‘And one or more of us,’ added Andawyr.
Urthryn smiled and bowed in acknowledgement. ‘All we need now are more riders,’ he said resignedly.
The following day marked, for most, the true end of the battle on the unnamed beach. The dead were buried. More correctly, they were honoured; burial of the Morlider dead had been under way almost continuously since the actual fighting had ended.
They were laid in great pits just below the storm line of the beach. Toran Agrasson, shocked at the betrayal of his people by Creost, and bemused by the treatment he and the other prisoners were receiving at the hands of the victors, organized the grim work. ‘We give our dead to the sea,’ he said, sweating as he hacked at the frozen ground. ‘But so many so close to the shore… ’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll rest easy enough here, touched by the sea when the winds blow fierce and strong.’
Apart from Cadmoryth and his crew, the only Rid-dinwr to perish was the young boy who had died under his sledge. He was carried back to his village by Hawklan and Urthryn, and laid to rest under a snow-laden tree. ‘He used to sit in it with his friends for hours in the summer,’ said his distraught grandmother. ‘What am I going to tell his parents, Ffyrst?’
Urthryn took her hand. ‘I’ve no words for the death of a child,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘For whatever comfort it gives, the healer here tells me he didn’t suffer. And he was helping Riddin’s true friends fight a cruel and treacherous foe. There are worse ways to die. In due time we’ll honour his name in the Lines, but… I’m sorry.’
He was very silent as they rode back to the camp, speaking only once. ‘For all I know, Creost may have killed his parents too,’ he said bitterly. Hawklan did not reply.
The Orthlundyn chose a small hillock overlooking the sea for the burial of their few dead. Isloman recovered a large rock from the shore and polished it smooth to serve as a simple, unmarked headstone in the Orthlundyn tradition. Hawklan stood for a long time staring down at the stone after the others had left.
‘There’s no answer,’ Gavor said into the long silence.
Out of the many expressions of sadness and grief that day, that for Cadmoryth and the other fishermen was the most formal. Usually a fisherman was buried as the Orthlundyn had chosen, in some spot overlooking the sea. However, those who died at sea were, like the Morlider, given to the sea.
‘But they should not be slid quietly into the cold waves, they should be sent the old way,’ was the will of the surviving fishermen. In the lore of the fishing communities it was said that before they had come to Riddin they had been a great seafaring race and that the greatest among them in those times were sent to their final resting places in a blazing ship.
Practicalities however, seemed set to confound them, turning their grief into angry frustration. There was no pitch, little kindling and, above all, no boat to tow the burial ship away from the landward embrace of the tide.
‘I knew him a little,’ Oslang said. ‘Will you accept my help?’
Thus the Orthlundyn, Riddinvolk, Cadwanwr and Morlider gathered in ranks on the shore to watch the funeral of the men who had pitched themselves against Sumeral’s cruel agent and both won and lost.
Gently, the fishermen laid out the bodies of their comrades in the remaining ship, each saying such farewells as moved him.
Girvan Girvasson helped them.
As he stood looking down at Cadmoryth’s pale dead face, the memories of his time with the fisherman and his wife flooded over him. He wanted to say ‘thank you’ for the quiet welcoming warmth that had pervaded almost its every moment, but his throat tightened around the words. His face strained, he took something from his pocket and looked at it for a moment, turning it over gently. Then he bent forward and placed it between Cadmoryth’s stiff fingers. It was the fisher-man’s pipe.
Saluting, Girvan turned and left the ship. He was the last.
As the Line Leader joined the others, two of the fishermen removed the gangplank and cut through the mooring ropes.
Then Oslang stepped forward and opened his arms as if to embrace the vessel.
Slowly, from no wind that any other could feel, the pennant at the ship’s masthead began to stir, the sail began to fill and, as if some unseen crew were manning it, the ship started to move slowly forward, its timbers creaking and its sail flapping, almost joyously, like a freed bird.
There were no other sounds save the sea itself. Even the gulls were silent.
As the ship moved out to sea, a flame flickered into life amidships, then one at the stern, then another and another. Soon it was blazing from end to end.
But the flames consumed nothing, nor would they until the time was fitting. This was the gift of the Cadwanwr. The Morlider ship would carry its brave and cruelly killed crew out across the endless ocean and into legend.
As it dwindled into the distance, its bright beacon flame shone like starlight in the tears that ran down Girvan Girvasson’s cheeks unchecked.
Chapter 21
A brilliant sun made the snow-covered fields dazzling, and a sharp wind tumbled clouds across the blue sky. It also tumbled anything light enough through the whirling confusion of activity that was the Orthlundyn camp.
Tents and shelters were being dismantled and wres-tled with in the chilly buffeting breeze; people were running hither and thither-it was too cold to stand still; food, weapons, clothes were being packed vigor-ously, and a wide-eyed Ffyrst stared on in some amazement.
‘You brought all this on your backs?’ he said.
‘Most of it,’ Loman said. ‘But the horses carried the bigger items.’
Urthryn dismounted. ‘I commend you,’ he said. ‘I can’t avoid the feeling that some of my people would fall over if they had to travel more than a hundred paces without a horse.’
Loman laughed. ‘I think we can call a truce on that,’ he said. ‘I’ll not mock your walking if you don’t mock our riding.’
Urthryn drew in a long, bargaining, breath through pursed lips. ‘You’re asking a lot, Orthlundyn,’ he said.
Loman was unyielding. ‘Exigencies of war, horse-man. Exigencies of war,’ he pronounced.
Before the debate could continue however, Hawklan came between the two men.
‘None of your people are on patrol, are they?’ he asked Urthryn.
The Ffyrst nodded. ‘None,’ he said. ‘As you asked. Are you leaving now?’
‘Yes,’ Hawklan replied. ‘All of us as we agreed. Sepa-rately and quietly. The fewer see us, the better.’
Several days had passed since the funeral. It was an interlude which had given both Orthlundyn and Riddinvolk the opportunity for a much needed rest. Urthryn’s galloping messengers had brought no grim news from the Cadwanol of approaching armies and, as he had promised, supplies began to arrive. Also, to his undisguised relief and pleasure, so did further fighting squadrons.
Yet it was also a hectic time as the various travellers exchanged their histories, and officers from the two armies began to learn about the intricacies of each other’s forces and make detailed plans for the intended journeys.
Urthryn however, was still troubled at times by Hawklan’s pointed refusal to explain his own intentions further. Now he tried once more.
‘I’d feel much happier if I knew more clearly what you’re going to do, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘This business about Guardians and Ethriss and suchlike still feels decidedly odd to me.’ He raised a hand to fend off the inevitable reply. ‘Yes, I know, I’ve seen what I’ve seen and I’ve heard what I’ve heard, but I can’t help thinking that a good arrow storm would have brought those two Uhriel and that damned bird thing down, and they bled easy enough when Gravy laid into them.’
Hawklan laughed and put his arms around the shoulders of the two men.
Urthryn looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re just going to say "Trust me", aren’t you?’ he said.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking that. You said it yourself; you’ve seen what you’ve seen, and you’ve heard what you’ve heard. Trust your eyes and your ears if you can’t trust the seat of your trousers.’