Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

Urssain wondered briefly if any of the officers were considering attempting to remove him in order to enhance their promotion prospects.

On balance he thought it was less likely than usual. Aelang was his greatest threat, but his pact with the erstwhile Commander of Narsindalvak still held, to their mutual benefit, and between them they offered any usurper a daunting target. In addition they had the indirect but substantial protection of Dan-Tor. He tolerated the internecine feuding that pervaded the Mathidrin, even using it on occasions to fulfil ends of his own, but whenever it reached such a pitch that it might materially impair the efficiency of his troops he would act swiftly and mercilessly to stamp it out, albeit temporarily.

Urssain knew that after the battle, when Dan-Tor shared out Fyorlund amongst his senior aides, there might possibly be some trouble, but that would have to be dealt with as and when it arose. The immediate danger now lay in some half-witted clown misreading the situation and attempting to avenge some old injustice, real or imagined.

As the thought recurred, he wriggled his shoulders a little as if easing tension. In reality, however, he was feeling the weight of the mail coat underneath his livery; it was so light that he had developed this almost nervous twitch to remind himself he was wearing it.

Ironically, the wearing of the coat contained other tinges of betrayal than a distrust of his own men, as it was not one made recently in Dan-Tor’s workshops, but an older one made by one of the Guild Armourers before their craft had gone into such a rapid decline. It was lighter, more flexible and, above all, finer and stronger than those made by the Ffyrst’s workmen. It would take the worst of a sword blow and would stop any knife thrust beyond doubt. It had been an expensive purchase but, in matters of personal defence, Urssain was quite clear in his priorities and not given to making petty economies.

Out in the darkness, circling wide round the lights that fringed the eastern edge of Vakloss, a small group of men moved silent and unseen across the unguarded fields.

Eldric’s final words to his commanders before they left on their final march were simple.

‘Over the past months we’ve been training for this day. Training intensively. So I’ll not burden you with our various alternatives again. However, two things I will repeat, for all they’re obvious.’ He looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Firstly, when battle’s joined, there’ll be confusion and mayhem and precious little chance of sending messages here and there. However, we all know one another. We’ve discussed tactics endlessly. We all think the same way. Use your judgement as need arises. Have no fear, it’ll be the same as mine.’ He leaned forward, resting his hand on the table in front of him. ‘Secondly, and I can’t emphasize this strongly enough: at the first sign of that… thing… using its appalling power, break formation, as practiced, immediately, whether your unit is being attacked or not, and retreat as fast as you can amp;mdashpreferably without it becoming a rout, but get your men away at all costs. You know your rendezvous points.’ He paused. ‘Everything we hear tells us that Oklar is bound in some way, but if after all, this is just some ghastly taunt on his part, then all we can do is flee and preserve what we can for another time.’

No one demurred.

Urssain had estimated that the Lords’ army would reach Vakloss in the late morning. It was an accurate estimate, spoiled only by the fact that the Lords, knowing the terrain, had decided to cover the last part of the journey at night. As a result, their army was within striking distance of the City when dawn began to break.

Hidden by the morning mists, however, they did not become visible to the City’s defenders until the autumn sun had turned from a sullen red to a brilliant gold.

‘Commander!’

Instinctively, Urssain lashed out and then reached for his knife as a hand shook him roughly from his slumbers. The offending sentry staggered across the tent, narrowly avoiding knocking over a table strewn with plans and documents.

‘I’m sorry, Commander,’ he gasped, before Urssain could speak. ‘Come quickly.’

Wide awake, his heart racing, and his hand offering his knife menacingly, Urssain took in the man at a single glance: one hand to his injured face, the other empty and extended to show no ill intent, he was unequivocally no assassin. And his whole manner indicated a concern greater than that occasioned by Urssain’s attack.

Urssain went cold. The Lords, he thought, but his face was set. Silently, he swung off the bunk and, snatching his tunic, motioned the sentry towards the entrance.

The sentry scurried out gratefully and Urssain strode after him, throwing his tunic over his shoulders. Without looking round, he was aware that he was the focus of many anxious looks, but he ignored them and went directly to where the sentry was now standing. The man was pointing towards the east.

They are here, he thought with a jolt, and his throat went tight with fear. Hours early. They’ve caught us unprepared. For an instant, Dan-Tor’s red-eyed wrath rose to dominate his mind, but somehow he still contrived to give no outward sign of this sudden inner turmoil.

However, as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the dazzling sunlight, the sight he had been anticipating over the past few days did not appear.

Instead of serried ranks of infantry and cavalry moving steadily forward across the distant fields, there was only the mist amp;mdashbright in the morning sun and at once tenuous and solid. For a moment he could see nothing except this strange silent white ocean, and his fear began to give way to annoyance at this unnecessary awakening. Then gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he began to make out tiny points protruding through the mist. They were like shoots of grass through a late snowfall, except that they came and went as the mist slowly shifted.

Pikes! Dozens of them.

His eyes flicked from side to side. Hundreds of them!

The fear returned, though now it was subservient to a growing excitement. Without turning round he snapped his fingers and beckoned the silent sentries towards him.

‘Battle stations,’ he said quietly, surprised at his own calmness. ‘Go and tell the Ffyrst. And rouse the other Commanders. At the double.’

Still without turning, he took the tunic from his shoulders and put it on as he listened to the retreating footsteps of his messengers. This was the last moment of silence and calm he would know for several hours, and for some reason he was loath to disturb it. Even his breathing became slow and deliberate. With meticulous care he fastened his tunic. Tonight I’ll be able to get out of this amp;mdashand this damned mail coat amp;mdashand sleep in comfort, he thought.

Then the silence and stillness were gone utterly as one of the sentries began beating out a frenzied clamour on the nearby alarm bell. The sound filled the air around him, then clattered out over the camp, waking its fellows as it went by.

Faintly, the unholy carillon drifted across the fields to the approaching army. It mingled with the steady tread of the troopers and the soft clinking jangle of the cavalry. The men were silent in the fading greyness, but a horse occasionally shook its head and whinnied softly.

Eldric turned to his companions. He had hoped to make some slight jest at this first contact with the enemy but none came. Instead, he found he was looking to them for a final confirmation of what they were about to do. Each nodded in turn. It was a dark and grim moment.

He looked around at his troops, and then upwards. The sky was visible in places, showing blue as the sun’s touch dissolved the mist. The air was full of the scents of autumn, so intense that it seemed as though they had been squeezed from the very earth by the relentless weight of the passing army. It was going to be a beautiful day. It would pursue its restful autumnal course to its golden red sunset as countless such days had done before, oblivious to the horrors that would be done here during its passage.