Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

Dan-Tor watched these preliminaries impassively. Ancient memories returned to him at the sight of the disciplined battle array moving relentlessly towards him and he felt black anger and hatred stirring deep inside him. No parleying, Lords? he thought. No attempt to use your early arrival to swing wide around the City and attempt a flanking action? No hesitation of any kind. Just straight towards the heart of your problem. Straight towards me. Like that accursed Orthlundyn’s arrow.

But you’re driven by anger still. And your arrogance. You imagine nothing can stand against your vaunted High Guards now you judge my power to be bound. Well, you were opposed and defeated in the past, and you will be now.

Dan-Tor’s battle line was almost twice as long as that of the Lords. Very soon, as the phalanx neared his centre, he would order the wings to wheel forward to move against his enemies flanks. True, these were protected by cavalry and light infantry and together these might well break the Militia. But the Mathidrin were behind them and their close-quarter fighting, together with the archers, and, of course, the wagons, would crush this guttering flame of rebellion once and for all.

Then, the phalanx stopped, and the skirmishers withdrew.

The pikemen stood in silence. To talk now would be to miss the orders of the individual phalanx officers, and the consequences of that could be dire. This was no drill. Round shield hung around your neck to protect your left side, both hands free to hold the pike, you kept your station in rank and file at whatever cost, and you watched and listened!

Charge! thought Dan-Tor.

But the phalanx remained motionless.

Dan-Tor frowned.

Abruptly, to no command that the defenders could hear, the front ranks of the phalanx raised their pikes vertically and the whole turned and began marching to the left, leaving their entire flank exposed. They were some distance away, but a determined charge now would scatter them utterly. Involuntarily, Urssain stepped to Dan-Tor’s side. ‘Ffyrst… ’

Dan-Tor raised an arm to silence him. Then, with the same silent precision, the pikemen turned back to face the defenders and the first five ranks brought their pikes horizontal again to restore the gleaming serrated edge along which such a charge would have foundered.

Urssain’s left hand tightened around his sword hilt. He had not expected this. He had expected a headlong, brawling clash of arms and a straightforward trial of strength. He glanced cautiously at Dan-Tor. The Ffyrst was impassive.

Worse was to follow for Urssain. The phalanx began marching to and fro as if it were on a parade ground; backwards, forwards, changing formation; a chilling display of discipline.

Periodically during this performance, the skirmish-ers moved in and renewed their vicious bombardment of the defenders. As the rain of lead shot continued, brown liveried bodies began to litter the field.

Urssain scowled. Despite the sunshine, it was not warm. His men would be suffering from the combined effects of cold and inaction, not to say the same frustration that he himself was feeling. Who could say what effect this tournament exhibition would be having on them? What in thunder were these Lords playing at?

Dan-Tor’s eyes narrowed. ‘They come a little closer each time,’ he said.

The phalanx turned yet again and began marching to its right but on a slightly oblique line that would bring it nearer and nearer to the watching Militia. It continued in this direction for longer than it had previously.

‘They’re going for our left wing,’ Dan-Tor said abruptly. Urssain was startled by the unexpected urgency in his voice.

Turning round rapidly, Dan-Tor snapped his fingers at one of the waiting messengers.

His order was simple. The right wing infantry was to wheel round immediately and attack the cavalry and light infantry that were guarding what was now the rear of the phalanx.

As the messenger galloped off, Dan-Tor looked back at the phalanx, still pressing forward. Soon they would be past the centre of his line.

He nodded. ‘Release the wagons,’ he said to another messenger.

Urssain smiled. Now things would start to happen, the wagons would soon break up this parade ground display.

There was a strange timeless pause while the mes-sengers galloped through the lines. It seemed to Urssain that his heartbeat filled the world, its rhythm matching that of the relentlessly marching feet of the pikemen. As he had willed Dan-Tor to use his power, so now he willed leaden lethargy into these legs that had trekked so tirelessly across the country to meet their fate.

Then the moment was gone and he was in the pre-sent again. The Militia lines in front of him opened and the four heavy wagons were carefully eased forward down the slope. They were very large, and some indication of their weight could be gained from the two lines of men who were straining on ropes to prevent them rolling forward. A Sirshiant by each one reached inside and then stepped back quickly. As he did so, the men released the ropes and the wagons slowly began to move towards the unguarded flank of the marching phalanx.

The slope was gradual, but the wagons gathered speed rapidly. Then, almost simultaneously, each one burst into flames. Not the crackling flames of burning hay and straw fanned by the wind, but flames that roared with a whiteness and intensity that was like the centre of a furnace.

Urssain leaned forward. This was the beginning of the end.

When they struck the phalanx…

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the right wing of the army begin to wheel to attack the phalanx’s rearguard.

The wagons rolled on, accelerating inexorably. Now they were going faster than horses at full gallop.

A great cry went up.

Not so silent now, Lords’ men, Urssain gloated. Not with Dan-Tor’s blazing torment about to crush you.

But a hissed intake of breath from Dan-Tor cut across his celebration. He looked up. The cry was not from the doomed pikemen, but from the right wing of the Lords’ army. The cavalry, which had been keeping station loosely with the manoeuvring phalanx, had suddenly adopted a solid wedge formation, and with two red-cloaked figures at its head, was charging at full gallop, lances levelled, into the Mathidrin riders who were protecting the left flank of Dan-Tor’s army. At the same time the leading section of the phalanx had faced left, lowered their pikes and, still in formation, begun charging up the slope. The rear ranks had partly lowered their pikes to break up the brief flurry of arrows and spears that arced up from the Militia’s front line.

Urssain’s thoughts whirled. In the instant he saw the Lords’ strategy. The cavalry charge must surely overwhelm the few Mathidrin riders, probably driving them into their own men, then both Mathidrin and Militia would flee before such an onslaught. Trapped between the thunderous hooves of the tightly grouped cavalry and the hedged points of the charging phalanx, they could escape only by retreating or panicking through the rest of the line.

Yet even as the fear of this conclusion began to take hold of him, it turned into elation. The left wing might be lost, but in seconds the wagons would destroy the latter half of the long phalanx and Dan-Tor would order the whole centre to join the right wing in wheeling round to envelop the confused survivors. So intense was Urssain’s awareness that his thoughts encompassed all this and were turning to the details of the victory parade even as his eyes returned to the careering wagons. The pikemen had turned to face them.

Now! his mind screamed. Die, all of you!

But instead of breaking in panic, the phalanx split open in front of the wagons to leave each a broad unrestricted avenue for its passage. The rearguard infantry did the same, and the four wagons, now virtually solid masses of flame, careened on impotently until, destroyed by their own fire, they tumbled over, spewing great cascades of blazing liquid and debris into the air and across the fresh-trampled autumn fields.