Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  ‘You are right,’ he said contritely. ‘For all we are both human, we are too far apart for us to understand one another truly. I should not intrude. You have your own choices to make in the light of your own ways and your own needs.’

  He bent down by Gavor, who stopped fidgeting and looked up at him. ‘But war tests many things. It is the horror of Sumeral’s gift that we must accept it to oppose it. Healer though I am, I know that I must be as He, to defeat Him. If I am fortunate I hope I will stay my hand from excess in victory. That tiny hope is all that will distinguish me from my enemy when we finally meet. So it may have to be with you. Many valued things have to be set at hazard.’ Then, Andawyr’s conclusion about Creost returned to him unexpectedly. ‘But remember,’ he said. ‘If Dar Hastuin uses his Power to move your lands then he is that much weakened in himself.’

  Ynar moved as if to speak, when suddenly there was a small commotion behind him. Hawklan caught ‘. . . the paths move . . .’ spoken urgently.

  ‘We have little time, Hawklan,’ the Drienwr said hastily. ‘Sphaeera wills us away, and it is already dangerous for me and my companions to stay here; we’ve been too deep too long. We will ponder your words. We will ponder your heart. But we have not your strength. Wish us . . . good fortune . . .’

  ‘Light be with you,’ Hawklan said impulsively.

  ‘Ah,’ came the response. ‘So we are as much alike as we are different.’ Then, shocked. ‘But this is of no import. In burdening you with our cares I’d forgotten. We came to warn you that . . .’

  Ynar staggered suddenly before he could finish, and the mist shifted and swirled violently. Some of the figures in it seemed to be disappearing – upwards, Hawklan thought, though he could not see their passing. He felt a cold breeze on his cheek. When he looked at the hazy figure of Ynar again, he saw anxious hands reaching out to draw him away. The Drienwr, however, was resisting their pull and extending his arms out towards him.

  Again on impulse, Hawklan drew his sword and, taking hold of the blade, thrust the hilt towards the reaching figure. There was no resistance when the black sword entered the mist, but it became white, brilliant and shining. So bright that Hawklan had to turn his eyes away.

  The Drienwr’s right hand closed around it and the air was suddenly filled with the sound that only Hawklan and a quiet Riddin child had heard on a sunny spring day months ago; the song of the Viladrien. Now, however, it was vast and joyous and seemed to fill the entire sky.

  ‘Wait!’ It was Gavor. Abruptly, his great wings started to thrash violently, throwing up flurries of snow, and slowly he rose and flew into the mist. As he did so, he too became white, and the movement of his powerful beating wings seemed to become infinitely slow, their great pulse matching that of the song of the cloud land. As Hawklan watched, he saw Ynar extend his left hand and Gavor alight on it. They were talking, Hawklan thought, but the scene was almost dreamlike and it seemed to Hawklan that Ynar was moving upwards with Gavor, although he could still feel the Drienwr’s light but strangely powerful grip on the sword.

  Then the mist was gone, though, like the moment of the onset of sleep, none of the three watching men noted the moment of its passing.

  Hawklan found himself holding the blade of his sword, its blackness glinting in the subdued torchlight that had illuminated the last part of his journey. He was flanked by Loman and Isloman, gazing uncertainly upwards into the darkness.

  For some time no one spoke, as if fearful of disturbing even the memory of what had just passed. Then the mounting breeze that had presumably carried the Viladrien away, buffeted them, and Hawklan started out of his reverie.

  ‘Gavor,’ he cried out. ‘Where’s Gavor?’

  His cry galvanized his friends and the three of them set up a great shouting.

  Hawklan clenched his teeth in anxiety as he thrust his sword back into its scabbard. What had happened to his friend? Then, following in the wake of that question came the memory that the Drienwr had said he had come with a warning.

  For a moment Hawklan was overwhelmed by an appalling sense of loss. His friend taken; some warning unheard; who knew what allies were perhaps lost now? And all through his angry impetuosity. He did not dare to look at Loman and Isloman for fear of the reproach that might lie in their eyes.

  ‘Look.’ Isloman’s voice reached into his darkness. He was pointing into the sky.

  Hawklan drew his hood about his face to protect himself from the cold wind. The sullen clouds that had covered Orthlund for the past days were now scudding across a sky tinged yellow with moonlight. In the distance, and high above them, marked by Isloman’s pointing hand, was the dark form of the Viladrien; vast among the breaking clouds, and with its upper surface glittering with countless lights.

  The three men stood spellbound at the sight.

  ‘Such things we’ve seen, Hawklan,’ Isloman said after a long silence. ‘I’d be a rare carver indeed if I could catch one tenth of that vision.’

  Though buoyed up briefly by the majestic sight, Hawklan lapsed again into angry self-reproach.

  ‘And a rare captain I’d be if I’d listen to people instead of lecturing them,’ he said. ‘Gavor’s gone who knows where, and whatever the Drienvolk had to tell us is gone too.’

  Before Loman and Isloman could speak however, something struck Hawklan’s head a glancing blow, and fell into the snow a few paces away. A familiar voice swore out of the darkness, then came, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’ Loman turned up his torch to reveal Gavor struggling to right himself in the soft snow.

  ‘At last,’ he said churlishly. ‘You might have done that sooner. ‘I’m not an owl you know.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Hawklan said, crouching down and holding out his hand for the bird. ‘I thought you’d gone with Ynar.’

  Gavor’s truculence vanished. ‘I did, in a way,’ he said distantly. ‘He took me where all Sphaeera’s creatures should go. I saw it, Hawklan. Saw it. Sphaeera’s . . . Anderras Darion. Great mansions and halls, towering and open . . . and the lights and colours . . . such a land . . . and such people . . . I soaring everywhere . . .’

  Hawklan picked him up gently. ‘But you were gone only a few minutes,’ he said.

  ‘No, I was there for hours,’ Gavor replied.

  Hawklan looked at him thoughtfully and then abandoned his interrogation. ‘Did you hurt yourself when you landed?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Gavor replied.

  ‘I’ll carry you anyway,’ Hawklan said. The two friends looked at one another, and Gavor nodded.

  ‘We’d better leave and find a camping place lower down before this wind gets any stronger,’ Loman said. ‘This is a dangerous place.’

  ‘We shall be with you,’ came the Alphraan’s voice, as the three men turned up their torches.

  Their descent was slow and cautious, each knowing that tiredness and gravity were treacherous downhill companions. Gavor remained silent and warm inside Hawklan’s cloak, and when they finally made camp they ate a simple meal and lay down to sleep with barely a word.

  The next morning a clear blue sky and brilliant sun displayed the white peaks and valleys surrounding the three travellers and they broke camp and continued their descent in good spirits. Gavor in particular seemed unusually boisterous and was soon floating high above the sweeping valleys.

  Despite the beauty of the scene however, Hawklan’s thoughts were dominated by his conversation with the Drienwr. It seemed that Dar Hastuin had power over the Drienvolk as Creost had over the Morlider. Of the Uhriel, only Oklar so far had been successfully resisted. But what did it mean? Creost’s intended assault on Riddin could be understood, but what did Dar Hastuin’s power in the air mean for the Orthlundyn and Fyordyn armies?

  With difficulty Hawklan managed to set his concerns aside. Ynar had been right, he didn’t understand; indeed, he couldn’t understand. He knew nothing of the Drienvolk, nor, he suspected, did anyone else, perhaps not even Gulda. Gavor probably did, but could he explain it? Such litt
le as he had mentioned was strangely confused.

  But he could not set aside the knowledge that the Drienvolk had sought him out to warn him of something and he had thrust it from Ynar’s mind with his unexpected anger.

  Eventually he voiced his concern. ‘Alphraan, do you know what Ynar tried to warn us of?’

  ‘No, Hawklan,’ replied the Alphraan. ‘When our ways met there was great happiness, but we came to you when we felt their pain. They gave us no warning, we . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know about that, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted, landing softly on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘I thought you’d heard Ynar telling me. You should’ve asked.’

  * * * *

  Gulda had been told by the Alphraan about the sudden departure of Hawklan and the others the previous day, but on questioning them had received no answer other than, ‘We may not tell,’ overlaid with sounds of reassurance.

  Unable to interrogate the Alphraan, she had taken the rebuff with an ill grace and had eventually retreated to the deserted wall where she had stood, black and motionless, defying the ubiquitous whiteness like a rock in the ocean.

  Seemingly oblivious to the cold wind that was blowing over the snow-covered landscape, she stood for a long time rapt in who knew what thoughts.

  Suddenly she started. Hawklan was speaking to her.

  ‘The Alphraan carry my voice, Gulda,’ he said. ‘We are needed in Riddin. Begin the levying of the army and select those who can march across these mountains.’

  Gulda cocked her head on one side, as if testing the sound she was hearing, then, without speaking, she turned and walked towards the door that would lead her down into the Castle.

  Chapter 12

  Pandemonium was well established when Hawklan and the others returned to Anderras Darion on the day following their meeting with the Drienvolk, and it continued steadily for the next few days. On receiving Hawklan’s strange, disembodied instruction, Gulda had immediately sent messages to all parts of the country and gradually the chosen contingents were beginning to converge on the great Castle, bristling with arms and supplies, and with just enough enthusiasm and curiosity to keep their alarm at bay.

  At a brief council of war, Hawklan told of the strange meeting and of Ynar’s message that the Morlider islands and a great armada were gathered off the northern shore of Riddin.

  ‘It’ll be a difficult journey,’ Loman said. ‘A forced march across the mountains and right across Riddin in far from ideal conditions.’

  No one disagreed. ‘I don’t think we’ve any alternative,’ Isloman said. ‘If what that Morlider – Drago – said about his people being united and learning to fight with some semblance of discipline is true, then the Muster’s going to be hard pressed especially in this weather. Good infantry can stand off cavalry and defeat it if their nerve holds. And if the Morlider have numbers and Creost . . .’ He left his conclusion unspoken.

  By now familiar with the open speaking of his hosts, Agreth was only mildly defensive at the suggestion that the Muster was anything other than invincible. ‘It’s a fine infantry that’ll stand long against our charges,’ he said. ‘But I agree, if they have the advantages you suggest, then we’ll be hard pressed.’

  Later, alone with Andawyr and Gulda, Hawklan discussed the route that Ynar told Gavor the Morlider Islands were apparently taking.

  ‘Why would they come so far north?’

  ‘They probably think they can establish a good base before the Muster catches wind of them,’ Gulda suggested unconvincingly. ‘It’ll also give them the mountains to their back. Make it harder to flank them.’

  Hawklan pulled a sour face. ‘It also gives them the Pass of Elewart at their back, and it cuts off the Cadwanol,’ he said, looking at Andawyr.

  Andawyr shrugged. ‘I doubt Creost knows the Cadwanol still exists, let alone where,’ he said. ‘At least I hope so. More importantly, it occurs to me that they might be expecting reinforcements down the Pass.’

  It was a grim thought. Hawklan scowled. ‘It’s also an escape route into Narsindal for Creost if anything goes wrong,’ he said. Then, slapping his knees impatiently, he stood up. ‘Still, I think we’ll be wasting our time worrying about Creost’s strategic thinking. If he’s expecting reinforcements then all the more reason we get over there quickly, and if he’s got any escape routes planned let’s make sure he can’t use them.’ He looked at Andawyr darkly and his voice was suddenly cold.

  ‘He’s your province, Andawyr. According to Dar-volci, the Alphraan have their . . . ways . . . open as far as the Caves so presumably you can ask them to send a message of some kind. Rally your people’s every resource. I want Creost bound or dead at the end of this venture.’

  With difficulty, the Cadwanwr held Hawklan’s menacing gaze, but he did not reply.

  Hawklan walked to a window and stared out. ‘If Riddin falls then not only do we lose a massive cavalry force, which will be vital in Narsindal, we’ll have to tie down most of our own army simply guarding our borders. We’ll have to meet Creost and the Morlider head-on and crush them utterly. Whatever the cost of success it can’t begin to compare with the cost of failure.’

  Gulda grimaced. ‘What about your own plans?’ she said, turning away from Hawklan’s cruel summary.

  ‘They’re unchanged,’ Hawklan said. ‘In fact, moving to oppose the Morlider gives us a legitimate reason for being in that area if Sumeral has spies there. We’ll have to judge the situation as we find it, of course, but if all goes well, we should be able to slip away to the Caves and thence to the Pass at some juncture.’

  Then the countrywide uproar faded and a substantial part of the Orthlundyn army stood ready at a temporary camp just outside Pedhavin, fired by Hawklan’s determination and anxious to begin its desperate trek across the mountains.

  ‘You have our best there,’ Gulda said quietly as Hawklan prepared to mount Serian. He nodded but did not speak. Instead he looked up at the Castle Wall towering high above him, massive and solid against the grey sky. It was snowing a little and a few flakes settled on his face and slowly melted. For a moment a terrible pain showed.

  ‘The Alphraan will tell you of our progress while we’re in the mountains,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I leave the disposition of all the other troops with you and Lord Arinndier. See what reply Eldric sends to our news then head into Fyorlund as soon as you can. The people know what to do if things go wrong. The castle’s well stocked and self-sufficient . . . if . . .’ His voice faded.

  Gulda shook her head reproachfully. ‘We’ve been over this ten times, Hawklan,’ she said. ‘We all know what to do. Take care.’ Then she stepped forward and embraced him. As she released him, Hawklan felt his arm held in a merciless grip and his eyes pinioned on her blue-eyed stare. ‘Ethriss go with you, prince,’ she said. ‘You and I will meet again at Derras Ustramel. We’ll end this horror either dead or with His head impaled on your sword.’

  Then, without further comment, she turned and stumped back towards the Castle Gate. Hawklan watched her go, shaken by the terrible passion of her unexpected declaration. He was uncertain how long he stood there but suddenly he found Tirilen standing in front of him. She had been saying farewell to her father and her uncle and she was weeping, though not pettishly or with a clinging heart. A healer herself, she knew it was the only release she had for the measureless sorrow and pain she felt, and she knew not to deny it.

  Hawklan wanted to say something, but he found no words that would do anything other than rattle vainly in the cold winter air. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She placed an arm around his neck and held him for a moment.

  ‘Take care,’ they both said simultaneously. Then Tirilen turned to follow Gulda, and Hawklan swung up onto Serian.

  ‘Carry me to my army, Muster Horse,’ he said. ‘My legs unman me.’

  * * * *

  The journey through the snow-clogged mountains proved to be quite as difficult as had been envisaged. The path to Riddin was not designed to accommodat
e an army, and the several thousand troops were soon spread out along valleys and ridges in a thin, rambling line.

  ‘I’m glad we don’t have to guard our flanks in this terrain,’ Hawklan said to Isloman as he reached a prominence and stared back at the great winding procession.

  Necessarily, progress was slow and careful as they had brought no carts and for the most part each individual was carrying his or her own equipment and supplies, although the few hundred horses they had brought for the use of scouts and skirmishers served as useful pack animals also.

  For the first few days the weather confined itself to bright sunshine and occasional light falls of snow, and the natural good spirits and camaraderie of the marchers lessened the effects of the cold and the discomfort. As they climbed steadily towards the heart of the mountains however, the weather deteriorated markedly and the wind began to whip the snow into a dense, obscuring blizzard.

  For a while the long twisting line eased forward, but as the light began to fail, Hawklan brought it to a halt, and gradually a thin, blurred skein of beacon torches began to thread its way through the white-streaked darkness as the army gratefully pitched camp.

  In the command tent, Hawklan was not too concerned at the change in the weather. ‘We’ve made good progress so far,’ he said. ‘Very few accidents, no animals lost, and morale good.’

  Loman was less sanguine. ‘A situation that could change very quickly if we get stuck here for any length of time,’ he said.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘There’s no question of that,’ he replied unequivocally. ‘This weather won’t be keeping the Morlider away. We rise early tomorrow and we move forward, regardless. Everyone’s well-equipped and fit, and we can’t afford to dawdle. If anyone objects, remind him that we haven’t the supplies and our friends haven’t the time to wait the weather’s whim.’