There was no time to form into the sort of defensive square that was infantry’s only hope against a cavalry attack. The armoured wedge smashed into the extended front line of the Wargals, collapsing the formation and driving into the heart of Morgarath’s army. And the further they penetrated, the wider the gap became, as the wedge shape split and separated the Wargals, just as Morgarath had been planning to do to his enemy. Now Morgarath heard one long rising horn blast in the distance. Standing high in the stirrups, he cast his glance left and right, and saw, from either wing of Duncan’s army, more cavalry deploying, driving in on his flanks, smashing his formations. Dimly, he realised that he had exposed his army to the worst possible situation that he could have contrived: caught in the open by the full force of Duncan’s cavalry.
The Wargals were facing the only sort of force that could strike fear in their hearts. Morgarath felt the flicker of defeat in their dull mind waves. He tried to force them on mentally, but the barrier of fear was too strongly embedded with them. Screaming his fury, he directed them to retreat. Then he wheeled his horse and, with his remaining henchmen, galloped back through his army, clearing a path with his sword as he went.
At Three Step Pass, there was a hopeless tangle as thousands of the rearguard tried to force their way through the narrow gap in the rocks. There would be no escape for him there – but escape was the last thought on his mind. His only wish now was for revenge against the people who had brought his plans crashing into the dust. He drew his remaining troops into a defensive half circle, their backs to the sheer rocks that barred the way to the high plateau.
Seething in fury and frustration, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The Skandian attack had melted away as if it were never there. And then he realised that it never had been. The soldiers advancing down from the ridge wore Skandian helmets and carried Skandian shields but it had been a ruse to draw him forward. The fact that they had the helmets and shields meant that, somewhere, Horth’s forces had been defeated. That could only have been accomplished if someone had led an intercepting force throughout the impenetrable tangle of the Thorntree Forest.
Someone?
Deep in his mind, Morgarath knew who that someone was. He didn’t know how he knew. Or why. He knew it had to be a Ranger and there was only one Ranger who would have done it.
Halt.
Dark, bitter hatred surged in his heart. Because of Halt, his fifteen-year dream was crumbling before his eyes. Because of Halt, fully half of his Wargal soldiers were lying broken in the dust of the battlefield.
The day was lost, he knew. But he would have his revenge on Halt. And he was beginning to see the way. He turned to one of his captains.
‘Prepare a flag of truce,’ he said.
The Kingdom’s main army advanced slowly across the littered battlefield. The crushing attacks by the cavalry on three sides had given them a decisive victory in the space of a few short minutes.
In the second line of the command party, Horace rode beside Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster had selected Horace as his shield man, riding on his left side, in recognition of his service to the Kingdom. It was a rare honour for someone in his first battle, but Sir Rodney thought the boy had more than deserved it.
Horace viewed the battlefield with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was vaguely disappointed that, so far, he had not been called upon to play a part. On the other, he felt a profound sense of relief. The reality of battle was far removed from the glamorous dreams he had entertained as a boy. He had pictured a battle like this as a series of carefully co-ordinated, almost choreographed, actions involving skilful warriors performing brave acts of chivalry. Needless to say, in those dreams, the most prominent and chivalrous warrior on the field had been Horace himself.
Instead, he had watched in some horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster’s grim face told him that it was always this way.
Horace’s throat was dry and he tried to ease it by swallowing. He felt a sudden stab of doubt. He wondered, if he were called upon to fight, whether he would simply freeze in fear. For the first time in his life, it had been driven home to him that people actually died in battles. And this time, he could be one of those people. He tried to swallow again. This attempt was no more successful than the last.
Morgarath and his remaining soldiers were in a defensive formation at the base of the cliffs. The soft ground held the cavalry back and there was no option but to take the infantry forward and finish the job in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.
Any normal enemy commander would have seen the inevitable result by now and surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining troops. But this was Morgarath and they knew there would be no negotiating. They steeled themselves for the ugly task ahead of them. It would be a bloody and senseless fight, but there was no alternative. Once and for all, Morgarath’s power must be broken.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Duncan grimly, as his front rank stopped a bare hundred metres from the Wargals’ defensive half circle, ‘we’ll give him the chance to surrender.’ He drew breath, about to order his trumpeter to sound the signal for a parley, when there was movement at the front rank of the Wargal army.
‘Sir!’ said Gilan suddenly. ‘They have a flag of truce!’
The Kingdom’s leaders looked in surprise as the white flag was unfurled, carried by a Wargal foot soldier. He stepped forward into the clear ground. From deep within the Wargal ranks came a horn signal, five ascending notes – the universal signal that requested a parley. King Duncan made a small gesture of surprise, hesitated, then signalled to his own trumpeter.
‘I suppose we’d better hear what he has to say,’ he said. ‘Give the reply.’
The trumpeter moistened his lips and blew the acceptance in reply – the same notes in reverse order.
‘It will be some kind of trick,’ said Halt grimly. ‘Morgarath will send a herald to talk while he’s making his escape. He’ll …’
His voice tailed off as the Wargal ranks parted once more and a figure rode forward. Immensely tall and thin, clad in black armour and a beaked black helmet, it was, unmistakably, Morgarath himself. Halt’s right hand went instinctively to the quiver slung at his back and, within a second, a heavy, armour-piercing arrow was laid on his bowstring.
King Duncan saw the movement.
‘Halt,’ he said sharply, ‘I’ve agreed to a truce. You’ll not cause me to break my word, even to Morgarath.’
The trumpet signal was a pledge of safety and Halt reluctantly returned the arrow to his quiver. Duncan made quick eye contact with Baron Arald, signalling him to keep a close eye on the Ranger. Halt shrugged. If he chose to put an arrow into Morgarath’s heart, neither Baron Arald nor anyone else would be quick enough to stop him.
Slowly, the vulturine figure on the white horse paced forward, his Wargal standard bearer before him. A low murmur rose among the Kingdom’s army as men saw, for the first time, the man who for the past fifteen years had been a constant threat to their lives and wellbeing. Morgarath stopped a mere thirty metres from their front rank. He could see the royal party where they had moved forward to meet him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the small figure hunched in a grey cloak on a shaggy pony.
‘Duncan!’ he called, his thin voice carrying through the sudden silence. ‘I claim my rights!’
‘You have no rights, Morgarath,’ the King replied. ‘You’re a rebel and a traitor and a murderer. Surrender now and your men will be spared. That’s the only right I will grant you.’
‘I claim the right of trial by single combat!’ Morgarath shouted back, ignoring the King’s words. Then he continued contemptuously, ‘Or are you too cowardly to accept a challenge, Duncan? Will you let thousands more of your men die while
you hide behind them? Or will you let fate decide the issue here?’
For a moment, Duncan was caught off guard. Morgarath waited, smiling quietly to himself. He could guess at the thoughts running through the minds of the King and his advisers. He had offered them a course of action that might spare the lives of thousands of their soldiers.
Arald moved his horse alongside the King’s and said angrily: ‘He has no claim to a knight’s privileges. He deserves hanging. Nothing more.’ Some of the others muttered agreement.
‘And yet …’ said Halt quietly, and they all turned to look at him. ‘This could solve the problem facing us. The Wargals are mind-bound to Morgarath’s will. Now that we can’t use cavalry, they’ll continue to fight as long as he wills them to. And they’ll kill thousands of our men in the process. But, if Morgarath were killed in single combat –’
Tyler interrupted, finishing the thought: ‘The Wargals would be without direction. Chances are they would simply stop fighting.’
Duncan frowned uncertainly. ‘We don’t know that …’ he began.
Sir David of Caraway interrupted. ‘Surely, sir, it’s worth a try. Morgarath has outsmarted himself here, I think. He knows we can’t resist the chance to end this on a single combat. He’s thrown the dice today and lost. But he obviously plans to challenge you – to kill you as a final act of revenge.’
‘What’s your point?’ Duncan asked.
‘As Royal Battlemaster, I can respond to any challenge made to you, my lord.’
There was a brief murmur at this. Morgarath might be a dangerous opponent, but Sir David was the foremost tournament knight of the Kingdom. Like his son, he had trained with the fabled swordmaster MacNeil, and his skill in single combat was legendary. He continued eagerly.
‘Morgarath is using the rules of knighthood to gain a chance to kill you, sir. Obviously, he’s overlooked the fact that, as King, you can be represented by a champion. Give him the right to challenge. And then let me accept.’
Duncan considered the idea. He looked to his advisers and saw grudging agreement. Abruptly, he made up his mind.
‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll accept his right to challenge. But nobody, nobody, says anything in acceptance. Only me. Is that clear?’
His council nodded agreement. Once acceptance was made, it was binding. Duncan stood in his stirrups and called to the ominous black figure.
‘Morgarath,’ Duncan called, ‘although we believe you have forfeited any rights you may have had as a knight, go ahead and make your challenge. As you say, let fate decide the issue.’
Now Morgarath allowed the smile to creep over his entire face, no longer trying to conceal it from those who watched him. He felt a quick surge of triumph in his chest, then a cold wash of hatred swept over him as he looked directly at the small, insignificant-looking figure behind the King.
‘Then, as is my right before God,’ he said carefully, making sure he used the exact, ancient words of challenge, ‘and before all here present, I do so make my challenge to prove my cause right and just to …’ He couldn’t help hesitating and savouring the moment for a second. ‘Halt the Ranger.’
There was a stunned silence. Then, as Halt urged Abelard forward to respond, Duncan’s penetrating cry of ‘No!’ stopped him. His eyes glittered fiercely.
‘I’ll take my chance, my lord,’ he said grimly. But Duncan threw out an arm to stop him moving forward.
‘Halt is not a knight. You cannot challenge him,’ he called urgently. Morgarath shrugged.
‘Actually, Duncan, I can challenge anyone. And anyone can challenge me. As a knight, I don’t have to accept any challenge, unless it is issued by another knight. But I can choose to do so. And I can choose whom I challenge.’
‘Halt is forbidden to accept!’ Duncan said angrily.
Morgarath laughed thinly. ‘Still slinking and hiding then, Halt?’ he sneered. ‘Like all Rangers. Did I mention that we have one of your Ranger brats as a prisoner?’ He knew the Ranger Corps was a close-knit group and he hoped to infuriate Halt with the news that he had captured one of their trainees. ‘So small we nearly threw him back. But I’ve decided to keep him for torture instead. That will make one less sneaking, hiding spy in the future.’
Halt felt the blood draining from his face. There was only one person Morgarath could be talking about. In a fury, he urged Abelard forward.
‘You’ve got Will?’ he asked, his voice quiet, but penetrating.
Morgarath felt that shock of triumph again. Even better than he thought! Obviously the Ranger brat was close to Halt. A sudden feeling of elation filled him. Could he possibly be apprenticed to Halt himself? Suddenly, somehow, he knew this was the truth.
‘Yes, Will is with us,’ he replied. ‘But not for long, of course.’
Halt felt a red surge of rage and hatred for the vulture-like figure before him. Hands reached out to stop him but he shoved his horse forward, facing Morgarath.
‘Then, Morgarath, yes, I …’
‘Halt! I command you to stop!’ Duncan shouted, drowning him out.
But then all eyes were drawn to a sudden movement from the second rank of the army. A mounted figure burst clear, covering the short distance to Morgarath in a heartbeat. The Lord of Rain and Night reached for his sword, then realised the newcomer’s own weapon was sheathed. Instead, his right arm drew back and he hurled his gauntlet into Morgarath’s thin face.
‘Morgarath!’ he yelled, his young voice cracking. ‘I challenge you to single combat!’
Then, wheeling his horse a few paces away, Horace waited for Morgarath’s reply.
Will and Evanlyn never learned what it was that caused the wave of uncertainty in the Wargals who surrounded their small group. In fact, it happened at the moment when Morgarath realised he had been tricked into exposing his army to Duncan’s cavalry. The sudden frisson of fear that ran through his mind communicated itself instantly to all of his mind slaves.
The two captives, and the four Skandians, all noticed the sudden uneasiness and hesitancy in the twenty or so Wargal warriors who had been left to guard them. Erak glanced quickly at his men, sensing an opportunity. So far, they had not been disarmed. The odds of four against twenty were too much even for Skandians and the Wargals had only been told to detain them, not disarm them.
‘Something’s happening,’ the Skandian jarl muttered. ‘Stay ready, everyone.’
Unobtrusively, the small party made sure their weapons were free and ready for action. Then the moment of uncertainty turned to real, palpable fear among the Wargals. Morgarath had just signalled a general retreat and those at the rear didn’t distinguish themselves from the front-line troops for whom the order was intended. Over half of the Wargals guarding them simply ran. One sergeant, however, retained a vestige of independent thought and he growled a warning to his section – eight in total. As their companions struggled and fought to make their way into the jam-packed entrance to Three Step Pass, the remaining eight black-clad troops held their position.
But they were distracted and nervous and Erak decided that the opportunity wouldn’t get any better than this.
‘Now, lads!’ he yelled, and swept his double-headed axe in a low horizontal arc at the sergeant. The Wargal tried to bring his iron spear up in defence but he was a fraction too slow. The heavy axe sheared through his armour and he went down.
As Erak sought another opponent, his men fell on the rest of the Wargal troop. They chose the moment when another mind command went out from Morgarath for his men to withdraw and form a defensive position. The confusing orders in their minds made them easy targets for the Skandians and they fell in short order. The others around them, intent on escaping to Three Step Pass, took no notice of the brief and bloody skirmish.
Erak looked around him with some satisfaction, wiping his axe blade clean on a cloth he’d taken from one of the dead Wargals.
‘That’s better,’ he said heartily. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for days.’
&nb
sp; But the Wargals hadn’t left their group unscathed. As he spoke, Nordel staggered and sank slowly to one knee. Bright blood stained the corner of his mouth and he looked hopelessly at his leader. Erak moved to his side and dropped to his knees.
‘Nordel!’ he cried. ‘Where are you wounded?’
But Nordel could barely talk. He was grasping his right side, where the sheepskin vest was already heavily stained with his blood. The heavy sword he favoured as a weapon had fallen from his grip. His eyes wide with fear, he tried to reach it, but it was beyond his grasp. Quickly, Horak scooped up the weapon and put it in his hand. Nordel nodded his thanks, and slowly let himself drop to a sitting position. The fear was gone from his eyes now. Will knew that Skandians believed a man must die with his weapon in hand if his soul were not to wander in torment for eternity. Now that he had his sword firmly in his grasp, Nordel was not afraid to die. Weakly, he waved them away.
‘Go!’ he said, finally finding his voice. ‘I’m …finished …Get to the ships.’
Erak nodded quickly. ‘He’s right,’ he said, straightening up from beside his friend. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him.’ The others nodded and Erak grabbed first Will and then Evanlyn and shoved them along in front of him.
‘Come on, you two,’ he said roughly. ‘Unless you want to stay here till Morgarath gets back.’
And, moving together in a tight little group, the five of them shoved their way through the milling crowd of Wargals, all trying to move in the opposite direction.
Morgarath was stung by the impact of the heavy leather glove on his face. Furious, he turned to stare at the challenger who had ruined his plan. Then he allowed that thin smile to spread over his face once more.
His challenger was no more than a boy, he realised. Big, certainly, and muscular. But the fresh face under the simple conical helmet couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.