'Careful,’ he heard Ryllans hiss behind him.
'I am one of the chosen of Ar-Hyrdyn, unbeliever,’ the priest said, his eyes blazing. ‘We have his authority in all things. But the lowest among us here has authority greater than that of the bastard son of a usurper and his band of murderers.'
Again, Arwain ignored the priest and shouted past him towards the soldiers. ‘I have never heard it said that the Bethlarii were either dishonourable or foolish? Surely such a great warrior people as you will not allow itself to be led by these prating charlatans, like so many sheep?'
He paused briefly and waited until the priest was about to reply. Then he continued. ‘You men all know that Whendrak is a neutral city. Some of you might even have been there when this was solemnly agreed between my father and your Hanestra, and by the acclamation of your army, many years ago. You know that to attack it as you've done is to break your most solemn and binding oaths, and our actions last night were but to remind you of the consequences of pursuing such wickedness. Withdraw now or the further consequences will be a thousand times worse. Your land will ring with the keening of your widows and mothers, their losses made doubly awful by the knowledge that their men were oath-breakers and, worse, fools, for following these black-hearted priests and their ignorant superstition.’ Abruptly, he sneered. ‘Ask yourselves, men of the spear and the sword, what kind of men are they that say they speak to your great war god in
At the word, dreams, however, the priest had started violently and, to Arwain's surprise, the front ranks of the Bethlarii actually retreated a few paces.
'Enough,’ the priest roared furiously. ‘It is you who blaspheme, impugning his chosen. We will allow you no such further opportunity.’ Then, turning and striding back to his own line, he shouted, ‘Kill them all!'
There was no debating or preparing the order of battle. Instead, the Bethlarii levelled their spears and, with a roar, began charging towards the square on all four sides. Arwain forced himself to walk back, taking up the spear as he passed it. The shield wall opened to admit him and as it closed behind him, he found himself facing Ryllans. He shrugged apologetically.
Ryllans took his arm reassuringly and gave him his shield and sword back. There was naked fear in his eyes as the din of approaching Bethlarii increased. ‘Forget your training now,’ he said. ‘What you've truly learned, you'll use without thinking. Anger and determination are your only true allies.’ And, as he spoke, the fear disappeared.
'Hold your positions!’ he bellowed. ‘They'll tire soon enough. Let them break themselves like waves against our rocks. Hold! Hold!'
The impact of the Bethlarii charge, however, was terrible. Arwain felt the ground shake under his feet. Two sides of the square buckled inwards, several men falling, and it seemed for a moment that they would break entirely. But again the reserves in the centre ran to the weakened sections and succeeded in beating back the encroaching enemy.
For a while there was a desperate and bloody stalemate, with the Bethlarii, like a storm-tossed sea, roaring and screaming as they struggled to beat down the bristling hedge of thrusting spear points and hacking sword edges that was the Serens’ shield wall.
Arwain and Ryllans strode around the square, directing the reserves, hurling back the enemy's spears, and, above all, encouraging the men ceaselessly.
Gradually, however, the fury of the Bethlarii seemed to become increasingly demented, and the square began to contract under the weight of the onslaught. Twice, individuals actually succeeded in mounting the shields and spears to leap screaming into the square. A reserve officer dealt with one, and Arwain the second, pinning him to the ground with a spear.
Desperately Arwain glanced at Ryllans as the square began to waver. A Lord's son, he had fought previously as a cavalryman, and he was unfamiliar with this close-quarter combat. But he could tell that this was no ordinary infantry battle. The Bethlarii were possessed; fighting as if their lives were of no import; fighting as a crazed rabble. It was the very antithesis of the disciplined, ordered infantry fighting that had been the hallmark of such confrontations in the past and which could guarantee individuals on the victorious side, at least, a high probability of survival. This thunderous riot around him was madness! Truly the unreasoned product of some grotesque religion.
Ryllans, however, was teaching, as all good teachers do, by example. He was moving unerringly to those parts of the wall that were weakest and laying about him with a purposeful, cold-eyed savagery that made all who met his gaze falter and grow sane for the moment.
'War is an evil because, to survive, the victim must become as bad as the aggressor,’ he would often say when Arwain rebelled against some technique he was being shown. ‘It is an evil because it places men in a position where their only ethical choice is kill or be killed, and by whatever means is quickest and most effective. If, in such a position, you do not have the knowledge…’ He would shrug and leave the conclusion unspoken.
Prior to the attack on the camp, Arwain had silenced his inner debate with the realization that he had no alternative but to do what he was about to do, simply because he was there. Now, in the midst of falling spears, clashing arms, and roaring, screaming, dying men, he understood at a deeper level by far.
His eye lit on a large Bethlarii beating down a shield with a great battle axe. When Arwain stepped forward to kill him, another Mantynnai had joined the square.
Then after a timeless interlude of blood-strewn, whirling mayhem, the air was abruptly filled with horn calls.
Bethlarii horns. Arwain's heart sank. Reinforcements! As if they needed any. More from the camp, come to see the sport. But his grip tightened around his sword and even as the thoughts taunted him he reached over the shields and struck down a Bethlarii trooper with a blow that cleaved clean through his helmet.
As he struggled to wrench the blade free, he was searching for his next adversary. But there was none. A space had opened between the Bethlarii and the shield wall. Groping pathetically at his head for some futile measure of the terrible injury Arwain had done, the Bethlarii fell back, not into the arms of his still fighting comrades, but on the heaped bodies of the dead he was soon to join.
'They're retreating,’ someone next to Arwain said, his voice low with disbelief.
The noise of the avenging army faded and that of the calling horns rose to dominate the valley. The gap between the two forces widened.
'They
Arwain became aware of his own raucous breathing and gradually his mind slowed sufficiently to accommodate this new pace of events. The army must have arrived, he realized ecstatically. But turning round, such of the valley that he could see was still deserted.
Then a hand took his elbow and he found himself looking along someone's pointing arm up on to the southern ridge. Clearly visible in the pale wintry sun was a long marching column.
'And the north ridge too, look!’ someone called.
A cheer began to rise up from the square, but a powerful voice stilled it.
'Hold your positions! Strict battle order! Archers-priests and officers, targets of opportunity.'
It was Ryllans, teaching still.
Chapter 35
'Got yourself in a fine mess there, brother,’ Menedrion said as he unexpectedly embraced Arwain. Then he looked him up and down appraisingly. ‘How much of that is yours?’ he asked.
Arwain followed his half-brother's gaze, looking first at his hands and then at his clothes. In common with his companions, he was covered in blood. Tentatively he felt about himself.
'None, I think,’ he concluded after a moment. ‘Or not much anyway.'
Menedrion shook his head and reached up to touch Arwain's helmet. He ran a finger along an indentation. ‘It's a wonder,’ he said. ‘You're supposed to be the thinker, Arwain. Has it never occurred to you that blocking stones and sword blows with your head is not the wisest of things to do?'
