Still bemused by the unseen assault from their leader, the Morlider gave way before the Orthlundyn’s onslaught, and the right wing, after retreating for some way, broke and became a rout as men abandoned their long pikes and turned to flee from the swords of the cavalry and the relentless pointed hedge of the phalanx.
The watching Helyadin cheered, but Hawklan him-self was watching the motionless Andawyr and the distant scar that was Creost. The battle being waged there was beyond his understanding, but he knew it to be as terrible as that between the two armies. He could do no other than watch and wait, and act as his heart bade him.
The battle between the two armies, however, he did understand, and he knew that for all the success of the Orthlundyn against the right wing of the Morlider, the army as a whole was far from defeated. Indeed, he noted that the Morlider’s left wing was beginning to wheel round to outflank the Orthlundyn and, of more immediate danger, the archers from the left flank were running along the line.
In addition, small groups of Morlider were begin-ning to break ranks and attack the small cavalry contingent guarding the right flank of the phalanx.
These were not unexpected manoeuvres, but Islo-man came to Hawklan’s side anxiously.
Hawklan raised a hand before he could speak. ‘Lo-man’s seen it,’ he said. ‘Look.’
As he pointed, part of the cavalry broke off from the destruction of the Morlider’s right wing, and began galloping to intercept the approaching archers and to relieve their companions protecting the phalanx’s right flank.
Without thinking, Hawklan drew off his mailed glove and wiped his brow. His fingers glistened with perspiration and he looked again at the two Cadwanwr. Andawyr seemed unchanged, sitting motionless on his horse, his arms still extended. His oval, battered face was quiet and oddly dignified, but Hawklan could sense a terrible strain in the man. It was as if he were facing a great wind that no other could feel. Atelon, on the other hand, was wilting visibly.
Hawklan reached out and taking Atelon’s hand, thrust the black sword into it. ‘Feel the spirit that used the Old Power to make this blade, Cadwanwr,’ he said. ‘It will unmake Creost’s vile abuses and hurl him back into oblivion if you will it.’
Atelon made no response, but slowly straightened. Gently, Hawklan took the sword from his hand and sheathed it.
He looked again at the distant figure of Creost.
‘Dacu,’ he said. The Goraidin eased his horse for-ward. ‘Can we get out there and attack him directly.’
‘No,’ replied a familiar deep voice emphatically. Dar-volci emerged from Andawyr’s stout coat. ‘His Power is divided. It assaults you and it holds the islands. If you threaten him with death-and you could-he might let slip the islands and destroy you and all these in his extremity.’
Hawklan opened his mouth to speak, but Dar-volci had retreated into Andawyr’s coat again.
Dacu finished the idea. ‘We could only reach him by boat, and there’s too many people still in that camp for us to do that,’ he said. ‘We’d better leave him to Andawyr and concentrate on what we know about.’ He pointed to the battle.
The Morlider left wing was moving purposefully round, its pikemen maintaining a disciplined formation. The archers had spread out, making themselves difficult targets for the volley fire which had destroyed the others. The cavalry however had succeeded in fighting back the assault on the right flank of the phalanx, though the Morlider who had abandoned that assault were now acting as shield bearers to the archers. More numerous than the cavalry, the archers were gradually easing forward and would soon pose a threat to the phalanx.
Suddenly, a brilliant light lit the whole battlefield, glaring white off the snow and transforming the dark mass of the two armies into grey smudges. Then it was gone and in its wake came a terrible thunder clap. Though there were no mountains or cliffs nearby, the sound seemed reluctant to fade, rattling and echoing to and fro across the sky like a trapped and frenzied animal.
All started violently at this din save Andawyr and Atelon, though Atelon turned to look up with consterna-tion on his face. Andawyr merely nodded his head in the direction of their lone enemy.
The Helyadin were struggling to control their horses and even Serian was showing signs of alarm. ‘That wasn’t thunder,’ he cried.
‘No, it was someone else’s battle I fear,’ Hawklan replied, leaning forward and patting his neck. ‘But it’s done us no favours.’
Nor had it. Their horses frightened by the lights and the noise, the cavalry were in some considerable disorder while the Morlider archers had recovered quickly and were using the confusion to advance rapidly.
The Morlider left wing too was closing round inexo-rably.
Suddenly a hand grabbed Hawklan’s arm and twisted him round. It was Dacu. He was pointing to a group of about fifty riders galloping round the Mor-lider’s left wing.
‘A large part of their cavalry, I suspect,’ Dacu said. ‘And not coming to discuss a truce by the look of it,’ he added, as the riders turned and headed directly towards the Helyadin.
‘Striking to the heart of the enemy, as they think,’ Hawklan said, nodding in agreement.
‘Or as they know,’ Dacu said, looking significantly at the Cadwanwr.
Hawklan felt an ancient force stirring inside him. He singled out some of the Helyadin. ‘Tybek, Jenna, you… six, stay here,’ he said. ‘Protect Andawyr and Atelon at all costs. If things turn against us, get them to Fyorlund as we’ve arranged. The rest of you, come with me.’ Then turning Serian before Dacu could speak his inevitable protest, he took up two of the lances that had been stuck into the ground nearby in readiness for any defensive action the Helyadin might have to take. ‘Line abreast, then into wedge formation just before we hit them,’ he shouted.
Serian reared up without any apparent command, and started towards the advancing riders. Dacu hesitated for a moment, then Isloman galloped past him on one side and a lance was thrust into his hand from the other.
‘Come on, Goraidin,’ shouted Yrain. ‘Shift yourself. He’s going to get himself slaughtered.’ And with a yell she was off after Isloman and Hawklan.
Hawklan’s brief tactical instructions were only par-tially successful. Though barely seconds behind him, Dacu and the Helyadin could not hope to match the speed of the great Muster horse as it thundered towards the approaching Morlider at full gallop.
To the few in the marching Morlider ranks who lifted their eyes briefly from the figures in front of them, it seemed that Hawklan, galloping on alone, his cloak streaming, and his great horse wild-eyed and pounding, was like a boulder crashing down a mountainside, while behind came the avalanche; Dacu, Isloman and the Helyadin, in a wide ragged line, shouting and scream-ing, with the polished points of their lances cold and final in the Riddin snowlight.
The advancing Morlider horsemen, in loose forma-tion, saw the tumult coming but did not waver. Instead, four of them split off to deal with this black-helmed apparition, charging at it in defiant echo of its challenge. The Morlider understood the berserk fighter.
But though Hawklan had the all-consuming fury of the berserker, it was guided by his cold inner vision that saw always the true need, and thus it was that the first two Morlider who met him were not impaled on the shining lances from Anderras Darion, but unhorsed.
Seeming to have selected the two riders on the left for his first assault, Hawklan swerved Serian at the last moment to attack the two in the centre. Surprised by the suddenness of this manoeuvre, both riders flinched away from the inexorability of Hawklan’s driving lances only to find their points passing narrowly by and the shafts guiding them effortlessly out of their saddles. Both men fell heavily.
Dacu felt himself gasp at the sight of this superlative fighting technique and even as it happened, the memory returned to him vividly of Hawklan galloping through the sunlight to unseat the demented Ordan Fainson on their flight from Vakloss.