse, the deep and ominous rumble rising out of the now spray-obscured sea like a massive cavalry charge.
‘Too late. Too late,’ Urthryn whispered to himself as the squadrons below began to wheel and turn to gallop up the beach. He saw through their eyes-they were much farther out than they had thought. It was a long way back to the village. His horse shifted restlessly underneath him, responding to his inner turmoil.
On the cliff edge, Oslang and the other Cadwanwr stood motionless, faces set in profound concentration. Suddenly, the wind faltered and the advancing wave rose and fumed as if it had struck some unseen barrier.
They are giving us time, Urthryn realized. Though how it was being achieved, he could not tell. Below, he saw the leading riders at last reaching the village and turning to head up the cliffs towards the sound of the horn.
Urthryn held his breath as the wave continued to be held by the unknown skills of the Cadwanwr. His riders were streaming off the shore. But the ramps and walkways up into the village were narrow and the great mass of riders were slowed virtually to a halt. For a moment Urthryn was almost overcome with emotion as he watched the impeccable discipline of the Muster holding. Fear and urgency surged up to him from the waiting riders, but no panic.
Then, one of the Cadwanwr sank slowly to his knees. The others ignored him. Another fell; heavily. Urthryn’s gaze moved from his riders to the fallen man. Without examination, he knew the man was dead. Whatever these men were doing it was taking some grim toll. A third faltered, his folding body feeling to Urthryn like the curling finger of a cold hand closing about his stomach.
‘Hold, Oslang!’ he shouted. ‘Hold!’
Below, a great black mass of riders oozed slowly towards the constricting exits from the beach.
‘Hold, Oslang!’ he whispered.
But he could see that all the Cadwanwr were nearly spent. Not from their actions, for they stood as silent and stern as before, but from the beached ships now being lifted by the nearing tide, and beginning to jostle one another like a crowd of excited children at a party.
Then the rest of the Cadwanwr yielded, slowly and painfully. Oslang was the last. He alone remained standing at the end, though he staggered back, ex-hausted. Urthryn leaned forward in his saddle, and caught him. Oslang looked up at him, his face full of a great weariness and a terrible remorse and grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said faintly. Urthryn put a protective arm round him and held him firmly against the horse for support and comfort.
Looking up, Urthryn confirmed the scene that he knew would be unfolding. The wave was moving forward again. Even from above, its size and speed were terrifying. The colourful ships were jigging and rolling in anticipation. Immediately below him, the dark crowd of riders became darker as instinctively they urged their horses forward to reach the safety of the higher ground.
Abruptly, the horn call stopped and the signaller, overcome by his exertions and by the now obvious futility of his actions, let the instrument slip from his hands as his head slumped forward. He was sobbing.
The shouting crowd lining the cliff tops fell silent too as, gathering up the bobbing ships, the wave reached its destination and, crashing over the crowded Muster squadrons, roared angrily up the cliff face as if it would not be sated unless it overwhelmed even the high watchers.
Urthryn watched in empty helplessness as, in sec-onds, thousands of his charges were destroyed. Some were crushed in the great rolling melee of men and horses, some were smashed against the rocks, or by the empty, charging ships; others were drowned as they were towed out to sea by the retreating wave, and some were suffocated in the clinging sand made suddenly soft and quick.
Yet, it transpired, there were miraculous escapes also. A father and son, swept up on to a narrow rocky ledge, a woman who awoke bruised and shaken to find herself in one of the empty Morlider ships. And many others found themselves thrust to the surface where they could swim ashore or cling to debris until the villagers, manning such boats as were undamaged, were able to rescue them.
Despite his agony, some reflex of leadership galva-nized Urthryn even as the wave was foaming around the foot of the cliff. ‘Yengar, Olvric, help the Cadwanwr,’ he shouted, then shaking the signaller had him blow, ‘Stand Firm’. If all the riders present descended on the beach in impromptu rescue missions, who knew what further harm might ensue in the crush?
As Urthryn turned and galloped off down the cliff path to take personal command of the rescue, Oslang reached out and took Yengar’s arm to steady himself. ‘Ryath,’ he said, none too gently prodding his prostrate friend with his foot. ‘Ryath, get up. We must still the water before it retreats too far and returns again. Get up! And we must find Creost and the islands before they move beyond us.
Olvric and Yengar exchanged a glance. ‘Find the islands first, then still the water, Oslang,’ Olvric said. ‘We need to know whether to move north or south. Riddin is defenceless while we wait here. The Morlider may be landing and moving against us at this very moment.’
Chapter 13
Dacu swung down from his horse. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed.
Hawklan did not alter his steady pace through the snow and Dacu fell in with him.
‘Well?’ Hawklan asked.
‘They’re there,’ Dacu said, between great breaths. ‘Right where the Drienvolk said they were heading. There must be forty thousand and more landing while we watched. And they’ve been there for some time. They’ve established a large camp and a lot of it’s being fortified.’
Hawklan did not try to keep the relief from his face. After the old man’s news that the Muster was gathering in the south to face the Morlider, there had been a considerable debate about where the Orthlundyn army should go.
Agreth had wanted to march south, hoping to find some Muster outpost still manned that could ride to Urthryn with news of their arrival and arrange for supplies to carry them over the long journey. Others had suggested dividing the army, with one section moving south and the other continuing across Riddin to the sea.
Hawklan’s instinct had been to heed the Drienvolk’s warning. Tactically it made more sense and, according to an unyielding Gavor, it had been unequivocal. ‘Their greatest islands have come north, carrying many men, and such numbers of boats as we have never seen-a great and powerful host. We watched them for much of their journey. They defied the ways of Enartion.’ This observation, Gavor declared, had distressed Ynar greatly and for a little while the Drienwr had been unable to conclude his warning. ‘But now they are waiting.’