Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  ‘But surely we must ponder His deeds, try to fathom His intentions?’ Andawyr queried.

  Hawklan shook his head thoughtfully. ‘According to Arinndier, Eldric set up the cry “Death to Oklar” in the battle and aimed his cavalry in close formation directly at him; directly at the source of Fyorlund’s ills.’ His face was grim. ‘Nothing was to stand in the way of this goal. And Oklar had to flee the field. Eldric’s was the shrewd instinct of a true and hardened warrior. We should think about Sumeral’s scheming, and make due allowance as appropriate. But not to the extent of faltering in our own straight sword thrust to His heart – our single simple killing stroke which must be delivered regardless of all else.’

  There was a coldness in his voice that seemed to chill the hall. He looked again at the window picture above him. A man torn away from the simple pleasure of his daily life, from the warmth and closeness of his wife and the innocent but absolute trust of his child, to face a horror that was none of his making. And his final parting was both marred and made strangely whole by his child’s honest but fearful response to his grim armour. Whether such ties of affection would prove a strength to sustain and bolster him in battle, or a weakness to drag him to hesitant defeat, would be his own choice.

  ‘When we look at His strengths,’ he went on, still pensive, ‘we must see in what way they are also His weaknesses.’

  Andawyr looked puzzled. ‘How can a strength be a weakness, Hawklan? He has no weaknesses such as you and I might perceive. He’s profoundly armoured in every way.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Yes, but every strength shows where a weakness lies,’ he said. Then his thoughts became clearer. ‘Why does He come to destroy us as a man? As a man leading great armies of men? Why doesn’t He come as earth, sea, air, which seemingly His power could shape to smash us all? Or as some other terrible life-blessed creature of His own making such as still lingered in the Alphraan’s Heartplace? Why does He come in human form?’ He leaned forward, his manner fretful.

  ‘That’s all it is,’ Andawyr said dismissively. ‘A mere form. A shell to house His true Self . . .’

  Gulda laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

  ‘No,’ Hawklan said firmly. ‘He comes thus for a reason. If it were just a shell, He’d find a better one. Perhaps it’s in the nature of the Old Power itself that only like can truly destroy like.’ He paused briefly then shrugged. ‘However, whatever the reason, He’s chosen it and He must accept with it the flaws of that form: vanity, anger, jealousy, physical vulnerability.’

  Andawyr shook his head. ‘Everything that’s known about Him says otherwise, Hawklan,’ he said, almost impatiently. ‘He shows only a cold, unending patience, and an indifference to everyone and everything around Him that goes beyond words such as ruthlessness.’

  ‘Human traits, Andawyr,’ Hawklan said quietly. ‘There’s an Uhriel in each of us.’

  Andawyr’s eyes widened as if he had been struck at this echo of the words he himself had only recently recalled.

  ‘And where does your knowledge of Sumeral come from to deny His humanity, Andawyr?’ Hawklan went on forcefully.

  ‘From . . . from the recorded words . . . of those who knew Him . . .’ Andawyr stammered at this unexpected assault. ‘I don’t deny His humanity . . . I . . .’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘I never thought about it, I suppose. Ethriss took our form – or gave us his. It never occurred to me . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Hawklan ignored the little man’s confusion. ‘And what of the knowledge of the hidden time? The time before He was known. The time when He walked among men as a man, just as Dan-Tor did in Fyorlund these past years. When even Ethriss didn’t know of Him.’

  ‘Little or nothing is known of those times, Hawklan,’ Andawyr said, recovering some of his composure. ‘Except legend and story. We separate the two clearly in our scholarship.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘The legends and stories of Sumeral the wicked adviser to Kings and Princes. The wizard granting boons to men in return for terrible payments.’ He raised a conclusive finger. ‘In His humanity is His greatest weakness,’ he said. ‘As a human, He faltered and He fell to human missiles as He assaulted the Iron Ring. He wouldn’t come again in such a vulnerable form if He were not constrained to it by some need beyond our sight, or because of some overweening trait of vanity or arrogance.’

  Gulda raised an eyebrow. Hawklan caught the movement and its implication.

  ‘If it was through vanity or arrogance that He made the choice, then it’s a trait that lies in His true self, not in the form He chose,’ he said carefully. Abruptly he smiled. ‘Perhaps the traits we call human are Ethriss’s own; inherent in the nature of things.’

  ‘Perhaps Sumeral is the essence of Ethriss’s weakness and frailty splintered from him in the Great Searing,’ Gulda said darkly.

  Hawklan looked at her enigmatically, then his smile broadened out into a bright laugh which warmed his listeners as previously his manner had chilled them. ‘I think we’re getting well beyond ourselves,’ he said. ‘It just shows how we need the Fyordyn to keep our debates from rambling.’

  Gulda smiled, but Andawyr still seemed discomposed.

  ‘There’s no harm in rambling,’ he said, a little tetchily. ‘Providing you know you’re doing it. Many things are to be found by walking a different way down a familiar path. But let’s see if you were looking where you were walking, Hawklan. Where has your rambling led you?’

  The brief irritation had been replaced by a stern seriousness which dampened Hawklan’s levity. He looked intently at the bright-eyed little man who had faced his greatest trial at the Gretmearc while he, the warrior, the healer, whose life Andawyr had just saved, had stood by helpless.

  He leaned back in his chair, silent for a while.

  ‘Whatever Sumeral truly is, Andawyr, we face a man,’ he said eventually, his voice thoughtful. ‘You and your brothers with those special skills that the chances of history have granted to you. We with our swords and spears. All of us with whatever wit and courage we can find. But still He is, or chooses to be, a man, not a god, and He can and will be defeated as such.’

  ‘That’s rhetoric,’ Andawyr replied. ‘I’ll grant that it’s important for firing the will of the people, but what does it give us in the way of specific tactics?’

  Hawklan was at a loss. ‘He can do nothing that we cannot do,’ he said uncertainly. ‘His power against us is levied through humans: his Uhriel, the Mathidrin, the Morlider and doubtless many others. All weak and fallible as we are.’

  ‘Be specific,’ Andawyr pressed.

  ‘I can’t,’ Hawklan admitted. ‘But the simple realization of Sumeral’s humanity is important in itself. I feel it.’

  Andawyr nodded reflectively. ‘You may be right,’ he said, abruptly ending his interrogation.

  ‘He is,’ Gulda said firmly. ‘Sleep on it, both of you.’ She stood up. ‘You must excuse me. I’ve things to attend to.’ And with a brief nod, she was gone.

  Hawklan watched her black, stooped form departing. For an instant he seemed to feel an overwhelming sense of her great pain and loneliness.

  ‘Who is she, Andawyr?’ he said after the door had closed softly.

  Andawyr turned away from his gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ he said simply. ‘I feel many things when I’m with her – pain, fear, excitement . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Many things. But she’s more hidden from me than even you are.’

  Chapter 5

  Over the next few weeks, Hawklan felt the whole Castle resounding to the arrival of Andawyr and the others. And indeed, it seemed to him that every step he took through its countless corridors and hallways rang out like a small peal of welcome. He remarked on it to Loman. The smith smiled.

  ‘It’s been like that ever since you left and we started studying and training in earnest,’ he said. ‘New people coming and going all the time debating, thinking, planning. The Castle seems to thrive on it in some way. As if it were waking after a long sleep. You can feel
it all around like the opening of thousands of flowers.’

  Hawklan gave his castellan a look of great gravity at this poetic image, but Loman ignored the gentle taunt and ploughed on.

  ‘I find new things every day, in the carvings, the pictures, everywhere, even whole new rooms. Things that perhaps I’ve been looking at but not seeing for years.’ He paused. ‘In truth I don’t know whether it’s the Castle or me, but it’s wonderful.’

  Hawklan agreed. ‘It’s probably both,’ he said, smiling.

  Isloman too noted a difference, and not just in the Castle. ‘Have you seen some of the carvings that are being done?’ he asked, eyes wide in appreciation. ‘And with everyone having less time for it as well. I’ll have to look to my chisels if I’m not to be replaced as First Carver.’

  ‘You don’t seem too concerned,’ Hawklan said.

  Isloman gave him a large wink. ‘It won’t happen,’ he said, banging his fist on his chest and laughing. ‘I’ve learned a trick or two from those wood carvers up north.’

  Yes, Hawklan thought. And you faced and survived Oklar’s storm fully conscious. That will add qualities to your work beyond measure.

  He himself, however, felt oddly unsettled. This was his home; and yet not so. These were his people; this his time; and yet not so. A restlessness niggled deep inside him like a burrowing worm.

  He succeeded for the most part in disguising this unease, but Gulda saw through him and brought him down with brutal ease.

  ‘Sit!’ she said, entering his room unannounced and finding him peering out through the window, frowning.

  Hawklan’s legs responded before his mind caught up with them.

  Gulda swung a chair round and sat down facing him, hands folded over the top of her stick and her chin resting on them as usual.

  ‘Where’s your pain?’ she said.

  Hawklan looked bewildered. ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied.

  Gulda glanced towards the window. ‘What were you frowning for then?’

  Hawklan shrugged uncertainly. ‘Nothing in particular.’

  Gulda’s eyes widened. ‘You’re unhurt, you’re in this most wonderful of places and surrounded by splendid friends, yet you frown at nothing in particular,’ she said. ‘Heal yourself, healer.’

  It occurred to Hawklan for a moment to protest, but the thought wilted under Gulda’s penetrating gaze.

  ‘How?’ he asked simply.

  ‘Face again what you’ve faced in your journeyings,’ Gulda replied. ‘Face again what you must face in the future.’

  Hawklan frowned again. ‘I’ve no problems with what happened on my journeyings, as you call them. Unpleasant though some of it was. But how can I face what I was before or what I’ll become? The one I’m striving to remember, the other I’m striving to see.’

  Gulda fixed him with a steely gaze. ‘Leave them,’ she said with stark finality. ‘Your past will return to you when you need it, and none can see the future – not even Sumeral. Have you forgotten the butterfly’s wings so soon? Your future will happen regardless, and your frowns now will merely become unhappy memories where there should have been happy ones.’

  There was a humour in her voice but Hawklan felt the cold inexorability of her words exposing the folly of his fruitless concerns. It happened with such suddenness that for a moment he felt almost winded.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, with a brief grimace of self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry. They sneaked up on me.’

  Gulda laughed. It was like sunshine melting the frost. ‘They do,’ she said. ‘And they will again. But be more careful in future. Neither the warrior nor the healer can risk being ambushed like that too often.’

  Hawklan stood up and walked back to the window. Gulda joined him.

  Below them was a cascade of windowed walls and a patchwork of rooftops, glistening silver-grey in the drizzling rain. Beyond was the curving sweep of the wall of the Castle, and beyond that was a vague, rain-shrouded impression of the rolling Orthlund countryside. A few hunched figures walked to and fro along the wall. Hawklan smiled; for all its damp bleakness, the scene had a peace of its own which had eluded him but minutes earlier. No, he corrected himself gently. The peace had not eluded him, he had simply allowed his darker nature to turn his heart away from it.

  * * * *

  Gradually the days shortened, and Anderras Darion began to sparkle with its winter lights, shining out through the dark nights as brightly as it gleamed in bright summer days.

  And within it was the constant shimmer of activity as its occupants worked and talked and planned for the day when Sumeral’s cold hand must inevitably draw them forth.

  Yet for all the grim prospect that lay ahead, the Castle’s inner light forbade entry to its dark shadow; as also did Hawklan, now keenly alert for signs of the clinging ties of fear and doubt that might appear like silent cobwebs to mar that very future by shrouding the present.

  Many other threads of endeavour were woven through the weeks. A messenger was sent to Fyorlund with the news of the safe arrival of Arinndier and the arrival and recovery of Hawklan. A messenger too was sent to Riddin, but he was obliged to return as the snows took possession of the higher peaks and valleys.

  Andawyr and Gulda wandered the Castle together, pored over tomes in the library together, and talked and talked.

  The Fyordyn joined with Loman and the other Morlider veterans in the training of the Orthlundyn army, Dacu and Tel-Mindor taking a considerable interest in the Helyadin. All however, sat at the feet of Agreth to learn about cavalry warfare.

  Jaldaric and Tirke were offered the opportunity to train with Athyr in the Helyadin.

  Rede Berryn eventually took his stiff leg to Hawklan.

  * * * *

  Dacu and Tel-Mindor were impressed by the Helyadin. ‘I’d never have thought it possible to achieve so much in so short a time,’ Dacu said. ‘You’re to be commended, Loman. Your people are remarkable and you yourself must have learned a great deal during your service under Commander Dirfrin.’

  Loman grimaced. ‘Not from choice,’ he said. ‘It was learn or die. One doesn’t forget such teaching. And Gulda knows a great deal, though how she came by such knowledge I’m not even going to think about asking.’

  The two Goraidin agreed with that sentiment and concentrated on adding their own expertise to that which Loman and Gulda had already taught. They had already bruised themselves badly against Gulda by casually protesting about the physical dangers to the women in training alongside the men, especially in the severe training required of the Helyadin. Hearing their unexpected complaint and being in no position to advise against its utterance, Hawklan and Loman had both developed a sudden deep interest in nearby carvings as Gulda had stopped writing, paused, and then slowly looked up from her desk.

  ‘The Muster women seem to manage,’ she began. ‘As did those who fought by Ethriss’s side.’

  Although her voice was soft, it was withering in its disdain, and her blue eyes defied description. When she had finished, Dacu and Tel-Mindor retreated from the field in disarray to the barely disguised amusement of Hawklan and Loman. Dacu was heard to mutter, ‘Poor Sumeral.’

  Apart from minor frictions however, the Fyordyn and the Orthlundyn worked well together and to their considerable mutual benefit. The Goraidin in particular responded to the intuitive flair of the Orthlundyn while they in their turn came to appreciate the Fyordyn’s painstaking thoroughness.

  * * * *

  Both Tirke and Jaldaric welcomed the opportunity to join the Helyadin under Athyr’s command. Tirke accepted with enthusiasm, having been much impressed by Dacu on their journey through the mountains and presuming that he in turn could impress Athyr with some of his new-found knowledge. Jaldaric, however, accepted grimly, carrying within him desperate memories of his capture first by Hawklan and then by Aelang, but worst of all, the memory of the impotent witness he had borne to the massacre at Ledvrin.

  These initial intentions however, began to change ra
pidly as the two young men faced the Helyadin’s simple but effective aptitude test. It involved a leap from the edge of a sheer rock face on to a nearby flat-topped spur. The gap was not too wide, but the top of the spur was small and the drop beneath it breathtaking. Roped for safety, but nevertheless terrified, both managed to pass the test, and both grew a little in wisdom.

  * * * *

  Rede Berryn, a robust bachelor, was slightly embarrassed by the presence of Tirilen, but he watched intently as Hawklan carefully examined his knee. It was stiff as a result of a riding accident many years previously and various healers had shaken their heads over it from time to time. He could not avoid a small sense of disappointment however when Hawklan too shook his.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said philosophically. ‘I’m glad you’ve had a look at it. If you can’t do anything for it, then I doubt anyone can.’

  But Hawklan had not finished. ‘I can’t loosen the joint for you, Rede,’ he said. ‘Like you, that’s well set in its ways by now. But Tirilen will show you how to massage it and how to exercise these muscles here’ – he prodded dispassionately – ‘and here, so that they’ll carry more of your weight. It’ll be a little uncomfortable at first, but it should ease the pain considerably.’

  ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary . . .’ began the Rede with spurious heartiness, but a gentle hand on the chest prevented his attempt at a hasty departure.

  Tirilen smiled at the old man’s discomfiture. ‘Come now, Rede,’ she said, rolling up her sleeves. ‘I’ve seen uglier things than your leg.’

  Berryn cleared his throat and coloured a little. As Tirilen approached he caught Hawklan’s sleeve and pulled him forward. ‘Perhaps . . . you . . . or maybe . . . the Memsa . . .’ he whispered tentatively.

  Hawklan sucked in his breath and shook his head, frowning. ‘Different school of medicine, Gulda,’ he whispered back earnestly. ‘Different entirely. Takes no prisoners and dispatches her wounded,’ And with a broad wink he was gone.