Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

‘I doubt there’ll be much call for such skills when this is over,’ Fel-Astian replied.

‘Nor for many of the skills we’ve re-learned of late,’ Loman agreed. ‘But it doesn’t alter their value. Still, this is no place for debate. How long is this going to last?’

Idrace glanced up at the flames, his eyes screwed tight against their brightness. ‘They’re dropping already,’ he said. ‘I’d say start preparing to move when they’re about pike height.’ He raised a cautionary finger. ‘This is no ordinary fire, Loman,’ he went on. ‘At the end the flames will flicker out very quickly. You must be ready. Don’t be too concerned about the temperature underfoot, this stuff burns to nothing. It leaves little ash or residue, and the ground won’t be as hot as you’d imagine.’

As the flames gradually fell, Loman eyed them care-fully and then turned the army forward to advance straight across them, though not without some trepida-tion. Idrace’s comments about the flames however, proved accurate and, almost incongruously, the terrible blazing barrier suddenly disappeared. The flames did not gutter into leisurely extinction like a spent bonfire, but parted from the ground and rose into the air as they finally died, so that for a moment a low, blazing cloud hovered between the two armies.

The hissing of the rain falling on to the warm rock rose up to fill the strange silence that followed the roaring of the flames, and a low dense mist formed over the blighted area.

Slowly the sounds of the moving army began to dominate once more; the resolute tapping of the pace drummers, the clatter of thousands of silently marching people. Then, from the left came the horn calls that Loman had been anticipating, and several squadrons of the Muster slowly began to advance towards the enemy’s right flank cavalry.

The phalanx infantry lowered their pikes into attack position and increased their speed to a fast walk.

Very rapidly, the Muster gathered speed and their battle cries began.

Loman glanced to the right to confirm that the Mus-ter and the Lords’ cavalry were also advancing. As he watched they began to move into close column forma-tion.

Loman rode along the ranks to join his own squad-ron of Helyadin and Goraidin.

His decree had been that the enemy was to be crushed as quickly and totally as possible, and the Mathidrin cavalry guarding the right flank found themselves facing superior numbers, superior skills and pitiless intent as the unbroken wall of Urthryn’s squadrons came towards them at full gallop with lances levelled and in almost parade ground order. Ahead of them, the air filled with the roaring of the men and the terrifying ululating cries of the women.

Such a sight was it, that the rout of the Mathidrin began even before contact was made; the few that had the courage to remain being eventually carried away by their wiser horses.

Those who survived the first, terrible, impact were cut down in the ensuing melee or fled blindly through and over the ranks of infantry they were supposed to be protecting. The Muster began its retribution for the drowning of its kin with awesome, vengeful, and bloody relish.

At the same time, the serried rows of glittering and unyielding pikes struck into the mass of Mandrocs and men that formed the enemy’s right wing, sweeping aside the disordered pike lines that faced them and driving the surviving front ranks backwards in panic.

‘Oklar put too much faith in his fire wall,’ Yengar said, leaning across to Loman. ‘Their fervour fades a little against such opposition.’

Loman nodded, but even as he watched this initial success, he felt the ground shake ominously. Then a feverish warmth passed through him and he began to gasp desperately as the air in his lungs seemed to be torn out of him.

From the attack in Riddin, he recognized the hand of the Uhriel in the attack and knew that he could do nothing about it. For a moment he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, and he began to scream in terror and impotent rage, though no sound reached his lips. Around him he could see the others suffering similarly.

Then there was an uneasy stillness, and he could feel his body being fought over by other wills. Slowly and fitfully the fearful sensation passed away and, as he recovered, his gaze was drawn to Oslang and the Cadwanwr. They were standing motionless. He galloped across to them.

‘Can you hold them?’ he shouted to Oslang above the din of the fighting.

Oslang turned to him, his eyes distant. He nodded slightly. Loman wanted to say more, but felt again his impotence in this battle within a battle. ‘Fight the army, Loman,’ Oslang said as if reading his mind. His voice was faint, but not weak.

As Loman turned to leave, Oslang spoke again. Lo-man had to lean forward to catch the words. ‘They are here,’ the Cadwanwr said. ‘The Guardians. Such consciousness as they have, is with us. Go now.’ There was great strain in his voice, but also an unusual strength-triumph almost.

Loman seized a nearby messenger. ‘Send to all the companies that the Uhriel are held and that the Guardians are among us.’

He returned to his companions and looked at the damage that had been wrought by the Uhriel’s attack. It was considerable. The phalanx had lost some of its cohesion and had been broken at two points. He could see frantic hand-to-hand combat occurring as the infantry sought to beat back the incursion. The Muster too had been disarrayed by the attack and though they had not broken off contact, their advance had slowed considerably and they were beginning to suffer casualties in the mud-spattered melee where their mobility and power were less effective.

Break off, Urthryn, he thought. Pull back and use your archers against their infantry. We can’t match them blow for blow.

The thought turned him to his right where the cav-alry should have been assailing the enemy’s left wing with arrow storms to prevent them moving round and surrounding the attacking infantry. But they too had been thrown into confusion by the Uhriel’s brief attack and though they were recovering quickly, they them-selves were being threatened by the huge mass of the now advancing left wing.

As he watched, the fear that had haunted Loman ever since the first Mandroc attacks on their night camps, returned to him in full vigour.

It was only by turning the momentum of a large army against itself that a smaller one could hope to prevail. And yet while the discipline of the Mandrocs was less even than that of the Morlider, and the slaughter that they were suffering would have broken a normal army and sent them crashing over one another in rout, this was not happening. Certainly, sections of them were panicking and turning to flee through their own, but the majority were standing their ground. They would have to be cut down one at a time-and they took some killing.

Loman felt the strange stirring deep within him again.

Then it erupted to fill him like a living thing. A ter-rible dark knowledge, hung about with raging, soul-shaking anger at the horror he was having to create. The Mandrocs would be put to flight only by the face of a will, an intention, more terrible, more inexorable, than that of their god and His servants.

He turned to the elite squadron around him. The two Goraidin, Yengar and Olvric were either side of him. Helmed and grim, he knew they saw what he saw and assessed it as he did.

Olvric drew his sword as if anticipating Loman’s order.

Yengar closed his eyes briefly and tightened his mouth, then he too drew his sword.

Loman looked at the others, his eyes cold and frightening. ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘We are His creatures now. If we are to be ourselves again we can be nothing less. Will you ride with me to cut out the heart of this monster He has sent against us?’