Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  Andawyr and Gulda exchanged glances.

  ‘And how are you here?’ Hawklan asked, turning to Gulda.

  She looked at him. ‘I was drawn by your joy and happiness and then by your pain,’ she said, then, lowering her eyes. ‘I’m not sure I should have interfered. Perhaps what we need to know lies in the darkness that came after you fell on that field.’

  Hawklan’s eyes opened wide in horror and he wrapped his arms about himself. ‘After my . . . death?’ he said very softly. ‘No, I’ll not go back again.’

  Gulda nodded. ‘Neither of us would take you,’ she said.

  ‘You did not die,’ Andawyr said.

  Gulda looked at him sharply.

  Andawyr shook his head. ‘There’s an inexorability about death that would have drawn us in like a great maelstrom. No power could have pulled us from it. Even Hawklan’s own memory of his . . . end . . . was nearly irresistible. It was folly on my part to venture so close. I should have known from what you told me that that memory dominated all others.’

  Gavor flapped his wings restlessly, throwing great shadows over the walls and ceiling and the waiting mountain range of books.

  Andawyr looked at Hawklan, his expression enigmatic.

  When he spoke, his voice was flat and toneless. ‘You are not Ethriss, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘And I fear our position is more grave than I had thought.’

  Hawklan felt suddenly like a small guilt-ridden child. ‘Who am I then?’ he asked.

  Andawyr turned to Gulda. ‘Tell him about the Orthlundyn, Memsa,’ he said.

  Chapter 6

  Gulda looked uncertainly at Andawyr. The little man nodded and gestured her to begin.

  A brief look of pain passed over Gulda’s face and, fiddling nervously with her stick, she glanced awkwardly about the room as if looking for something that might tell her where to start her tale.

  ‘The war of the First Coming was unbelievably long, Hawklan,’ she began at last. ‘And it was fought on many levels and between many different peoples in many different ways. Some, mostly the battles of men, we know a great deal about. Some, involving other than men, like the Alphraan and the Mandrassni, we know a little of. Others, like the terrible cloud wars of the Drienvolk, the vengeance of the great ocean mammals, we know mainly by repute – by legend. Ethriss rarely spoke of them. “All must be won,” he would say. “But men must fight men, and Sumeral has come as a man among men, thus man’s burden will be the greatest, for they must fight Him in His mortal frame.”’

  ‘I know this,’ Hawklan said impatiently. ‘You may recall that I spent long enough in the library here before I left and . . .’ – he raised his hand to his temple uncertainly – ‘I knew anyway.’ He grimaced. ‘Old and new memories,’ he said. ‘I can’t separate them any more.’

  ‘It’s of no consequence,’ Andawyr said. ‘Knowledge is knowledge.’ He motioned Gulda to continue.

  ‘I mention those other aspects of the war to remind you that while man did indeed carry the greatest burden, it was but a portion of the whole, and not one hundredth part of it rested on the shoulders of one single man. Each leader . . . commander . . . carried what he could to the best of his ability. Few failed Ethriss and he did not reproach those who did.’

  Gulda looked at Hawklan anxiously.

  ‘Andawyr and I have talked about you a great deal over these past weeks,’ she said. ‘And I tell you what we believe now, not simply to assuage your curiosity, but because you must know the truth to be free of the burden of guilt which you seem to be carrying.’

  ‘And while I am so burdened, my judgement is marred and my value lessened,’ Hawklan said coldly.

  Gulda nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s true as you above all know. But we also care for you.’

  Hawklan bowed his head, momentarily ashamed of his harshness. ‘I feel no guilt,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘Not when I remember the . . . end.’ He hesitated. ‘Only when . . . I’m there . . . I . . .’

  ‘Just listen,’ Andawyr said powerfully, startling Hawklan.

  Gulda went on. ‘Nonetheless, you are burdened by it and it does cloud your sight. For that, and many other reasons, you should know the truth.’

  ‘Or at least what you and Andawyr consider to be the truth,’ Hawklan interjected.

  Gulda nodded and paused again as if to collect her thoughts.

  ‘Among men,’ she said after a moment. ‘The Orthlundyn were Ethriss’s greatest allies. Always they had stood against Sumeral, mistrusting Him from the first and seeing Him truly for what He was, before all others. They were flawed creatures as are we all, but they remained largely free of His taint, and came to form the heart of Ethriss’s power.’

  She looked around. ‘They lived here, in this land, in a manner not greatly different from that of the present Orthlundyn, though there were many more and they were . . . bolder, if you like . . . more vigorous. As individuals they travelled far and wide across the world, seeking and rejoicing in knowledge. This was why it was they who sensed from the first the true nature of Sumeral. And having seen the truth of Him, this was why they were the first to oppose Him.’

  She stopped and glanced at Andawyr, as if seeking relief from this task, but he offered none.

  She went on. ‘When, finally, Sumeral launched war on those who opposed Him and in so doing woke the Guardians, it was to the Orthlundyn that Ethriss first gave Sumeral’s own grim teaching. Then too, as now, they were apt pupils and learned well. Their captains and leaders went forth and fought with many armies, opposing Sumeral’s will wherever it was known.’

  Hawklan frowned slightly and looked from Gulda to Andawyr. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked. ‘In everything I’ve read about the First Coming there’s been virtually no mention of the Orthlundyn.’

  Gulda did not reply, but Andawyr said simply, ‘The Cadwanol know much more about the early days, Hawklan. Hear the tale out then ask your questions.’

  Hawklan nodded reluctantly, and Gulda continued.

  ‘By their conduct, the Orthlundyn became both a rallying point for those who opposed Sumeral – and there were many – and a target for His most savage cruelty. Sumeral gave little quarter to any of His enemies, and none to any captured Orthlundyn. Those who were not slaughtered on the field were taken for . . . later amusement.’

  Hawklan turned his face away sharply, as if trying not to hear the words. Gulda hurried on.

  ‘Eventually the war became total, with all the horror and injustice that that meant. Savage and vengeful marauders committed atrocities in Ethriss’s name; wise and just nations found themselves led to fight by the side of Sumeral and his allies.’ Gulda shook her head and her voice became impassioned. ‘In those days, what tragedy could happen, did happen. Not a race existed that was not involved in the conflict in some way. Lands blighted, seas poisoned . . .’ Andawyr reached out and touched her arm. She stopped speaking and looked at him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, recovering herself after a moment and turning back to Hawklan. ‘It’s difficult to be orderly in telling so vast a tale.’ Her hands fidgeted briefly with the top of her stick before she began again. ‘The armies of the Great Alliance stood against Sumeral at all points, sometimes victorious, sometimes not. But Sumeral knew that the heart of Ethriss’s will, the heart of all men’s opposition to Him, lay in the Orthlundyn, and that they must eventually be destroyed if He was to prevail. At first he sought to cut off their head and he succeeded in having one of their kings assassinated, and various Lords at different times . . .’

  ‘Kings and Lords? In Orthlund?’ Hawklan exclaimed.

  Gulda nodded. ‘By then, yes. They it was who built Anderras Darion – with a little help from Ethriss. War needs and breeds leaders and hierarchies, you know that. But the Kings and Lords of Orthlund were chosen by the people for their worth, and remained close to them, closer even than those you’ve met in Fyorlund. The great strength of the Orthlundyn in battle came not only from each individual’s belief in their c
ause and the trust they had in their leaders, but also, to a high degree, from the personal knowledge they had of them.’ An irritable wave prevented any further interrogation.

  ‘In any event, such deeds of individual slaughter availed Sumeral nothing, serving only to harden the resolve of the people to remain firm against Him. It was truly said of the Orthlundyn that when a leader fell their army was but one man the less. Eventually, therefore, Sumeral’s every manoeuvre was dedicated towards bringing His many armies together to attack Orthlund itself, even though He knew the cost of such an assault would be appalling.’

  She paused, reluctant again. ‘And He was aided in this intent by Ethriss.’

  Hawklan frowned again as a memory flitted by. ‘Stand your ground,’ he said, echoing the words that had returned to him but minutes earlier.

  Gulda nodded. ‘We come nearer to your time, Hawklan,’ she said. ‘For Ethriss too knew that if he was to defeat Sumeral, then he must crush His army utterly. And seeing Sumeral’s intention, he brought together a great council of the leaders of the Great Alliance. In secret conference they determined that Sumeral should be subtly allowed to gather His armies together and bring them to Orthlund’s southern border. Once there, the Orthlundyn would retreat to draw Him between the mountains and the Great River, and then the armies of the Alliance would close behind Him, and drive Him into the spears of the Orthlundyn, entrenched and defensive.’

  ‘Stand your ground,’ Hawklan said again, emptily.

  ‘It was a good strategy,’ Gulda went on, gently. ‘Well prepared, well laid, well executed.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I supported it,’ he said, his voice distant. ‘My army can hold off any attack. Let them come, they’ll break like waves against the rocks . . .’

  ‘Your army?’ Andawyr said.

  Hawklan’s eyes narrowed as he struggled again for some elusive memory. ‘My . . . father’s army?’ he said doubtfully. ‘Did I beg for the command?’

  Neither Gulda nor Andawyr answered and after a moment he gave up the fruitless striving and spoke again.

  ‘They were glorious,’ he said. ‘All my friends, back from distant places and great deeds for this one final stroke. Years of secret planning and manoeuvring it had taken, but the Great Corrupter’s army was at last to be crushed between the hammer of the Great Alliance and the anvil of the waiting Orthlundyn. We waited, banners and pennants fluttering in the wind, swords and armour glinting in the sunlight; the horses, the soldiers, all restless and ready. Like a great celebration, a magnificent tournament.’

  He gritted his teeth and leaned forward. ‘A great array was to meet the enemy, then retreat, reform, retreat again, luring them ever deeper into our land. And then we would hold them. We had line upon line of traps and defence works laid for them. And line upon line of spearmen and archers and slingers and great artillery machines. Lines that seemed to stretch to the very horizon. The mountains guarded our eastern flank and the forest and the river our western.’

  He looked earnestly at Gulda. ‘We were not children and callow youths,’ he said. ‘We were battle-tried and hardened; all of us. We knew that for all the splendour of the sight and the hopes we held high, this would be a long and grim battle; one in which there would be no respite until the end, and one in which we could not falter or all would be lost. Even the initial retreats would take a sad toll. Each stand would have to be more desperate than the last or Sumeral would sense the trap and retreat.

  ‘Then they were there.’

  He stopped and, gazing upwards, shivered. ‘I remember a cloud passed over the sun and I felt a cool breeze on my face like a bad omen just as a look-out cried, “Enemy ho.”’ He turned towards the fire. ‘We’d all seen them before, they were ever a foul, frightening sight, but they were even more so in the clear light of Orthlund. They seemed to bring their own ghastly night with them. The dust of their march, the forests of tall pikes, the awful carrion birds that flew with them. The mockery of their golden flag with its single silver star – the One True Light as they called it.’ Hawklan’s lip turned up in contempt. ‘The pulsing rhythm of their stamping feet, and their endless chanting. The very sight of them had scattered armies in the past.

  ‘But not us. We knew them for what they were. Men and Mandrocs and other, fouler, creatures of His inventing. Fearsome and terrible, but all of them fallible and none of them proof against sword and spear. And though we could see Him shining among their ranks we knew that Ethriss and the Guardians would be guarding us somehow from the awesome power that He and His Uhriel could use. Men must fight men. We would hold.’

  He pointed his finger in emphasis. ‘And we did. Day after aching day. I’ve never seen such slaughter. We stood firm, taking few casualties at first while they kept walking forward into our volleys of arrows and shot, falling like corn under the scythe until they had filled up our trenches and pits with their dead and dying and could walk over them. Though He never ventured so close. Time and again the archers and slingers broke open their infantry and our cavalry smashed into it, but . . .’ Hawklan shook his head, his eyes distant. ‘They never truly broke, never scattered and ran. They retreated, taking dreadful losses, then another group would take their place while they reformed.’

  He fell silent and for a long time sat motionless, staring into the fire. Neither Gulda nor Andawyr spoke.

  ‘But we would have held them,’ Hawklan continued eventually. ‘We knew how they would fight, possessed by their Master’s will, and we were prepared. Though we’d not truly realized the sickening weariness of it all. Night after night we’d sit and watch their distant camp fires and try to rid ourselves of the clinging horror of it all; try to cheer each other with talk of victory, and what we’d do afterwards. But it was to little avail; the nearness of His presence was like a miasma hanging sickly in the air.’

  He paused again and looked up at his listeners. ‘And day by day we gained an increasing measure of His true nature. When His men died, they became . . . normal again . . . free of His firing spirit . . . free to die lost and bewildered in a foreign land far from their homes and loved ones . . .’ His voice trailed off briefly. ‘We didn’t understand the Mandrocs,’ he went on after a moment. ‘They were just demented savages to us, but I suppose it might have been the same with them too.

  ‘But we would have held them,’ he repeated. ‘We had the equipment and the will. Soon the army of the Alliance would smash into their rear and then . . .’

  Half-heartedly he struck the palm of his hand with his fist.

  His brow furrowed. ‘Then, somehow, there was confusion and disarray on our left flank. Somehow it had been turned and they were pressing home a powerful cavalry assault.’ He put his hand to his forehead and bowed his head, searching yet again for some memory. ‘How could that have happened? I remember . . .’ He looked up almost weeping. ‘Ethriss! Where are all their names, their faces? My friends? My kin? Where are they? I remember . . . towards evening . . . the infantry managed to reform and throw back their cavalry as night fell, but we’d taken heavy casualties and our left flank had been pushed far back.’

  Some of the distress left his face, though now it was drawn and grim. ‘No one knew what had happened. Suddenly they were there. A great force had come from nowhere and was driving through our flank guards. “Only the night has saved us,” someone said. “They’ve broken a gap we can’t defend. They could be moving through right now, to take us in the rear at sunrise, if not sooner.” I could do no other than order an immediate retreat. The anvil had broken before the hammer had even struck.’

  Hawklan stopped speaking, and showed no inclination to start again.

  ‘What else do you recall?’ Gulda prompted gently after some time.

  Hawklan’s eyes opened, wide and weary. ‘Riding, walking, encouraging, fighting endlessly . . . but always retreating; all the time retreating. We stood here and there, but they were too many for us, away from our entrenchments. I remember passing towns and villages; some were alrea
dy deserted; some had thrown up rough fortifications manned by the old folk, and children . . .’ His face became pained again. ‘I wouldn’t let any of the army join their kin in these towns. “We must keep together while we can. The Alliance army will strike soon and the enemy will have to turn to face them. Then we’ll be on their rear.”’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We told the people to flee to the mountains or to the river, in the hope of crossing to Eirthlund.’ He paused again.

  ‘I remember Anderras Darion, sealed and shrouded in mist, as we marched past one dark day. It was raining . . . as if the whole sky were weeping for our plight.

  ‘I remember red night skies to the south, vying with the sunsets, as the enemy sacked the towns and villages.

  ‘And the Alliance never came.

  ‘That dreadful army pursued us relentlessly, drawing ever closer. Only our total extinction would stop them.

  ‘And I remember their terrible birds, swooping down on us, screaming, clawing.’ He shuddered, then, unexpectedly, he smiled, and reached up to touch Gavor. ‘But as we were driven into the northern mountains, some power sent us a rare ally.’ Hawklan leaned forward, anxious to describe this brief triumph. ‘When we woke one morning, the birds were waiting for us as usual, perched all about the high rocks and crags, flapping their ragged wings and shrieking to one another the way they did, as if they were goading one another on. The din grew and grew, and we took our swords and pikes to deal with them, but as they rose into the air, a great fluttering black cloud welled up high above them from the tallest of the peaks.’ Hawklan raised his hands, suddenly the fireside storyteller. ‘A great multitude of ravens. Without a sound, they fell out of the sky onto Sumeral’s appalling creatures . . .’ Gavor clicked approvingly. ‘It had a strange beauty all its own. The ravens were smaller . . . but such fliers . . . swooping, diving, twisting . . . Soon the air was full of clouds of feathers, falling like snowflakes, and splattering skeins of blood, and tumbling dying bodies.’ His lips drew back in a triumphant grimace and his fingers curled. ‘We dealt with those that were not dead by the time they hit the floor.’