Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

For an instant disbelief, then fear, filled Aelang’s eyes as he stared into Jaldaric’s emotionless face. He stepped back a pace, uncertain again.

Hawklan’s hand tightened about Tirke’s shoulder in anxious anticipation.

Then Aelang spun round, the sword following him with a scything power that would surely cleave the young Helyadin in two, from neck to hip.

Aelang had risen through the Mathidrin ranks not only by cunning and ruthlessness but also by displaying a fearsome prowess in all manner of fighting tech-niques. He would have been a match even for the experienced Goraidin and as a swordsman he was far superior to Jaldaric.

But as Aelang had emerged out of the gloomy Narsindal mist, Jaldaric had recognized a terrible opportunity and knew that he must be prepared to accept death now if he was to be free of the doubts and guilt which lined the path of his life like mocking ghosts.

Thus it was with a deep inner stillness that Jaldaric entered the swirling maelstrom of Aelang’s attack. As the Mathidrin’s sword swept down, Jaldaric moved with the blow and stepping aside, drove his sword straight through his attacker.

‘Go stand for your Accounting before your victims, then, Commander , if that’s your wish,’ Jaldaric said as disbelief returned to Aelang’s eyes.

Jaldaric tugged at his sword, but the blade was wedged. Aelang made a strange noise and danced a brief, obscene dance. Gritting his teeth savagely, Jaldaric wrenched the sword free.

Aelang took a single step forward and stood for a moment like a stricken marionette. Then he dropped to his knees and slowly tumbled face forward onto the road.

His sword clattered noisily from his hand.

There was an eerie silence.

‘Close ranks and follow at the double!’ Yatsu’s command was soft, whispered almost, but its power galvanized the stunned watchers.

Then they were all running, Tirke seizing Jaldaric and dragging him forward, the others forming up around Hawklan and Andawyr.

Yatsu led them down and along the embankment past the Mandrocs who were standing bewildered by this sudden, unexpected happening.

Apart from his initial command, Yatsu made no sound as he ran, nor did any of the others, knowing that the silence would give them precious seconds where a roaring battle cry would soon bring their enemies to their senses.

Thus they were running back up on to the road before the Mandrocs began to respond.

‘Hawklan, Andawyr, go!’ Yatsu shouted. ‘We’ll hold them off.’

Hawklan hesitated briefly, but Andawyr grabbed his arm and dragged him forward along the road.

As the two men ran into the mist, the sound of des-perate fighting began to follow them. Hawklan clenched his teeth as part of him rebelled against this flight from his friends in need. But the other part of him drove him forward beside the Cadwanwr. His friends might die without his help, but they might die with it, and their deaths then would be one of utter futility. They were here, in this awful land, solely that he could flee now, to find and face his true enemy.

Gradually, the sounds of battle faded, to be replaced by the sound of their footsteps and gasping breaths.

Suddenly, Andawyr tripped and fell awkwardly, crying out in pain. Hawklan bent to pick him, but as he did so, figures came running out of the mist ahead.

They were Mandrocs, Aelang’s rearguard, Hawklan realized. Left here against the possibility of anyone escaping his trap.

One of them came charging forward, spear levelled. Another followed close behind. Hawklan reached for his sword, but a glimpse of Andawyr’s imploring face stopped him drawing it.

Instead, he twisted sideways and laid his hand on the shaft of the first spear as it passed by him. He pressed it downwards as it ran under his hand, and the sudden change in direction drove the point into the ground. The charging Mandroc ran into the butt end of the shaft with a grunt and then pivoted incongruously over it to fall heavily some distance away.

Even as the Mandroc was falling, Hawklan had swung the spear up and pushed it between the out-stretched arms of the second attacker. Stepping forward, he twisted the spear to entangle the arms and then turned to send the creature hurtling through the air to join its fellow.

A straight thrust drove the butt of the spear into the gaping mouth of another and as it fell to the ground choking, Hawklan impaled a fourth.

The destruction of all four had taken scarcely as many heartbeats and the remainder pulled back a little way, uncertainly. Hawklan yanked Andawyr to his feet, but the Cadwanwr cried out in anguish, and Hawklan winced as the healer in him felt the jagged pain of a damaged ankle.

The cry seemed to give the watching Mandrocs the heart they needed and they charged forward as one. Hawklan dropped Andawyr and stood astride him.

‘No!’ Andawyr shouted in despair, seeing his inten-tion. But no other path now lay before Hawklan. He drew Ethriss’s black sword and in one seamless flowing movement cut down the attackers as if they had been no more than the dank Narsindal mist itself.

The blade rang out, joyous and clear in the gloom, as if every glittering star in its hilt were singing a hymn of triumph.

In their ghastly armour and mounted on their dreadful steeds the Uhriel struck a chilling fear into even Loman’s burning anger and he felt his body become rigid.

Oklar raised a mailed hand towards him, and his eyes blazed blood red as if from some terrible inner fire. His mount pawed the ground with its clawed foot, its head swaying from side to side and staring at the smith.

Then the hand clenched in frustration and Loman felt hope bubbling up through the icy stillness that had descended on him.

He drove his sword into the ground, snatched up a fallen spear, and with a great roar hurled it at the apparition threatening him. Impelled by the smith’s great strength, the spear hissed as it cut through the rain-soaked air on its journey towards Oklar’s heart.

The Uhriel, however, brushed it aside almost casu-ally with a sweep of his arm. The force of the impact shattered the stout shaft.

Oklar urged his steed forward. The creature did not move at first, but its eyes shone with a deep malevolence and its mouth opened to emit a rasping snarl. Oklar drove great spurs into its scarred sides and with another snarl it began loping slowly forward, its movements angular and peculiarly unnatural.

With his heightened awareness, Loman saw, albeit dimly, the true nature of the Uhriel, rending its way into the reality of this time and this place.

‘Your old men protect you from our true wrath, for the moment, Orthlundyn, though they wilt and fade even as we speak.’ Oklar’s voice seemed to shake Loman’s soul. ‘But we are warrior kings whose empires spanned the world, even before we saw and knew the One True Light. Nothing can save you or your army from our swords when we deem it fit to draw them.’

As he spoke his actions imitated his words, and he drew a great sword. His steed let out a raucous cry of delight at the sound. Out of the corner of his eye Loman saw the watching Mandrocs moving back, some falling to their knees. He felt the two Goraidin involuntarily retreating from him.

But he could not move. His eyes were drawn to the Uhriel’s blade. It seemed to be alive, flickering red and yellow as though it were the mobile, changing heart of his own forge. The sight fascinated him as much as it terrified him and, for all he knew that it was to be his death, he wanted to touch and handle it in its glory; or use its power to make those transcendent creations that lay beyond the outer fringes of his great skill.

Yet even as these thoughts occurred, the image of Hawklan’s black sword formed, with its transcendent chorus of wonder beyond all words.