As the riders reached the woman’s body, one of them dismounted and picked it up quickly with a strange gentleness while his companions circled wide around him in pairs using bows and swords to prevent the Morlider from reforming. Hastily he threw it over his saddle and remounted, only to dismount almost immediately to pick up a severed limb that had tumbled into the snow.
Then they were fleeing, holding the same close for-mation until they reached their waiting companions.
Hawklan weighed the incident in the balance. It had been impulsive and wrong; it may have given some shrewd-eyed Morlider commander a measure of their attacker’s worth that Hawklan would not have preferred; but it had been well executed and successful and would have done much for the morale of those involved. If circumstances allowed that day, he would offer them commiseration and perhaps qualified praise.
As he made this cold command judgement the min-gled emotions of the recovery party reached out to him. Dominant was anger; anger at the Morlider; anger at themselves, that their comrade had fallen unnoticed as they fled the field; anger and horror at the dreadful damage that had been wrought on the body. And, for the moment the most painful of all, guilt at their own swirling exhilaration at their deed.
Briefly too he felt other, different, emotions, almost too painful to be borne. A lover? A brother? The healer in him would seek these people out and ease what pain he could.
But circumstances did not allow him that healing visit. The tactics used to break up the Morlider column proved equally successful on the other two and, by judiciously continuing the harrying, Loman kept them all in some disarray and eventually succeeded in bringing all three within sight of one another.
This done, he launched an infantry attack against one of them.
At the sight of the orderly lines of Orthlundyn ap-proaching on foot the Morlider, angry and frustrated, broke ranks completely and began to move towards them in disorder, shouting abuse and threats, and waving their weapons in anticipation of the close quarter fighting that had been denied them so far that day.
Riding inconspicuously with the rearguard to the Orthlundyn, Hawklan heard other cries amongst the hubbub; the cries of officers trying to regain control of their men. After a while they faded away. It was another useful measure of the Morlider’s discipline.
The second column, a little further away, also began to break up, and men came running across to help their comrades mete out justice to this taunting, elusive enemy.
The third column, however, was of a different met-tle. It had been the least affected by the skirmishes, and now it maintained its ranks as it turned and began to move rapidly towards the closing antagonists.
Loman watched it carefully. Whoever was in com-mand had assessed the events of the day more accurately than the others and was trying to interpose an ordered defensive line between this dangerous enemy and the loose-knit mob that the other Morlider had become.
Loman signalled the phalanx commander to slow the Orthlundyn’s approach, then he turned and spoke to Athyr. The Helyadin galloped off to join the small contingent of cavalry that was guarding the infantry’s left flank.
Hawklan noted the incident with approval. Loman’s response had been his own. By surreptitiously slowing the Orthlundyn, he was ensuring that the third column would be able to move into position but almost certainly would not have time to form up properly or deploy their archers. Had they been left outside the conflict they could have moved to attack the Orthlundyn from either flank or rear; Hawklan judged that their discipline would carry them through any assault the cavalry could offer.
Good leader, Hawklan thought. But not good enough. In his anxiety to protect his fellows from their folly the Morlider was walking into Loman’s trap. It was a mistake that would probably cost him his life. Even now Hawklan knew that Athyr would be passing Loman’s order to the Helyadin among the cavalry. ‘Identify the leader and kill him; and any rank and file leaders.’ A glance confirmed it; several of the horsemen were preparing their bows.
A peculiar, almost snarling clap of thunder rattled overhead as if giving special sanction to this incisive and deliberate surgery that would occur amid the random butchery.
Damn you, Sumeral, Hawklan thought bitterly as the sound rumbled into the distance. Would that it were in my province to return to you all the pain you create.
A shout brought him back to the cold wintry Riddin countryside. It was an order from the phalanx com-mander and it echoed across the Orthlundyn as the file commanders took it up.
Almost as one man, the front rank of the Orthlundyn swung up their shields to form a continuous wall and the first three ranks lowered their short pikes.
Then they moved from their leisurely march to a jogging trot.
Loman’s timing had been good. The third column was moving into position, amid resentful shouts from their fellows at being apparently deprived of their prey, when the approaching men were suddenly transformed into a single armoured unit carrying a serrated row of death before it.
Several of the Morlider made a valiant effort to form their own shield wall, but it was too late and the Orthlundyn pikes drove into them, killing and wound-ing many on first impact.
The dark part of Hawklan calculated as it watched the destruction of the best of the three columns.
Then the Orthlundyn’s progress faltered as they tried to push through the dense mass of shouting and screaming men.
Push! thought Hawklan grimly, willing himself amongst the heaving pikemen. Push! Remember your drill. Watch your neighbour. Listen for your file commander. That way you’ll live. Push!
For a moment, he was free. Free of doubt and de-bate. Now Sumeral’s will would be tested at sword point. It was a good feeling for all that the events before him were horrific.
Briefly the Morlider held, as their disordered rear ranks, unaware of what was happening, continued to push forward. Then, though retreat was against the very heart of their fighting code, they broke as those at the front turned and crashed through those behind in a desperate attempt to avoid the relentless, terrible rows of jabbing spear points.
An attack now by the mounted archers could rout the Morlider entirely, sending them scattering across the snow at the mercy of the pursuing cavalry. But the destruction of one small group was not what was wanted. Today the entire invasion must be crushed. Today the Orthlundyn must overwhelm a vastly larger army and one of Sumeral’s terrible Uhriel.
Loman let the Morlider retreat, slowing down the advance of the phalanx and then stopping it altogether once contact had been broken.
The Morlider had taken heavy losses, as was evi-denced by the corpses and untended wounded decorating the blood-churned snow, yet they were still conspicuously more numerous than the unscathed Orthlundyn, and as they saw their smaller enemy faltering in its advance, the unspoken shame at their flight was redoubled. Cautiously, they began to move forward again.
Loman watched their confusion carefully, noting with satisfaction four men breaking away and heading back rapidly towards the camp. He took the phalanx forward again before the enemy could re-form properly and then he confined himself only to such manoeuvres as were necessary to maintain this modest disorder.
Outnumbering their troublesome opponents and yet unable to assail them because of their impenetrable shield wall with its lethal hedge of spear points, and the small but menacing cavalry flank guards, the Morlider’s frustration grew apace. The odd individual would charge forward, roaring and screaming and hurl an arcing spear or whirling axe at the silent, waiting, ranks, only to see it brought down by waving pikes, or bounce ineffectually off raised shields. The same fate befell the occasional arrows.
Hawklan watched as Loman’s tactics inexorably destroyed whatever ordered discipline the Morlider had acquired under Creost’s tutelage. It was a good sign.