Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

The phalanx closed again in silence.

Urssain watched in disbelief, his throat tight and dry. Desperately he kept his eyes from Dan-Tor.

Then the mounting din from the left wing intruded on him.

Eldric had lost his lance, torn from his grasp as he had impaled some floundering militiaman. Now he was laying about with his sword. Struggling through the panicking mass of Militiamen and Mathidrin, the squadron had lost some of its speed, but a quick glance behind showed Eldric that the formation still held, its widening bulk cutting through the shattered enemy like a scythe through grass. To his left was Arinndier, still in possession of his lance, he noted, and around them was their elite bodyguard.

Both he and Arinndier had protested this, but Yatsu had overridden them. ‘You’re too old and too impor-tant,’ he had said unequivocally. When Eldric had leaned forward angrily, the Goraidin’s eyes had widened as if he had just been confronted by an insolent cadet. ‘ There’ll be no debate ,’ he said. ‘You’ll have a body-guard.’ As a small concession, he added, ‘It’ll make the men feel easier.’

Now he was glad of it. He was too old for this kind of butchery. Old faces and old memories rode alongside him, and knowledge of consequences rode at his heels.

A hand clutched at his bridle. It was a pleading hand, he knew, but he slashed at it and both saw and felt it separate from its arm. There was an animal squeal and it was gone, into the bloody melee underneath the advancing squadron.

What had you crafted with that hand? he thought. What music had you made, or loved one’s hair caressed? A massive rage welled up inside him. A selfish rage, he knew. I will grind you under the hooves of my horses for bringing me to this again, you abomination!

A spear struck his cuirass. It was a timely reminder that here only the needs of the moment existed. His left hand reflexively seized its shaft and his right hand brought his sword down savagely across the extended arms that held it; this time there was no regret.

He raised the spear high above his head and turned to his men.

‘Oklar!’ he roared. ‘To Oklar. For Rgoric and Fyor-lund. Death to the Uhriel.’

The cry sounded above the screaming and shouting and was taken up by the rest of the squadron.

Dan-Tor heard the distant cry. Darkness welled up inside him as it had in Eldric.

You shall have Oklar before this day is out, he thought savagely. Though it cost me this body.

‘The right wing holds, Ffyrst. We’ll have them yet.’ Urssain’s voice cut through Dan-Tor’s black intent. Turning away from the mayhem being wrought by Eldric’s cavalry he saw that the right wing was indeed holding. Meticulously it had wheeled around to assault the rear of the phalanx and it had maintained both its advance and its formation despite a charge from the defending light cavalry led by Darek and Hreldar.

As they had neared, it had become apparent that the Militia, with Aelang’s Mathidrin at their backs, were not going to break, and the two Lords had veered the squadron away from the bristling rows of spears at the last moment, before their horses did it for them.

Now the Militia had closed with the line that the rearguard infantry had hastily formed, and bitter hand to hand fighting had begun in which the Lords’ infantry were being pressed relentlessly backward. Hreldar and Darek’s cavalry could do little more than skirmish on the well-defended flanks of the advancing enemy.

Dan-Tor’s attention moved from left to right. The wedge of heavy cavalry was moving relentlessly nearer, Eldric at their head, like retribution itself. As he looked at the ordered horsemen, Dan-Tor had a brief vision of Sylvriss laughing.

Yet their progress was being slowed by the panick-ing masses fighting to escape both them and the advancing pikes of the phalanx, while the rear of the phalanx was showing signs of disarray as their own defending infantry was pushed back into them. The long pike was of little value as an individual weapon and the phalanx depended totally on its close formation for its effectiveness. If this were broken by rear or flank attack then the whole phalanx could be disrupted, and the Lords’ army would fall to the superior numbers of their enemy.

The battle hung in the balance.

Down the aisles between Dan-Tor’s workshops, Idrace and Fel-Astian were running frantically, their faces desperate with fear and effort. The four Mathidrin were running with them, quite willing to accept their judgement in the matter they had just set in motion.

Dan-Tor debated, the din of battle washing around his cold heart. The clash of arms, the shouts of fury and terror, the screams of men and horses; ancient sounds. These creatures learn His lessons well, he mused. But the thought was transient; his predominant concern was whether the phalanx would be broken before the panic set in train by Eldric’s cavalry spread through the whole army.

He looked again at the two main arenas of the battle.

It was too close a calculation.

He could not risk defeat. To lose so much so easily was unthinkable, and yet… it was possible.

Slowly, a dreadful resolve formed. He must use the Old Power. It would not take overmuch to smash the weakening rear of the phalanx and ensure victory for his army.

The decision brought an unexpected clamour of thoughts in its wake. Hawklan? Would the terrible Guardian be awakened? Then, the remembrance that Hawklan could not be Ethriss. And in any event, the green-eyed abomination was not on the field. He would have felt the presence of Ethriss’s sword had he been. But the pain? The damage to his body? Such a modest use would be unlikely to kill him, but would it plunge him back into the darkness again?

A tiny spark flickered deep inside him, guttering remnant of a fire he had thought long doused. Your men face pain and death for you, how can you not share their lot? How can you, their leader, offer less than they?

He recoiled inwardly from this untimely reminder of his erstwhile kingly humanity. The pain and the hurt would have to be borne because they would be as naught compared to His wrath if Fyorlund were lost.

Yet, men must face men. His own words returned briefly to mock him in some way that he could not immediately fathom. No, it must be.

Closing his eyes, Oklar reached deep into his ancient skills and gathered his power. This must be finely judged. He prepared his entire being for the impact that he must both deliver and receive.

A thunderous concussion shook the battlefield.

Dan-Tor opened his eyes in shock. For an instant, his shadow spread out in front of him as though the sun were at his back; yet it shone still in his eyes. He felt Urssain turning and heard him gasp.

Imitating the action of his acolyte, Dan-Tor turned and looked upwards. Rising above the City was a brilliant, whirling mass of white incandescence, borne upwards on a column of smoke shot through with roaring flames.

For a moment, his mind refused to function, then: the workshops! His great warehouse! Who could have known the purpose of what was stored there?

Hawklan! It could only be he. The demon had sur-vived! And once more he had reached silently into the heart of his enemy’s domain to strike at him. Briefly the horrible rage of Oklar’s dark soul transfigured Dan-Tor’s face, though none saw it, all eyes being on the prodigy now dominating the sky above the City.

The glowing mass rose higher and higher, and the battle faltered, its terrible hubbub submerged momen-tarily beneath the awesome roar of the blazing column that seemed to be clawing at the sky as if to retrieve this escaping new sun.