Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  Dar-volci stood on his hind legs and scratched his stomach idly, then he put a large pebble into his mouth. Various among the watchers put their hands to their ears to avoid the teeth clenching crack as he crushed it with gleeful relish.

  ‘It’s just a knack we have,’ he said, spitting out fragments. ‘We learnt it a long time ago.’

  Andawyr looked almost angry at this response and seemed inclined to pursue the matter, but Dar-volci dropped down on to all-fours, turned away and began lolloping back towards the shelter. ‘More importantly,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I think it would be better if we all left as soon as possible, don’t you? It seems our luck is turning.’

  Andawyr snorted, then nodded in reluctant agreement. He looked at Hawklan. ‘Do you feel up to walking?’ he said.

  ‘I’d rather walk than rest,’ Hawklan said. ‘I think all of us would. I’d certainly like to put some stern effort in before facing my next dreams. And I agree with Dar-volci. If there’s one thing down here that’s prepared to eat people, there may be others. I think we should leave right away.’

  No one argued with this suggestion and the group stripped and packed the shelter with unprecedented speed.

  When they moved off, the front and rear torches were brighter than before and each was flanked by two drawn swords.

  They walked in silence for some time, the only sounds being the rustle of clothing, the muffled padding of footsteps and the heavy breathing as they laboured up the steep incline.

  Eventually the slope became less severe and Hawklan moved next to Andawyr. ‘Was that one of His creatures?’ he asked. ‘From the First Coming?’

  The Cadwanwr shook his head. ‘No,’ he said definitely. ‘I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t one of His, I’m sure. Had it been, the Sword would have cleaved it in half. As it was, only the sunlight from the torch and Dar-volci’s teeth affected it.’

  ‘I was hardly on balance,’ Hawklan said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was a bad strike.’

  Andawyr was shaking his head again even as Hawklan spoke. ‘The blow was sound enough, Hawklan, and the creature felt it, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ Hawklan prompted.

  ‘Look at the grip of the sword,’ Andawyr said.

  Hawklan drew the sword and examined the grip. The twisting threads that ran through it, and the strange distant universe of twinkling stars that permeated it, were dull and flaccid, reduced to a clever patterning that might be found on any well-made sword.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  Andawyr looked distressed. ‘This place is . . .’ He hesitated and his voice fell as if he did not wish to speak the words. ‘This place is . . . from before the Great Searing. It’s from a time before time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hawklan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Andawyr replied, as if he was profoundly fearful of the question. ‘We thought that such depths might exist. We’ve even, perhaps unknowingly, touched upon them in our own searchings. But we never in our wildest conjectures imagined . . .’ His voice fell even lower. ‘. . . living creatures . . .’

  He seemed desperately reluctant to continue.

  ‘Are the felci from here, then?’ Hawklan pressed. ‘Dar-volci knew about the sphrite.’

  Andawyr did not answer for some time, then, in a resigned voice, he said again, ‘I don’t know. These questions have taxed and fretted us through generations, Hawklan. It’s no good asking Dar either, you’ll get no sense from him. Nor any of them. They just laugh and run away if you ask them about such matters – as if we were children.’

  He shook his head as if to rid himself of the problem. ‘It’s a matter for another time, Hawklan,’ he said brusquely. ‘But I fear even then it’ll be utterly beyond our understanding. It serves no purpose here, other than to cloud our judgement with needless . . . academic . . . concerns.’

  Hawklan looked down at the little man, bent slightly as he walked up the incline. He had never seen him so lost and hesitant.

  ‘It affects your faith in the Old Power,’ he said softly, with sudden realization.

  Andawyr turned away from him as if an icy breeze had blown in his face. ‘Faith is nothing without doubt,’ he said bleakly, then he waved his hand to end the discussion finally.

  Hawklan’s every inclination was to pursue the question. Something important lay there, he felt, but he feared the consequences of the inner distress that it was patently causing Andawyr. He nodded and fell silent to allow the Cadwanwr to recover his composure. Tentatively he tested his ribs again.

  ‘Are you breathing all right?’ Andawyr asked, as Hawklan winced, his voice louder than necessary and reflecting his anxiety to return to matters of the moment.

  ‘Yes,’ Hawklan replied. ‘It hurts a little, but there’s nothing broken and time will ease it. I’ll be better walking than resting.’

  ‘If you’re certain,’ Andawyr said.

  Catching Andawyr’s solicitous tone, Gavor leaned forward. ‘I’m still getting the odd twinge from my wing, dear boy,’ he said. ‘My sprained pectoral, you know. Certain parties have been really quite off-hand about it. And I think I’ve bruised my beak on that thing, as well.’

  Andawyr gave him a sidelong look. ‘Rest is what you need for a beak injury,’ he said. ‘Keep it closed. Less food, less talking.’

  Gavor looked at him beadily for a moment and then, with an injured snort, returned to his sentry vigil, peering into the darkness ahead.

  They came across no more strange creatures as they marched steadily on through the remainder of the night, though occasional cries reached them, and the walls and floors of the various tunnels and chambers they passed through were scratched and scarred.

  There was little conversation as each individual concentrated on putting both distance and time between the present and the frightening events that had come in such rapid succession to disrupt their journey.

  Eventually, Isloman and Andawyr looked at one another and stopped.

  ‘Dawn,’ they said simultaneously. ‘Let’s rest and eat.’

  No one disputed the command, but as they settled themselves down on the hard floor and began delving into their various packs, Tirke said, ‘I don’t believe this double act of yours, you know. Dawn, sunset, etc. My stomach says we’re at least six meals behind.’

  Gavor agreed.

  Andawyr shook his head in a leisurely manner. ‘That’s because you’re young and hasty, Tirke,’ he said.

  ‘As opposed to being old and greedy, like Gavor,’ someone said. Gavor looked up from his food indignantly, but was unable to identify the offender amongst the laughing faces before his appetite drew him back again.

  ‘What you have to understand, Tirke,’ Andawyr went on as the laughter died down, ‘is that older people such as Isloman and I are naturally far wiser than callow youths such as yourself. Not only that, we have greater self-discipline, superior powers of concern . . .’

  His eulogy ended abruptly as several large gloves and other articles of clothing arced towards him through the torchlight, in a spontaneous, noisy, and widely supported rebellion.

  The torches seemed to flare up at the renewed laughter as it carried away much of the tension that had accumulated in the group since they had been attacked by the sphrite.

  When they had eaten, they rested for some time. Hawklan examined Yrain’s finger and as he did so, Dar-volci clambered over the sprawled bodies and curled up beside her. She put her other arm around him.

  Pronouncing himself satisfied with the wound, Hawklan re-dressed it and then leaned back against the tunnel wall. It gave him great solace to be a healer again.

  The conversation fell to their position and their progress.

  Andawyr announced that he felt they were now past the deepest part of their journey, but necessarily he could give no clear indication about where they were.

  ‘I think we’re beyond the Pass, however,’ he said, to exclamations of considerable surprise. ‘I think we’re s
omewhere under the southern border mountains.’

  ‘We must head upwards as soon as possible, then,’ Dacu said. ‘Too far west might bring us within sight of the seeing stones at Narsindalvak.’

  ‘I know,’ Andawyr said, a little shortly. ‘But we’re searching now not just for a way out, but for the Vrwystin a Goleg if you remember. With that free, any appearance on the surface is liable to be seen.’

  The reminder of the reason for their hasty departure from the Caves of Cadwanen, dampened the spirits of the group a little.

  ‘What kind of a creature is it that lies in one place and has its eyes everywhere?’ Dacu said, frowning. ‘How can such a thing be?’

  ‘More to the point, how can we find it in this endless maze?’ Tybek added. ‘And if we do find it, how do we know we’ll fare any better than we did against those . . . things . . . down there?’

  Andawyr looked at Dacu. ‘It’s His creature, Goraidin, an abomination, and like all his creatures, it does what it does at some great cost – either to someone or something, or both. Destroying it will do far greater good than just protecting us.’

  He turned to Tybek. ‘And we’ll find it through knowledge,’ he said.

  Tybek looked at him owlishly.

  ‘No, but I know about it,’ Andawyr said, answering his unspoken question. ‘I’ve faced it, wrestled with it, and made it know fear. For a timeless blink of the eye, I was it, and it, me. My knowledge of our needs will bring me to it just as they’ve brought us through these caves.’

  ‘I won’t pretend to understand,’ Tybek said. ‘But I’ve followed you blindly so far and I suppose I’ll continue to do so.’ He pounded his leg in emphasis. ‘But this thing could be anywhere.’

  Andawyr smiled. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not anywhere. It will be deep below ground. Bedded to a certain kind of rock. A rock that I fear you carvers will feel before I do. And thus it can only be in these southern mountains. As for destroying it, well, rest assured, we’ll have a greater chance than we had against the sphrite and the other denizens of these caves we’ve met.’

  Hawklan looked at Tybek and the others. They were none of them wholly satisfied by what Andawyr had said, but the brief exchange had made them easier simply by voicing their hidden fears.

  After they had rested a little longer, the consensus was to move on and make camp at such a time as the ‘elders’ declared it was evening.

  Thus they set off once again, following Andawyr into the darkness. They moved steadily through the day, meeting no animals, nor coming upon any vast open spaces, though the tunnels and caverns through which they passed still had an eerie aura about them, the more so as the walls were not infrequently riddled with numerous smaller openings.

  The route they followed was generally upwards. Indeed, some of the inclines they encountered were both rugged and steep, though the relief at moving dramatically nearer the surface far outweighed the discomfort of the effort involved.

  When finally they camped, it was in a wide cavern through which a small stream tumbled noisily. Its water was bitterly cold, but it was pronounced fresh and, after everyone had refilled their water bags, the hardier amongst them endeavoured to remove the excess grime that had accumulated on their journey.

  Isloman caused no small stir by stripping to the waist and then both scrubbing and drying himself with rolling handfuls of small pebbles that he had gleefully spotted on the bed of the stream. Having witnessed such a sight many times before Hawklan laughed openly at the discomfiture of the others. When he had finished, Isloman was glowing. Beaming, he held out two great handfuls of the pebbles to the gaping watchers, a look of invitation in his eyes, but the curious circle widened suddenly with much head shaking, and, with a loud chuckle and an oddly gentle movement, Isloman returned the pebbles back to the stream.

  As the small commotion died away, Hawklan’s gaze fell on Yrain. She was drying her hands and looking at them closely: the bandaged finger, shorter than the others, the split and broken nails, the calluses and roughened skin that gloves had failed to prevent, the dirt which the cold stream water could not move. They were like those of a man who had been toiling long in the field. Quietly she walked away from the camp and sat on a rock with her head bowed.

  After a while, Hawklan went over to her. She looked up as he approached; her face was tear-stained. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, streaking the tears across her face with the back of her hand.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he replied simply. ‘Do you want to talk about anything . . . your hand?’

  Yrain held out her injured hand and turned it over once or twice, her face set. ‘I’d rather be doing almost anything in the world than this,’ she said, though her voice was quiet and calm.

  Hawklan bowed his head. Yrain continued examining her hands.

  ‘They cut that girl from Wosod Heath to pieces, didn’t they?’ she went on after a long silence, gently, curiously almost, massaging the end of her mutilated finger.

  Hawklan frowned for a moment, until the memory of the fallen skirmisher charging alone against the enraged Morlider came back to him. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want that to happen to me,’ Yrain said.

  Hawklan could not find the words to answer her. ‘She was dead when it happened,’ he offered.

  Yrain’s eyes pivoted up to his though her head did not move. They were dark with scorn and anger. For a moment Hawklan felt a seething anger of his own rise in response, but he forced it down, and as he did so, Yrain’s own expression changed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I suppose I’m in shock, aren’t I?’

  ‘A little, maybe,’ Hawklan replied. ‘But mainly you’re just facing up to feeling lost and frightened. You’ll be the stronger for it.’ She looked doubtful, and Hawklan sat down beside her. ‘Look at Isloman and Dacu, over there,’ he said. The big carver, dressed now, but still apparently aglow, was wandering about with the Goraidin, showing him different rocks and talking earnestly. ‘They seem so strong – they are strong – because they face their fears all the time, and they know that only fear of fear is the real enemy. They value everything and cling to nothing.’

  Yrain watched the two men for a moment, then she turned to him, ‘And you, Hawklan?’ she said.

  ‘And me, I hope,’ Hawklan said, with a faint smile. ‘Like you, I’d rather be doing almost anything in the world than this.’ He looked at her and sensed her easing away from her pain a little. ‘But like them, I won’t let that desire burden me.’ He stood up and looked down at her. ‘Nor will you, Yrain; you know that. Or when they move to cut you to pieces, they’ll succeed, won’t they?’

  She grimaced as she nodded, then pulled her gloves on determinedly. ‘Andawyr wants you,’ she said, standing up and nodding her head towards the Cadwanwr who was gesticulating vigorously from one end of the chamber.

  Hawklan looked at her for a moment.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’m all right now. It was just a little tiredness.’ She held up her gloved hand. ‘Look, five fingers,’ she said, smiling ruefully.

  As Hawklan walked over to Andawyr, he saw that the little man was signalling Isloman also.

  ‘What is it?’ Hawklan said, as both he and Isloman reached him.

  ‘This way,’ Andawyr said. ‘See what you think.’

  Turning up his torch he led them away from the camp and around a rocky outcrop. Beyond it lay another chamber about the same size as the one they were camped in.

  ‘Here,’ he said, moving up a small slope along one side.

  As the two men followed him, the shadows gave way to reveal a series of openings in the wall.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘Which way?’

  The two men looked at him uncertainly. Apart from the Alphraan at the depths of their journey, not once had Andawyr asked for advice on the choice of route, and these openings seemed no different from countless others that he had chosen between previously.

  ‘Well . . .?’ he pressed.

  Hawklan was about to
protest his ignorance when Isloman stepped past him and walked to one of the openings. He stood there for a moment then stepped inside and, without turning, beckoned Hawklan.

  As he walked forward, Hawklan faltered. Faintly, he felt something; something repellent. Then it was gone, like a distant cry carried by a powerful wind.

  Isloman too was leaning forward, his face intent, as if trying to catch an elusive sound or scent.

  Hawklan became aware of Andawyr by his side, expectant, but silent.

  Isloman turned to the Cadwanwr. ‘This is the rock that this creature lives in?’ he asked.

  Andawyr nodded.

  Isloman blew out an anxious breath. ‘It sings a bad song. If we must go this way we mustn’t linger.’

  Andawyr did not reply. ‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘What do you feel here?’

  Hawklan walked slowly along the tunnel for a little way. The sensations came and went, still evading his full perception tantalizingly, but nevertheless, they were unmistakable. Here was the corruption he had seen jigging a demented marionette on a tinker’s hand at Pedhavin; the corruption he had seen in the aura that surrounded Oklar at Vakloss, and Creost and Dar Hastuin on the battlefield in Riddin.

  ‘Him,’ he said softly.

  Chapter 25

  The Fyordyn had turned out to welcome the Orthlundyn army with no small enthusiasm, but that was a mere fraction of the welcome they afforded to their Queen when she returned with her baby son.

  The weather was the sourest-faced guest present at her reception, choosing to assail the crowd with a cold blustery wind laced with occasional flurries of icy rain, but it could not prevail against so well entrenched an opponent as the genuine pleasure of the Fyordyn.

  The city streets were alive with milling crowds, all waving flags and coloured ribbons. Weaving amongst them were lines of High Guards, once again in the formal uniforms of their Lords, and charged with the task of gently maintaining some semblance of order. From the houses and buildings hung all manner of buntings and other colourful decorations, swaying and dancing joyously in the peevish wind.