Looking at the Muster, Hawklan saw the wisdom of trusting to the horse. He could not have stopped the impending massacre single-handed, and he could not have found the leader amidst so many.
Indeed, in Hawklan’s eyes, the grey-bearded man before whom Serian eventually halted was scarcely distinguishable from any of the other riders, in his heavy clothing and helm.
‘Hawklan,’ cried the man riding next to him. The voice was Agreth’s and its tone was full of both pleasure and relief.
Hawklan returned him no courtesies, however.
‘Call your men back,’ he said urgently. ‘Call them back.’
Agreth hesitated and looked uncertainly at his neighbour. Urthryn took off his helm; his face was grim, and strained with great weariness.
‘Take care,’ Serian said softly.
‘You are the man Hawklan,’ Urthryn said apprais-ingly. ‘I should have known you from your demeanour without Agreth’s calling your name. We are greatly in your debt. A matter to be honoured in due time. But we’ve ridden as the Muster has never ridden before to find these murderers, and nothing will stop us meting out due punishment.’
Hawklan glanced over his shoulder and saw the Muster reaching some of the stragglers.
‘Call them back!’ he shouted furiously. ‘They’re retreating. Let them go.’
Urthryn recoiled from Hawklan’s outburst, then his face darkened. A rider next to him, misunderstanding his movement, brought a lance up protectively towards Hawklan’s throat.
Almost off-handedly, Hawklan seized the shaft as it moved forward, and with a barely perceptible move-ment unbalanced the man so that he toppled from his saddle. Another rider reached for a sword, only to find Hawklan’s newly acquired lance resting heavily across his hand. Other swords were drawn rapidly.
‘No!’ shouted Agreth, holding out a hand before his own angry leader. Then, to Hawklan, ‘What are you doing, threatening the Ffyrst? These invaders slaugh-tered thousands of our kin mercilessly. They must be punished.’
Hawklan struggled with his anger. ‘Whoever fought your people in the south, it was not these. They’ve been on this shore for weeks and the only people they’ve killed have been Orthlundyn, and that only today. Call your riders back.’
‘Hawklan, they swept our people away like so much dung out of a stable.’ Agreth’s face was pained. ‘Smashed and drowned them all as they waited on the beach… ’
Hawklan’s brow furrowed. ‘Drowned?’ he queried.
Agreth faltered, ‘A wave. A great wave… ’ he said, his voice fading as his gaze turned to the sea, sparkling now golden and grey, and alive with fluttering sails and bobbing vessels.
Hawklan turned to Urthryn. ‘If your people were slain by the sea, then their murderer is Creost,’ he said, his voice now urgent and pleading. ‘And he has fled this field, injured and robbed of his mortal army.’ He swung his arm over the retreating masses. ‘These people were deceived and misled. They’ve taken a hundred losses to our one and now their very lands are drifting from them. Let them go. Call your riders back. Your true foe-our true foe-lies yonder.’
He turned and pointed to the north, but as he did so, he froze. Serian whinnied uncertainly. Low over the horizon and black against the distant clouds was an unmistakable silhouette. Usgreckan and its unholy burden were returning.
Andawyr’s fears returned to Hawklan. Together the two Uhriel might yet reverse this rout. A great silent cry of denial rose up within him and he swung Serian round, scattering the gathered Muster riders. ‘Break your heart, prince of horses,’ he said, his face savage. ‘We must kill these before they reach our peoples.’
And wild though Serian’s charge had been to inter-cept the Muster, it was as naught before the tumultuous black wind of his race to greet the Uhriel, with Hawklan carrying high the bow of Ethriss and the ranks of friend and fleeing enemy parting before him like the sea before a surging prow.
‘Hawklan, no! You’ll be killed! Stay by us!’ Andawyr cried as the great stallion sped by, but nothing could stay such purpose, and Andawyr and Atelon spurred their horses after him like flotsam in his wake.
The sound of Usgreckan came ahead of him, bearing the Uhriels’ rage like a foul wind. It mingled with the cry rising in Hawklan’s throat as he nocked one of Loman’s black arrows on to the glistening string of Ethriss’s bow.
But as the two foes closed, a third figure appeared; a small black dot falling precipitously from high out of the sky.
As it seemed set to fall past the screeching Us-greckan, its wings spread wide and it arced down to strike the ghastly white head of Dar Hastuin a punishing blow.
‘Gavor!’ Hawklan shouted in alarm and distress. ‘No!’
But the battle was far from his reach and Serian’s pounding charge slowed as both horse and rider found themselves helpless spectators to Gavor’s lone assault.
The two Uhriel struggled and flailed their arms to repel Gavor’s frenzied attacks while Usgreckan twisted and swooped, but all was to little avail against Gavor’s consummate flying until eventually a fortuitous blow struck the raven full square.
Even as his friend fell, Hawklan released an arrow, and then another and another. The first glanced off Creost’s hand which was reaching out to deliver some final blow to the falling Gavor; the second and third did no hurt, but passed close by, causing Usgreckan to tumble and almost unseat its riders. Then Andawyr was by Hawklan’s side, his bright eyes blazing and his arms extended, adding his own menace to Hawklan’s assault.
Usgreckan shrieked and fled, its fearful cry echoing over the whole field. Gavor struck the ground.
Hawklan galloped desperately to his stricken friend.
The black form looked fragile and broken in the deep Riddin snow and there was blood all around him. As Hawklan knelt by him, Gavor opened his eyes weakly and said, very faintly, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’
Then his eyes closed and he lay very still.
Chapter 19
The snow-covered landscape was yellowed by a low, watery sun as it peered fitfully through the wintry haze. Vague patches of grey shadow picked their way over the fields uncertainly as, high above, unseen clouds formed and changed and drifted slowly by.
‘Thaw coming soon,’ Eldric said, feeling the cold dampness in the air.
A few heads nodded indifferently. No one relished the raw, blustering interregnum between the paternal tyranny of winter with its white, biting certainty, and the usurping anarchy of spring with its irreverent, unas-suageable energy.
Eldric did not pursue his foretelling. It had only been a nervous twitch to break the silence which had enfolded the waiting group as they watched the distant Orthlundyn army winding its way through the brighten-ing morning towards the City. Turning to Hreldar and Darek, he became prosaic.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing to death here. Let’s go and meet them.’
The two lords exchanged a brief smile. Eldric inter-cepted it and scowled inquiringly.
‘We had a small wager that you wouldn’t wait,’ Darek said, his smile broadening unrepentantly.
Eldric snorted and clicked his horse forward. His entourage fell in behind him, noticeably more cheerful for being on the move again.
‘I wonder what this Gulda’s like,’ Hreldar said.
‘Memsa Gulda,’ Darek said sternly. ‘If Arinndier’s underlining is anything to go by.’
‘Remarkable I should imagine,’ Eldric said. ‘All our messengers come back looking slightly stunned, and delivering her messages with great precision.’ He laughed. ‘And I swear Arin’s hand was shaking every time he wrote her name.’
As the troop rode on, the road became more and more crowded with people walking the same way for the same purpose. Gulda had politely declined the Geadrol’s suggestion that the Orthlundyn march through Vakloss to receive a formal welcome.
‘We’re an army, but we’re not soldiers, Lords. We’re a people come to aid in the destruction of Sumeral, not to tourney. Your good will and a place to pitch our shelters will be welcome and honour enough.’