As the seemingly stalemated skirmish moved uneas-ily to and fro, Gavor dropped silently out of the sky and landed lightly on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘Time to go, dear boy,’ he said softly. ‘There are two more columns leaving the camp-at the double.’
Hawklan read the same message from a distant flickering signal. ‘Gavor, I thought I told you… ’
‘I haven’t told a soul, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted petulantly. ‘I just thought you’d be interested.’
Hawklan let Gavor’s injured tone release the dark smile that was in reality for the day’s bloody success so far.
‘I’m glad to see you enjoyed your flight,’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ Gavor said, with an enigmatic chuckle.
Hawklan turned sharply at this response. ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked suspiciously.
Gavor hopped up on to his head. ‘My, this is going to be fun,’ he said. ‘We’re going to drive these beggars into the sea, aren’t we, dear boy? And that fish-eyed creature Creost.’
Hawklan started and looked up, causing Gavor to tumble off with a squawk. ‘Steady on, dear boy,’ he cried, flapping back up awkwardly on to Serian’s head.
‘Gavor, where’ve you been?’ Hawklan asked ur-gently.
Before Gavor could reply Loman was by Hawklan’s side.
‘You saw the message?’ the smith asked rhetorically. ‘Two more columns coming. It’s working. I’ve sent skirmishers out again and I’m bringing up a second company.’
Hawklan abandoned his interrogation of Gavor.
‘Take care,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how these peo-ple are organized. There was a marked difference in discipline between the third column and the other two. Judge each one on its own. Disorder and confusion are more important than damage at this stage. Take no risks, there’ll be plenty of those later.’
Loman gave him a mildly reproachful look, but Gavor was more direct. ‘He knows all this, dear boy,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does everyone else. Let’s get on and leave them to it.’
Leaving the small, bloodied battlefield, Hawklan returned to Andawyr and the others waiting nearby.
He repeated Loman’s comment when he reached them. ‘It’s working.’
If the relief columns were leaving at the double, then the messengers who had carried news of the ambush back to the camp had carried with them a useful note of alarm and confusion. All that remained now was to see how far that would spread and how many troops would be lured out before Creost or his senior commanders realized fully what was happening.
Watching the movements of both Morlider and Orthlundyn, and reading the signals that flickered to and fro between the concealed Helyadin, Hawklan and his group returned to their silent overseeing of the battle plan.
Several more columns came out from the Morlider camp to be harried and taunted by skirmishers and then confronted by Orthlundyn infantry. As Hawklan had noted, they varied in discipline, but those that stood firm were attacked ruthlessly, and eventually all were broken.
Suffering considerable losses, the Morlider were gradually eased back towards their camp, shepherded by smaller but unbroken ranks of Orthlundyn.
Hawklan rode up on to a small hill from where he could see most of the separate but converging conflicts. A rumble of thunder greeted him. He looked at Andawyr; the thunder, if thunder it was, had been increasing steadily for several hours now. Andawyr met his gaze with open anxiety, but with an inclination of his head redirected him yet again to the earth-bound battle.
Hawklan nodded a reluctant acknowledgement then gazed around: at the sky, still grey and ominous, though lighter in places as if the sun were struggling to break through; at the clusters of fighting men, black scars against the snow; at the small portion of the Morlider camp that he could see. His mind and his intuition told him that the first part of the assault against the Morlider was ending; that a pivotal point had been reached beyond which the balance could only swing to the enemy if he did not now commit the entire army.
He hesitated.
Memories of Orthlund and its people, sunlit, peace-ful and glorious rose to stand against the stark, bloodstained, winter greyness of the present.
He reached up and touched Gavor’s beak. ‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘And guard Andawyr as you’d guard me.’
Gavor bowed his head and looked at him beadily like an old schoolmaster. ‘Now, dear boy,’ he said purposefully. ‘Dar Hastuin and Creost foul my air.’
Hawklan frowned and then patted Serian’s neck. ‘Now, Hawklan,’ the horse said, with the same resolve as Gavor. ‘This is my land, and I would ride to save it.’
Hawklan nodded and turned to one of his Helyadin bodyguard. ‘Signal to Loman, "Now",’ he said.
The young man spurred his horse clear of the group to obey the order.
Hawklan watched him for a moment and then took off his gloves and reached up to unfasten the laces that held his ragged cloak.
They were stiff in the cold air and gave him a little difficulty, but he eventually freed them and with a broad gesture swung the cloak from his shoulders to reveal a black surcoat covering the fine black mail armour that Loman had made for him. It bore no emblem. Ethriss’s sword hung by his side.
Isloman looked at him, his face impassive. The sight brought back vividly to the carver the memory of Tirilen prinking out the healer for his trip to the Gretmearc; of his shock at the sudden appearance of a figure that might have stepped down from one of the many carvings that decorated Anderras Darion. Now, however, the presence of the man set all such compari-sons at naught. Hawklan was here, now, powerful as much because of his doubts as his certainties; a whole man.
Who masters one art masters all, Isloman thought as, with quiet gentleness, Hawklan folded his old cloak and placed it in his saddle bag.
Then with the same calm, Hawklan lifted up the grim black helm that Loman had also made. As he held it up he looked round at his companions.
‘To the light, my friends,’ he said quietly.
Serian lifted his head and shook it as Hawklan urged him forward and, with a powerful beat of his wings, Gavor launched himself into the air to glide, black and stark, against the white Riddin snow.
Chapter 16
Dan-Tor stared out into the greyness that encompassed Narsindalvak. The garish light from the globes illumi-nating the room turned the slowly swirling mist outside the window a pallid white. At the Ffyrst’s feet was a small constellation of dull red stars where his blood had dripped from the barbed end of Hawklan’s arrow still protruding from his side.
Behind him, Urssain and Aelang stood silent and watchful; like the Mathidrin as a whole, loath to be there but bound to him more than ever.
‘How serious is this?’ Dan-Tor asked eventually, without turning round.
The two men exchanged a glance. ‘Very serious, Ffyrst,’ Aelang said. ‘We think that commanders Faron and Groniev are committed to it-and most of their senior officers. Their men will follow them almost certainly, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Dan-Tor echoed softly. ‘And the other commanders?’
‘They’ll wait,’ Aelang said awkwardly, after a dan-gerously long pause.
Dan-Tor’s lips parted to reveal his white teeth in an expression that was neither smile nor snarl. His own image stared back at him from outside, faint and transparent, and seemingly surrounded by the glowing white mist. It taunted him. Great Uhriel, where is your power now? Your vaulting ambition? Bound and blind, and surrounded by ants who think themselves ravening wolves. Will you still be here when Creost and Dar Hastuin are fawning at His feet and receiving His favours? Toying with your remnant soldiers and bleating over the ill-chance that took Fyorlund from you and stuck you like a hunted pig?
‘No,’ Dan-Tor muttered.
‘I beg your pardon, Ffyrst?’ Aelang said, leaning forward intently.
‘No!’ came an awesome, cavernous, voice in reply.
The two Mathidrin froze. The voice was the voice of Oklar. His presence, his malice, filled the room, filled their bodies and their minds leaving space for nothing but himself.