In the instant that it took for the spear to reach its zenith, Tirke felt his body futilely bracing itself for the dreadful impact, and the welling up of a great surge of cringing terror inside him. Yet even as the terror took shape, another emotion rose up and twined around it like a strangling serpent; a consuming fury, blazing from who could say what fire in his soul. Somehow he would kill this man even as he died. The pikes came down and the archers drew their bows.
This resolve had scarcely begun to reach his hand when the shadow of his doom went staggering back-wards violently. The man took several flailing, unsteady paces and then crashed to the ground. Against the light of the blazing camp, Tirke saw him struggling to pull an arrow from his chest. After a moment he became still, though the arrow still swayed from side to side a little. Loman peered into the darkening light, his Orthlundyn sight searching desperately into the approaching mass.
Then Tirke realized that he was also watching the other Morlider running away. Suddenly he urged his horse forward.
He struggled into a sitting position and looked be-hind him. As he did so, a long row of swaying lights appeared in the blackness; the second phase of the attack on the camp was beginning. ‘Put up your weapons!’ he shouted to the Guards. ‘Put up your weapons! It’s Fyndal and the others with the Muster.’
Relief almost as powerful as his terror overwhelmed him briefly and he found his legs were shaking violently as he staggered to his feet. Later, as the senior officers of the various armies gathered in one of the spartan rooms of the tower fortress, Loman found himself the butt of some considerable banter.
Suddenly he was with his companions and there were horses all around. Someone was carrying the injured man away and hands were reaching down to help the others. ‘A rare welcome, Orthlundyn,’ Urthryn said, laugh-ing as he settled into his chair. ‘We ride down the Pass of Elewart and all through southern Narsindal unhin-dered, to be greeted by our allies with archers and pikemen.’
‘Come on, Tirke,’ a voice said. ‘Shift yourself, you’re frightening the horses standing gaping like that.’ Loman raised his hands. ‘You have my surrender, Ffyrst,’ he announced. ‘But I’ll not apologize again. I’ve been doing it since you arrived. I see now that this is a barrack-room version of your Helangai; dragging the hapless defeated about from rider to rider.’
It was Jaldaric. Tirke looked at him vacantly for a moment and then, taking his proffered hand, swung up behind him clumsily. Urthryn laughed again, and slapped his legs. Loman saw Sylvriss’s features written in her father’s.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, as Jaldaric clicked to the horse. ‘Peace, then, Loman,’ Urthryn said. ‘I’ll concede that when I saw your pikes waving in the gloom you gave me a rare fright. I thought that Dan-Tor had caught you napping and locked you in your own tower.’
Jaldaric paused. ‘Their tower,’ Loman corrected, nodding towards Eldric and the others.
Tirke looked back through the gently falling snow at the Helyadin’s handiwork. Urthryn made a dismissive gesture. ‘Still, I’d hate to think that our companions in this venture were so careless that they’d have let us arrive unnoticed.’
The gentle slope he had just scrambled over was lit orange and yellow by the flames rising from the camp. Three substantial areas were ablaze, figures could be seen running in all directions and the noise of the flames and the shouting and screaming rose above the sound of the distant surf. He became more pensive. ‘It was a good response, indeed,’ he said. ‘Events are moving so fast these past weeks. Good and bad. So many of my people killed by that… creature’s… treachery. My countrymen squabbling like children in their pain. A great battle fought to defend our soil and avenge our dead and us not there.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet, on the other hand, we travel that accursed Pass and through the enemy’s own land without hurt. My daughter rallies my people and then gallops off across the mountains to drop her foal in a Fyordyn farmhouse.’ He gave a sombre chuckle. ‘It’s like something out of one of our old tales.’
It was a grim, tormented sight, yet he knew it had been a good start to the night’s work. His face became serious and, leaning forward, he held out his hands, cupped as if to help someone into the saddle. ‘I accept my daughter’s decision without reservation, Loman,’ he said. ‘The Muster will ride at your command.’
Now the cavalry would take over. Already their line was beginning to gather speed and Tirke could see that few of the Morlider who had ventured out of the camp would return. The thought reminded him of the rest of his own companions. Loman bowed.
‘Did everyone get back safely?’ he asked. Urthryn relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘If it’s possible I’d like to go to Vakloss and see my child and grandchild.’
‘Some injuries I think, but no one killed as far as I know,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘You and the others were the last out.’ ‘It isn’t possible, Ffyrst.’
Injuries. The word brought back to Tirke the mem-ory of the hurts he had caused that night and, in its wake, one of Hawklan’s injunctions: ‘Take no risks, but, if circumstances permit, wound rather than kill. An injured man is more trouble to the enemy than a dead one. He absorbs resources and he saps morale.’ Then he had paused. ‘And it’ll burden you less at some happier time in the future.’ Gulda spared Loman the decision. He gave her a surreptitious look of gratitude.
Tirke and Jaldaric watched as the cavalry caught up with the fleeing Morlider. There would be little wound-ing in that melee. ‘It’ll take too long for you to get to Vakloss and back,’ she said. ‘We know nothing of our enemy’s forces or intentions, but we do know that the three Uhriel are together in Narsindal again, and that Oklar’s force has been gone from here for some time. Sumeral will gain strength from delay; we’ll lose it. We must ride to meet Him as soon as the Muster and the army here can be integrated. That’s going to mean hard, detailed work. Work that can’t be done without you, we can’t afford any delay.’
From a higher vantage, Hawklan, Andawyr and Loman watched the same scene. Gulda leaned forward and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm, and the room fell silent.
While some of the cavalry, yelling raucously, were dealing with the Morlider, others were flinging ropes and grappling hooks over the palisade. Very soon, large gaps had been torn in the defensive wall. ‘Tell us about your journey,’ she said after a while. ‘Did you truly meet no opposition?’
Hawklan nodded approvingly. The Orthlundyn were not natural horsemen by any means, but they had absorbed fully such teaching as Agreth had been able to give them and were mastering the necessary skills competently enough. Urthryn came out of his reverie. ‘Yes,’ he said, nod-ding, his manner mildly surprised. ‘The Pass was grim and unpleasant. It’s a forbidding, awful place. I’ve never ridden along it before. I’d always thought the tales about the wind to be just that-tales. But it howls and moans almost constantly. You’ve never heard such sounds! I can see now why they call it the Discourse of Sumeral
The first wave of cavalry retreated and for a moment a strange stillness pervaded the scene. Hawklan ran his eye along the still extensive remains of the palisade. Here and there groups of Morlider seemed to be forming in some semblance of order. Then, as though the night itself were moving to assault the camp, the second wave of cavalry surged forward. Silent this time, in tight formation, and without illumination, they were suddenly there, riding through the firelit night.
As they rode they shot volleys of arrows deep into the camp, arrows carrying the same radiant stones that the Helyadin had used. Some of them glowed white so quickly that they consumed the arrows that carried them, to fall fluttering and flaring out of the air; others