Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

He swung his horse round and galloped back to the others, then turning, he called out. ‘Think on what I have said. Lay down your arms while you can.’

In common with all the other listeners, Urssain had been held by Eldric’s tone and manner, and this sudden manoeuvre took him by surprise.

‘Archers, cut them down,’ he shouted, coming to himself.

A few desultory arrows arced after the retreating Lords to land forlornly in the dew-soaked grass.

Urssain swore to himself. He had neither Eldric’s presence nor his eloquence, and he certainly did not have the rightness of a cause to expound.

‘Hold your ground,’ he bellowed angrily as he began riding along the ranks of the Militia again, his tone making his earlier, subtler threats unequivocal.

‘The Militia will break,’ he thought, as he turned finally to return to Dan-Tor.

‘The Militia will break,’ Hreldar said to his companions as they rode back to their troops.

At a nod from Eldric, the rider carrying the flag of truce dipped it and, without any further signal, the Army of the Four Lords began to move forward.

The four Mathidrin marched purposefully along the broad aisle between two of the largest workshops. Despite the bright autumn sunshine, the buildings looked drab and desolate, showing no outward sign of their function, unlike the large work-halls of the traditional craftsmen which were invariably bedecked with virtuoso demonstrations of their tenants’ skills. Indeed, the only outward signs that Dan-Tor’s work-shops gave were of neglect and decay, or, more correctly, indifference to the space they occupied. An appropriate craft sign for the goods that were produced here, Dan-Tor’s enemies declared knowingly; and even his most ardent supporters were obliged to concede that the buildings were eyesores.

‘But Lord Dan-Tor has brought work for… ’

‘… those whose crafts he’s ruined,’ had gone the arguments, round and round. But the workshops had been built regardless of opposition; a strange unpleas-ant scar at the edge of the City. Their appearance now was not improved by the charred remains of those buildings which had been destroyed by fire during the rescue of the Lords. Random sections of jagged, broken walls stood black and solitary amidst tangled masses of twisted metal and charred timber. When the wind blew, it carried an acrid stinging dust into the other work-shops and about the neighbouring streets while, when it rained, the dust became an unpleasant clinging slime which stank of retching decay and leached into ditches to poison nearby streams and fields.

The small patrol halted by the largest building and its Sirshiant looked about uncertainly. As he did so, a figure appeared in the shade of the doorway to the building. It hesitated briefly as if debating whether to flee.

‘You,’ shouted the Sirshiant, forestalling any action. ‘Come here.’

The figure stepped out into the sunlight uncertainly. It was a stocky man with a hooked nose and deep-set angry eyes; he was wearing a soiled overall typical of those who worked for Dan-Tor. As he came forward, his hands twitched nervously.

The Sirshiant shot a glance to the three troopers who immediately dashed past the man and, after a brief consultation, rushed through the open doorway. Within seconds, the sound of a violent struggle emerged.

Hearing the noise, the workman produced a large metal bar from under his overall and aimed a mighty swing at the Sirshiant’s head.

With apparent slowness, the Mathidrin stepped a little to one side and, almost gently, caught the moving arm, causing his attacker to lose his balance completely. As the man recovered, it was to find his wrist and arm twisted so that he was completely under the control of his captor. He struggled briefly but the increased pressure on his wrist soon stopped him, and he felt his hand opening involuntarily, to release the metal bar. It fell on the hard roadway with an echoing clang.

The troopers emerged from the building similarly restraining a taller, fair-haired man.

The Sirshiant’s eyes were cold. ‘What are High Guards doing here, disguised as workmen?’ he asked his prisoner.

The man twisted round to look at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘We’re not High Guards. We are workmen. We’re caretakers here.’

The Sirshiant shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think not. Caretakers don’t use the hand language to say things like "I’ll deal with this one and draw the others inside." Do they?’

The Sirshiant released his captive and, at his signal, the troopers released theirs.

Rubbing his wrist, the stocky man looked at the Mathidrin narrowly. ‘And cockroaches don’t know the hand language, do they?’ he echoed cautiously. He looked at his companion and came to a decision.

‘My name is Idrace… ’ he began.

The Sirshiant’s eyes widened in surprise and he raised his hand and placed a silencing finger on Idrace’s mouth. He looked at the other workman. ‘And that is Fel-Astian. Apart from Jaldaric, the only two Fyordyn from Dan-Tor’s escort to survive the Mandroc attack in Orthlund.’

Idrace gaped.

‘What was the name of the Orthlundyn who rode with you, High Guard?’ the Sirshiant demanded before Idrace could speak.

‘There were two,’ Idrace stammered. ‘Hawklan and Isloman. How…?’

‘Later,’ replied the Sirshiant. ‘We’ve no more time.’

He looked up at the building from which the two had emerged.

‘Will this place burn as well as the others?’ he asked.

Idrace gave Fel-Astian a nervous glance, and swal-lowed. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, very softly. ‘It’ll burn all right.’ His voice contained such strange tensions that the Sirshiant’s eyes narrowed uncertainly.

‘It’s a good job you met us,’ Idrace continued sig-nificantly. ‘You’d have killed yourselves for sure.’

As the phalanx of the Lords’ army moved nearer to the waiting defenders, the harrying of the Militia begun by Eldric with words was continued by skirmishers. Urssain had been wrong in his earlier assessment of these. They were neither archers nor javelin-men; they were slingers.

The traditional High Guards echoed still the training methods of the huge armies of the Great Alliance that had followed Ethriss, in that each individual was trained in many fighting skills; from the highly disciplined close order drilling required in the phalanx, to marksmanship with bow, sling and javelin and, not least, close-quarter fighting, both unarmed and with sword and spear.

This ensured that the High Guards maintained a high degree of flexibility, with individual units being able to assess each others’ tactical needs in the field and to some extent even replace one other as circumstances dictated.

It also ensured that the particular skills of each trooper were assessed to the full and hence that a high level of expertise was maintained in each discipline. Thus the Militia found themselves facing a lethal hail of heavy lead shot hurled by slingers of no mean ability.

Though more difficult to use, the slings could throw their shot farther than the short bows of the Militia and Mathidrin could fire their arrows, and the defenders found themselves effectively unable to retaliate. Even when the skirmishers ventured forward, it availed the Militia little, as their attackers were lightly armoured and extremely mobile. Slowly, casualties began to occur amongst the Militia, and as tension mounted, the Mathidrin Sirshiants and Captains placed strategically amongst them began to find it increasingly difficult to prevent their charges breaking the line and rushing forward to end this calculated and dangerous taunting.