A touch on his arm returned him to the field. It was Jenna, white-faced and shaking, but in control. She was pointing out to sea.
One of the two ships bringing reinforcements was heading towards the shore. Hawklan could not make out how many were on board but the danger lay not necessarily in the quantity of troops but in their quality. Could these perhaps be an elite like the Goraidin and the Helyadin? Such a group, fast, powerful, determined, could turn this battle even now. But Jenna shook him and redirected his attention to the other ship.
His eyes widened.
Oars plunging into the waves at what must have been a body-wrenching rate for the rowers, the ship was heading at great speed towards the boat on which stood the malevolent figure of Creost.
Then it struck.
Its bow reared out of the water as it rode up over the smaller vessel, then it seemed almost to pause before crushing it under the waves as if it had been some child’s toy. Hawklan saw the Uhriel hurled into the sea to be submerged as the rowers appeared to redouble their efforts and drove their ship over the splintering remains of the boat in a fury of thrashing destruction. Then, at the same frenzied pace, the ship turned towards the shore.
Before Hawklan could even react, however, a great dome of water swelled up and burst under the stem of the retreating ship, upending it totally. Hawklan saw men tumbling out of the ship to fall into the sea under a hail of oars and tackle. Then the ship itself fell on them in a great cloud of spume and spray.
He would have turned his face away from the horror of the sight, but a greater horror held him. Atop the crashing wave stood Creost, his rending presence tenfold what it had been. Instinctively, Hawklan raised the sword in front of himself.
There was a cry from both Andawyr and Atelon; a cry of both pain and triumph.
‘We have you, demon!’ Andawyr cried out.
Joining his triumphant shout came a terrible cry from the distant figure. A cry that Hawklan recognized; a cry that he had heard from the wounded Oklar. It filled him with the same nameless terrors, but he passed through them unmoved. The creature had been sorely hurt by some hand; now he must be destroyed. He felt dark forces of his own gathering within him.
‘The sword, Hawklan, the sword!’ It was Andawyr. His face was alive with both triumph and fear and Hawklan had the impression of a dazzling brilliance beneath the prosaic clothing as he had once before at the Gretmearc. ‘We’ve torn the islands from him. His army is lost but his rage in his agony may be far beyond our containing.’
The Cadwanwr’s words briefly disturbed Hawklan’s terrible focus and he looked at him uncertainly, then at the distant islands. They seemed to be unchanged, but even as he watched, a ragged white began to blur their edges.
Waves, Hawklan realized. Huge waves, to be seen at this distance. The long frustrated will of Enartion was asserting its ancient sway once more.
Hawklan’s purpose focused again, the clearer still for this new knowledge. With a cry he willed Serian forward at full gallop towards the still unbroken Morlider.
As he neared them he pointed his sword towards the sea.
‘Look to your homes,’ he roared repeatedly, gallop-ing along the line. ‘Creost is downed. Look to your homes.’
Few heard him over the din of the battle, but to their knowing eyes the merest glance confirmed the truth of his words and the news sped through the ranks faster even than the galloping Serian.
The Morlider army, ferocious and dangerous even in rout, was no more. Now the Riddin shore was filled with frightened men running desperately to reach the boats that alone could take them back to their lands.
For a moment, Hawklan’s heart ached at the pity of the transformation, but his mind did not turn, even briefly, from the true enemy on that field, and his dark, focused forces became a sinister battle fever.
‘Ho! Creost!’ he shouted. ‘Come. Face your destiny. Face the justice of the black sword of Ethriss for your crimes.’
As he rode to and fro, wending his dangerous way through the fleeing crowd, and shouting his challenge, he thought he heard again a distant screeching high above but, when he looked up, nothing was to be seen other then the brightening sky and high circling sea birds.
Some strange freak of the air carrying a dying crea-ture’s tormented cries, he thought. Yet it was a sound the like of which he had never heard before.
He thrust it from him and returned to his search for Creost. Now he could feel the creature’s presence all around him; but where was its heart?
Then, abruptly, the crowd parted, and he was there; malevolence and rage pouring from him. Serian reared.
Hawklan surveyed his foe, the true architect of this day’s horror. The Uhriel was smaller and broader than Dan-Tor and his skin had a pallid lustre that reminded Hawklan of his own arm after it had been seized by the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc. Worse though, were his eyes. Cold, black, and dead they were, but far beyond Gavor’s contemptuous epithet, fish-eyed. And, like Oklar, facing him at the Palace Gate in Vakloss, Creost seemed to intrude into this time and place with an appalling wrongness.
Despite the crush of the fleeing Morlider, none stepped near their erstwhile leader. It was as if his raging aura would destroy any who came too near.
Hawklan jumped down from Serian and walked towards him. Taking off his helm he stared, unblinking, into the Uhriel’s eyes. At Vakloss there had been ignorance and doubt, but here was knowledge and certainty. Here, no debate was needed; this creature must die and this sword would kill him.
Yet, even as he strode forward, Hawklan hesitated. The healer in him felt Creost’s pain.
‘We have torn the islands from him!’ Andawyr had cried. Now Hawklan understood the consequences, if not the nature, of this… victory. The Uhriel was indeed sorely hurt. Some part of it reached out to Hawklan and cried for rest and peace to recover from this pain.
The warrior in him set aside the healer, gently. The hurt was of his own making, it said. He is still malevo-lent and powerful, perhaps more powerful in his intent towards us, than before. He is beyond all help. He must die.
Hawklan gripped the black sword and strode for-ward.
Creost did not move but, abruptly, Hawklan felt the awful warmth that had seized him before become a burning horror all over him.
Creost’s mouth opened to reveal a cavernous black-ness as cold and dead as his eyes.
‘So you are the bearer of the heretic Ethriss’s sword; the sender of arrogant messages, the one who would slay me.’
The voice’s withering contempt and certainty chilled Hawklan’s heart even as he felt his body burning.
‘Whatever chance threw that bauble into your hand, did you an ill turn. See how you wilt at the least of my touches and see how your vaunted sword protects you. Now stand aside, I have true foes to seek and punish for this day’s work.’
‘No,’ Hawklan managed to gasp out. ‘You will not pass me, Uhriel. You cannot pass me. I pinioned your loathsome soul-mate with a lesser weapon than this. You, I will kill for sure; for this day’s work, and many others.’
Still Creost did not move, but his black eyes seemed to expand. Though he made no sound, his demented fury screamed at Hawklan like a scarcely chained predator. He raised a pale hand towards his adversary. Hawklan forced his legs to move forward.
‘Hold, creature!’
The Uhriel’s gaze left Hawklan, and he felt his pain ease a little, though some power still held him back from his purpose.
Andawyr came to his side. A pace behind him stood Atelon.
Cadwanwr and Uhriel stared at one another in some unseen conflict of wills; a strange enclave of stillness in the midst of the whirling tide flowing across the battlefield.
‘Know this, pawn of the great Corrupter,’ Andawyr said, his voice powerful and clear even above the clamour of the fleeing Morlider. ‘While you slept, we waited. While you lay in the darkness, we searched in the light, and we learned. We are not the Cadwanwr of old, and you are not the Uhriel of old. Our knowledge and skill are greater by far and your vaunted Power is weaker by far. Turn from this awful road. Nothing but your doom lies at the end of it. He will deceive and desert you now, as He did aeons ago.’