by Roger Taylor
Agreth was unconvinced. ‘My head accepts what you say, but here . . .’ He patted his stomach and shook his head. His face contorted unhappily as he searched for an explanation. ‘I don’t understand what it is,’ he said finally. ‘And how can I defend myself against such a power when it is used as a weapon?’
Andawyr looked into his eyes, and then returned his gaze to the stones. Again, only the truth was safe. ‘You can’t, Agreth,’ he said quietly after another long silence. ‘You can’t. Only I and my brothers can protect you.’
Agreth stared at the prosaic little man with the squashed nose; the little man who made snowmen in the middle of nowhere and who was nervous on a horse.
‘Are you enough?’ Agreth said after a brief hesitation.
Andawyr shrugged. ‘Who can say?’ he replied. ‘But that’s a two-edged question. Are you enough in the Muster to protect us against the swords and arrows of Sumeral’s mortal army, when we’re extended to our full protecting you against His Power and that of His Uhriel?’
Agreth looked at him intently, then he too shrugged.
Andawyr leaned forward. ‘We’ll all have our separate parts to play,’ he said. ‘And we’ll all be dependent on one another as well. We must learn each others’ strengths and weaknesses – what we each can and can’t do – and we must learn to trust where full understanding is not always possible. What else do we have?’
Agreth nodded pensively and the tension seemed to ease. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Oslang said more or less the same.’
Despite himself, Andawyr chuckled. ‘I should imagine he did,’ he said. ‘A Goraidin’s knife at your throat could breed great eloquence, I’m sure. Poor Oslang.’
Agreth stared thoughtfully at the radiant stones. ‘It’ll take some getting used to,’ he said. ‘But you are right. Without your power, we’d be having a very uncomfortable night tonight, even maybe at risk of dying. And what would be the consequences of that? I’d probably be no great loss, but the leader of the Cadwanol . . .?’ He let the question hang. ‘So just keeping us warm here is using this terrible power of yours – whatever it is, or whoever’s it is – to oppose Him already.’ He lay down and gazed up at the roof of the tent. ‘These flickering stones are the lights of the vanguard of the army that will come forth to meet the Great Corrupter,’ he said with mock rhetoric.
Andawyr laughed at his mannerism. ‘Very metaphorical, Muster rider,’ he said. ‘Very metaphorical. I see you’ve a flair for the broad sweep.’
‘I’ve painted a few house ends in my time,’ Agreth said drily.
Andawyr laughed again, then he too lay down. The tent was warm now and he dimmed the glow of the stones. ‘Better if the enemy doesn’t see us coming too soon,’ he said, still chuckling.
Agreth grunted amiably.
Soon the two were sleeping soundly, oblivious to the moaning wind that twisted and swirled the snow around their small shelter, streaking black-shadowed and white across the bold unwavering light thrown by the beacon torch.
A figure stepped cautiously to the edge of the light, and two more, swords drawn, moved silently to either side of its entrance.
Something nudged Andawyr gently into silent wakefulness. It was Dar-volci. ‘Visitors, Andy,’ he said. ‘Very quiet, too.’
‘Stay out of sight, and watch,’ Andawyr whispered. Then, giving Dar-volci the lie, a voice cried out above the wind.
‘Ho, the camp!’
Chapter 3
‘Look,’ said Loman, pointing up at the four figures on the skyline. ‘That’ll be them. Fyndal’s post rider said they’d be here soon.’
Hawklan followed Loman’s gaze and smiled. He reached up and touched Gavor’s black beak. ‘Go and show them the way home,’ he said. ‘They’ll be frightened to death by all this. We’ll join you as soon as we can.’
The raven chuckled, then stretched out his great wings and floated up into the air.
Hawklan’s comment was accurate; the scene around them was indeed intimidating. A great host of people was strung out in a long winding line that disappeared into the woods fringing the nearby hills to the east. Some were riding, some were walking, and some were riding on the equally long line of wagons that was threading its way through the centre of the crowd.
Even as Hawklan was speaking, the head of the procession was spreading out like a great delta, and as the crowd reached the road it divided into two separate streams, one moving southwards, the other northwards.
Gavor circled high and wide, and glided silently down on to the watching group from behind.
He landed abruptly on Jaldaric’s shoulder, startling him violently.
‘So glad you’ve come, dear boy,’ he said with huge menace. ‘We’ve gathered a few interested souls to hear your accounting.’
He drew out the last word malevolently and then laughed raucously.
‘Isn’t it marvellous to be back home, dear boy?’ he continued, jumping up and down excitedly on his reluctant perch.
‘I’m not,’ Jaldaric offered as he gathered his scattered wits, but Gavor ploughed on, oblivious.
‘It was very pleasant in the mountains, but one gets so weary of camp cooking and frozen extremities. I can’t wait to get back to a little decent food, some warmth and, of course, my friends. And it’s so nice to see you all again. Come along, hurry up, hurry up, everyone’s waiting for you. You can tell me what’s been happening as we go.’
Berryn and Tel-Mindor looked on wide-eyed at this apparition, then with a little, ‘Hup,’ Gavor hopped up on to Jaldaric’s head and, tapping his wooden leg in time to the rhythms pulsing around them, focused beadily on the two Fyordyn.
‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, as if reading their names from some terrible register of his own, ‘You’ll be Tel-Mindor and Rede Berryn.’ Both opened their mouths to speak, but Gavor rattled on jovially. ‘How are you? Welcome to Orthlund. Isn’t the music fine? Rather a lot of it, I’m afraid, but they’re celebrating, you see. How’s Uskal, these days? In pain I trust? Never mind, tell me later, I always prefer the good news to be last.’
‘What’s happening, Gavor? And where’s Hawklan?’ Arinndier managed to find a momentary opening in this barrage.
Gavor’s response was to click loudly. Jaldaric’s horse started forward under the command, and Arinndier could not stop himself from smiling at the young High Guard’s continuing discomfiture. Then he moved after him, motioning the others to follow.
As they neared the approaching throng they saw that the predominant emotion was happiness. Some of the people were dancing impromptu steps to the music, others were clapping, some were singing, and overall there was a great deal of laughing and talking. The four men found themselves recipients of many friendly gestures and comments.
Nonetheless, Rede Berryn could not forbear saying to Arinndier, very softly, ‘This is Orthlund’s army, Lord? It’s more like a Festival Tournament crowd.’
‘Steady on, Rede,’ Gavor interposed. ‘You’re not the only one who can hear a smart-alec whisper from eight ranks back.’
Berryn looked at the bird suspiciously and tried to recall when he had last used the phrase.
Before the Rede came to any conclusion, however, Arinndier had taken hold of his arm excitedly.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s Hawklan. He’s well again.’ He raised his arm in a frantic salute, and called out Hawklan’s name, but his voice was lost completely in the all-pervading clamour.
The distant figure was looking at them, however, and raised his own hand in reply, before turning and trotting his horse back along the line to attend to some matter.
Arinndier made to urge his horse forward, but the press of the crowd prohibited anything other than a very leisurely walk and with a slight frown he let the reins fall idly on the horse’s neck.
‘Hawklan’s well, then, Gavor?’ he asked.
Gavor nodded. ‘He’s well, Lord,’ he replied. ‘We’re all well, and all anxious to be back home.’
‘Your
army’s in good voice, Gavor, but seems to have precious few weapons.’ Jaldaric said, his face puzzled.
‘That’s the Alphraan making all the noise,’ Gavor replied, slightly less enthusiastically than before. ‘The rest of us are just trying to make ourselves heard.’ He looked towards the mountains. ‘One can have too much of a good thing, can’t one?’ he added, very loudly.
Jaldaric’s bewilderment merely increased. ‘But why no weapons?’ he persisted, clinging to the same question in the hope that one strand of clarity might lead to others. ‘We heard your army was in the mountains facing an unexpected foe. What’s happened? These people don’t look as if they’ve been defeated and disarmed.’
Gavor fidgeted restively. ‘It’s unbelievably complicated, young Jal,’ he said patronizingly. ‘As, I’ve no doubt, is your own tale. I can’t begin to explain everything in the middle of all this. Let’s get to Anderras Darion, take the weight off our feathers and have a talk at our leisure.’ He paused and nodded to himself, well satisfied at this suggestion. ‘I seem to remember that you Fyordyn are very good at talking,’ he added with a laugh, and then he launched himself forward and soared up into the air to avoid any further questions.
Arinndier too, laughed and, patting Jaldaric’s arm, said, ‘That’s the best we’re going to get. Let’s take the bird’s advice and get to Hawklan’s castle. It’s good enough news now just to see him up and riding again.’
Gradually, the four Fyordyn eased their way through the crowd until eventually they were clear of it and cantering along the empty road. Gavor circled high above them, occasionally swooping upwards steeply and then, with an uproarious laugh, tumbling back down precipitately like a tangled black bundle.
As they moved further from the following army, the pervasive music faded and eventually it could hardly be heard above the clatter of hooves on the intricately paved road.
The daylight was fading rapidly when they eventually came into Pedhavin but, high above the village, light streamed out through the Great Gate of Anderras Darion which stood wide and welcoming. It had been visible to the four riders long before they had seen the village and had drawn them forward like a bright guiding star.
As the Fyordyn passed the leaving stone and the small sorry heap of Dan-Tor’s decaying wares, Gavor flew past them noisily. ‘Up the hill, up the hill,’ he shouted. ‘Door’s open, and Gulda will be back by now. I’ll join you later!’ Then he was gone, into the deepening darkness. As the four men peered after him, the sound of a rather hoarse nightingale drifted down to them, followed by a fit of coughing.
The village itself was alive with torches and bustling activity, with people running hither and thither through its rambling maze of streets in happy confusion. Most of those that the Fyordyn encountered acknowledged them, and once again Jaldaric found himself moved as apparent strangers came up to him and took his hand sympathetically.
Arinndier gazed around, and then shook his head.
‘This is a bewildering little place,’ he said. ‘Everything’s covered in carvings and they all seem to be moving.’
‘Amazing,’ said Rede Berryn, gazing around in awe. ‘I knew the Orthlundyn were carvers, but this . . .’
He fell silent as his eye caught a small plaque on which was carved what seemed to be a field of wheat. Under the touch of the torchlight, shadows rippled across it as though it were being stirred by a warm summer breeze. Berryn sat motionless, spellbound, while the others waited for him patiently.
‘Up the hill, up the hill.’
A friendly voice broke into their calm as a passer-by, thinking that the four outlanders were lost, pointed in the direction they should take. Arinndier thanked him, and the group moved off again.
‘What do you think of their communications, Goraidin?’ Arinndier asked Tel-Mindor with some amusement.
The Goraidin raised his eyebrows. ‘Widespread,’ he replied enigmatically.
The Goraidin’s manner made Arinndier’s amusement billow out into a great laugh which rang around the small square they were crossing. ‘Very true,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But they’ve not told us anything, you’ll note.’
Tel-Mindor nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Then they were out of the village and heading up the steep road towards the castle. The activity was still continuing however, a small but steady stream of torch-bearing villagers moving slowly up and down the slope like a trail of tardy glow-worms.
As the four riders neared the top of the slope, two figures came into sight. One was tall and straight and wearing a green robe decorated with a single black feather. The other was short and squat and leaning on a stick. Even though the light from the courtyard fell on her, she seemed to be as black as a silhouette.
Reaching the Gate, all four men dismounted to find themselves submitting to Gulda’s inspection. Tirilen smiled slightly at the sight, though her eyes narrowed a little when she looked at Jaldaric and saw the subtle changes that the ordeals of the past months had wrought on his round, innocent face.
Gulda saw it too even though she had never seen him before.
‘You’ll be Jaldaric, young man,’ she told him. ‘I hear you’ve had troubles of late.’ Jaldaric met her piercing gaze, but seemed uncertain how to reply. After a moment, she nodded. ‘You’ll live, Jaldaric, son of Eldric. You’ll live,’ she said, a gentleness in her voice and manner belying the seemingly harsh words.
Then, Jaldaric released, she raised her stick horizontally and pointed to each of the others in turn as she pronounced her conclusions. ‘Your names have come before you as well,’ she said. ‘Rede Berryn, an old High Guard if ever I saw one. You’ve ridden the Watch, haven’t you?’ She did not wait for an answer, but moved on. ‘Tel-Mindor.’ She looked at him intently. ‘Special,’ she concluded after a moment. ‘Goraidin, probably. Fine men.’ Then, ‘And last, as is the protocol of the Geadrol, I believe: Lord Arinndier.’ She inclined her head slightly to Arinndier, who bowed his in reply. ‘Don’t be too distressed, Lord,’ she went on. ‘You’re not the first to have been quietly led astray by Sumeral and his agents.’
‘You must be Memsa Gulda,’ Arinndier said as courteously as he could.
But Gulda, her inspection complete, was gracious. ‘I am indeed,’ she said. ‘And this is Tirilen, a healer, and daughter to Loman, Hawklan’s castellan. Welcome to Anderras Darion, all of you. We’re honoured to have you here and you come at a propitious time . . .’ Unexpectedly, she chuckled. ‘We’ve just routed an ally.’
Then, without offering any explanation for this remark, she turned and stumped off through the Gate, beckoning the men to follow.
‘You’ll want to tend your own horses, I presume,’ she said as they strode out to keep up with her. ‘I’ll show you to the stables, then’ – she signalled to a young apprentice who had been hovering like a tiny planet some way from this weighty group – ‘this young man will show you to your rooms. You’ll be able to bathe and change out of your travelling clothes. Then we can eat and talk.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Considerable talkers, you Fyordyn, as I remember. I’ll look forward to it. I’ve no doubt we’ve a great deal of news for one another.’
‘That would be most welcome, Memsa,’ Arinndier said. ‘But we need nothing to eat at the moment. The villagers on the way have been more than generous.’
Gulda nodded again. ‘That’s as may be, young man,’ she said. ‘But I’m ravenous. It’s been a long walk today and I’ve had nothing but camp fodder for the past few days.’ And without further comment she walked off into the Castle.
Some while later the Fyordyn were ushered into a large room. A blaze of glowing radiant stones formed a focus for the warmth that filled it and a bright but mellow torchlight brought alive the carvings of rural scenes which decorated the walls. The ceiling was a great skyscape in which huge heavily laden clouds seemed to make a slow, endlessly changing progress.
The four men were soon lounging luxuriously in the long-stored sunlight being released by t
he torches and the fire. For the most part, they were silent; even Jaldaric, who had seen the Castle before, was awed by the craftsmanship and beauty that he found surrounding him once again.
Of the four, Rede Berryn was the most vocal, moving from carving to carving like an excited child examining his Winter Festival gifts.
‘This place is amazing,’ he said finally, flopping down noisily on to a long, accommodating settle, and carefully straightening his stiff leg. ‘Look at those torches. And those radiant stones. They splutter and crackle like burning logs. This room, this whole building, must catch and return every spark of their warmth for them to have matured like that. Marvellous, I haven’t seen anything like them in years, if ever. And these carvings defy description. I must get my old wood chisels out when I get home. I’d almost forgotten about them, there’s been so much sourness in the air these last few years, but at the first opportunity . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished, but beamed a great smile and waved his clenched fist as a token of his resolution.
Arinndier and Tel-Mindor smiled in return, though Jaldaric seemed a little uncertain about how to handle this sudden onset of childlike enthusiasm.
As they rested, each felt the calm of the room beginning to unravel the tangles of dire concerns that had grown over the past months to cloud their hearts and minds. Gradually they all became both silent and still, until eventually the only sounds in the room were the occasional murmur of the radiant stones and the muffled echoes of the activities outside as the Castle prepared to receive again its key-bearer and the many others for whom it was now home. But neither these nor the various people who came in from time to time to inquire solicitously about their comfort, offered any disturbance to the calm of the four men.
Slowly but perceptibly the noises from outside changed in character, becoming more intense and purposeful, like a distant wind gathering energy.
