Roger Taylor - Dream Finder

Ivaroth's vision returned to him.

His message to Ibris must have been misunderstood!

'There are thousands of them!’ he hissed to Estaan. ‘Didn't Ibris understand? I presumed he was sending the whole regiment of the bodyguard. Why didn't he send more?'

For the first time since they had met, a flash of anger passed over Estaan's face. ‘The Duke understood perfectly,’ he said. ‘He sent those who were best fitted to this task and whose absence would not disturb the strength of the army too greatly. It was no easy decision. We trust him. See if you can.'

Antyr raised a shaking hand to wipe his mouth. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I…'

Estaan gave a small grimace of self-reproach at his outburst. ‘So am I,’ he said. He looked at Antyr pointedly. ‘We're all weary, sore, and frightened, but for what it's worth, it's some measure of my regard for you that I forgot you're not one of us.'

Arwain had mounted his horse and was about to spur it forward when he paused. ‘Whatever happens, I want no heroics today. We're here to slow this … army … down, and we'll only do that if we survive.’ He pointed at Antyr. ‘Above all, though, the Dream Finder and his Companions are to be protected. That is a duty beyond all others today. Is that understood?'

Under battle orders, the men acknowledged the question in silence, then Arwain, accompanied by Haster and Ryllans, rode off to meet the vanguard of Ivaroth's horde.

Menedrion raised his hand and the army at his back came to a lumbering halt.

Silence hung over the field. No birds sang, nor animals stirred. Only the breathing and shuffling of the thousands of waiting men, like the sea breaking on some distant shore, intruded on the peace of the cold, sunlit scene.

From somewhere a tiny breeze rose and briefly fluttered the pennant at the end of Menedrion's lance. He looked up and listened to it. It was a lonely, defiant sound. Then it fell still.

He looked forward again. The Bethlarii army was spread before him. Unusually, it was not as still and ordered as he had seen it in the past, but it was huge. Feranc's estimate of their numbers had, as he expected, been distressingly accurate. It was at least twice the size of the Serenstad army.

And they would be no disordered rabble. Some of them would be reservists, of course, and some newly conscripted. They were probably what was responsible for the movements in the line. Nonetheless there would be a substantial core of hardened ghalers and officers waiting to oppose them.

Feranc's words returned to him: the battle of the end of the world. Whose world? he wondered. Serenstad and its dominions were unlikely to be the same after this, whatever the outcome. Ibris's call for full voluntary mobilization in the face of the Bethlarii threat had caused political problems which would doubtless persist for many years if Serenstad survived the day. But it had also, with one blow, cut a great swathe through the innumerable, squabbling factions, and conspiring cliques that hitherto had made political life in his dominions so complex and difficult …

Menedrion tore his mind from the future and brought it to bear mercilessly on the present.

Like the final flutter of his pennant, however, his mind lingered briefly on the waiting enemy in front of him.

The Bethlarii were a splendid sight, he conceded, with their ranks of shields, coloured and patterned with tribal and family emblems. Their colour on the battlefield was markedly at odds with the greyness of their normal lives. Granted it was so that Ar-Hyrdyn could readily identify the most valiant in the fray, and name them correctly when his messengers brought the spirits of the dead to him afterwards for due honour in the Golden Hall, but that did not alter the splendour of the sight.

He turned and looked at the Serenstad army. The emblems and flags of families, traditional regiments, allied cities, even some of the great trading houses, made them no less splendid to look at than the Bethlarii.

Then all the musing was done and Menedrion became only the will that must galvanize these men and destroy the enemy. The Serenstad cavalry was more numerous than the Bethlarii and more skilled in their riding, though the Bethlarii were formidable fighters with their double-headed lances once contact had been made. The infantry was markedly less numerous and, discipline for discipline, there was little to choose between the best of both sides. The Serens, however, were now using a longer, iron-pointed pike and that, he knew, would cause the Bethlarii ghalers severe problems. Then too, the Serens’ archers were better equipped, with longer range bows.

Nevertheless, it had to be assumed that the Bethlarii would be unlikely to break in the face of a direct frontal attack and, with such a long line, they had men enough to swing round and attack the Serens’ flanks. Should that happen, it was unlikely the Serens’ cavalry could defend them against a sustained cavalry and infantry assault.

The main plan, therefore, discussed at length with Feranc, his father, Arwain, and all the senior officers, was to advance behind a screen of elaborate cavalry manoeuvres and feints, and then, using mounted archers to disrupt the flanking cavalry, launch the full attack against the Bethlarii left flank with the hope of breaking it and sending it panicking into the rest of the army.

Various contingencies had been planned for also but once the battle was under way, individual company commanders would be responsible for implementing these as circumstances arose.

Nothing had changed. As expected, no heralds had come from the Bethlarii to quote terms or complaints and, following the deaths of his own heralds, Ibris had sent no more. Nothing now was to be gained by delay.

Menedrion lowered his lance, prior to giving the signal to advance.

Abruptly and unexpectedly, Feranc was at his side, pointing. Menedrion followed his arm. A rider was moving along the front of the Bethlarii line. It was too far away to see clearly, but he appeared to be gesticulating wildly. Feranc frowned and leaned forward as if by so doing he could hear what was happening.

The persistent, uneasy, movement in the Bethlarii line seemed to ripple behind the man as he moved along.

'A berserker,’ Menedrion said dismissively. ‘He'll be charging us on his own next. Nothing that a couple of archers or good pikemen won't be able to deal with.'

Feranc shook his head. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘Look.'

Even as he spoke, a figure emerged from the centre of the ranks and seemed to be remonstrating with the man. The line in the immediate vicinity of the incident broke up in disorder.

Menedrion and Feranc watched in silence, unable to interpret such events as they could see.

Then more riders were moving along the line and the disorder spread.

Menedrion gripped his lance tightly. What chance had brought this about, he could not hazard but this was the moment. This was the loose pebble that would begin the avalanche.

'Now,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Now!'

He raised his arm.

Arwain, Ryllans and Haster positioned themselves across the road in front of the advancing riders.

There was a momentary confusion, then the troop came to an uncertain halt and a group of six riders galloped forward.

Arwain had never seen their like before. Flat-faced and swarthy-skinned, they were clad in a random assortment of tunics and trousers made predominantly of leather and fur, though he noticed one or two decorative items that were conspicuous by being unmistakably Bethlarii or Serens in origin. Plunder, Arwain presumed, and a deep anger began to stir in him.

The horses they were riding were as mixed in colouring and style as their clothes, but though all the animals were quite small they were very sturdy-looking. Arwain had never seen their like before, but he judged them to be both manoeuvrable and capable of great endurance. Further, each rider sat his mount as if he were a natural part of it.