‘I feel nothing,’ Hawklan said, remembering the sensations he had experienced when approaching Oklar.
‘You will, healer,’ Andawyr said knowingly. ‘And very soon, I imagine.’
‘Look,’ said Isloman pointing. ‘There’s someone coming out onto the deck of the boat.’
Hawklan looked at the solitary boat then abruptly he felt the presence of the Uhriel. Even at this distance, the figure seemed, like Oklar, to be a rent in the reality around him. A great wrongness. Unconsciously Hawklan’s left hand moved to the hilt of the black sword.
‘What will he do?’ he asked, but neither Andawyr nor Atelon were listening. They were moving forward from the group and looking fixedly at the distant figure. Hawklan signalled to the Helyadin. ‘Protect Andawyr above all; then Atelon, then me.’
Quietly a group of the Helyadin positioned them-selves behind the two Cadwanwr.
Hawklan turned his attention back to the advancing Morlider. The first cavalry squadron was riding to and fro in loose formation, generally harassing the enemy’s centre with bursts of slinging, while the second had advanced and was using the same tactics as the first further along the Morlider’s left wing.
Several times this sequence was repeated, with the squadrons concentrating their assaults on the Mor-lider’s centre and left.
At the rear of his army, Toran Agrasson looked puzzled.
‘These aren’t the Muster I remember,’ he said to one of his officers. ‘Archers, stone throwers and spear carriers, with only a handful of horsemen.’ The frown deepened, then a realization dawned. ‘They’re not Riddinvolk,’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew that big fellow’s accent was funny. They must be those northerners.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Fyordyn. That’s it, they’re Fyordyn. I’ll wager the horse riders had asked them for help and they’ve come on us by accident.’ He laughed loudly. ‘And look at what they’re doing. Outnumbered more than two to one and trying to break our centre. They always were arrogant bastards. This is going to be fun. Pass the word, keep some of them alive for sport afterwards.’
Hawklan watched Loman’s battle plan unfold gradually. Because of its great length and with the centre and left constantly faltering under the attacks from the cavalry, the Morlider’s line had become distorted. In particular, the unhindered right was moving forward rapidly and pivoting inwards. At the same time, largely hidden by the confusion of galloping horsemen, the Orthlundyn phalanx was marching and counter-marching but drifting slowly, inexorably to its left-towards the Morlider’s pivoting flank.
Then the second squadron was charging forward as if to repeat its two-pronged assault yet again. The archers and shield-bearers at the centre prepared themselves for the anticipated assault and once again the line slowed a little.
But the assault did not occur. Instead, the cavalry, keeping comfortably out of range, thundered past at full gallop, hooves pounding and throwing up flurries of snow.
The Morlider pikemen and archers at the centre relaxed and began to move forward again, warily watching the retreating spectacle. Soon the riders would break formation and return again, but they’d have to come to grips sooner or later.
This time however, the cavalry showed no signs of dispersing. And sweeping round in a great curving arc the first squadron galloped down to join them.
Still to some extent obscured behind them, the Orthlundyn phalanx quickened its pace.
‘They’re going for our right flank,’ Agrasson said in growing disbelief.
‘Shall I order the left to swing round?’ asked the officer by his side.
Agrasson shook his head. ‘No, not yet. They might have more over the hill. There’s no real danger. The flank archers will bring them down by the net-full once they’re in range.’
The cavalry however, did not move within range of the Morlider archers. They remained carefully beyond it, and for the first time that day demonstrated the longer range of the Orthlundyn bows; demonstrated it with volley upon volley into the massed archers guarding the right flank of the Morlider line.
The Morlider held for only a short time under this lethal rain, then they began to scatter in disorder. As they broke, the cavalry abandoned bows for swords and charged into them to complete the rout and expose the flank of the Morlider line utterly.
During this assault, the Orthlundyn phalanx demon-strated a skill of its own. With parade-ground elegance it changed formation, making itself eight men deep instead of sixteen, and doubling its length to the left in the process. Then, as the cavalry tore away the flank guard, the extended phalanx increased speed and with a great shout, charged the Morlider’s right wing.
As the rows of lowered pikes crashed into those of the Morlider, Hawklan ruthlessly quelled the reproaches that were rising up in him as loudly as the terrible noise of the battle. Now all were to be tested. Would the will and discipline of the Orthlundyn overcome the wild fighting frenzy of the Morlider?
The thinning of the phalanx had been a risk, but it seemed that the speed with which it had been executed had justified it.
The Morlider on the right flank, assailed by the cavalry, hastily discarded their now ineffective long pikes, and resorted to their traditional swords and axes. But though they fought bravely they took little toll of the cavalry and the disintegration and destruction of the right wing accelerated relentlessly.
‘Hawklan!’
It was Andawyr, and his voice was taut with fear. He was pointing to the distant figure of Creost. Hawklan followed his gaze. The strange unreality that pervaded the Uhriel seemed to have intensified. Serian whinnied uneasily. Without realizing why, Hawklan drew his sword. Then suddenly, he began to feel an unnatural warmth, a warmth that rose inside him with a choking menace, as if a ravening fever had just seized him. Serian started to shiver.
This was the touch of Creost. The touch of death. Hawklan’s eyes widened in helpless terror as sweat broke out all over him.
Andawyr extended his arms as if both defying an enemy and welcoming an old friend. Atelon, beside him, bowed his head slightly and lifted his hands to his temples in concentration. Neither spoke, but Hawklan could feel their ringing opposition to Creost’s Power. As suddenly as it had come, the nauseous warmth that had pervaded him passed away, and he saw the figure on the boat stagger.
Looking round, he saw that Isloman and the Helyadin were wide-eyed and flushed, and their horses restless.
A strange quiet had come over the battlefield.
‘He would have destroyed half his own to destroy us,’ said a soft voice laden with horrified disbelief. Hawklan turned. It was Atelon. The Cadwanwr still sat with his head bowed but his face was riven with effort. He began to speak further but his voice was inaudible. Hawklan bent forward.
‘We hold him,’ came a faint whisper. ‘Fight, Hawk-lan!’
Hawklan put his free hand on the young man’s shoulder in an involuntary gesture of comfort. At the touch, the Cadwanwr’s pain and torment crashed over him like a great icy wave. For a timeless moment he was no more; he was the least mote caught up and whirled around by forces beyond imagining. Yet, too, he was not; the deep stillness at his centre was beyond all such turmoil; it embraced and accepted the pain in silence, and in so doing rejected it utterly. Then it gave him his name again and showed him himself as healer and warrior. Through his outstretched hand, it told Atelon, and listened; and through the other, it told the black sword, and listened.
And it showed Hawklan the balance of many futures that the touch of Creost had brought to the bloody, snow-covered field. Warrior and healer heard and, standing high in the stirrups of the great Muster horse, Hawklan raised the black sword of Ethriss, and roared his will to his people.
‘Orthlundyn. To the light!’
As his cry sounded over the faltering warriors, it reached out and brought each back to the fray, and it was a mighty roar that returned to the Key-Bearer of Anderras Darion.