Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  Inside, Urthryn offered Hawklan a plain wooden seat, taking a similar one himself. The two men looked at one another in awkward silence for a few moments.

  ‘I came to thank you for recalling your people from the pursuit of the Morlider,’ Hawklan said eventually. ‘In the heat of the moment, my asking . . . lacked tact . . . as did my conduct in the hospital tent. I know now that you and your people suffered dreadful losses at Creost’s hands in the south. Losses that cried out – still cry out – for vengeance.’

  Urthryn was silent for a moment, watching his unexpected guest carefully. He seemed to be struggling with an inner debate. ‘You have a gift for understatement, Orthlundyn,’ he said at last, his voice angry. ‘You charge through our ranks on one of our own horses, I note – disarm two of my best men as if they were fractious children, order me to call back the Line from full pursuit. Then you chase me to my bed when you can scarcely stand yourself. Your conduct lacked tact indeed . . .’ He stopped suddenly and looked down at his hands. The sound of bustling activity outside filtered into the silence.

  When he looked up, his face was distressed but his manner was calmer. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I’m walking through the mangled corpses on that beach. Corpses as far as you can see. Young and old, men and women. And horses. And . . . seagulls everywhere, screeching and squabbling, I hear them too.’ He put his hands to his ears uneasily. Hawklan resisted the temptation to reach out to him. Such a man, he knew, understood his own pain and needed to face it unaided.

  ‘If it’s not that, then it’s the relentless pounding of the journey we made, shaking my whole body even yet. Pushing myself beyond all pain and hurt and pulling the others behind me to avenge all that. Riding as Muster riders have never ridden before. And then to arrive and find we were too late.’

  His face contorted and he leaned to one side slightly, swinging his arm low as if seizing something. He clenched his fist tight to stop the gesture. ‘I’d like to use those Morlider prisoners in the Helangai,’ he said savagely. ‘Smash and crush them. Let them suffer as we and our kin suffered.’

  Hawklan’s eyes widened in distress at this outburst but he said nothing.

  The spate ended as abruptly as it had begun. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Urthryn said. ‘You understand, don’t you? To have such things happen to those in your charge can hardly be borne.’

  Hawklan nodded.

  Urthryn looked at him intently. ‘You owe me no thanks for stopping the pursuit,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s I who should thank you for interceding and preventing an atrocity that would have stained us forever. As for the hospital, well, we were all sick at heart there. I’d hoped, twenty years ago, to have seen the last of such handiwork.’

  Hawklan relaxed into his hard chair. Urthryn caught the movement and, for the moment eased of his burden, smiled slightly. Hawklan responded and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  Urthryn’s smile widened and he scratched his head: another small homely gesture to distance further his recent painful outburst. ‘I’ve never seen an outlander who could sit on one of our camp chain and look comfortable before. But then I’ve never seen anyone – anyone – ride like you did towards that . . .’ he waved a hand as he searched for a word. ‘That screeching monstrosity and those abominations riding it.’ He warmed to the subject. ‘It was a pity your arrows didn’t bring them all down. As for your crow . . . Gravy, here . . . well . . .’

  Gavor leaned forward indignantly.

  ‘No,’ Hawklan said quickly, laughing in spite of himself, and shaking his head. ‘Some wiser impulse guided my aim. If I’d killed their steed I’d have deprived them of the option of fleeing and they’d have destroyed us all for sure. Gavor’s attack panicked both them and Usgreckan into flight. We were fortunate that calmer counsels didn’t prevail.’

  Urthryn looked doubtful but did not pursue the matter. His earlier rage seemed to have ebbed totally. It would return from time to time, Hawklan knew; that could not be avoided. But each time, it would be less.

  ‘Sylvriss was right,’ Urthryn said suddenly. ‘You’re a remarkable man.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘Are you sure you don’t have Riddinvolk stock in you somewhere? The Orthlundyn are notoriously careless about their bloodlines, you know.’

  ‘So Agreth has mentioned,’ Hawklan replied, then, deflecting the conversation, ‘Is your daughter well?’ he asked.

  Urthryn smiled contentedly. ‘She was when we left,’ he said. ‘Blooming, in fact.’ His smile became sadder. ‘Despite the news we’d had to bring from the beach.’

  ‘Perhaps when one of your messengers returns to Dremark, you’d tell her I’m whole again and that I’ll be ever in her debt, and in the debt of her child,’ Hawklan said.

  Urthryn looked puzzled and a little suspicious, but he nodded. ‘Well, I can’t pretend to understand what you mean by that,’ he said. ‘But bewilderment is also becoming my normal condition these days. Of course, I’ll send her any message you want.’ Then, standing, he held out his hand.

  ‘Now we’ve made our small peace, shall we ride to the Council of War together? See if we can make the future better than the past?’

  * * * *

  The tent used by the Orthlundyn as a Command Centre was barely large enough to accommodate the many people who gathered at Andawyr’s behest, but eventually everyone found somewhere to sit, stand or lean.

  Andawyr, Hawklan, Urthryn and Loman sat at one end facing the others. By common consent, and to the quiet mockery of his countrymen, Dacu found himself given charge of the meeting.

  Unexpectedly, Urthryn asked to speak first. There was a profound stillness in the tent as he told of the great gathering of the General Muster and of the terrible destruction wrought on it by Creost’s cunning.

  ‘Cadmoryth and the fishermen repaired two of the Morlider’s own boats and sailed northward on who knows what impulse. They offered no reason, nor made any debate, they just hoisted sail and left. I haven’t the words to honour them sufficiently.’ He looked down, unable to proceed for a moment.

  ‘Then Oslang told us we should travel north, and within days we met Agreth.’ He looked across at his adviser. ‘An epic journey also, Line Leader, to be honoured in due time,’ he said. Then, turning back to his audience, ‘All else, you know.’

  He paused again. ‘Save this.’ He straightened up. ‘Our loss on that beach all but tore the heart from our people. While the fishermen showed us the way by pursuing the enemy, we celebrated our grief in petty bickering.’ He turned to Hawklan, his face pained. ‘Only one in six of our houses rode to this field; forty or so squadrons. And, thanks to our debating, even we arrived too late to spare some of your people. Others may join us, I don’t know. I’ve sent the news of the happenings here to all, but travelling’s difficult and we left the Moot in great disarray.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You reproach yourself too much, Ffyrst,’ Andawyr said before Hawklan could reply.

  ‘I’m no longer Ffyrst,’ Urthryn said. ‘I doubt the office can exist in such turmoil.’

  Andawyr waved the comment aside. ‘Names, titles, offices,’ he said, almost contemptuously. ‘You are here, Urthryn of the Decmilloith of Riddin, Son of the Riddinvolk. You came to fulfil the duty of the Muster and defend your land, and none could have done more from what I hear. That circumstances prevailed against you was none of your doing. You owe yourself no reproach. We’ve all failed in different ways and paid our different prices before we came to this place. The only crime we can commit now is to drag these failings behind us instead of moving forward. You command the loyalty of your forty squadrons and they’ve been spared for a future time.’

  Urthryn opened his mouth to speak, but Andawyr’s hand came up to silence him.

  ‘With Dar Hastuin by his side, hurt though he was, not ten, fifty, a hundred times your forty squadrons would have prevailed against Creost if Cadmoryth hadn’t struck him down and given us the chance to tear the control of the islands from him. At
elon and I were almost spent when that happened. The fisherman and the bird tipped the balance and gave us the day.’

  He leaned back in his seat and spread out his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘And if you’d been with us, how would even your horses have fared when Dar Hastuin’s Viladrien was destroyed?’

  Urthryn nodded reluctantly. The Muster’s only casualties had occurred in the panic that ensued when the sight and sound of that awful destruction had reached them. He stood silent for some time.

  No one sought to speak.

  ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re right, Cadwanwr, though the rightness quiets my head more than my belly. Perhaps time will attend to that.’ He turned to Hawklan. ‘I place myself and my riders at your command. Those who come after must make their own decisions.’

  Hawklan bowed. ‘Place them at the command of Loman,’ he said. ‘The army is his. My task is to find and waken the first of the Guardians, Ethriss.’

  Urthryn gaped. ‘How . . .?’ he began.

  ‘I can answer none of your questions, Ffyrst,’ Hawklan said, before he could continue. ‘That would be to destroy us all. Our army will oppose His army, the Guardians and the Cadwanwr will oppose the Uhriel, but only Ethriss can oppose Sumeral and only I can find and waken him.’ He looked at Urthryn intently.

  Urthryn turned to Loman who returned his gaze steadily.

  ‘Loman built this army, brought it through the mountains, fought this battle,’ Hawklan went on. ‘If you’d help us, then you must go with him to Fyorlund and join with the Lords to assault Derras Ustramel itself. If not, then perhaps you’d give us supplies to help us on our way – we’re already woefully short.’

  Urthryn swayed, momentarily disorientated by the urgency and strangeness of Hawklan’s words set against the endless, pounding familiarity of his recent journey and the sight of the man-made carnage on the battlefield. Then other, stranger, scenes came to him: the colourful flotilla of empty boats eerily approaching the shore, and the great wave that swept away so many riders and divided the rest into squabbling bands; then the glaring brilliance and tumult of the dying Viladrien, and the fearful screaming of Usgreckan. In some way he could not fathom, he knew that all true choices were gone. And these people had saved his land.

  He saluted Loman. ‘Together to Fyorlund and Derras Ustramel then,’ he said.

  Loman smiled broadly and, standing up, wrapped the startled Riddinwr in a powerful embrace. There was some laughter after Urthryn disentangled himself and rubbed his ribs ruefully.

  As though a cloud had moved from the sun, the atmosphere in the Command Tent relaxed and the discussion turned quickly to practical matters.

  It transpired that the Orthlundyn’s supplies were indeed now dangerously low. Nor were the Muster much better placed, they also having come there in haste. Such food as was found in the remains of the Morlider camp had been destroyed either by fire in the Helyadin’s attack or by the Morlider themselves as they charged through all that stood in their way to reach their ships.

  And there were prisoners, sick and well, to feed and to dispose of.

  Hawklan cast an anxious glance at Urthryn as the topic arose, but the Ffyrst gave no sign of a return of his earlier rage. ‘We’ll tend to the prisoners fittingly,’ he said. ‘If the islands are truly gone then it may be a generation before they return but what we do now may determine what happens then.’

  Andawyr and Hawklan exchanged glances. ‘What will you do with them?’ Hawklan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Urthryn admitted. ‘For now we’ll have to make a camp for them of some kind, then slowly settle those that want to stay into different Houses.’

  ‘And those that don’t?’ Hawklan asked.

  Urthryn blew out a noisy sigh. ‘Take them to the south or let them make their own boats and sail away.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. The smell of that beach and the noise in that hospital tent will be with me forever. We’ll do nothing that might have the seeds of such happenings in them for the future.’

  ‘And if the Moot has other ideas?’ Hawklan said.

  ‘The Moot only has authority over the Houses when the conduct of one threatens another in some way,’ Urthryn said off-handedly.

  ‘This is all we can do now, Hawklan,’ Dacu said, cutting across Hawklan’s next question. ‘We’ve more pressing problems to discuss, not the least of which, after supplies, is how we’re going to get the army and Urthryn’s squadrons up into Fyorlund.’

  It was a timely point. The traditional route through the mountains from Riddin to Fyorlund, that taken by Sylvriss and Rgoric’s wedding party many years ago, entered the mountains far to the south and west of their present position. It would be a long dispiriting journey for the weary Orthlundyn.

  ‘The route we followed when we came through with the Queen could be used,’ Yengar volunteered. ‘It’s due north from here. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be a lot shorter. We have it detailed in our journals.’

  The journals were produced and the meeting slipped easily into discussing the considerable logistical problems associated with moving the army and the Muster through the mountains.

  Despite his concerns about the dismay amongst the Houses, Urthryn had no doubts about the willingness of the Riddinvolk to provide adequate supplies for the expedition and the ability of the Muster to carry them at least as far as the mountains, thereby considerably easing the Orthlundyn’s burden. It would be no easy task, he conceded, but it could be, and it would be, done.

  The mountains, however, presented other problems.

  ‘This route might be manageable by your infantry and their few horses, but it’ll be too difficult for so much cavalry, especially as there’ll still be a lot of snow about when we get there,’ was Urthryn’s conclusion after Yengar’s notes had been carefully studied.

  ‘And it concerns me that we know nothing of what’s going on in Narsindal,’ he went on. ‘After what’s happened, we’ve no alternative but to assume that there’s a substantial army up there – or armies – and for all we know, they could be marching down the Pass of Elewart right now. Perhaps the Uhriel didn’t flee, perhaps they simply went for reinforcements.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Andawyr said. ‘The Pass is being watched along almost its entire length. We’d have received news if anything untoward had happened.’

  Urthryn looked at him paternally. ‘Always assuming that the . . . brother . . . carrying the message hasn’t got lost walking through the snow,’ he said. Andawyr pursed his lips and sniffed.

  Urthryn beckoned Agreth forward. ‘Get two patrols out straight away. One to the Pass and the caves to find out whether anything’s happening and to establish a message line, the other to mark out the best route to the mountains for the army. And make a start on this supply problem right away.’

  As Agreth departed, Urthryn shot a broad, conciliatory smile at the slightly discomfited Andawyr. ‘Give the patrol whatever messages you need to send to your people,’ he said.

  Then he sat back and stared pensively at the charts that had been produced during the discussion.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Hawklan asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘“Want” isn’t the word I’d have chosen,’ Urthryn replied. ‘I don’t think we’ve any choice. We’ll have to go through the Pass and along the southern edge of Narsindal to the Tower to meet the Lords’ army.’

  Hawklan agreed.

  ‘It’s a long journey, through territory that’s hostile enough without having an actual enemy in it,’ Dacu said. He indicated Yengar and Olvric. ‘One of us will have to go with you. We’re the only ones here who’ve ever ridden the Watch.’

  ‘And one or more of us,’ added Andawyr.

  Urthryn smiled and bowed in acknowledgement. ‘All we need now are more riders,’ he said resignedly.

  The following day marked, for most, the true end of the battle on the unnamed beach. The dead were buried. More correctly, they were honoured; burial of the Morlider dead had
been under way almost continuously since the actual fighting had ended.

  They were laid in great pits just below the storm line of the beach. Toran Agrasson, shocked at the betrayal of his people by Creost, and bemused by the treatment he and the other prisoners were receiving at the hands of the victors, organized the grim work. ‘We give our dead to the sea,’ he said, sweating as he hacked at the frozen ground. ‘But so many so close to the shore . . .’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll rest easy enough here, touched by the sea when the winds blow fierce and strong.’

  Apart from Cadmoryth and his crew, the only Riddinwr to perish was the young boy who had died under his sledge. He was carried back to his village by Hawklan and Urthryn, and laid to rest under a snow-laden tree. ‘He used to sit in it with his friends for hours in the summer,’ said his distraught grandmother. ‘What am I going to tell his parents, Ffyrst?’

  Urthryn took her hand. ‘I’ve no words for the death of a child,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘For whatever comfort it gives, the healer here tells me he didn’t suffer. And he was helping Riddin’s true friends fight a cruel and treacherous foe. There are worse ways to die. In due time we’ll honour his name in the Lines, but . . . I’m sorry.’

  He was very silent as they rode back to the camp, speaking only once. ‘For all I know, Creost may have killed his parents too,’ he said bitterly. Hawklan did not reply.

  The Orthlundyn chose a small hillock overlooking the sea for the burial of their few dead. Isloman recovered a large rock from the shore and polished it smooth to serve as a simple, unmarked headstone in the Orthlundyn tradition. Hawklan stood for a long time staring down at the stone after the others had left.

  ‘There’s no answer,’ Gavor said into the long silence.

  Out of the many expressions of sadness and grief that day, that for Cadmoryth and the other fishermen was the most formal. Usually a fisherman was buried as the Orthlundyn had chosen, in some spot overlooking the sea. However, those who died at sea were, like the Morlider, given to the sea.

  ‘But they should not be slid quietly into the cold waves, they should be sent the old way,’ was the will of the surviving fishermen. In the lore of the fishing communities it was said that before they had come to Riddin they had been a great seafaring race and that the greatest among them in those times were sent to their final resting places in a blazing ship.