Silence.
All was silence. Here, in Narsindal, His will could reach out and touch His servant, but…
Silence.
And darkness too. The seeing stones of Narsindal-vak saw the surrounding mountains and valleys, even, to some extent, through the mist, but what of Fyorlund and Orthlund and Riddin? Where was that silent, elusive demon, Hawklan? Had that horse witch Sylvriss truly reached Dremark and perhaps raised the Muster to seek vengeance for her husband’s death?
These were matters of no small tactical importance.
Then, thoughts that had not come to him for eons. How fared his detested comrades, Creost and Dar Hastuin? Sent forth, as he had been, to seize the peoples of their old domains, had they returned in triumph while he languished in this prison, bound and blind, and contending yet with these feckless and inadequate humans? Was that why He sent no word? Was Oklar, first and greatest of the Uhriel to be the butt of their mockery because chance had wrenched Fyorlund from him? Was he to place his hand beneath the feet of Creost and Dar Hastuin? The thought was unsupportable.
He stood up and turned to the window; a circle of dark grey in the darkness of his room. No double mocked him here. Nor would any mock him ever, save Him… until…
Red glaring eyes blazed in at him from the mist.
It was his own gaze. He turned away from it sud-denly as if, even at this great height, some unseen observer might read this last, dangerous, scarce-formed thought, in his face.
He must have his true sight again! The thought burned inside him as never before. The bird held by the Cadwanol must be torn free so that the Vrwystin a Goleg could see again!
But with this accursed arrow in his side he could not use the power, and if he could, there still lingered the fear that such use might inadvertently awaken Ethriss.
The thought of the Guardian, terrible and vengeful, rose before him. Yet even as it formed, other, quieter, thoughts came with it. The Cadwanol, alerted now to the wakening of Sumeral must surely be putting forth their greatest power to find and waken their erstwhile master. And their power was not trivial if it could bind the Vrwystin a Goleg.
Yet Ethriss slept still.
Wherever he was, he was beyond their reach! And beyond the reach of any casual disturbance.
New patterns formed in the Uhriel’s dark mind. Calm resolve entwined itself around his mounting rage to form an unholy duo. The bird must surely lie at the heart of the Cadwanol’s stronghold. Released, it would not only give Dan-Tor his eyes again, but it would show where that heart lay and, with that, the destruction of the Order could be assured. For destroyed they must be. At best they were an unknown factor in any impending conflict, while at the worst they might yet awaken the Guardian; their very survival through the ages beto-kened a patience and will not to be ignored lightly.
And with his eyes and his power restored, he would once again have the true vision of an Uhriel. He could tolerate the cloying masquerade that he was obliged to maintain to fire these creatures about him, and no enemy could stand against him; not the Muster, the Lords, that seeping, corrosive sprite, Hawklan, nor those upstarts for His favour, Creost and Dar Hastuin.
Dan-Tor nodded to himself. Several ends could be served here.
His surging passion burst through its restraint and he reached out his power deep and distant; under the cold mountains and across the plains of Fyorlund until, reluctantly, it shied away from the touch of the Great Harmony of Orthlund. For an instant he felt an almost overwhelming urge to shake this, his domain, and tumble these irksome creatures into oblivion, though it shatter his mortal frame utterly.
He would tolerate this impotence no longer.
He would wait His will no longer.
He would do that which had never been done.
He would go to Derras Ustramel. He would seek an audience.
Chapter 17
A great cheer spread through the waiting ranks of the Orthlundyn as Hawklan’s message flickered from its last sender and was read directly by many of them.
The day had been chill and tedious; a day of foot stamping, arm beating, and endless last-minute checking of equipment and weapons as the Orthlundyn waited and watched, gaining relief only from the relayed messages detailing the successes of the companies assaulting the Morlider columns.
But now, the message had arrived and the myriad irritations of the long wait were ended. All doubts and fears dissolved, momentarily at least, in a wave of exhilaration as shouted orders penetrated the din, and the advance began.
Hawklan, Isloman and Andawyr together with their Helyadin bodyguard took station at the top of a small rise that lay in the army’s path.
‘A fine sight but a sad one,’ Isloman said, as they waited.
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Remember your mines, carver,’ he replied. Much of his face was hidden in his helm, but his voice bore a stern reproach and the will behind it struck Isloman almost like a physical blow. ‘We’re here out of necessity and now we’re committed totally. Sadness is for another time and will be the greater if we ponder it here. Now, there is only this moment, and victory. All else are traitors to our true need, old friend.’
Still the healer, warrior, Isloman thought, as he felt the last two words seal the small wound to his pride that the rebuke had offered. He bowed slightly in acknowl-edgement, then put on his own helm.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr and Atelon and looked at them both intently. Much rested on this strange couple, he knew. They it was who must resist the Old Power that Creost would inevitably send against them before the day was through. If they failed, then the Orthlundyn would fall like corn before a scythe at this terrible touch. It was an awesome burden for such seemingly frail creatures.
‘You are prepared to oppose and destroy Creost,’ he said. It was not a question and for all its simplicity it carried the same will that would soon fire the entire Orthlundyn army.
Like Isloman, both inclined their heads in acknowl-edgement.
Loman galloped up. His face was flushed, and showed a grim satisfaction. ‘I threw two more compa-nies in on your signal, and attacked. You should have seen them scatter.’ He laughed. ‘They’re running back in total disorder,’ he went on. ‘Athyr will pursue them as far as possible and then do what he can to lure out the rest of the camp.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan said, smiling. ‘I think we’ve done enough to make them angry, and while they’re angry, their training won’t stick, and we have them.’ His mailed hand reached out and patted Loman’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s join our army, commander,’ he said. ‘We’ll ride with you until we see the enemy’s response.’
It took them only a few minutes to reach the ad-vancing army and as they did so, another spate of cheering broke out. Spontaneously the front rows began lowering and raising their long pikes in salute, making waves ripple along the entire front, so that it looked like a field of tall grass ruffled by a summer wind.
Gavor and Serian caught and responded to the mood of the people immediately, Gavor letting out a cry of delight and rising up into the air, Serian prancing a little, and then shying and kicking out his forelegs to throw up great flurries of snow.
Hawklan too could do no other than respond. He drew the black sword and, holding it high above his head, trotted Serian along the rows of bobbing pikes. Gavor flew to and fro around his head.
The cheering echoed along the line as they passed.
Then Hawklan rode amongst the various companies, satisfying himself that all were prepared, and quietly ensuring that his implacable determination pervaded the whole army.
While Hawklan was being greeted by the advancing army, Athyr was walking to the top of the long slope down to the shore and the Morlider camp. As Loman had reported, the Morlider columns, having suffered heavy losses, were fleeing in complete disarray back to their camp. Had Athyr launched even his small cavalry units against them, their losses would have been magnified appallingly. Instead, however, he withdrew the riders, and dispatched them back to join the army. The Morlider had prepared themselves to face the Muster; if they saw cavalry cutting down their fleeing companions, there was a strong chance that they would either stay where they were, or form up into the disciplined phalanxes they had obviously rehearsed. Neither of these alternatives was desirable. If, on the other hand, they saw their comrades being pursued simply by the now superior numbers of foot-soldiers, it was probable they would continue to come out as a disordered and vengeful mass.