Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

He waited for no reply, but turned and urged his horse forward. There was a great roar from behind him and he felt his companions closing behind him in a tight wedge formation as his horse began to gather speed.

He was aware of the horse beneath him, and the wind, and the cold, tainted rain on his face. He was aware of the whole battle as if he were flying high above it, like Gavor, and yet he was present at every frighten-ing, fearful, part of it; he was the hardened High Guard trooper counting his arrows and picking a target as he controlled his horse with his legs; he was the bewildered carving apprentice with rain in his eyes, gripping his pike and desperately keeping station with his friends, though his feet were slipping in the mud and his world was filled with the pounding of his heart; he was the unhorsed Muster rider repeatedly hacking a screaming Mandroc until it was still and then treading on its face to pull his sword free as he called desperately to his horse. He was their will and he was aware of them all.

But above all he was aware of His presence, watch-ful, malign, and patient.

You in your turn, you demon, came the thought through his unbridled rage.

Suddenly there were other riders ahead of and around him: Muster riders. Seeing his charge, some of the rearguard squadrons had been drawn inexorably after him-‘Use your judgement… it will be the same as mine.’ Now they were shepherding and guiding him.

‘We’ll carry you through, commander,’ came a voice from somewhere, and for a moment Loman was at one with the heart of the Muster; understood the bond between these wild-eyed riders and their wild-eyed horses; revelled in the straining sinews, the flying manes, the earth-shaking thunder of their hooves.

Then he was Loman the smith again, wielding the terrible tool he had forged to fill this terrible need.

And finally he was Loman the man again, as the Muster carried him into and over the Mandrocs who had rushed forward to protect the Uhriel from this onslaught.

Loman saw them flailing under the hooves of the horses, then abruptly the charge was over and he was part of a floundering, tumultuous mass of rearing horses and slashing blades. His horse lost its footing and fell heavily. Loman’s own fall was softened by the bodies that he landed on, but his sword bounced from his hand.

He curled up and rolled over to avoid the stamping hooves and the momentum of his roll carried him to his feet in long-practiced manner. His two open hands followed the movement, driving upwards under the chin of a Mandroc in front of him. As the creature fell, Loman seized the axe it was holding and, spinning round, swung it into another approaching from his right.

The axe embedded itself in the Mandroc’s side and Loman made no effort to relinquish it as the howling creature staggered back. A horse jostled him and he was aware of a high-pitched female shriek as a sword blade scythed past him to beat down a spear point driving towards him.

The Mandroc holding the spear towered over Lo-man, but the woman’s blow had unbalanced it and, seizing the descending shaft, Loman caught the creature’s momentum and sent it hurtling through the air to bring down several others as it landed.

He saw riders attempting to close about him but they were drawn away by their own needs. Two Mandrocs charged him.

He swung the spear round and one fell with its throat cut by a short, flicking, lunge, while the other crashed to the sodden ground as it moved back to avoid another lunge only to have the spear swing over its head and sweep down to take its legs from under it. Loman finished it with a single blow.

A backward thrust sent a third reeling and a dread-ful thrust sent the spear clear through a wildly charging fourth. As the dying creature fell forward, it slithered down the shaft, and the bloody spearhead rose to the vertical like an obscene plant before falling slowly to the ground.

Loman glanced round as he bent down to seize a long sword lying nearby. Several of his companions were fighting on foot; the Goraidin and the Helyadin with their terrible and strangely beautiful precision; the Muster riders, as savage, but less assured, in small self-protecting groups until they could remount or ride double. The majority, however, were still mounted and were forcing back the Mandrocs with terrible slaughter; swords and axes rose and fell against the grey sky and skeins of blood and gore flew up to join the incessant tumbling rain spattering down onto the mounds of dead and wounded.

A screaming horse crashed down beside him and as he snatched its rider upright, the momentum of Loman’s purpose reasserted itself. He wrapped both hands about the grip of the sword, and charged towards the most densely packed section of the line in front of him with a great roar. He felt others, mounted and on foot, falling in behind him.

For an unknowable, timeless age, the world became only a swirling, hacking, red-stained blaze of light, as the smith’s forging will and his terrible strength cut through all that stood before him.

Slowly, somewhere in the turmoil, the fluttering, inspiring mote that was Loman felt the currents about him change; heard the all-pervasive rumbling ground bass rise into a whining, fleeing scream.

But then a sudden silence fell; and Loman stood shoulder to shoulder with Yengar and Olvric, staring down an aisle of white-eyed Mandroc faces into the grim-helmed visages of Oklar, Creost and Dar-Hastuin.

Andawyr laid a hand on Hawklan’s arm as he reached for his sword, but all the others drew theirs.

‘I should prefer not to kill you all,’ said the voice ahead of them. ‘But the choice is yours.’

A solitary figure emerged from the mist, sword in hand.

It was Aelang.

As he walked forward, swaying shadows in the mist behind him darkened and slowly took form to reveal his Mandroc patrol.

Yatsu and the others slowly closed in front of Hawk-lan and Andawyr, but Jaldaric pushed past his companions and strode forward to stand in front of the Mathidrin, his sword levelled.

Aelang made no move other than to incline his head quizzically. ‘Ah,’ he said after a moment, his tone contemptuous. ‘I remember you. The solitary twig from Eldric’s creaking tree. Stand aside, child, I’m in no mood for trifling with you as I did in Orthlund. Indeed I’m in no mood for trifling with any of you. We’ve been waiting for you for some time, and we’re missing the slaughter of your friends.’

Jaldaric continued to stare at his erstwhile captor. ‘Nor will I trifle with you, Aelang,’ he said in a tone that, though calm, made his companions look at one another uneasily. Tirke made to step forward but Hawklan put a hand on his shoulder.

‘In due course, you’ll be charged with other crimes,’ Jaldaric went on. ‘But now I’m arresting you in the Queen’s name for the crime that I witnessed: for the murders you committed at the village of Ledvrin. You’ll be taken to Vakloss where’ll you’ll be given the oppor-tunity for a full Accounting. I must ask you to surrender your sword.’

His manner was so authoritative that for a moment a flicker of doubt passed over Aelang’s face and he glanced uncertainly at the swords behind his accuser. Then his face became livid. ‘I see that blow to the head I gave you has addled what few wits you had,’ he snarled. ‘However, this one will end your confusion perma-nently.’

Without warning, he swung his sword round to beat Jaldaric’s blade down. It was a swift and sudden blow, but Jaldaric avoided it almost casually, and in turn beat Aelang’s blade down.

‘That was one more chance than was allowed to anyone at Ledvrin,’ Jaldaric said, a hint of his inner rage creeping into his voice. ‘You’ll have no other if you don’t surrender.’