Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  ‘What is it, Jal?’ he asked anxiously.

  Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came. ‘It was here,’ he managed eventually, gazing around. ‘I didn’t recognize it until I turned round and looked back down the hill. It was here. The Mandrocs.’

  Arinndier’s eyes narrowed at Jaldaric’s patent distress.

  Tel-Mindor caught Arinndier’s eye and drew his gaze to the bushes and shrubs that lined the road. They still bore signs of the damage where the Mandrocs had crashed through in pursuit of the High Guards.

  ‘Would you like to be alone?’ Arinndier asked.

  Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stand here alone every night as it is. Watching . . . Aelang . . . struggling with his cloak and then smiling.’ He put his hand to his face involuntarily as if to block Aelang’s swift and savage blow. It was a well-rehearsed movement. As Arinndier watched him he noted with regret the grimness in his face and abruptly he was reminded of Eldric’s ferocious father.

  Tel-Mindor stepped forward and took Jaldaric’s arm. ‘Say farewell to your friends now, Jal,’ he said gently. ‘Leave them here. There are no good places to die violently, but there are worse than here.’

  Jaldaric clenched his teeth. ‘I will stay a moment,’ he said. ‘You carry on. I’ll join you shortly.’

  The three men were silent after they walked away from the young man. Each knew that there was little they could do to ease Jaldaric’s burden, and while grief is a rending emotion, watching it in someone else is precious little easier.

  Eventually Jaldaric rejoined them, his face set and emotionless. No one spoke and, mounting up, the party set off again.

  As Fyndal had promised, the villagers they encountered had been told of their coming and they found themselves being offered an abundance of food and drink. Having brought adequate supplies with them, they tried to decline this generosity, only to find that Fyndal had laid gentle traps for them.

  ‘Yes, we know you’re in a hurry with your news, but you can eat this while you ride,’ was the comment that invariably ended their hesitant refusals.

  Jaldaric in particular was visibly moved by the warmth of the greeting he received.

  After passing through Little Hapter, Arinndier carefully stowed a large pie in his saddlebag and looked at the others a little shamefacedly. ‘I couldn’t refuse the woman, could I?’ he asked. ‘They must think we’ve had a famine at home, not a war. Are there many more villages between here and Anderras Darion, Jal?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Jaldaric replied, now much more relaxed, and smiling broadly.

  ‘We should’ve brought another pack-horse,’ Tel-Mindor said, chuckling.

  Jaldaric nodded. ‘They do take some pride in their hospitality,’ he said. ‘But if you want the benefit of my local knowledge, whatever you do, don’t start admiring their carving, or we’ll never reach Anderras Darion.’

  Their first encounters with the Orthlundyn however, whilst burdening their packs, had eased their unspoken concerns greatly. The people apparently held no ill-will towards the Fyordyn who had inadvertently brought such trouble to their land. Even the chill wind seemed to lose some of its edge.

  After they had passed through Perato, Berryn remarked on the absence of young people from the villages.

  ‘They must all be with this army of theirs in the mountains. It must be a civilian militia,’ he said. No one disputed this conclusion and the Rede nodded to himself. ‘I know there aren’t many Orthlundyn,’ he went on, ‘but if those villages are typical, then they’ve got a big army, and if they’re all in the mountains, then they’re having to deal with a big problem.’

  Arinndier looked at him. It was a valid deduction, but still it made no sense. Who could threaten the Orthlundyn from the east? The chilling thought occurred to him that while Fyordyn had been looking towards Vakloss, some army had swept down the Pass of Elewart to overwhelm Riddin and was now moving against Orthlund prior to attacking Fyorlund’s southern border.

  And we sent Sylvriss there!

  The panic-stricken thought nearly made him voice his fear, but it was followed immediately by the memory of the faces of the villagers they had met. These were not the faces of a people facing imminent destruction at the hands of an army powerful enough to have overcome the Riddin Muster.

  Nonetheless, the Rede’s comments had given him a problem that would not be set lightly aside, and at the next village he asked directly what the army was doing.

  The villagers made reassuring noises. ‘Don’t you worry yourself about that, young man,’ came the reply from a man whom Arinndier judged to be somewhat younger than himself. ‘It’s just a little trouble with the Alphraan. I’m sure Loman and Memsa Gulda will sort it out soon. Not many things argue with Memsa Gulda for long.’

  This last remark brought some general laughter from the group that had gathered around the new arrivals, but Arinndier sensed an undertow of concern that was more serious than the levity indicated.

  ‘Who in the world are the Alphraan?’ he asked his companions as they continued on their way. The name was vaguely familiar but he had been loath to show his ignorance to the villagers.

  Jaldaric was frowning. ‘The only Alphraan I’ve ever heard of are in . . . children’s tales,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Little people . . . who live underground and . . . sing.’ Rede Berryn and Tel-Mindor both nodded.

  Arinndier looked at them sternly, then his own memory produced the same image from somewhere in his childhood. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps the word means something different down here,’ he said.

  Tel-Mindor laughed softly. ‘Perhaps Fyndal’s sent more than one message to the villagers,’ he said significantly.

  The following day the wind had eased, but it was still cold, and the winter chill in the air was unequivocal. And as if to emphasize this, many of the already snow-capped mountains to the east were whiter than they had been on the previous day.

  Looking at them, the thought of Sylvriss, Hawklan and Isloman came inexorably to Arinndier’s mind. They should be through the mountains by now . . .

  But the route taken by Sylvriss’s party was little used, and that taken by Isloman’s was virtually unexplored. And as far as could be seen from Eldric’s stronghold, snow had come to the higher, inner mountains unexpectedly early. Of course there was nothing he could do, but it took some effort to remind himself of that.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tel-Mindor’s voice interrupted Arinndier’s brooding.

  The Goraidin was holding his hand up for silence and craning forward intently. Unconsciously, the others imitated him.

  Faintly, the sound of distant singing reached them. It came and went, carried on the slight breeze.

  ‘I hope it’s not some kind of celebration for us,’ Arinndier said, patting his stomach.

  The remark brought back to Jaldaric his tormented evening at Pedhavin when the villagers had held an impromptu feast for them before he had had to return silently on his treacherous errand to snatch away Tirilen. Several times during that evening he had forgotten utterly why he was there in the whirl of the music and the dancing. Then his purpose would return to chill him to the heart like a mountain wind striking through a sun-baked and sweltering walker breasting a ridge.

  Since his welcome by the Orthlundyn however, this sad, dark thread running though his memory had faded a little, and the happiness he had felt had become more dominant.

  He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Lord,’ he said. ‘If it’s a celebration, they’ll soon dance the food off us.’

  When they reached the next village however, despite the fact that there was quite a large crowd of villagers on the small central green, there was no special celebration awaiting them. In fact, though they were again offered food and drink, the attention that was paid to them was markedly less than that they had received hitherto. The main topic of interest was the distant singing.

  For distant it still was. As the Fyordyn had neared the village, the singing had g
rown a little louder and clearer, but its source was obviously not near at hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Arinndier asked, but the villagers did not know and with polite head shaking declined to be drawn into conjecture by these outlanders.

  Pausing by the village leaving-stone, Arinndier turned to the others. ‘Something strange is happening,’ he said. ‘Whether it’s bad or good I don’t know, but I think we should move a little faster.’ No one disagreed.

  Over the next few hours, the singing grew louder and, despite their concern, the four men could not be other than swept up in its elaborate pulsing rhythms and joyous melodies.

  ‘Somebody, somewhere, is celebrating without a doubt,’ Berryn said. ‘That is amazing singing.’

  But Arinndier frowned slightly. ‘Amazing indeed,’ he said. ‘But who could sing so long and so well, and with such power that it carries so far and so clearly?’

  As the question left his lips, the four riders, line abreast, clattered over the top of a small rise. Arinndier gasped at the sight before them, and signalled to the group to halt. For a time they were motionless and the singing rose around them to fill the air so that it seemed to be coming from every conceivable direction.

  Chapter 2

  Andawyr dived into his small tent, sealed the entrance and, rubbing his hands together ferociously, swore roundly, in a manner most unbecoming in the chosen leader of the ancient Order of the Cadwanol.

  It was bitterly cold in the tent and his breath steamed out in great clouds, but at least he was now out of that merciless wind.

  Gathering his cloak tight about him, he crouched down and fumbled in his pack. After some muttering he produced a small bag and immediately began to struggle with its tightly laced mouth. It took him some minutes of finger blowing and further profanity, together with judicious use of his incisors, to release the leather thong, but eventually he succeeded and with some relief emptied the contents on to a small tray.

  He looked at the radiant stones dubiously. He’d never been any good at striking these damned things. And they didn’t look very good either. He’d bought them very cheaply from a shifty-eyed blighter at the Gretmearc. Rubbing his still frozen hands together again, he decided now that that might have been a mistake – a very false economy.

  The wind buffeted the tent to remind him where he was and he shrugged his self-recriminations aside; good or bad, there’d be something in these things and he must get them lit quickly. Delving into his pack again, he retrieved the striker and, tongue protruding slightly, scraped it along one of the stones. Somewhat to his surprise a glowing white line appeared and spread out across the surface of the stone. Less to his surprise, it faded almost immediately into a dull red. He eyed the stone malevolently and struck it again, but the result was the same. Turning his attention to the striker he adjusted it and tried again, but still the stone refused to ignite satisfactorily.

  Several minutes later he had made little further progress, though he was a good deal warmer by then, and his face was redder by far than most of the stones he had managed to strike into some semblance of life.

  He threw the striker down irritably. There was a soft, deep chuckle.

  ‘I can do without any of your comments, thank you, Dar,’ Andawyr said testily. ‘It’s all right for you, snug in your own place. I’m freezing to death here.’

  ‘I never said a word,’ came the injured reply, radiating insincerity. ‘I told you that you should have brought a proper travelling tent, bu . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that again,’ Andawyr said warningly. ‘It’s hard enough on foot through these mountains without struggling with a pack-horse.’ He held out his hands over the dull red stones. ‘And these things are useless as well,’ he added.

  ‘You bought them,’ came Dar-volci’s unsympathetic voice. ‘These were matured stones when I bought them,’ Andawyr protested unconvincingly. ‘I’ll lay odds that that beggar at the Gretmearc switched them when he bagged them.’ He turned one of the unstruck stones over with an expert expression on his face. ‘I’ll report him to the Market Senate next time I’m there.’

  ‘Matured,’ Dar-volci was scornful. ‘You couldn’t tell a matured stone from a potato. They were baked. I told you that, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  Andawyr grunted sulkily and muttered something about the Market Senate again.

  ‘The Senate would throw them at your silly head,’ Dar-volci said. ‘You’re so naive. Why don’t you listen to someone who knows, once in a while?’

  ‘They were a bargain,’ Andawyr said indignantly. Dar-volci made a disparaging noise. ‘Well, warm yourself on your cheery profit then,’ he scoffed. ‘You and your bargains. They see you coming, great leader. You shouldn’t try to horse-trade; you’ve neither the eye, the ear nor the wit for it. You should know that by now. Do you remember that bargain cooking pot you bought – very cheap . . .’

  ‘Dar!’ Andawyr’s eyes narrowed menacingly, but Dar-volci continued, warming to his theme. ‘Genuine Harntor smithing . . . where the Riddinvolk get their precious horseshoes from.’ His deep laugh filled the tent. ‘Backside melted out of it the first time you used it. What a stink! Then there was tha . . .’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Andawyr snapped. ‘Go to sleep.’

  Dar-volci chuckled maliciously. ‘Good night then, old fellow,’ he said. ‘Sleep snug.’

  Andawyr ignored the taunt and turned his attention back to the sulky radiant stones, struggling fitfully to shed their red warmth. Unnecessarily, he glanced from side to side, as if someone might be watching, then, muttering to himself, ‘Well, just a smidgeon,’ he brought his thumb and first two fingers together, and with a flick of his wrist, nodded them at the stones.

  There was a faint hiss, and a white light spread over the reluctant stones.

  ‘I heard that,’ Dar-volci said, knowingly.

  ‘Shut up,’ Andawyr said peevishly.

  The heat from stones filled the tent almost immediately and Andawyr removed his cloak and loosened some of the outer layers of the clothes he had hastily donned at the sudden onset of the snow storm.

  He had always been reluctant to use the Old Power for simple creature comforts, sensing that in some way it would weaken, even demean his humanity. And since his ordeal in Narsindal and his flight along the Pass of Elewart, this reluctance was even stronger. Still, the others did twit him gently about his excessive concern . . . and this was an emergency, he reassured himself faintly.

  The wind rattled the tent again as if in confirmation of this convenient rationalization.

  After a little while, he reached out and dimmed the bright glow of the stones. Then he lay down and, staring up at the roof of the tent, listened to the howling wind.

  What would tomorrow bring? When he had set off for Orthlund he had expected a cold, perhaps dismal, journey through the mountains, and had equipped himself accordingly. But this . . .? This was winter. Granted he was at the highest point of his journey, but such a storm was still unexpected, and he hadn’t the supplies to sit for the days it might take to blow itself out; the journey had already taken him longer than he had anticipated. He would have to move on tomorrow, and would probably have to use the Old Power both to guide himself and to survive.

  He frowned as he realized just how deep was his reluctance to use this skill that he had struggled so long to master. He recalled a comment his old teacher had made many years earlier.

  ‘I sometimes wonder whether we use it, or it uses us,’ he had said. ‘It’s so beyond our real understanding.’

  It had been a passing comment, lightly made, but it had stuck like a barbed dart in his young acolyte’s mind, subsequently making him work as hard at being able to sustain himself without the Power as he was skilled in using it. When later he had become head of the Order, this attitude had inevitably percolated down to permeate all its members.

  ‘We’re teachers,’ he would say. ‘We can’t teach people anything if we can’t live as they live, strive as they strive.’r />
  But he knew that his real motivation was deeper than that and not accessible to such simple logic.

  The Old Power was the power of the Great Searing, from which and by which all things were formed, and from whose terrible heat had walked Ethriss and the Guardians, followed silently by Sumeral with lesser banes at His heels.

  Faced with the terrible dilemma that Sumeral’s teaching of war had presented him, Ethriss had given the Cadwanol the knowledge of how to use the Old Power so that they might aid both the Guardians and the mortal armies of the Great Alliance of Kings and Peoples against the Uhriel and His vast and terrible hordes.

  However, as his teacher had said, to understand its use was not necessarily to understand its true nature.

  Andawyr turned on his side and gazed at the stones, glowing even now with this very power. ‘How can we understand the true nature of such a thing?’ he muttered softly.

  Even Ethriss himself may not have understood it. According to the most ancient documents in the vast archives of the Cadwanol, when questioned by his first pupils, all he had said, with a smile, was, ‘It is.’

  ‘It is,’ Andawyr echoed softly into the still air of his tent.

  He was right, he knew. While skill in the use of the Old Power must be studied and practiced and improved, it should be used by humans only where all human skills had failed and great harm threatened. Its use was not part of the gift that Ethriss had given to humanity.

  ‘I created you to go beyond it,’ he had also said; an enigmatic phrase that had taxed minds ever since.

  It was a knowledge that he had reluctantly thrust into the hands of men for use as a weapon only when their very existence and that of all things wrought by himself and the Guardians were threatened. Its inherent dangers were demonstrated all too clearly by Sumeral’s use of it to corrupt the three rulers who were to become His Uhriel.

  ‘Some part of all of us is Uhriel.’ Andawyr’s eyes widened. That phrase too, was one his teacher had used, but it was one he had not recalled for a long time.