Hawklan felt the Uhriel’s fury screaming and his own grew in unholy harmony with it.
‘You blaspheme, old man,’ Creost said, ‘And you misjudge both your skill and my Power grievously.’
Then there were no more words. The Uhriel’s fury burst forth to assail the Cadwanwr. Hawklan felt it swirl around him, but both Andawyr and Atelon stood unmoved.
For a moment, Hawklan saw and understood the Cadwanwr’s great skill. Even with Atelon’s aid, Andawyr did not have the power of this awesome creature now that it was freed from the burden of the islands; but while Creost’s fury ran unfettered and uncontrolled, his strength could be redirected against himself and his pain and injury made the worse.
He saw too, however, that Andawyr could not kill this thing. That task was his alone.
He took the sword in two hands and tried again to move forward, but still some force held him where he stood.
He was a mote, held motionless in some terrible deadlock of wills and powers.
Yet he was the mote that would tilt this great bal-ance and topple the monstrous enemy.
‘I will not be bound,’ he roared, though no sound came from his mouth.
But still he could not move forward; could not measure those few paces that would bring him within reach of the end of this horror.
Then the screeching came again. Thin, skin-tearing, and frightful, it shimmered through Hawklan’s resolve like a bright ringing crack in a fine glass.
It was not the sound of any wholesome creature. It had the quality of desecration about it that hallmarked His work.
With appalling suddenness, it grew until it over-topped both the commotion of the battlefield and the still grumbling sky.
Creost’s black eyes turned upwards, drawing Hawk-lan’s with them. A black shape was high above them. Gavor? But something was amiss. Hawklan screwed up his eyes as they refused to focus clearly on the descend-ing form, dark against the clearing sky.
It seemed that Gavor was coming too close, too quickly, but…
The screeching became unbearable.
It was not Gavor! It was some other bird. A huge bird. And someone was astride its back!
The awesome deadlock between Creost and the Cadwanwr shattered suddenly. Hawklan’s gaze returned to Creost and he felt his arms lift the sword high as they obeyed his long restrained will. As his legs prepared to carry him forward, however, someone seized him about the waist and sent him crashing to the ground.
Rolling over, he brought a mailed fist round to deal with this assailant, only to find that it was Andawyr.
Before he could speak however, the air was full of the sound of the beating of great wings, and the descending creature landed in front of Creost.
Hawklan gaped. The creature was a grotesque trav-esty of a bird. Its body was larger than Serian, its feet were taloned, and a serpentine neck supported a long pointed head that swayed to and fro menacingly. Astride its back, however, was a worse sight. Gaunt and deathly pale, with long tangled white hair that writhed as if it existed in a wind-blown universe of its own, sat the white-eyed figure of Dar Hastuin.
Hawklan recognized the Uhriel, though no name had been spoken; nothing else could so offend the time and place by its very presence.
Come in triumph to aid your ally and gloat over your victory, you obscenity? he thought.
Anger rose up through him like a sudden blazing fire as he struggled to his feet. Freed from whatever had held him, he knew he must slay these abominations while chance allowed. The black sword seemed to draw him onward, singing, to the deed.
As he dashed forward, he saw Dar Hastuin’s claw-like hand reach out to take Creost’s.
‘No!’ he cried. They must not escape the reach of the sword. He aimed a savage blow at the head of the frightful bird, but it pulled away from him with unexpected speed and, curling its long neck, struck at him like a serpent, screeching horribly as it did so.
Hawklan staggered as his reflexes moved him away from the blow, but he did not lose his footing.
Creost was astride the flapping creature now. Hawk-lan moved forward to strike again, but the bird struck first, making him fall over this time. As he rose to his feet, the bird began beating its wings so ferociously that he could scarcely keep his balance in the wind it created. Then it charged at him, making him dive desperately to one side.
As he rolled through the trampled snow he brought himself upright, sword still firmly gripped. But the bird was in the air, carrying its loathsome cargo.
‘My bow!’ he roared. ‘Serian!
The horse was by him in the instant, but even as he reached for the bow, Hawklan knew that the Uhriel were beyond even its range. Quickly he swung up into the saddle. Serian could surely outrun that bird!
Before he could move however, Andawyr stepped in front of Serian and laid a gentle hand on his muzzle.
‘Stand aside, man,’ Hawklan shouted angrily. ‘We can have them yet.’
Andawyr shook his head sadly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In the confusion of the moment we might indeed have slain them. But not now. Not together, and riding Usgreckan. They would slay us if we challenged them. Let them flee if they themselves haven’t realized that.’
‘No!’ Hawklan shouted, urging Serian forward to push Andawyr aside. But the horse did not move.
Hawklan’s anger foamed up into his eyes then drained away abruptly as it broke against Andawyr’s stillness. He leaned forward and looked into the old man’s face.
‘No,’ he said again, quietly, and in some despair. ‘It cannot be, Andawyr. Not when we’ve been so close.’
‘It is, my friend,’ Andawyr said gently. ‘It is. But the day is ours. Creost hurt, and his mortal allies broken and fleeing should give us the Muster by our side when we march into Narsindal. And we know that Dar Hastuin too was hurt, hurt at least as sorely as… ’
‘Hurt?’ Hawklan echoed, looking at him sharply.
Andawyr shrugged and looked upwards. ‘Whatever happened up there, he too was defeated.’
Hawklan looked up. Inland, the sky was dark and heavy with winter, but overhead and out to sea the cloud had been breaking up for some time as the tide turned. Now much of the sky was blue and filled with tiny blowing clouds. Directly overhead, and very high, a large white cloud moved slowly out to sea.
Though he could hear nothing above the noise around him, Hawklan felt the presence of the great cloud land. He raised his sword in salute. ‘Live well, and light be with you, Ynar Aesgin, and with your soarers, riders of the high paths. May you find the peace to heal all your pains,’ he said, quietly. ‘Forgive me if I failed you.’
He swung down from Serian and gazed at the pass-ing Viladrien for a moment in silence.
As he turned back to Andawyr, Isloman galloped up. His face was flustered and anxious. ‘Hawklan! Quickly!’ he shouted pointing to the south.
Hawklan followed the direction of his hand. There in the distance were horsemen; hundreds of them, spreading out as they approached.
‘Muster!’ he said softly, smiling as he remembered the call of the old lady he had met on his sunlit way to the Gretmearc. ‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ he heard her say.
But his smile faded almost immediately and, with a shout, he remounted Serian and drove him forward. The Muster were heading towards the fleeing Morlider with lances and drawn swords. Their intention was un-equivocally clear.
‘I will take you to the Line Leader,’ Serian said as he gathered speed. ‘But sheathe your sword or neither of us will live to reach him, they’re in full cry.’
Hawklan gave the horse his head marvelling again at his speed and power as he galloped forward towards the charging horsemen.