Briefly he felt the ambivalence of motives in Hawk-lan’s actions; not to kill, through caring and compassion; not to kill, to burden the enemy with wounded. He swept the thoughts aside as the Helyadin moved into their wedge formation. Such choices were not his. Hawklan’s skills were as far from his as were his from the average High Guard; here he needed all his own just to survive, and a mind elsewhere would see him killed. Part of him however marvelled again as at the edge of his vision he saw Hawklan beat down an attacking sword with his lance, then bring it up to strike his assailant under the chin, unseating him.
Dacu closed with his chosen target but, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he swung the point of his lance away suddenly and swung the aft end round to strike him in the face. As the Helyadin struck the Morlider, Hawklan was swinging his lance around to deliver a ringing blow to the head of the fourth rider who was struggling to turn his horse to face this explosive assault. The man tumbled out of his saddle, stunned, but a fifth rider joining the fray was less fortunate; Hawklan drove the aft point of his lance into his throat. As the Morlider crashed, choking, into the snow, Hawklan turned with a great roar to the entangled mass of fighting riders.
The initial charge by the Helyadin had killed several of the Morlider and injured or unhorsed several others. It had not, however, scattered the attackers and, lances having been discarded, swords, axes and clubs were being used in savage close-quarter fighting.
The Helyadin’s greater skills, both in riding and fighting, were prevailing against the Morlider’s numbers and brute power, but barely, and it was obvious that the Morlider were neither going to yield nor flee.
With one lance, Hawklan impaled an axe-wielding giant who though badly hurt and on foot was about to hamstring Isloman’s horse. The second lance he drove into the ground between the legs of a horse to bring it down. Its rider, however, rolled as he fell and, coming upright almost immediately, ran forward as if to drag Hawklan from his saddle. Serian hit him broadside, but it took a powerful kick from Hawklan to end his part in the skirmish.
Hawklan drew his sword and urged Serian into the middle of the melee.
No sooner had he done so than he found himself in another place.
Chapter 18
‘In the name of pity, Hawklan, help us!’
The voice was that of Ynar Aesgin. It rang in Hawk-lan’s head and possessed his body, though the images in his eyes were still those of the Helyadin and Morlider locked in savage and bloody combat about him.
A great rage and fear surged through him.
‘What have you done?’ he roared, though no sound was heard in Riddin. ‘Release me. I will die here, or others will die protecting my helplessness. Release me!’
‘This is not my doing,’ came the reply.
‘Release me!’
‘I do not bind you, neither can I release you,’ said Ynar. ‘Would I had such skills at my command, I’d have sought you before this extremity.’
Faint and distant voices impinged on Hawklan, calling his name frantically as the images of his friends battling the Morlider around his helpless frame came before him with fearful clarity. An ancient part of his mind struggled desperately for release, but none came.
‘Help us, Hawklan,’ intruded Ynar again. ‘Hendar Gornath understood the great truth of the sword you bear and he has held firm. The Soarers Tarran have repelled Dar Hastuin’s terrible hordes… at great cost… but now he takes his tormented land to the higher paths… He will crush us… Destroy us utterly. Help us.’
The despair in the Drienwr’s voice appalled Hawk-lan. ‘I cannot help you, Ynar,’ he cried.
‘He will destroy us!’
‘I cannot help you!’
Ynar’s pain filled Hawklan. ‘What do you want of me?’ he cried.
‘Your strength, your knowledge, your wisdom, to guide us.’
‘If you understand the sword you are wiser than I am. You have what you need. Search your hearts.’
Ynar’s despair did not abate.
‘But tell us what to… ’
Hawklan screamed. ‘Do what you must, Drienwr. I know nothing of your ways. You sought no conflict. You have the right to be. No one, no thing, can deny you that. Do… ’
Ynar was gone.
The din of the battle broke over Hawklan deafen-ingly; Isloman’s voice roaring his name, others screaming and shouting, swords and shields clashing.
He tightened his grip on the black sword but some-thing struck his helm a ringing blow and the impact toppled him from Serian’s back to leave him rolling in the cold damp snow beneath the flailing hooves of friend and foe alike.
A figure crashed down beside him, screaming and clutching a partly severed arm. The screaming stopped as a horse’s hoof struck the man’s head.
Hawklan rolled away to avoid the same fate and then, leaning on his sword, staggered to his feet and shook his head to still the roaring in his ears that the blow had left. A horse buffeted him, and only some ancient reflex twisted him away from a descending sword blade. The same reflex cleared his vision and drove the black sword upwards under his attacker’s chin then tore the blade free from the ghastly grip of the man’s skull.
Then Serian was there, rearing and prancing to keep his foes away.
As Hawklan swung up into the saddle he gave a great howling cry of rage at his impotence before Ynar Aesgin’s terrible agony. And then there was a brief frenzied whirl of movement. A single thrust of the sword killed a Morlider pressing Jaldaric; a high lashing kick from Serian smashed the thigh of another, and a whistling cut scythed through the shield of a third, leaving him unscathed but unmanned before the black-helmed vision of his death. His flight from the field drew the few surviving attackers after him like water from a fractured bowl.
The skirmish was ended.
‘What happened to you?’ Isloman was wide-eyed as he took Hawklan’s arm.
Hawklan released the grip gently and raised his hand to forbid any further questions. He looked around at his companions. They were a grim sight, bloodstained and steaming in the cold air, but they were all there even though some were injured. Their faces reflected Isloman’s question.
‘Later,’ he said, turning the Helyadin’s gaze back to the battle with a nod of his head.
The Orthlundyn phalanx had turned and was driv-ing along the Morlider line, but was coming under attack from the Morlider archers. The cavalry had withdrawn and was re-grouping, presumably with a view to attacking the Morlider archers before the circling left wing outflanked the phalanx. Once again, Hawklan felt the battle come to a balancing point. The Morlider were fearsome and brave fighters and, despite their dreadful losses, they were beginning to slow down the phalanx, even holding it in places, as some of wilder spirits among them actually seized the ends of the long pikes and hacked at them with swords and axes in an attempt to reach their foes.
Hawklan had no doubt that the phalanx would hold and that the mounted archers could do great harm to the approaching Morlider wing: but would it be enough? He sensed perhaps not; their position was becoming increasingly defensive. And, despite the considerable panic in certain places, the Morlider’s mood seemed to have shifted from surprise and anger into indiscrimi-nate battle fury. Thus fired and uncaring about their fate, their sheer weight of numbers could give them the day.
Would give them the day, if action was not taken.
He led the Helyadin back to Andawyr and the oth-ers. The Cadwanwr were still motionless, both now with arms extended, but it seemed to Hawklan that the unseen wind which buffeted them was taking a toll.
It came to him that if their conflict was not ended soon then Andawyr and Atelon must surely crumble, standing alone against this terrible Uhriel. Out on his solitary vessel, the sinister figure of Creost stood, equally motionless.
Hawklan frowned as his gaze took in two approach-ing ships. Reinforcements, he thought.