Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

Discipline and courage, and now freedom from the terror of the unknown! Urssain glanced down at the ranks of the Mathidrin and Militia.

But we have the numbers, he thought. He looked again at the Lords’ army. The pikemen were now motionless, standing in orderly rows, presumably waiting for the order to advance. Sixteen rows, he presumed, barely a pace apart, but each man standing a little to one side of the man in front, and each holding his pike vertically; a pike some five, maybe six paces long.

Urssain knew the pattern; it was the traditional High Guards phalanx. The pike had a long metal blade at its tip, and a weighted spike at the other end so that it balanced about one fifth of the way along its length. When the first five ranks brought their pikes horizontal, they would all protrude in front of the first rank to form a long impenetrable row of pointed blades.

By reputation it was a formidable fighting array used to smash into an enemy line like a great hammer, splitting it open for attack by cavalry and lighter, more mobile infantry. But Urssain declined to be impressed. Had not the Mathidrin been trained in its use also? And they were hardened fighters, all with experience in Narsindal, not fops and dandies like Hreldar’s and Darek’s High Guards. A fleeting memory of Jaldaric’s patrol in Orthlund returned to him, but he dismissed it. The men for that had been chosen by the Ffyrst himself for his own protection. It was not typical. Urssain’s attention returned to the Lords.

At either end of the phalanx, to protect its otherwise highly vulnerable flanks, were cavalry, and beyond them and behind, further infantry, carrying shorter spears. In front of the whole was another small group on foot. Skirmishers, Urssain thought, archers and javelin-men probably, fast and mobile, to harry and disrupt the opposing front line prior to the advance of the phalanx.

Hreldar gazed at Dan-Tor’s army. Two long blocks of men. At the rear were black-liveried Mathidrin armed with pikes, thin ranks motionless, while at the front were Militia. They seemed to be armed with a variety of spears and pikes, and though more numerous than the Mathidrin, their line was uneasy. At the front of the whole was a line of archers.

‘They’ve twice our numbers,’ he said, his tone mat-ter-of-fact. ‘But only a third of them are Mathidrin, and they’ve less cavalry than we have.’

He turned to Eldric, who nodded. That bore out the information that Lorac and Tel-Odrel had obtained from Dilrap. For some reason, Dan-Tor had not encouraged the development of cavalry. Eldric was reassured. He had been concerned about leaving four squadrons behind to blockade the Lords Valen and Shalmson, but it had been unavoidable. Valen had been unequivocal in his support for Dan-Tor. To Darek’s horror, though not totally to his surprise, he had arrived to find Valen’s High Guard were indeed sporting Mathidrin livery. His force had succeeded in containing them only by dint of surprise, arriving when they were all in the castle preparing to leave for Vakloss.

Shalmson had been more difficult, pleading this and pleading that, but Arinndier had cut across the debate and simply told him to stay in his castle if he valued his life.

‘Even so,’ Eldric said. ‘They have the higher ground and that long line could fold round on our flanks all too easily. And I’d like to know what’s in those four wagons in the Militia line. They don’t look like catapults, but…?’

Urssain quickly estimated the now static force. Yes, we have the numbers, he confirmed to himself, and their cavalry was less than he had thought. But the speed and order with which that phalanx had been formed…?

The two armies faced each other.

Two men for every one of theirs. But…?

‘With your permission, Ffyrst, I’ll ride down and ensure that the Militia fully understand the conse-quences of failure to hold their line,’ Urssain said. Dan-Tor nodded.

Eldric wheeled round to face his Commanders. ‘The Uhriel is bound,’ he said. ‘His battle line’s conventional. You know what to do. But watch those wagons care-fully.’ The men saluted and then rode off towards their companies. Eldric looked at his three companions and, without speaking, the four began to move forward.

Dan-Tor watched as Urssain rode along the ranks of the Militia. Faintly he could hear his voice. He knew the message he would be delivering; the man had learned a great deal over the past months. It would be a combina-tion of rabble-rousing encouragement and implied threat. The Mathidrin archers had orders to shoot any of the Militia who broke ranks, and while this was ostensibly a secret order, it had been sufficiently well rumoured to be effective.

The four Lords rode forward, accompanied by two standard bearers; one carrying a green flag of truce, the other carrying the Fyordyn flag: the Iron Ring set on a red background.

Urssain paused in his harangue of the Militia and turned to watch their approach. A parley? At this stage?

‘Look,’ he shouted to those around him. ‘They’ve seen our might, and they see their own destruction. They’ve come to plead for terms.’

But Eldric and the others had not come to debate. They had come to undermine their opponents with the truth.

All four were armed and armoured as Eldric had been for his accounting. With arms glinting and red cloaks brilliant in the bright sunshine, they rode with wilful slowness until they were almost within arrow range of the brown liveried ranks.

Then Eldric rode forward alone until he stood like a commanding officer inspecting his troops.

He pointed to the distant figure of Dan-Tor.

‘Men of Fyorlund,’ he said, his voice carrying power-fully in the autumn stillness. ‘You face me and your own kind armed to do war, but yonder is your true enemy. Yonder is the one who poisoned the mind and body of your King for twenty years and then brutally murdered him when, with your Queen’s aid, he sought to fight free of this bondage. Yonder is the one who has poisoned our whole country for twenty years, and would murder it too with this dreadful meeting today because, like its King, its spirit also refuses his yoke. Yonder is Oklar, the Uhriel, come to lay waste Fyorlund to clear the path for his Master, Sumeral. Sumeral, the ancient Enemy of Life, who has risen again in Narsindal while we turned our faces from our duty.’

There was some jeering from the Militia, but it faded under the weight of Eldric’s grim presence. ‘Let him stand forth now who’d prove me liar,’ he said angrily, looking slowly along the watching ranks. He pointed at Dan-Tor again. ‘What mere man could have torn apart our City so, and casually slaughtered so many innocents with a single gesture? You know the truth in your hearts.’ He paused. ‘You arm today for an evil cause, Fyordyn. For most of you thus far, this has been no more than folly. If you lay down your arms and return to your homes and hearths, it will remain just that and there will be no stern accounting. However, if you stay, many of you will surely die.’

The stark simplicity of his statement was chilling. He leaned forward in his saddle and continued, his tone darker yet.

‘There will, however, be a dire accounting for some of you. Those of you who rode into Ledvrin recently. Rode in and cut down men and women as if they were no more than troublesome weeds.’ His horse became restive, sensing his restrained anger. ‘I promise you this, though. You will be allowed more than your victims were. You will be allowed a fair and honest hearing when the courts and the Geadrol are re-established. But I promise you this also.’ His anger seeped through into his voice. ‘No arm is strong enough to shield you, no shade too dark to hide you, no distance too far, nor time too long. You will be searched out and found and brought for accounting somewhere, sometime, even if it is at your dying breath.’