David Eddings: The Shining Ones

‘That’s a novel way to put it.’

‘Get moving, Sparhawk, or you’ll run out of time.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

He looked around at the others. ‘Let’s get started,’ he told them. ‘The Divine One’s drawing in deep breaths. I think she plans to blow the fog all the way to the pole.’

The rafts inched forward, concentrating on staying in a straight line so that none of them emerged from the fog before the others. They could clearly hear the voices speaking in Elenic from the shore now, and the faint lapping of wavelets sloshing over the protruding roots of the trees off to the left.

‘Six feet,’ Kalten reported in a loud whisper as he lifted his pole out of the water. ‘We can make a mounted charge when it shoals down to four.’

‘If the fog holds out that long,’ Bevier amended. They crept on with the water shoaling under their rafts inch by inch as they eased closer to shore.

They heard the sound of a heavy blow and curses spat out in archaic Elenic.

‘That’s one of Ayachin’s men,’ Khalad whispered.

‘Ayachin himself wouldn’t be here, would he?’ Berit asked.

‘Incetes was, so I wouldn’t discount the possibility.’

‘If Ayachin is here, I want you two to go looking for Elron,’ Sparhawk instructed. ‘We lost Amador, but Xanetia should be able to get the same kind of information out of Elron. Don’t let him get away—or get himself killed.’

‘Three feet!’ Kalten announced in a triumphant whisper. ‘We can charge just as soon as we catch sight of them now.’ The rafts inched closer, and the voices ahead were much louder now.

‘There’s something moving,’ Khalad said pointing at a dim shape ahead.

‘How far?’ Sparhawk asked, Peering into the white blankness ahead.

‘Maybe thirty paces.’

Then Sparhawk saw more of the dark outlines in the fog and heard the sound of men slogging through shallow water. ‘Mount up!’ he commanded in a low voice. ‘And signal the other rafts.’ They pulled themselves slowly into their saddles, being careful not to make any noise.

‘All right, Ulath,’ Sparhawk said aloud, ‘let everybody know that we’re starting.’

Ulath grinned and lifted the curled Ogre-horn to his lips.

It was more like a gale than a breeze, and it came howling out of nowhere, bending the evergreens and tearing the last of the leaves from birch and aspen. The fog streamed away in the leaf-speckled blast.

The crests of the shallow waves were suddenly whipped to froth, and the water ran against a shoreline that was not sand, nor gravel nor rock, but grass and half-submerged bushes. There were thousands of men on shore, roughly dressed serfs laboring in a field of tree stumps.

‘Heretic knights!’ a man at the edge of the water screamed. He wore crude bits and pieces of ancient armor, and he stood gaping at the huge force of mounted men which had appeared quite suddenly out of nowhere as the gale tore the fog away. Ulath’s horn continued its barbaric call, and Tikume’s Peloi and the knights plunged off the rafts, their mounts sending great sheets of water out to either side, almost like icy wings.

‘What must we do, noble Ayachin?’ the crudely armored man shrieked to a lean fellow astride a white horse. The mounted man was more completely armored, although his armor was an archaic blend of steel plate and bronze chain-mail.

‘Fight!’ he roared. ‘Destroy the heretic invaders! Fight—for Astel and our holy faith!’

Sparhawk sawed Faran’s reins round and charged directly at the resurrected Astellian hero, his sword aloft and his shield in front of his body. Ayachin’s helmet had no visor as such, but rather a steel noseguard protruding down over half his face. There was a quick intelligence in that face and a burning zeal. The eyes were the eyes of a fanatic. He set himself, raised his sword, and spurred his white mount forward to meet Sparhawk’s charge.

The two horses crashed together, and the white mount reared back. Faran was the bigger horse, and he was skilled at fighting. He slammed his shoulder into Ayachin’s mount and tore chunks from the white animal’s neck with his teeth. Sparhawk caught the ancient hero’s sword-stroke with his shield and countered with a heavy overhand stroke of his own, clashing his blade down on the hastily raised and bulky shield.

‘Heretic!’ Ayachin snarled. ‘Spawn of hell! Foul sorcerer.’

‘Give it up!’ Sparhawk snapped. ‘You’re out of your class.’

Sparhawk found that he had no real wish to kill this man who was fighting to defend his homeland and his faith from a brutal Church policy long since abandoned. Sparhawk had no real quarrel with him. Ayachin bellowed his defiance and swung his sword at Sparhawk. He showed some proficiency with the weapon, but he was no real match for the black-armored Pandion he faced. Sparhawk caught the sword-stroke with his shield again, and st a chopping blow at his opponent’s shoulder.

‘Run away, Ayachin!’ he barked. ‘I don’t want to kill you! You’ve been duped by an alien God and brought thousands of years into the future. This isn’t your fight! Take your people and go.’

It was too late, though. Sparhawk saw the madness in his opponent’s eyes, and he had been in too many fights not to recognize it. He sighed, crowded Faran in against the other horse, and began a series of strokes he had used so many times in the past that, once it began, the succeeding blows were automatic.

The ancient fought bravely, struggling to respond with unwieldy equipment, but the outcome was inevitable. Sparhawk’s progressive strokes bit him deeper and deeper, chunks of his armor flew from each savage cut. Then, altering his last stroke to avoid a grotesque maim, Sparhawk thrust instead of delivering the customary overhand stroke that would have split his opponent’s head. His swordpoint crunched through the ancient and ineffective armor and smoothly ran through Ayachin’s chest.

The fire went out of that ancient face, and the hero Aga stiffened and toppled slowly from his saddle. Sparhawk raised his sword-hilt to his face in a sad salute. A great cry went up from the Astellian serfs as Ayachin’s army vanished. A burly serf at the water’s edge bawled contradictory orders, gyrating his arms like a windmill. Berit leaned over in his saddle and brought the flat side of his axe-blade down on top of the man’s head, felling him instantly.

There were a few pockets of ineffective and half-hearted resistance, but the serfs for the most part fled. Queen Betuana and her Atans drove the panicky workers from the pier, and the knights and the Peloi parted ranks to permit them to flee into the forest. Sparhawk rose up in his stirrups and looked to the north. The knights who had disembarked from Sorgi’s ships were also driving the misguided serfs on the far side of the pier back into the trees.

The battle, such as it had been, was over.

The Queen of the Atans came ashore with a look of discontent on her golden face. ‘It was not much of a fight, Sparhawk-Knight,’ she accused.

‘I’m very sorry, your Majesty,’ he apologized. ‘I did the best I could with what I had to work with. I’ll try to do better next time.

She suddenly grinned at him. ‘I was teasing you, Sparhawk-Knight. Good planning reduces the need for fighting, and you plan very well.’

‘Your Majesty is very kind to say so.’

‘How long will it take that Cammorian sailor to bring the rest of our army to this side of the wall?’

‘The rest of today and most of tomorrow, I’d imagine.’

‘Can we afford to wait that long? We should go to Tzada before the Troll-beasts start to march.’

‘I’ll talk with Aphrael and Bhelliom, your Majesty,’ he said. ‘They’ll be able to tell us what the Trolls are doing—and delay them if necessary.’