by Roger Taylor
‘It’s ever our way, fisherman, have no fear for that,’ Urthryn replied.
Cadmoryth closed his eyes briefly. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then, smiling a little: ‘That was a rare ride you made, Ffyrst. A fine yarn to tell your grandchild when it arrives.’
‘It was fair,’ Urthryn replied. ‘But as nothing compared with your great journey.’
Cadmoryth gave a brief breathy chuckle then he lay back and looked up at the roof of the tent.
A timber post with ropes lashed about it rose up by his bed like a mast. Radiant stones filled the tent with their stored summer warmth, and the slowly billowing fabric of the roof faithfully held and returned it, but Cadmoryth’s eyes narrowed and his face tightened as if he were facing a cold, spray-filled wind, and revelling in it.
‘Send my crew in,’ he said to Hawklan, faintly. ‘They’ll tend me now.’
As the three men moved away from the dying fisherman, Urthryn took Hawklan’s arm. ‘You must rest,’ he said. ‘Our healers and yours are sufficient. You’ve done enough.’
Hawklan looked at him, and then around the tent. It was filled with long rows of wounded. They were lying on a hotch-potch of beds; a few had been hauled over the mountains by the Orthlundyn, and some had appeared silently in the wake of the Muster, but most were rough and ready creations salvaged from the remains of the Morlider camp. It was fitting; most of the wounded were Morlider. They had taken appalling casualties in both dead and wounded at the hands of the Orthlundyn, and the tent was filled with the sound of their collective despair; a dark, disordered chorus of cries and groans, shot through with muffled screams.
Worse, to Hawklan, though, the place reeked of fear and horror. A spasm of anger ran through him.
‘A healer can’t rest while such pain cries out,’ he said, more severely than he had intended. Then, thus triggered, the anger came out as unhindered as it was unjust. ‘But you can, and must. You’re wearier than I am by far. You’ve younger officers who should be doing much of what you’re attempting. Let them do it, they’ll do it better and quicker. We’ve serious problems to discuss when these poor souls have been eased. It’s you who should rest, Ffyrst, not I.’
Girvan took a discreet step backwards.
Urthryn frowned furiously. ‘You’re powerfully free with your orders, Orthlundyn,’ he said barely restraining his own anger.
Hawklan reflected the frown. ‘Fault my logic, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Better still, accept the wisdom of your people. Most of them are sleeping.’
Urthryn bit down his reply though it was with an effort. ‘Sylvriss said you were a remarkable man,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later. When both of us are rested.’
As Urthryn left, Girvan paused briefly by Hawklan. ‘Your remarks were unnecessary, Orthlundyn,’ he said bluntly but without anger. ‘Think about swallowing them later. The Ffyrst is a wise and patient man, but he’s more than tired, he’s exhausted in every way. The journey we made might have been epic, but it was also grim and he left behind much quarrelling and bitterness. Then to find the Muster could offer so little at the end . . .’
Hawklan nodded. ‘I know,’ he said regretfully. ‘Time and rest will see us all at greater ease. See him settled if you can, then rest yourself.’
When Girvan had gone, Hawklan cast a brief glance towards the group sitting silently around the peaceful form of Cadmoryth. He could do nothing there. He knew that, fisherman all, they were waiting for the turn of the tide that would take their comrade away.
Leaving them to their vigil, Hawklan strode off down the long aisle between two rows of beds. All around him were men, young men for the most part, suffering from fearful injuries. Those with lesser injuries were being treated in other places.
Here were severed and broken limbs; bodies, crushed and mutilated; the terrible gaping gashes and stab wounds made by swords and long bladed pikes. And, like a grim harmony note underlying everything, the thought of what must lie ahead of those who were healed. Maimed, abandoned and alone amongst their enemies.
He caught the eye of a man who in Orthlund might still have been an apprentice carver. He was bearded, but the fluffy blond mass served only to accentuate his fresh-faced youth. From his skull emerged the shaft of an arrow. Hawklan went to him and placed his hands about his face. The eyes slowly looked up at him, but they were blank.
The boy would live, Hawklan knew. Perhaps for a long time, but . . .
Rest? he thought. Would he could. His body ached with fatigue after the gruelling hours of fighting and then the even more gruelling hours of clearing the battlefield. But he had not lied to Urthryn; he could not rest while so much pain cried out. At their extremities, the warrior and the healer in him had little love for one another and their mutual anger marred him.
‘May I help?’ came a voice as he stood up from the young victim.
Turning he saw first Yengar and Olvric, then the speaker.
All three looked desperately tired. Hawklan sensed the third man for a healer, and his face was elusively familiar.
‘Marek,’ said the man, answering Hawklan’s questioning expression. ‘Healer with the Lord Eldric’s High Guard. We met, or rather, I saw you, when you were . . . unconscious . . . at Lord Eldric’s. It’s good to see you whole again.’
‘You were sent with Queen Sylvriss to Dremark,’ Hawklan said, smiling, as he recalled both the memory of Marek’s face from that strange interlude following Oklar’s assault on him, and Agreth’s account of the Queen’s journey. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘An hour or so ago,’ Marek replied. ‘But everything’s so confused we had difficulty finding you.’
Hawklan’s smile broadened. ‘Came with one of the baggage trains, did you?’ he said.
‘Yes, and even that was hard going,’ Yengar said ruefully.
‘We didn’t last two days with Urthryn’s riders.’ He seemed distressed by this failure.
‘Set it aside, Goraidin,’ Hawklan said. ‘That journey will go down forever in Muster lore. It took no small toll of their own. Is the Cadwanwr with you . . .’ He cast about for the name.
‘Oslang,’ Yengar said. ‘Yes. And the others are following. He’s with Andawyr now, but he’s worse than we are. I doubt he’ll wake up before the rest arrive.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘You two find Dacu then rest awhile, there’s nothing for you to do here. Marek, see how things are, do as your heart moves you, you’re the best judge of your own worth at the moment.’
The Fyordyn looked around the tent and then back at Hawklan. ‘I’m tired through travelling uncomfortably and sleeping badly,’ he said. ‘But I’m sound, and fresh from tending Sylvriss, who in her present condition gives more than she receives.’ Hawklan felt Marek taking charge of him. ‘You on the other hand are almost spent. In a little while you’ll just be another burden. Go and rest.’
Hawklan frowned at Marek’s bluntness, but the healer’s words cut through his weariness and both cleared his vision and gave him the little strength he needed to accept what he saw. He looked about the noisy tent once more and, feeling the awesome weight of pain and fear in the place, realized he had been trying to carry it all in reparation for the part he had played in creating it. That was not healing.
‘You’re right,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve stayed too long. I’ll go for a walk then I’ll sleep – as instructed.’ He tilted his head towards the far end of the tent. ‘The Duty Healer’s over there if you’re going to stay.’
The cold struck him as he stepped out of the warmth of the tent. It was snowing; large damp flakes floating silently and leisurely down through the grey sky. The two Goraidin strode off purposefully towards the Command tent in search of Dacu, and Hawklan turned towards the sea.
As he walked, he let the countless unrepeating patterns of the swirling snowflakes fill his mind. Better they than the tangled mass of the thoughts he was still clinging to. He had not started this appalling juggernaut on its life-crushing journey; who could say what butterfly’s wings had
? Such threads as he could unravel went back only to that spring morning when a bent and crooked tinker had appeared on the green at Pedhavin, and he could not see even those being woven into any other pattern. Nor, truly, was that pattern an ill one, despite the miasma of pain emanating from the sad heart of the hospital tent. His own words to the dying Cadmoryth returned to comfort him, ‘Who knows how many lives you’ve saved?’
Now, at least, Sumeral’s malice and intent stood plainly exposed; the Morlider were gone, leaving the Muster free to help in the struggle; the Orthlundyn had been tested in battle and their discipline had given them the day against fierce and overwhelming odds. The Cadwanwr too had met some great trial and survived; they would be the wiser for that. A good day’s haul indeed, he thought, even though much of him cried out still at the tragedy that such nets had had to be cast.
The sound of the sea brought him to a halt and he realized that he had walked further from the camp than he had intended. He was at the top of the slope that led down to the remains of the Morlider camp.
The falling snow was already obliterating many of the scars of the battle, though in so doing it was hindering the groups of Riddinvolk and Orthlundyn charged with the task of cleansing the area. Rows of bodies, already covered to protect them from the scavenging seabirds were slowly disappearing under a further, cold, shroud. Stacks of weapons and supplies too were merging anonymously with the whitening terrain.
He became aware of Serian standing by him. The horse had followed him from the camp.
‘How are the horses?’ Hawklan asked.
‘Better than the humans,’ Serian replied. ‘They forget more quickly. They did well.’
Hawklan patted the horse’s neck. ‘Indeed they did,’ he said. Then, on an impulse, ‘Do you wish to return to the Muster now that you’re home again?’
The horse lifted its head and shook it, throwing a spray of snowflakes into the air. ‘I’m no longer a Muster horse, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Touched by His evil at the Gretmearc, then redeemed by you. Facing the wrath of Oklar with you. Listening to the sounds of the Alphraan and the song of Anderras Darion. And now all this: charging against Dar Hastuin and Creost as they rode Usgreckan. I am not what I was. And I am possessed by the demon that possesses you. I ride next against Sumeral. Do we ride together still?’
Hawklan looked out over the battlefield again. The snow was not falling quite as heavily, and an onshore breeze was beginning to blow. In the distance the sky was lightening, and here and there small golden swashes of sunlight were glittering on the sea. The horizon was true and straight, undisturbed by any unnatural intrusion. ‘Winter’s ending,’ Hawklan said, swinging up into the saddle. ‘And we ride together still, Serian, to His very throne.’
Returning to the camp, Hawklan made straight for his tent. As he approached, Andawyr came to the entrance. He too looked tired, but his eyes seemed to be brighter than ever.
‘I’ve been chased away from the hospital tent with orders to rest,’ Hawklan said
‘Rightly so,’ Andawyr said unsympathetically. ‘You should listen to your own advice more.’
Hawklan pulled a wry face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But while I’m confined to quarters will you arrange a meeting of all senior officers – a Council of War – first thing tomorrow morning. And gently with Urthryn, please, Andawyr. My brief meetings with him so far have been a little . . . fraught . . . to be generous about it.’
Andawyr opened his mouth to reply but a low, pitiful moan from inside the tent interrupted him. He turned to let Hawklan enter.
Inside, resting in a small makeshift hammock slung off four poles, lay Gavor. His eyes were closed and he was very still. Curled upon the floor nearby was Dar-volci.
Hawklan looked at his old friend sadly. Andawyr came to his side.
‘It’s bad isn’t it?’ Andawyr said.
Hawklan nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, soberly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.’
A single black eye flickered weakly, and Gavor uttered another low groan.
‘It’s the complications that are doing the damage,’ Hawklan went on, crouching down to be closer to the listless form. His face was lined with concentration, and when he spoke his voice was heavy with concern.
‘You see, Andawyr, after the fall, he began to develop symptoms of malingering, but I suspect now that it’s turned into severe and chronic hypochondria. I think it could be terminal.’
The eye opened wide and glared malevolently. Hawklan and Andawyr smiled hypocritically in reply.
Gavor groaned again – loudly. ‘I don’t know which hurts the most,’ he declaimed. ‘The pain of my terrible injury or the cruel indifference of my friends.’
‘I told you. You’ve only sprained one of your chest muscles a little,’ Hawklan said, flopping down on to his bunk. ‘Your pectoral muscle to be precise. A couple of days and some exercises and you’ll be good as new.’
‘You weren’t so callous when you pulled me out of that snowdrift,’ Gavor said, his tone injured.
‘I thought all that blood was yours, that’s why,’ Hawklan answered, closing his eyes and turning his back on the raven.
Gavor chuckled at the memory of his attack on the two Uhriel, then he groaned again. ‘It hurts when I laugh,’ he said.
‘Go for a walk,’ Hawklan said curtly. ‘The amount you’re eating, you’ll soon be too fat for your wings to carry you, sprain or no sprain.’
Gavor’s head shot up indignantly. Then, turning to Andawyr, he said, ‘Would you be so kind as to give me a wing down, dear boy, I’d hate my suffering to disturb our great leader.’ As Andawyr lifted him out of the hammock he added plaintively, ‘I’ll be out in the cold if anyone needs me.’
‘Gavor, clear off, I’m trying to get some sleep,’ Hawklan replied.
Gavor muttered something under his breath and stumped over to Dar-volci. ‘Come on, rat, let’s go round to the kitchens; see if they’ve anything for sprains.’
Dar-volci uncoiled himself, stretched languorously then sat on his haunches to scratch his stomach. ‘Good idea, crow,’ he said, dropping down on to all-fours again. ‘I’m feeling like something medicinal myself. You can do your bird impressions for me as we walk.’
Hawklan turned his head and stared in disbelief.
* * * *
Slowly through the day, the camp changed, becoming quieter and more ordered as time pushed the nightmare of the battle inexorably further away. Cadmoryth died as the tide began to ebb, as did several of the Morlider. Others lived and died to different rhythms. The snow stopped and the sky cleared, and the day ended with long sunset shadows cutting obliquely through the ranks of tents.
Hawklan slept.
The following day began as the previous had ended, with a clear sky. A brilliant sun shone low into the camp and the snow-covered landscape echoed its light stridently.
A gentle shaking awoke Hawklan and he smiled as he opened his eyes to see Gavor tugging at his sleeve and, beyond him, the sky, blue and unblemished, visible through the slightly opened entrance of the tent.
Then he closed his eyes and lay back, his face pained momentarily.
‘I thought I was at home,’ he said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bunk. ‘A summer’s day ahead with fields to walk, flowers and blossoms to smell . . .’
‘Sorry, dear boy,’ Gavor said repentantly.
Hawklan reached out and a laid his hand on the raven’s iridescent plumage. ‘Hardly your fault, old friend,’ he said, smiling again, then, more matter of fact, ‘How’s the wing this morning?’
Gavor extended it gently. ‘Creaking,’ he said. ‘But better. I think the knees are going though, with all this walking.’
‘Knee,’ corrected Hawklan.
‘Spare me the pedantry at this time of morning, dear boy,’ Gavor said, jumping down from the bunk and landing with a grunt. ‘Just because it’s not there doesn’t mean I can’t feel it. And it’s stiff.’
The statement
was definitive and Hawklan did not pursue it.
‘Well, can you manage a walk to the mess tent?’ he asked, standing.
Gavor inclined his head pensively, then with an awkward flapping, bounced up on to the bed and thence on to Hawklan’s shoulder.
He was still sitting there an hour later when Hawklan rode across to the nearby camp that the Muster had established. As they approached, a small crowd began to form at the edge of the camp. Gavor started to preen himself.
The crowd, however, seemed to be interested predominantly in Serian, Hawklan himself being greeted with an uneasy politeness.
As on the battlefield, Serian led him to Urthryn.
The Ffyrst’s tent was larger and more elaborate than the undecorated field tents that stood in ranks around it, but not ostentatiously so. An officer of some kind stood outside it; no mean fighter, Hawklan judged, probably a bodyguard, and vaguely familiar.
He dismounted and introduced himself.
‘I saw you on the field, Lord,’ replied the officer eyeing Gavor narrowly.
Hawklan looked at him, ‘Ah,’ he said diffidently after a moment, ‘I remember. I pulled you off your horse, didn’t I?’
The man nodded, then the question burst out of him. ‘You lifted me out of the saddle as if I was a child! I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I’ve never felt anything like it. How did you do it?’
Hawklan laughed at the man’s unrestrained curiosity, though not unkindly. ‘Don’t concern yourself. You handled your lance well. I’ve had remarkable teachers in my time.’ Then, more seriously: ‘If your wish to learn overrides your sense of indignity at being unhorsed by an Orthlundyn, then you’re halfway there already. If time allows we’ll talk further.’
Before the man could pursue the matter, the entrance to the tent opened and the figure of Urthryn appeared. He started a little at the sight of Hawklan and Gavor.
The officer saluted and Hawklan bowed.
‘May we speak before the meeting, Ffyrst?’ he said.
Urthryn looked at him enigmatically for a moment, then he nodded to the guard and with a slight bow ushered Hawklan into the tent.
