To tempt the Morlider further, and to some extent to protect the Orthlundyn from the Power of Creost should it be brought against them, Athyr had the several companies break ranks before they came in sight of the camp so that they would appear to the majority there to be no more than a large but disorganized group of raiders.
It was thus this seemingly motley group that ap-peared on the skyline behind the fleeing Morlider. Maintaining the charade, Athyr had the Orthlundyn straggle a long way down the slope before halting.
Almost immediately, large numbers of Morlider began to emerge purposefully from the camp. Athyr smiled in satisfaction as he watched them.
Slowly however, his smile began to fade. The num-ber of Morlider coming from the camp was unexpectedly large, and while many of them were heading towards the Orthlundyn in an angry mob, a substantial proportion were lining up in ordered ranks and files.
The smile became a frown. Athyr had little doubt that if need arose his companies could come together and hold the undisciplined charges of the mob, but the group forming outside the camp, he noted, were already substantially larger than his own force and were armed with long pikes. They were a different matter. They could destroy his people in a single leisurely charge.
For a moment he began to wonder who was luring whom. Had Creost been aware of their presence all the time? Did he have his own Helyadin moving silent and unseen through this chilly landscape, or did he have a Gavor amongst the seagulls that squabbled noisily around the camp? Had he allowed so many of his troops to be sacrificed just to lure the Orthlundyn into full battle? It occurred to Athyr that because he would not be prepared to countenance such savagery he should not have assumed that his enemy would be similarly constrained.
Angrily, he dismissed the thoughts, knowing they were no more than the corrosive products of his own fear and self-doubt. Circumstances had dictated Hawklan’s strategy and the probability was that Creost, or his commanders were simply reacting. In any event, such considerations were irrelevant. No matter at whose behest, battle was about to be joined. His task had been to lure out the enemy if possible and in this he had been successful; too successful, he thought ruefully looking at the growing mass of Morlider outside the camp. Now his task was to protect his companies and perhaps do some further damage to the enemy in the process.
The intention had always been to retreat, but now came the question of the manner in which this should be done. His people had been marching and fighting for several hours; if he ordered a retreat from their present disordered positions there was no guarantee that they could outstrip the Morlider whose greater freshness was being amply demonstrated by the speed of their advance.
He must bring his people together.
But if he left it too late, the Morlider would be run-ning berserk amongst them, and if he did it too soon, the very suddenness of the manoeuvre might perhaps give too much information to the calmer minds forming the phalanx in front of the camp.
As he watched the advancing crowd he realized that the choice had been made for him. The Morlider were too many and coming too quickly. Suddenly he seemed to see them very clearly and as if from some other place. His fear had slipped away and been replaced by a dark and terrible resolve.
He would have to engage and destroy them if he was to be able to retreat.
‘We will kill every one of you,’ the resolve said si-lently to the Morlider. ‘Every death will weaken your army further and help draw forth your massing companions below.’
Then the strangeness was gone. But everything was changed.
Athyr placed his fingers in his mouth and blew the penetrating whistle that his friends had been willing from him for some time past. Faster than for any drill they had ever performed; the Orthlundyn converged on him.
The angry Morlider misunderstood the sudden movement, taking it for a headlong charge, and with a great roar they ran even faster in their desire to close with this treacherous and elusive enemy.
Few survived to benefit from the realization of this mistake.
The scattered, scurrying Orthlundyn became, very suddenly, a long, solid, armoured mass protected by a jagged row of glistening pike heads.
Like many of their compatriots that day, most of the Morlider either perished directly in the first impact between the two forces, or in the subsequent melee as the front ranks struggled frantically to escape the relentlessly thrusting pikes.
Athyr saw the exercise fulfilling his cold resolve though, perversely, he was pleased that the voice of his conscience made itself heard briefly, railing at the profound pity and futility of such carnage.
As the Morlider broke and began running back to the camp, the archers who were guarding the flanks of the phalanx killed and injured many more.
Again, the Orthlundyn had taken no losses.
As the remnants of the Morlider fled, Athyr turned his attention back to those gathering outside the camp. The sight made his stomach leaden with fear. In exaggerated mimicry of his own force, a huge swaying forest of pikes stood silent and waiting. What appeared to be massed ranks of archers guarded the flanks, and archers and shield bearers were strung out in front of this terrifying vision.
Too successful, he thought again with bitter irony. This must be their entire army. Once they start to move, they’ll pursue us for ever. How can even Hawklan…? His legs started to tremble and this time no stern resolve came to aid him.
Then, faintly, there was a distant cry. It echoed along the waiting line and, slowly, as though a soft breeze had blown through it, the great forest wavered and began to move forward.
‘Time to leave,’ Athyr heard himself saying, in a voice whose quiet calm almost had him searching for some other speaker. ‘Break ranks and retreat at the double.’
The Orthlundyn needed little urging and were soon energetically widening the distance between themselves and the advancing enemy.
As they ran, a solitary figure on horseback appeared on the skyline ahead of them, black and forbidding. Then, one on each side of him, came two others, armoured, helmed and grim. Athyr started, his mind suddenly flooded with thoughts of the three Uhriel and the terrible unknown powers that they could bring to bear on these insignificant humans who had had the temerity to take up arms against them.
Then a familiar voice intruded. ‘Come along, dear boy, this is no time to be dawdling. You seem to have made yourself distinctly unpopular.’
The voice was Gavor’s, and Athyr’s vision cleared to identify the three riders as Hawklan flanked by Loman and Isloman.
Hawklan took off his mailed glove as Athyr ran towards him. ‘You’ve done well, Athyr,’ he said, leaning forward and taking the man’s hand. ‘Tend to your people. Take them to the rear so that they can get a little rest, then get your horse and come back here.’
As Athyr shouted orders to his companies, Hawklan turned to look at the advancing Morlider.
‘Many of these will die today,’ he said, his voice cold with distaste. ‘Send a herald out with a flag of truce. Tell them we want to talk.’
Both Loman and Isloman looked at him in disbelief. ‘They’ll kill him,’ they said in surprised unison.
Hawklan’s brow furrowed in ironic surprise at this unexpectedly positive and unanimous advice. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Get me the flag.