The persistent, uneasy, movement in the Bethlarii line seemed to ripple behind the man as he moved along.
'A berserker,’ Menedrion said dismissively. ‘He'll be charging us on his own next. Nothing that a couple of archers or good pikemen won't be able to deal with.'
Feranc shook his head. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘Look.'
Even as he spoke, a figure emerged from the centre of the ranks and seemed to be remonstrating with the man. The line in the immediate vicinity of the incident broke up in disorder.
Menedrion and Feranc watched in silence, unable to interpret such events as they could see.
Then more riders were moving along the line and the disorder spread.
Menedrion gripped his lance tightly. What chance had brought this about, he could not hazard but this was the moment. This was the loose pebble that would begin the avalanche.
'Now,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Now!'
He raised his arm.
Arwain, Ryllans and Haster positioned themselves across the road in front of the advancing riders.
There was a momentary confusion, then the troop came to an uncertain halt and a group of six riders galloped forward.
Arwain had never seen their like before. Flat-faced and swarthy-skinned, they were clad in a random assortment of tunics and trousers made predominantly of leather and fur, though he noticed one or two decorative items that were conspicuous by being unmistakably Bethlarii or Serens in origin. Plunder, Arwain presumed, and a deep anger began to stir in him.
The horses they were riding were as mixed in colouring and style as their clothes, but though all the animals were quite small they were very sturdy-looking. Arwain had never seen their like before, but he judged them to be both manoeuvrable and capable of great endurance. Further, each rider sat his mount as if he were a natural part of it.
An array of swords, knives, spears and lances completed a motley whole, but Arwain spoke his immediate reaction to his companions. ‘These people must be able to ride and fight from the saddle like the very devil. I wouldn't want to meet them in the field without a good row of pikes in front of me.'
Both Haster and Ryllans nodded in silent acknowledgement of this judgement.
The six riders reached them and spread out in an arc. One of them spoke to the others in his own language and there was some raucous and derisive laughter. The arc opened and curled round a little further. Haster and Ryllans gently eased their mounts sideways.
'Who are you and why do you ride in armed force into my father's land?’ Arwain said.
There was a brief debate among the six riders and some pointing at Arwain and the others.
'They're deciding who's to have what booty after they've killed us,’ Haster said.
'You know their language?’ Arwain asked in surprise.
Haster shook his head and his lip curled into a brief, humourless smile. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘But what they're saying is the same in any language.'
'Fetch your leader here,’ Arwain demanded powerfully.
'Ryllans, take the three on your side, I'll take the others,’ Haster said quietly. ‘Lord Arwain, stay back unless we need you, and prepare to retreat quickly.'
Arwain was about to dispute this order with some indignation, when the six riders, without any apparent signal, spurred forward.
There was a cheer from their watching comrades.
It faded rapidly, however. At the first movement of the riders, Haster and Ryllans surged forward also. So fast was the response that they had almost closed with the attackers by the time Arwain had drawn his sword to join them.
Haster, however, had approached his first attacker empty-handed. Turning in the saddle at the last moment, he avoided a spear thrust and, seizing the shaft of the weapon, twisted it in such a way that his opponent was lifted clear from his saddle and hurled violently into his neighbour, unseating him. It looked like a display of prodigious strength, but despite the speed of the action, Arwain noted that Haster had seemed to use virtually no effort.
Without pause, however, and even as the two men were still falling, Haster swung the spear around and hurled it at his third target. It struck the man in the upper arm with such force that it pinned it to his body. He let out a great scream, and it was only some deep reflex that kept him mounted as he turned to flee. It served him little, however, as he had scarcely gone a dozen paces when he slithered from the saddle to be dragged along the rocky road by his now panic-stricken horse.
Ryllans in his turn had dispatched two of his attackers, a little more slowly, but just as effectively, with only two savage sword blows. Arwain struck down the third.
Haster rammed his horse sideways into the two men he had unhorsed, as they were struggling to their feet.
Both fell heavily and one of them stayed down, but Arwain swung low out of his saddle and seized the survivor by the collar of his tunic. He yanked him up on to his toes and placed his smoking, bloody sword blade at his throat. It was shaking. But not as much as the white-eyed tribesman.
'My father's a merciful man, that's why you're alive,’ he snarled. ‘But this is how it will be for all of you if you do not return whence you came. Pick up your dead and injured, and leave.'
He pushed him away violently and then the three of them turned rapidly and began galloping back to the farmhouse.
The sudden, explosive response by the three riders, and the rapid dispatch of their comrades, had stunned the watching tribesmen and, for a moment, there was a deep and profound silence in the wintry stillness. Then, with a roar they charged forward as one.
Estaan handed Antyr a knife. It was Larnss'. ‘This belongs with you, not me,’ he said. ‘Now break out those packed arrows and make sure everyone's well supplied.’ He looked at his charge earnestly. ‘I'll do my best to watch you, Antyr, but keep your wits about you. I…'
'Grayle and Tarrian will guard me,’ Antyr said, in an unsuccessful attempt at reassurance. ‘I'll be all right. You look to yourself.'
As he ran towards the small storage area in front of the farmhouse, Tarrian and Grayle emerged, ears laid back and tails between their legs. They ran straight to Antyr. He knelt down and put his arms around them.
Responsibility for them and their fear helped him to turn away from his own terror as the thunder of the approaching hooves and the cries of the riders grew louder.
'I'm sorry,’ he said, desperately and inadequately. ‘If I'm killed, then flee, live your lives as you should and my thanks and blessings go with you for ever.'
The sinister sound of flying arrows began to punctuate the din, followed almost immediately by the screams of terrified horses and injured men.
Antyr tightened his grip about the two animals, both trembling violently. ‘Your very natures bind you here with me, and I have no choice but to stay. I'm sorry. Let that part of you which is human guide and control that part which is wolf. And let that part of you which is human be at its worst. Remember-this day goes to the most terrible.'
From out of their whirling, tormented fears and doubts, the wolves’ voices emerged as one. ‘We understand,’ they said. Then, abruptly they were themselves again; strangely calm and alert.
Antyr released them and, with shaking hands, began to cut open the packages of arrows.
Chapter 41
Ivaroth struck the messenger a vicious backhanded blow that knocked him from his horse.
'Endryn, Greynyr, to me,’ he shouted, and pausing only to sweep the blind man up behind him, he spurred his horse forward.
His two lieutenants caught up with him as he ploughed recklessly through the crowd of riders, striking out
