Erak signalled for his men to settle. The red mark of Morgarath’s blow flared on his cheek.
‘You knew,’ Morgarath accused him. ‘You knew.’ Then realisation dawned on him. ‘This is the one! Arrows, you said! My Wargals were hiding from arrows as the bridge burnt! Ranger weapons! This is the swine who destroyed my bridge!’ The voice rose to a shriek of fury as he spoke.
Will’s throat was dry and his heart pounded with terror. He knew of Morgarath’s legendary hatred for Rangers – all members of the Corps did. Ironically, it was Halt himself who had triggered that hatred when he led the surprise attack on Morgarath’s army at Hackham Heath sixteen years previously.
Erak stood before the raging Black Lord and said nothing.
Will felt a small, warm hand creep into his: Evanlyn. For a moment, he marvelled at the girl’s courage, to bond herself to him like this, in the face of Morgarath’s implacable fury and hatred.
Then, another horse forced its way through the crowd. On its back was one of Morgarath’s Wargal lieutenants, one of those who had learned basic human speech.
‘My lord!’ he called, in the peculiar, emotionless tones of all Wargals. ‘Enemy advancing!’
Morgarath swung to face him and the Wargal continued.
‘Their skirmish line moving towards us, my lord. Battle is beginning!’
The Lord of Rain and Night came to a decision. He swung back into the saddle of his horse, his furious gaze now locked on Will, not Erak.
‘We will finish this later,’ he said. Then he turned to a Wargal sergeant among those who had surrounded the Skandians.
‘Hold these prisoners here until I return. On pain of your life.’
The Wargal saluted, one fist to his left breast, then growled a command to his men. They surrounded the Skandian party. The four sea wolves now formed a small circle, facing out, Will and Evanlyn in the middle. They held their weapons ready. It was a stand-off and they were obviously prepared to sell their lives dearly.
‘We’ll settle this later, Erak,’ Morgarath said. ‘Try to escape and my men will cut you to pieces.’
And, wheeling his horse, he galloped through the throng once again, scattering soldiers in his path, trampling those who were too slow to move. They heard the thin, nasal voice calling commands to his forces as he disappeared.
The first clash of the two armies was inconclusive.
The King’s skirmish line, consisting of light infantry accompanied by archers, advanced on Morgarath’s left flank in a probing movement, retreating hastily when a battalion of heavy infantry formed up and moved forward to meet them.
The lightly armed skirmishers scampered back to the safety of their own lines, ahead of the slow treading Wargals. Then, as a company of heavy cavalry trotted forward towards the Wargal battalion’s left flank, the Wargals re-formed from their column-of-fours marching order into a slower moving, defensive square and withdrew to their own lines.
For the next few hours, that remained the pattern of the battle: small forces would probe the other side’s defences. Larger forces would offer to counter and the first attack would melt away. Arald, Fergus and Tyler sat their horses beside the King, on a small knoll in the centre of the royal army. Battlemaster David was with a small group of knights making one of the many forays towards the Wargal army.
‘All this toing and froing is getting me down,’ Arald said sourly. The King smiled at him. He had one of the most important attributes of a good commander: almost unlimited patience.
‘Morgarath is waiting,’ he said simply. ‘Waiting for Horth’s army to show itself in our rear. Then he’ll attack, have no doubt.’
‘Let’s just get on with it ourselves,’ growled Fergus, but Duncan shook his head, pointing to the ground immediately to the front of Morgarath’s position.
‘The land there is soft and boggy,’ he said. ‘It would reduce the effectiveness of our best weapon – our cavalry. We’ll wait till Morgarath comes to us. Then we can fight him on ground that’s more to our liking.’
There was an urgent clatter of hooves from the rear, and the royal party turned to watch a courier spurring his horse up the last slope to the knoll where they waited. He hauled on his reins, looked around until he saw the King’s blond head, then dug in his spurs again, eventually bringing his horse to a sliding stop beside them. His green surcoat, light mail armour and thin-bladed sword showed him to be a scout.
‘Your majesty,’ he said breathlessly. ‘A report from Sir Vincent.’
Vincent was the leader of the Messenger Corps, a group of soldiers who acted as the King’s eyes and ears during a battle, carrying reports and orders to all parts of the battlefield. Duncan nodded acknowledgement, indicating that the man should go ahead and give his message.
The rider swallowed several times and looked anxiously at the King and his three barons. All at once, Arald knew this was not going to be good news.
‘Sir,’ said the scout hesitantly. ‘Sir Vincent’s respects, sir, and … there appear to be Skandians behind us.’
There were startled exclamations from several of the junior officers surrounding the command group. Fergus swung on them, his brows drawn together in a frown.
‘Be quiet!’ he stormed and, in an instant, the noise dropped away. The aides looked shamefaced at their lack of discipline.
‘Exactly where are these Skandians? And how many are there?’ Duncan asked the scout calmly. His unruffled manner seemed to communicate itself to the messenger. This time, he answered with a lot more confidence.
‘The first group are visible on the low ridge to the north-west, your majesty. As yet we can see only a hundred or so. Sir Vincent suggests that the best position for you to view the situation would be from the small hill to our left rear.’
The King nodded and turned to one of the younger officers.
‘Ranald, perhaps you might ride and advise Sir David of this new development. Tell him we are shifting the command post to the hill Sir Vincent suggested.’
‘Yes, my lord!’ replied the young knight. He wheeled his horse and set off at a gallop. The King then turned to his companions.
‘Gentlemen, let’s see about these Skandians, shall we?’
Shading his eyes, Baron Arald peered at the small group of men on the hill behind them. Even at this distance, it was possible to make out the horned helmets and the huge circular shields that the sea raiders carried. A small group had even advanced down the near side of the hill and they were easier to make out.
Just as obvious was their choice of the typical Skandian arrowhead formation as they advanced. He estimated that several hundred of the enemy were now in sight, with who knew how many more hidden on the other side of the hills. He felt a great weight of sadness upon his shoulders. The fact that the Skandians were there meant only one thing: Halt had failed. And knowing Halt as he did, he knew that probably meant that the grizzled Ranger had died in the attempt. He knew Halt would never have surrendered – not when the need to stop the Skandians breaking through to the army’s rear was so vital.
Duncan voiced the thoughts of all of them.
‘They’re Skandians, all right.’ He glanced around the hilltop. ‘We’re going to have to fight a defensive battle, my lords,’ he continued. ‘I suggest we begin to pull our men into a circle around this hill. It’s as good a spot as any to be fighting on both sides.’
They all knew it was only a matter of time now before Morgarath advanced, to crush them between the two jaws of the trap he had set.
‘Rider coming!’ called one of the aides, pointing. They all turned to face the way he indicated. From a copse of trees at the right-hand end of the ridge, a lone rider burst into sight. Several of the Skandians gave chase, hurling spears and clubs after him. But he was stretched low over his horse’s neck, his grey-green cloak streaming behind him in the wind, and he soon outdistanced the pursuit.
‘That’s Gilan,’ Baron Arald muttered, recognising the bay horse he rode. He looked in vain for a s
econd Ranger behind Gilan, hoping against hope that Halt might have somehow survived. But it was not to be. His shoulders sagged a little as he realised that Gilan appeared to be the only survivor of the force that had marched off so boldly into the Thorntree Forest.
Gilan had hit the flat land now and was still riding full pelt towards them. He saw the royal standards flying on the knoll and swerved Blaze towards them. In a few minutes, he drew rein beside them, covered in dust, one sleeve of his tunic ripped and a rough, blood-stained bandage around his head.
‘Sir!’ he said breathlessly, forgetting the niceties of addressing royalty. ‘Halt says can you –’
He got no further as at least four people interrupted him. Baron Fergus’s voice, however, was the loudest.
‘Halt? He’s alive?’
Gilan grinned in reply. ‘Oh, yes, sir! Alive and kicking.’
‘But the Skandians …?’ King Duncan began, indicating the lines of men on the far ridge. Gilan’s grin widened even further.
‘Beaten, sir. We caught them totally by surprise and cut them to pieces. Those men there are our archers, wearing helmets and shields taken from the enemy. It was Halt’s idea …’
‘To what purpose?’ Arald asked crisply and Gilan turned to face him, with an apologetic nod of his head to the King.
‘To deceive Morgarath, my lord,’ he replied. ‘He’s expecting to see Skandians attack you from the rear, and now he will. That’s why they even made a pretence of trying to stop me just now.
‘Our own cavalry is just beyond the brow of the ridge. Halt proposes that he should advance with the archers, forcing you to turn and face the rear. Then, with any luck, as Morgarath attacks with his Wargals, both the archers and your main army should open a path through the centre, allowing the hidden cavalry to come through and hit Morgarath when he’s in the open.’
‘By god, it’s a great idea!’ said Duncan enthusiastically. ‘Odds are that we’ll stir up so much dust and confusion that he won’t see Halt’s cavalry until it’s right on top of him.’
‘Then, my lord, we can deploy the heavy cavalry from either wing to hit the Wargals in the flanks.’ The new speaker was Sir David. He had arrived unnoticed as Gilan was explaining Halt’s plan.
King Duncan hesitated for a second or two, tugging at his short beard. Then he nodded decisively.
‘We’ll do it!’ he said. ‘Gentlemen, you’d better get to your commands straight away. Fergus, Arald, take a section of the heavy cavalry each to the left and right wings, and stand ready. Tyler, command the infantry in the centre. Make sure they know this is a fake attack. And order them to shout and beat their swords on their shields as the “Skandians” approach. We’ll make it sound like a battle as well as look like one. Have them ready to split to the sides at three horn blasts.’
‘Three horn blasts. Aye, my lord,’ said Tyler. He dug his spurs into his battlehorse’s side and galloped away to take command of the infantry. Duncan looked to his remaining commanders.
‘Get to it, my lords. We don’t have much time.’
From behind, one of his aides called out.
‘Sir! The Skandians are moving downhill!’
A second or so later, another man echoed the cry:
‘And the Wargals are beginning to move forward!’
Duncan smiled grimly at his commanders.
‘I think it’s time we gave Morgarath a little surprise,’ he said.
From his command position at the centre of his army, Morgarath watched the apparent confusion in the King’s forces. Horses were galloping back and forth, men were turning where they stood. Shouts and cries drifted across the plain to the army of Rain and Night.
Morgarath stood in his stirrups. In the far distance, he could see movement on the ridge to the north of the Kingdom’s army. Men were forming up and moving forward. He strained his eyes to see more clearly. That was the direction from which he expected Horth to appear, but the rising dust kicked up by all the movement made it difficult to see details.
Although the bulk of Morgarath’s forces were the Wargals whose minds and bodies had been enslaved to his own will, the Lord of Rain and Night was surrounded by a small coterie of men whom he had allowed to retain their own powers of thought and decision. Renegades, criminals and outcasts, they came from all over the country. Evil always attracts its own and Morgarath’s inner circle were, to a man, pitiless, black-hearted and depraved. All, however, were capable warriors and most were cold-blooded killers.
One of them now rode to Morgarath’s side.
‘My lord!’ he cried, a smile opening on his face, ‘the barbarians are behind Duncan’s forces! They’re attacking now!’
Morgarath smiled back at the young man. His eyes were renowned for their keenness. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked, in his thin, flat voice. The black-clad lieutenant nodded confidently.
‘I can make out their ridiculous horned helmets and their round shields, my lord. No other warriors carry them.’
This was the truth. While some of the Kingdom’s forces did use round bucklers, the Skandians’ shields were enormous affairs, made of hardwood studded with metal. They were over a metre in diameter and only the huge Skandians, heavily muscled from rowing their wolfships across the winter seas, could bear such heavy shields in a battle for any length of time.
‘Look, my lord!’ the young man continued. ‘The enemy are turning to face them!’
And so they appeared to be. The front ranks of the army facing them were now milling in confusion and turning about. The shouting and noise rose in pitch. Morgarath looked to his right, and saw the small hill where the King’s standard marked the enemy command post. Mounted figures were pointing, facing the north.
He smiled once more. Even without the forces from across the Fissure bridge, his plan would be successful. He had Duncan’s forces trapped between the hammer of the Skandians and the anvil of his own Wargals.
‘Advance,’ he said softly. Then, as the herald beside him didn’t hear the words, he turned, his face expressionless, and whipped the man across the face with his leather-covered steel riding crop.
‘Sound the advance,’ he repeated, no more loudly than before. The Wargal, ignoring the agony of the whip cut, and the blood which poured down his forehead and into his eye, raised a horn to his lips and blew an ascending scale of four notes.
Along the lines of the Wargal army, company commanders stepped forward, one every hundred metres. They raised their curved swords, and called the first few sounds of the Wargal cadence. Like a mindless machine, the entire army took up the chant immediately – this one set at a slow jog pace – and began to move forward.
Morgarath allowed the first half dozen ranks to pass him, then he and his attendants urged their horses forward and moved with the army.
The Lord of Rain and Night felt his breath coming a little faster, his pulse beginning to accelerate. This was the moment he had planned and waited for over the past fifteen years. High in his windy, rainswept mountains, he had expanded his force of Wargals until they formed an army that no infantry could defeat. Without minds of their own, they were almost without fear. They were inexorable. They would suffer losses no other troops would bear and continue to advance.
They had only one weakness and that was facing cavalry. The high mountains were no place for horses and he had been unable to condition their minds to stand against mounted soldiers. He knew that he would lose many of his own troops to Duncan’s cavalry but he cared little about that. In a normal confrontation, the King’s cavalry would be a decisive factor in their battle. Now, however, split between the Wargals and the attacking Skandians, their numbers would be insufficient to stop him. He accepted the fact that Duncan’s cavalry would cause immense losses among his troops without a qualm. He cared nothing for his army, only for his own desires and plans.
The dust rose from the thousands of jogging feet. The chant surrounded him, a primal rhythm of hatred and implacable evil. He began to laugh. Softly at first, th
en the laughter became increasingly louder and wilder. This was his day. This was his moment. This was his destiny.
Black-hearted, thoroughly evil and pitiless, he was the Lord of Rain and Night. He was also, unmistakably, insane.
‘Faster!’ he cried, sliding his huge broadsword from its scabbard and wielding it in gigantic circles over his head. The Wargals didn’t need to hear the word. They were bound to him in an unbreakable linkage of minds. The cadence of the chant increased and the black army began to move faster and faster.
In front all was confusion. The enemy, first turning to face the Skandians, now saw the new threat developing at their rear. They hesitated, then, for some unaccountable reason, they responded to three horn blasts by drawing to either side, opening a gap in the heart of their line. Morgarath screamed his triumph. He would drive his army into the gap, separating the left and right wings of the army. Once an army’s front line was broken, it lost all cohesion and control and was more than halfway defeated. Now, in their panic, the enemy were presenting him with the perfect opportunity to strike deep into their hearts. They had even left the way open to their own command centre – the small group of horsemen standing under the royal standard on a hill.
‘To the right!’ Morgarath screamed, pointing his sword towards King Duncan’s eagle standard. As before, the Wargals heard the words and his thought in their minds. The army wheeled slightly, heading for the gap. And now, through the chanting, Morgarath heard a dull drumming sound. An unexpected sound.
Hoofbeats.
The sudden doubt in his mind communicated instantly to the minds of his army. The advance faltered for a moment. Then, cursing the Wargals, he drove them forward again. But the hoofbeats were still there and now, peering through the clouds of dust raised by the enemy army, he could see movement. He felt a sudden, overpowering surge of fear and again the Wargal army hesitated.
And this time, before he could mentally flail them forward, the curtains of dust seemed to part and a wedge of charging cavalry burst into sight, less than a hundred metres from his army’s front line.