Chapter Nine
THE THIRD BATTLE
Having assembled his army on the shore of Aduchel, Swin went out out along a promontory and spoke to them all, using the calm water to carry his words:
‘Today, my friends, we shall come to the end, and through the end into a new beginning. We come to the end of the journey that we have made together, to the end of the dominion of the usurper’s line and to the end of your thraldom. I come to the throne of my forefathers: you come to the beginning of freedom and well-earned reward, to the lands and homesteads of which you have been dispossessed: for by the power of the Goddess those lands shall be healed and greened. This I know, and this, seeing me, you also may be assured of: for here is Dagoruth of Eangil that was lost in the deep water, and has been returned to me, this very morning, by the Goddess herself. And so, though we be but a small company, let us not be abashed; for victory lies not in the multitude of men, but where the Gods will send it. And see, when we have conquered, and come into the City, that you treat it with gentleness: for it is mine. I will allow no sack, no pillage and no disrespect to the folk. Any who disobey this rule will be put to death. Now let us offer sacrifice to Yabeth and all the Gods, and give thanks for the great work that they are doing through us.’
So he came back to the mainland, while the men clashed their shields and raised their voices, acclaiming him with many cheers; and he came through the midst of them, to a place where an altar of stones had been set up, and a wild boar tethered, and a fire lit. He slaughtered the beast with his sword; he cupped his hands, caught some of the blood and sprinkled it on the flame. The smoke of the burning rose straight up to heaven. Then the men ate their last provisions, and while it was still early in the day they all set out on their last march.
Swin drew them up in the form of an arrowhead, with the cavalry walking in the midst and himself on Colwine in the lead. The scouts had brought news that the Queen’s army was being drawn up to meet him, half a mile from the City walls; and he knew also that Ostendil’s circle was closing in fast, behind him and now on both sides. So the two lines of the foot-soldiers were spread out behind him, and they marched on as swiftly as they might while remaining in order, among the rolling downs and the golden woodland. It was the first day of autumn, and the chestnuts and beech-mast were strewn below the trees, and a few brown or golden leaves came fluttering down; but the leaves of the little sapling that rode in a barrel were all silvery-green and unwithered, and they quivered and flickered as the cart jolted. Walt Hardedge skilfully drove the cart’s team of two ponies, and Wencela sat beside him on the wagon-seat, and Aldred rode with them on another pony. Waltrot and Wencela chatted together, and sometimes his jests made her laugh, but Aldred was silent and sad.
‘Come, cheer up, master!’ said Waltrot presently.
‘Yes, Mr. Sherling,’ said Wencela, ‘why the long face? Don’t you believe we’re going to win? I’m sure I do.’
‘Me likewise,’ said Waltrot, ‘and just about everybody else.’
‘Well, I do,’ said Aldred. Really he was not so sure. Once again he had been ruminating as he rode, but the taste of the cud of his thoughts was too bitter to be shared. He said: ‘Have you thought for yourself, Walt? Suppose we do win the battle, and Swin succeeds in everything – what will you do then?’
‘Oh, I’ll stick by you, master, never you fear,’ was the ready answer.
‘Really?’ asked the incredulous Aldred.
‘Of course! Poor Mr. Sherling’s got naught to go back to, now,’ he said to Wencela, ‘no more I don’t fancy going back to Tregg neither. Easier for me than for you, don’t forget!’ he said to Aldred with a wink.
‘Why can’t you go back, Mr. Sherling?’ asked Wencela.
Aldred’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. She might be fifteen inches taller than Waltrot, but whenever the wagon lurched she clung to his arm for support; the two were at ease together, and the leaves of the Sapling laughed and quivered above their heads. Well, well! Waltrot began to tell her the story, suitably lightened and expurgated, of Hodgekin and the Fox that turned into a Wizard. Aldred went back to chewing his bitter thoughts.
Whether or not Swin was as certain of victory as he professed to be, Aldred had no such certainty. Granted, they might possibly win, but he was not at all impressed by the notion that the Gods were on their side. Since when had the righteousness of any cause provided a guarantee of its success? Was it not many times recorded in the annals of Midyard that some brave army, fighting against Sorgrim or one of his darker predecessors, had been overcome? Had not unnumbered legions of Elves, Men and Dwarves perished in those disastrous wars? And had not King Kedral himself come within a hair’s breadth of another disaster? So might Swin. The Light and the Darkness were evenly and terribly balanced. Meanwhile, unlike Fortinbras the dyer, Aldred would have no contribution to make. He was there only as a spectator. Yet even so, watching, he had discerned the underlying grimness of Swin’s mood. It made Aldred think of the compressed object, the leather purse that he still seemed to feel in his hand even though it was no longer there. Swin had accepted it, yes he had, but reluctantly, grimly, conscientiously: he had gone through the motions of accepting it, but he did not want it and it was not yet at rest. It had become fateful, stuffed with the coinage of repeated betrayals, unsafe for its possessor. Some new disaster might yet cause it to return to Aldred’s keeping.
The morning wore on, and the miles went by, and finally, advancing beyond the north-easterly point of the lake, Swin beheld his foes, and the field where the battle must be fought, and the large black birds that were floating and wheeling in the blue sky.
On the Rebels’ left the nameless stream which carried all the outflow of the City into the upper reach of Aduchel foamed scummy and shallow through the short, wide valley. On the other side of this stream the low hillside was thronged with Lord Hriveor’s men. Their shields and helms were black, and they had many archers ready to shoot down Swin’s army, should it attempt to cross the stream; and they held the higher ground. Ahead, between Swin and the City, the main force was assembled, including Ostendil’s men in their grey livery, and the mounted Arostiri, conspicuous in their black and gold, with some regiments of the Foro. On the right (as a result of the reassignment of places) Lord Gorin’s troops were drawn up ten deep, in a raking line that stretched from the right of Ostendil’s host, round and over the flank of the hill, towards the woods of the Royal Chase. Swin gazed at the distant forest that mantled the higher and farther hills, and remembered his encounter with the Queen; and his heart sank with another private untellable despair. But he summoned his will, and tightened his mouth, and ordered all his host to advance at the same slow pace. Now Sigehere the standard-bearer took the lead, so that the Red Boar flared out and flamed in the full sunlight, while Wald and Oswine rode swiftly round to ensure that the army was holding itself true.
As for the Thandorians, standing and waiting, what did they see? The first appearance of the Rebels, approaching slowly but boldly on their proud-stepping horses, might well inspire respect; for Lefnui and Sarvad were there, and their pennons fluttered behind Swin’s banner, with other captains whose names were known. But as the two blades of the arrowhead continued to emerge from the trees, and it became clear what manner of men these were, Lord Hriveor’s host began to laugh, and the laughter spread along the ranks until the men at the centre also began to chuckle nervously, although Swin’s rank-and-file were still too far away to be seen very well. Lord Megiluin took a jewelled spyglass from his esquire, and set it to his eye, and smiled; and he handed it to his son, who laughed with derision. But Melohtar, who sat on horseback watching with them, said: ‘Do not underestimate this man!’
Now Lieutenant Sorquid looked through the glass and saw what the others had seen: a troop of peasants dressed in motley, marching all out of step, with leathern armour and clumsy weapons – a ridiculous sight, a veritable masque as of stage rustics in hempen homespuns and clouted shoon. Swin returned to the lead. He gave another command and the army stepped out more briskly. Less than a mile separated the two main forces. It was clear that there would be no parleying. Then Crabanir said: ‘Do we seriously intend to stand idle like this, just hold our ground and let those rascals come right up to us?’
And Melohtar answered, ‘Assuredly we do, for that is Lord Ostendil’s order.’
Ostendil himself had just ridden off to confer with Gorin and to get a better view of the battlefield. Ignoring Melohtar’s answer, Carabanir said to Megiluin: ‘Come, sir, why delay? I can smash them with five hundred guards alone!’
Megiluin received back the spyglass, and snapped it shut, and nodded his head. ‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘Lieutenant, sound the charge.’
‘Do not so, Lieutenant,’ said Melohtar, ‘and you, my lords, obey your orders!’
‘Calm yourself, Your Highness,’ rejoined Megiluin. ‘You’re a man of peace.’
‘A weaponless consort,’ said Crabanir with a grin.
‘But our swords are eager,’ added Sorquid as he rode off.
Then Melohtar went white in the face, and he said, ‘For that you all three shall die.’ He drew his sword and would have slain Crabanir at once; but the commanders were at some distance from the City Guards, the men of Lord Melohtar’s own command, while the Arostiri were nearby. At a sign from Crabanir half-a-dozen of them rode forward and surrounded Melohtar. Then the trumpet-call rang out, and the Arostiri lowered lances and visors, and the City Guards made ready to follow with relief. They had been waiting in their places for hours, and they longed to be up and doing, and the steeds were as eager as their riders. The whole front line began to move forward. And as the Arostiri had the fieriest horses they outpaced the others, so that the Thandorian charge also formed itself into the shape of a wedge, with Sorquid in the lead and Crabanir and Megiluin close behind. Quickly their gallop increased to a tremendous pace, far outrunning the foot-soldiers who followed them; for the sward of the valley was level, and the pitch of its slope just such as to allow a horse to gallop forward confidently at highest speed.
Even before the sound of the trumpet-call had floated down the wind, the Rebels saw the tall ranks of spears and lances fall down to the horizontal, like a forest laid low by a hurricane. The sound of the charging hoofbeats swelled from a mutter, to a loud drumming, to a terrific thunder. The flags and standards of the enemy streamed out in the wind of their speed, and their armour glittered in the sunlight, and their spear-points twinkled, and the eye-slits of their helmets were black and fearsome; but the eyes of their horses were red, and they screamed and bared their teeth. Swin shouted to his army: ‘Halt! Ground spears! Riders forward!’ At once, while the rebel cavalry cantered forward to meet the Thandorian charge, the foot-soldiers hastily kicked their heels into the turf, making sockets to receive the butts of their long spears, if ‘spears’ is the right word: for these weapons were really more like clumsy pikes, stout ten- or twelve-foot shafts armed with glittering pike-heads, the gift of Athelstan. In half a minute, bare time indeed, the two sides of Swin’s host were set with a bristling defence. Closer and closer came the charge, and now Swin was calm and cheerful once more. He brandished Dagoruth at the foe, and Sorquid, desirous of the principal honour, made straight for him with lance held level and true. At the last instant Swin lightly pulled Colwine’s rein with his right hand, and Colwine swerved a little, divining his master’s intention. The lance-point passed Swin’s body by an inch. Swin stood up in his stirrups and swept Dagoruth round in a two-handed stroke, cleanly shearing through Sorquid’s gorget, neck-guard and neck-bone. There was a quick spray of blood, and then Swin must face the whole mass of the enemy, but all his followers saw how the head and the plumed helmet of Sorquid flew up, twisting and turning and shaking in the air like some strange wounded bird. A delighted cheer rose up, and then the knights of Thandor were upon them, the lances coming, the swords descending. Horse and rider crashed bodily together. Manfully Swin’s riders resisted the onset. Dagoruth flashed out again and again. But it was not possible for the whole strength of the downhill charge to be applied to a single point of resistance. Already, though Swin and his followers, knights and thanes, were in the midst of a furious knot of attackers, the great thunder of hoofbeats had passed beyond them, speeding down the hill, and now, inevitably, split.
Thus fortune turned at first in favour of the Rebels. For the Thandorians, charging at full pelt, could not wheel and turn as one, but only piecemeal, and that with difficulty; and then the sharp pikes of their foes confronted them. Thus it was that they unravelled along both sides; for many horses were staked through the breast, or disembowelled as they tried to leap over; and those knights who were able to penetrate the ranks of Swin’s men were outnumbered by a poorly-armed but resolute foe; and they were shot by archers or cudgelled and belaboured and seized and dragged to the ground. Hriveor’s men were now shooting from the other side of the river: they inflicted as much damage on their own side as upon their opponents. But soon it appeared that the charge was over. Crabanir on the right, Megiluin on the left, had swept past, on and down into the wood. More than half their forces had been unable to encounter the enemy at all.
Fighting had also ceased in the centre. The Rebels had won clear, and now before them stood the thinner ranks of the frightened infantry, with a single mounted figure. For Melohtar, obedient to his orders, had remained in his place; and Ostendil, seeing the beginning of the unlucky premature charge, had spurred to the centre and joined him; and there they watched the outcome. Then Melohtar said, ‘Look, father, he has his force intact, and now he is advancing again.’
And Ostendil said, ‘Yes. He’ll be on us in five minutes, and the centre is now too weak to withstand him.’
And Melohtar said, ‘You can still bring the two wings together and bar the way, if he can be delayed a little longer.’
And Ostendil said: ‘How?’
And Melohtar said: ‘Let me go to him alone. My word on it, father: I can parley with him, or anyhow delay him, for long enough.’
And Ostendil said: ‘Then go, my son.’
Meanwhile the Rebels had wrenched their pikes out of the ground, and seized the shields and weapons of their fallen foes; but they took no prisoners and they allowed the wounded to escape. And although Hriveor’s men went on shooting at them from the left, they caught most of the arrows on their shields and hastened on in good order. But Swin raised his hand a second time, giving the order to halt, for he had made out (though his eyes were dim) the colourless device on the shield of the rider who now approached.
And so, in the clear light of noon, while the Thandorians regathered – Megiluin struggling to gain control of his riders, the unfought foot-soldiers falling back to be strengthened by the forces of Gorin and Hriveor, and the vast unseen strength of the legions closing in all the while – Swin and Melohtar trotted out to meet one another. They met coldly, each keeping his distance; and Melohtar said:
‘Well, friend, you survived that leap. Congratulations.’
And Swin said: ‘Hi.’
And Melohtar said, ‘What a shame, that we should meet as enemies at last.’
And Swin said: ‘There need be no enmity between us, Lord Melohtar. I offer you the right hand of friendship, provided you don’t hinder me. For I claim what is rightfully mine, and well you know it.’
And Melohtar said: ‘Yet I must still be a hindrance, I fear: because I looked into the Orb this morning, and there I saw an unexpected and sad mishap: one which ought to be of interest to you.’
Swin said: ‘Then speak of it briefly!’
Melohtar said: ‘A captain of yours, one Dreng, has been giving a great deal of trouble to Lord Megiluin and the Queen’s forces in Undor. He harried the lands around Tregg, where they almost caught him; but he escaped northward and has now arrived at Dunbury.’
‘Dunbury?’
‘Yes, Dunbury.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘Invading the town, terrorising the peaceful inhabitants and wreaking wanton destruction. The Colleges are burning. My own home has been gutted. And the great library – the library, Swin – is in flames.’
‘Most regrettable.’
‘The library, my friend. Books. Works of learning. Does that not concern you at all?’
‘I see your drift,’ answered Swin, ‘and you expect some response from me? Then here it is. I care not for men who cultivate mushrooms and poisonous toadstools in dank basements. In equally low esteem do I hold your culture of books and information. So far as I am concerned, Dreng can burn the whole bloody lot.’
Melohtar’s face was white, his eyes shadowed with purple. ‘I thought so,’ he murmured, and Swin saw a tear slide down his cheek. But then his eyes suddenly flamed with rage, and he drew his sword from its scabbard. ‘Then fight, you filthy barbarian!’ he cried. ‘Ward yourself!’ He aimed a fierce two-handed blow at Swin, who thrust Dagoruth forward and easily deflected it. The clash of the blades cut through the tense quietness. Swin’s men walked or rode forward until they formed a circle round the two combatants, and continued to watch, forgetful of their peril on the wider battlefield. Calmly, with the strength of his right arm alone, Swin forced Melohtar’s blade down. Calmly now, and even conversationally, Melohtar went on scolding and reproaching him: ‘Thrice have I saved your life, my blood-brother, three times, and bitterly do I now regret those three acts as the most foolish of all my mistakes. Three times over, Red Swine, would you have died, had it not been for me! Ah!’ Another inconclusive, scraping blow. ‘Reflect on that truth. Now you must kill me, your saviour, before you pass on, for I shall not allow your brutishness to defile my City!’ Fast and viciously he stabbed forward at Swin’s belly; this blow Swin turned with his shield; Stirnelach and Colwine both shied and passaged sideways, carrying their riders away from each other. ‘Dismount!’ yelled Melohtar. ‘Finish this!’
They both dismounted. Melohtar attacked with fury and not without guile, but he could not hope to match the strength and quickness of his opponent. Had he been anyone else, the combat would have ended at once. But Swin had no desire to harm him, and for three or four minutes Dagoruth’s work was purely defensive. Melohtar’s assault grew fiercer and fiercer. Back and forth the two men paced, round and about swept the flashing blades, faster and louder sounded the ringing, clashing blows. All the time Swin was aware of his and his army’s plight, and of the precious opportunity that was fast disappearing. He felt pain in his side: Melohtar’s point had penetrated a chink between his breastplate and backplate. Melohtar was smiling and baring his teeth. First blood: time for an end. Dagoruth wheeled unbelievably fast, up and down into a full downstroke. Melohtar saw it coming, began to dodge, to raise his shield in defence: to no avail: the Eye within the Orb was split in two, the helmet shivered and sheared, the left side of the head sliced off – hair, ear and cheek – the shoulder-guard cloven and the left arm and shoulder half-severed from the body. Dagoruth was wedged in Melohtar’s left breast like an axe in the trunk of a tree. Swin tugged at it, then pulled it back savagely, bringing Melohtar tumbling forward, right on to Swin’s breast. With a last clang their breastplates jarred together. Melohtar gazed into Swin’s face, his lips parted, his eyes beseeching. Swin made a third attempt to withdraw his sword. This time it came clear. The side of Melohtar’s wounded head, close up, was a ghastly red landscape. His blood was springing forth, spraying everywhere. Furiously now, and needlessly, Melohtar having already received his death-blow, Swin drove Dagoruth forward, low and hard. It pierced the apron of chain-mail, passed through Melohtar’s midriff, displaced his backplate and stood out behind his back, clear in the sunlight, twelve inches, bright blood-red. The force of this last blow lifted Melohtar back and a little upward, so that his eyes were again level with Swin’s. They were calm now, and peaceful. The last look that passed between the two friends was a deep one, full of understanding. Melohtar’s head nodded, and his body sagged against Swin’s body, and his lips brushed Swin’s mouth, and he died.
Swin thrust him away, so that he fell down with a clatter.
Swin stood over the fallen, half-stooped, glowering, sweating and bleeding; and the sun was hot on his back.
His breast heaved under his amour, and he gave a sob; and then he sank down on his knees. And what happened next was felt chiefly by him, but also by the circle that stood around. Lefnui, Thoronhir, Wald, Sarvad and many others have attested to it. Some of them say that the Earth quivered and moved a little. Swin relates that as his grief began to turn to anger there was an upsurge of power from the Earth, flowing through his knees and into his chest like a bolt of dark lightning; and there are others who believe that the Goddess, Yabeth herself, at that moment heard his inarticulate prayer; for he had surrendered himself to her will, and her anger, the anger of the scorned and violated Earth, could now resonate perfectly though his being. Mere words – but words must somehow serve. The mood that now possessed him was something altogether new, like a flame, but fiercer than flame, and dark: a darkly incandescent wrath. He stood up, ran to his horse, rose lightly into the saddle, raised his sword high so that all saw how for a moment it seemed to reach to Heaven, and then brandished it forward.
‘CHARGE!’
And charge they did, uphill, roused with reckless courage: first the cavalry, and then the main body of the foot-soldiers, and last the rearguard; for the woods were full of the enemy, and the Sapling could no longer lie hidden in safety but must be carried forward on its wagon, in the midst of the wedge that was now thrust deep into the massed ranks of Thandor. Melohtar’s solitary act of resistance had succeeded. The gap had been closed. But nothing could have prepared the Thandorians for the access of power that had been granted to their enemies. The freed thralls of Daelum and the peasantry of Lefnui now wielded their crude heavy weapons like precise spears and axes, stabbing and demolishing, whacking at heads or limbs and flinging the enemy to the ground. Each of the regular men-at-arms could account for three, or four, or five of his opposite numbers. The horses reared and plunged, adding the terror of their hooves and teeth to the untroubled, deadly prowess of their riders. And before all went Swin on Colwine, more irresistible than any steed and warrior of old; and he slew, and he slew, and he slew, and ever the wrath unquenchable waxed within him.
Yet his host was greatly outnumbered; for Ostendil (having seen the death of Melohtar) had thrown in his last reserves, and Crabanir soon marshalled his men well enough to lead a second advance into the rear. Now Swin’s army was all surrounded, and the frenzy of carnage rose to its height, and the din and tumult were madness in themselves, and the walls of the City trembled. None afterwards could say when it happened that Sheaf was slain, and Sigehere fell stunned, and Wald threw down his sword, springing forward to catch and to uphold the standard of the Boar; or when Crabanir encountered Dulinir in the heat of battle, and slew him, and was slain in his turn by Thoronhir; or when Lefnui fell, wounded in head and arm, yet was saved and brought alive to the wagon, where Wencela tended him in the strange peace and the dappled light that surrounded the Sapling. Still it quivered hopefully, for the wagon-wheels still turned, and still Waltrot calmed and encouraged the terrified ponies. Step by step, though encircled and hard beset, the whole army was advancing towards the Eastgate of the City. There came a moment when Swin, indistinctly seeing the tall figure of Megiluin in his path, let loose a stroke that ended the proud lord’s ambition for good and all. Swin then realised that there were hardly any foes ahead of him. Megiluin had been retreating. Not only had the leading edge of the circle broken through the enemy, but the circle was expanding in all directions. The Thandorians had lost heart, and the Rebels, though reduced by a quarter of their strength, were pressing triumphantly outwards. Hriveor had gathered his bodyguard about him and departed; Gorin was dead, and Ostendil was stationed on a low knoll with the men of Dunbury about him, still fighting hard but about to be surrounded in his turn.
Swin took off his helmet, shook his head hard and flicked some blood out of his hair. Suddenly, miraculously, he was able to start thinking again. He rode towards Ostendil, shouting to his own commanders, gathering them and giving new orders as he rode. The defeated enemy must be pursued, but not too far; they must be scattered and rendered ineffective, but he must also keep men on hand for the occupation of the City, which task was now terribly urgent. The wound in his side was hurting, but he had received no other; yet the grim affliction and fate that had been pursuing him from Caras Gulwen had almost caught up with him, and soon every task would become far more difficult. Even so, new possibilities were emerging beyond the darkness. The battlefield was hideous now, strewn with men and beasts, the maimed, the dying and the dead. The wounded must be attended to, but the dead would have to be left to the carrion-birds, at least for a while, even while vast and far more powerful forces were hastening towards him, ready to tear the victory from his grasp. And despite all of this, even amid all of these desperate jostling emergencies there was something more urgent still, a dark imperative that must, must, must be honoured with his first obedience.
Here came Sarvad, escorting Lord Ostendil, who had been taken prisoner.