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Death to the enemies of the King!
Dark ones, hear our wild swords sing!
Death to the dark-haired western men!
Death from Foothill, Plain, and Fen!
Down with Virdan’s wooden walls!
See now, how the fortress falls!
Swiftly, through the broken gate!
Now they rally, but too late.
Hunt them now, over hill and plain!
Bright swords strike and strike again;
Arrows flash in the morning sun;
Fiercely now is the battle done.
-from “Battle of Virdan”
Artir One-eye of the Midland Plain
Rorick discovered that Orn’s answer to the taking of Helana had been to encourage the Icarians to join Conel, giving him a force of one hundred picked Icarian archers. They had managed to gather enough lost Hygerian horses to mount a hundred and thirty Horsemen, while the infantry force numbered five hundred. Altogether, they were about equal to the garrison in Virdan, which meant, ordinarily, that they had not much chance of winning.
Between then, however, they arranged a plan which they thought might be successful. One of its major features was the fact that they were descending on Virdan somewhat sooner than anyone expected them to.
As they moved down over the last slope toward the fortress, Conel spoke. “We are here at last. I had always disliked the idea of allowing them to build this fortress. It has made our provisioning and recruitment difficult.”
“Yet I think you will be as glad that we allowed ourselves the extra time for training. Had we had fewer men in the Hills, I would have had to agree with you and stop the building of the fortress. But now we are here, and we have come to the plains to stay.”
Before they attacked, they sent into the fort, wrapped around an Icarian arrow, a message demanding that the occupants surrender in the name of Conel, heir to the throne of Asbaln.
They received an answer, on the shaft of a Hygerian javelin, demanding that they surrender in the none of Razak, King of the Hygerians, Destined Conqueror, Shepherd of the People.
Rorick appraised the army. It was the same tatterdemalion force, larger now, a little more variously armed, but all determined to fight. “We shall see a battle here today,” he told Conel.
“Whatever else one might say about the Hygerians, they are no cowards.”
“True words, Rorick, my friend. But here are the Horsemen with the ram.” He tuned and called a word of command, and a trumpeter sounded his horn:
“The swords of old Asbaln lay long in the dust,
The shield of my father is crumbled to rust;
From my haunt in the hills I have come to the plain;
Now what Dryx Field did forfeit, let Virdan regain.”
Rorick answered:
“The time of the axe and the sword is upon us,
Above us the storm-clouds fly;
Woe to the widows and woe to the orphans,
For husbands and lovers will die.”
During that morning’s march, the Horsemen had taken time to cut down and trim a medium-sized tree and fit six pairs of stout rope handles to it. A group of them now went forward, bearing it between them, while Icarian archers stood ready to prevent any Hygerian from casting a missile at them with impunity. Some of the Horsemen held up shields to cover those bearing the ram.
For a little, the ram swung with no apparent effect except for a booming noise. Some of the Hygerians took the risk of appearing momentarily above the gate to cast javelins down, and most died for their pains. Some simply cast javelins and other missiles down by reaching above the wall with their arms, but three of the Horsemen were downed by missiles, two killed.
Then the gate creaked. Two blows later, it cracked. On the next blow, the great bar inside pulled from the wall with a crash and the gate flew open. Without hesitation, the Horsemen rode in to prevent it being closed again, and Rorick, now afoot, led in the infantry on their heels. The Guardian and the infantry advanced steadily forward in line until a wild, rushing band of Hygerians threw themselves forward to break it.
They succeeded, sacrificing their lives in the deed, shouting “Washariba ghelhagir! We do it for the families!”
Behind them came more, in a steadier fashion, to take advantage of the disruption.
For a time, the Guardian was isolated and surrounded. But Sword, shield, and armour served him well until the second line of Asbaln’s infantry had forced its way to where he stood. That was the barbarian's last effort to win the battle.
Some twenty fought their way out and flee, about thirty surrendered, mostly through being too badly wounded to continue fighting, but the rest fought and died where they stood.
The Asbalnians were elated with two victories in as many days, but Rorick and Conel both knew that it was surprise as much as anything which had allowed them to take Virdan. Indeed, it must not be forgotten that the Hygerians were fully unused to holding fortresses of any sort.
They repaired the gate of the fortress, and established themselves in the neighbourhood, then called on the people to come to them. In the meantime, they sent out their forces in all directions to deal with all the lesser garrisons between the Mountains and the River. Rorick and Conel had personally led several of these minor forays, but most of their time was spent in the gathering of an army. Still, strangely, no Hygerian force took the field against them.
Swift as the very Birds of Brhandon, the word went from village to village, from farm to farm:
“Conel rides forth,
The Red Dragon is raised,
The Sword is Not to be Named,
Has been unsheathed.”
Plans were made for the next attack, that against the walled City of Orden. It was built entirely of good stone, and save for Avantir, was the only strong Hygerian fortress east of the Mountains. Recruitment and training went on, and they now found themselves less pressed for decent horses, a situation which they did not expect to see continue for long.
They set to work quickly at training their new men, using some of the very best of those who had come down out of the Hills for the purpose of teaching. They did not expect to wait until the new men were fully as well trained as the old, but intended that they should be given as much training as possible. When the time came, they would be divided up and placed among those whom they smilingly referred to as ‘veterans.’
Five days after the battle for Virdan, something important happened. Conel and Rorick, late in the afternoon, were talking matters of strategy in one of many tents which had been pitched outside the fort to accommodate those of Asbaln’s war-host for whom there was not enough room within the walls. Suddenly, they heard a minor commotion outside. Rising, they saw five men riding into the camp.
The leader was a large man going fat, and quite old. His white hair and beard surrounded a wrinkled, weathered face. He wore a war-shirt, a leather jacket with several metal plates sewn upon it, and his war-cap was leather, bound with three metal bends. His sword seemed a large one, the hilt wooden, once broken, but mended neatly and efficiently with wire. On the scabbard was some writing, done in silver threads, though some of the original threads had gone missing, and had been replaced with ordinary white thread. But most interesting was the fact that the letters were of Cymruthair, the Kingdom of the Elder Folk, which few Mortal Men could read.
A few among the host who claimed some acquaintance with these letters declared they read there the name of Thumill the Lucky, Thumill of the Three Rings, the Hero. This news went through the army of Asbaln like a wind through standing wheat, a sustained whisper.
Yet more to the immediate point was the fact that the four young men with him, obviously his sons, were armed as well. It was seen that he bore a shield slung at his saddle, round, made of wood, with a metal rim and a metal boss. His eldest son had a copy of that shield, without the metal, and a sword. One other had an axe, and a cap made of leather, folded several times and boiled to harden it. One had a bow and arrows, and a longish bronze dagger, clearly the workmanship of the barbarians of the Wild Lands. The last bore only a six-foot spear, and wore a cloth cap with a feather in it.
All eyes turned to this last and remained a moment, for he was slighter and darker of complexion than the others, with thin, almost feminine features, strange in the light of the broad blonde handsomeness of the rest of the family.
As the father swung down from his saddle, the others also dismounted, simultaneously, as though it were a thing they had practised. The father tossed his reins to the son with the wooden shield, then strode to the group before the tent. After running his eye quickly over then, he spoke.
“You’d be the king,” he stated, looking at Conel, “And you’d be the Guardian of the Sword.” He glared at Rorick. “Now, Lords, begging your pardon, but could you show some proof? You see, we were hearing of rumours about men in the Hills, with names being given, and some of those names of men I know to be dead these five years on Dryx field. I am not saying that as one part of a story is known untrue that the rest must also be lies, but I am wishing to be sure.
“But now you’re here, and you’ve been successful enough in what you’ve done, so men will approach you, and if you be not what you say you are, those who be coming may suddenly be finding themselves lost. It may not seem heroic, but I’m having a strong desire to be knowing who and what I fighting for.”
Rorick smiled. “I recognize your feelings, and I sympathize. Here is my proof.” The Sword came free of its scabbard. “Here shines the Sword Which is Not to Be Named, and with it will I do all in my power to deliver and defend Asbaln from her foes. And by this blade do I swear that the man beside me is Conel, rightful King of Asbaln, and my sworn Lord. Will that suffice?”
“For yourself, it will, for I am knowing the look of the Sword, and I am thinking that no man might be swearing a false oath on it without woe. Yet for the look of it, at the least, I would have the King speak for himself.”
Conel shrugged. “I am Conel, son of Gunn, of the line of Conel the Wild. No more proof have I save that those here follow me, believing me to be who I claim to be.”
The old farmer nodded. “You are either the King, or one who will serve as well. I am Cadda, son of Fannan, son of Brenan, son of Fernmal. These are my sons, Fannan, Vandinal, Dannan, and Brioghir. We’ll be joining your host, with the exception of Brioghir, who must stay with the farm.” The youngest began a protesting motion with his hands, but subsided.
“You’re the youngest, Brioghir, and perhaps the best able to care for the farm. Tell the neighbours, tell them we’ve seen the King, and we’ll be going with him.”
Brioghir swung to his horse, saluted the King and his father, then rode away. Cadda looked at the King and said, “He’ll see to it the neighbours know. He’s a good lad.”
The Old One stood by, leaning on a staff. “You call him Brioghir. Is that not a Tyuridan name?”
Cadda nodded. “His mother named him so. She came from Tyurid, after some sort of strife and feud there. She spoke of being of the vigh-Hohech clan.”
“Indeed?” The Old One’s eyebrows rose expressively. “I must speak to you again, Cadda. But I am delaying the King and the Guardian.”
Cadda was passed on to one of the infantry captains, and the two leaders of the host went back to their plans.
During all the time that they remained around Virdan, they had had scouts in pairs and in small parties out to watch Orden and all the area between. It became clear that the Hygerians were not planning on sending a war-host against Virdan, at least, not immediately. Rather, they were strengthening their hold on Orden, bringing in more men and supplies. Reports of casual conversations with Hygerian officers revealed that they expected that the Asbalnians would hurl themselves against the walls of Orden and be destroyed there.
There were now more than a thousand men in Orden, with more always arriving, and food was stored for half a year. The men of Asbaln did not have that much time. Orden must fall swiftly, and the King must have possession of at least the whole of the Midland Plain by winter.
The Old One was assisting them in the production of large machines, capable of throwing arrows or small stones for great distances, as well as larger engines, with which stones of great size might be thrown against city walls or gates. With these, it was hoped that they could take Orden swiftly, before a Hygerian force could fall upon them camped at the city walls.
Three weeks after the fall of Virdan, they went to Orden. One morning, the barbarians in the city looked out to see an Asbalnian army of over a thousand men outside.