by Roger Taylor
‘But . . .?’ Hawklan prompted, catching the reservation in the Cadwanwr’s voice.
‘But I daren’t use the Power for fear of Him,’ Andawyr said. ‘Even though we’re deep here.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘We must tread carefully, and make no plans?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Andawyr replied.
Hawklan turned to Isloman. ‘This rock that you hear, Isloman, how dangerous is it? Is it what the Lords spoke of in their mines?’
Isloman nodded. ‘I only know of it from my lore,’ he replied. ‘And from faint murmurs in some rocks I’ve found. I don’t know how dangerous it is, but I do know that its power can’t be seen or felt and that its effects linger and will kill us eventually if we stay near too long.’
Hawklan sheathed his sword and turned to walk back to the camp. ‘So we must tread carefully, make no plans, and hurry,’ he said ruefully.
The following day, however, they set off in good heart. The prospect of nearing the end of their underground journey and, to some extent, even the apprehension about the creature they were seeking out, added a new purposefulness to their march.
Progress however, was not easy. As if through being nearer to the craggy surface of the mountains, the passages and tunnels that Andawyr led them through were jumbled and disordered. Frequently they had to squeeze through narrow gaps and crawl on their bellies beneath rock ceilings that lowered over them with crushing oppressiveness.
And it was wetter. Small streams trickled down some of the passages, and damp patches glistened in their torchlight, like great eyes in the tunnel walls.
Gradually, Hawklan began to realize that he no longer needed to follow Andawyr. The aura of corruption that had come faintly to him the previous evening was guiding him forward now as if it were a rope tied about him.
Isloman however, despite his best endeavours, was becoming increasingly nervous, as were the other Orthlundyn.
‘Either it’s my imagination, or those rocks are bad,’ Athyr said eventually. ‘I’ve never heard rock song like this before. It’s . . . frightening, almost.’ Tybek and the two women nodded in agreement.
‘It’s not your imagination,’ Isloman admitted. ‘And I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Just keep moving.’
The brief exchange meant nothing to the Fyordyn, however, though the anxiety of their companions was necessarily infectious.
Then abruptly they were clambering into a long straight tunnel.
‘This is not natural,’ Isloman said immediately, his face pained.
He signalled Andawyr to shine his torch on the wall. As he ran his hands over the rough surface he frowned. ‘This has been torn out by uncaring hands a long time ago,’ he said. He wrapped his arms about himself as if suddenly chilled. ‘There’s such pain here. Even after all this time.’
Hawklan took his arm.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Isloman said. ‘This is the same torment that I felt from the mines, but now I can accept it.’ He turned to the other Orthlundyn who were beginning to look decidedly unhappy. ‘As can you. Trust me. I know you hear only faintly, but you hear enough to sense truth.’
Suddenly the Guild’s First Carver, Isloman opened his great arms as if to embrace the four Orthlundyn, like so many nervous children. Then he bent forward and spoke softly to them. Hawklan and the others, sensing that their presence might be an intrusion, moved away a little, though Hawklan caught occasional words from the highly technical language that the carvers lapsed into when they were discussing their work.
When Isloman had finished, his charges, though still nervous, seemed to be greatly heartened. He looked at Hawklan and smiled reassuringly.
‘That way,’ he said, pointing.
‘I know,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Dim the torches and move quietly.’
‘We will go ahead.’ The voice of the Alphraan made Hawklan start; they had been silent so long.
‘I’ll come with you,’ came Dar-volci’s deep voice in reply and, before anyone could speak, the felci bounded off into the darkness.
‘I’ll stay here with you, dear boy,’ Gavor said comfortingly to Hawklan.
They walked along the tunnel in silence for a long way. It was relentlessly straight and sloped very gently upwards. After a while, it seemed to Hawklan that the corruption in the air about him hung so thick that it was tangibly burdening his every movement. Andawyr too, seemed to be suffering in some way. The two men encouraged each other forward with an occasional shared glance.
The Orthlundyn also were growing increasingly uneasy, although Isloman’s words seemed to be sustaining them. The Fyordyn, however, were unaffected, though they were well aware that their companions were experiencing increasing difficulties which they could not share.
‘Douse your torches, and wait,’ came the voice of the Alphraan abruptly.
After a brief hesitation, Hawklan signalled to the two torchbearers, and once again the group was plunged into the profound darkness that pervaded this underworld.
Slowly, as they waited in silence, a faint glow appeared in the distance.
‘Go forward quietly,’ said the Alphraan.
The group did as the voice bid them, moving cautiously through the disorienting darkness, and keeping their eyes fixed on the distant glow.
As they neared it, the light gradually began to grow larger and take form. Soon they saw that it marked a sharp bend to the tunnel and that the light was coming from the far side.
The sense of corruption began to throb in Hawklan’s head and he laid his hand on his sword.
‘No,’ said the Alphraan softly. ‘Look first . . . carefully.’
Reluctantly, Hawklan released the sword and signalled the others to wait. They laid down their packs as he moved silently to the inner wall of the bend and cautiously peered round it.
The tunnel ended a few paces away, apparently joining some large well-lit chamber. At first the light was too bright for him to distinguish anything, but as his eyes adjusted he realized that the floor of the tunnel ended suddenly and that the light was coming from some source above.
Beckoning the others, he moved forward warily towards the end of the tunnel. It opened on to a narrow ledge and he paused and looked quickly from side to side before dropping on to his knees to peer over the edge.
With a sudden sharp breath he withdrew his head and made a hasty signal for silence. Then he motioned Andawyr to look.
As the Cadwanwr leaned forward cautiously, he started slightly, but made no other sign of surprise.
The tunnel had emerged about halfway up a large, roughly circular chamber. It was apparently natural though its walls were packed with numerous other tunnel openings and striped with ledges similar to the one they were lying on. These were joined in some places by steps and in others by precarious wooden ladders lashed together with ropes. Around the chambers, rows of Dan-Tor’s globes shed their ghastly light.
Dominating the scene, however, were the birds. Hundreds of them, perched, silent and still, on the lower ledges and the rocks and boulders that strewed the floor of the chamber. Their yellow eyes were blank and dead, yet somehow watchful.
However, Hawklan scarcely noticed the birds. Instead his gaze was drawn inexorably to the far end of the chamber.
There, a shapeless, putrid yellow mass welled obscenely out of the rock wall. Around it, the rock was blackened and stained, and split by pallid white-edged cracks into irregular blocks, giving it a peculiarly diseased appearance. Fanning out around the mass and burrowing into the surrounding rock was a dense web of fine tendrils, and from its centre hung a single excrescence like a closed flower bud.
In Hawklan’s eyes, the whole thing seemed to be rending its way into the present reality, just as had Oklar, Creost and Dar-Hastuin. He felt nauseous.
As Hawklan and Andawyr watched, the mass quivered slightly and Hawklan became aware of the cacophonous din that had filled his mind when he had pursued the bird through the Gretmearc. I
t was like a myriad alien voices full of hatred and venom and it rose to a climax that made him raise his hands to cover his ears, though he knew it would be pointless. Then, abruptly, it stopped, although Hawklan sensed a continuing tremor of disgust and loathing that was coming from some other source. It was the Alphraan, he realized. They too were reacting in some way to the creature and their reaction was so violent that they could not keep it hidden from him.
Slowly the bud began to convulse, and Hawklan saw that it was opening. With each pulse it opened a little further until finally it was spread wide, though the perfection of its shape was somehow disgusting where it should have been beautiful.
At its centre was curled a small brown mass. Suddenly, and without any other movement, two yellow eyes opened in the mass, and then with a violent wriggle it unwound to reveal itself as one of the birds. Hawklan felt cold as he noted that it bore none of the dishevelled incomprehension of a new-born creature. Indeed, with its wide open eyes it seemed to be foully whole. Then its beak gaped and, emitting a nerve-jarring screech, it flew up on to a nearby rock.
There was a flutter somewhere else in the chamber, and Hawklan knew that one of the birds had left as this had taken up its position with the others.
Andawyr edged away from the ledge and wiped his hand across his damp forehead. He motioned the others back around the bend in the tunnel. They looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he whispered, his face haunted. ‘I’ll have to think.’
‘We haven’t much time,’ Isloman said. ‘This is a bad place.’
‘I know, I know,’ Andawyr replied crossly.
‘I think I could hit it with an arrow,’ Hawklan said, but Andawyr shook his head.
‘I think those . . . tendrils . . . connect it to this world,’ he said. ‘We must cut them to destroy it, but how are we going to reach it with those birds there . . .’
‘We will help,’ came the Alphraan’s voice. ‘This is an old enemy and many debts are to be paid here.’
Though the voice was clear and distinct, there was an aura of rage permeating about it that made everyone present quail, though Hawklan detected also great fear.
‘What will you do?’ Andawyr asked hesitantly.
‘Watch and be prepared to strike, when we tell you,’ said the voice without further explanation, although again the words were full of meaning beyond their apparent content; this time they were indisputably commanding. ‘We must join it to know it.’ Then, a caution. ‘Only Hawklan must go. Only he can wield the sword truly. Use it as the Cadwanwr has said: sever the tendrils that hold it to the rock.’
Andawyr gave a resigned nod and motioned the others back to the edge.
‘Make no sudden movements,’ he whispered needlessly.
At first, nothing seemed to be happening, and Hawklan screwed up his eyes in the unpleasant globelight to scan the steps and ladders that would carry him to the chamber floor quickly. He pulled his gloves tight. Once or twice, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw tiny figures flitting about the chamber, but when he turned to look directly at them, there was nothing there.
Then the mass began to quiver again and Hawklan felt the beginning of the dreadful noise curling into his mind. But this time, as it grew, it changed. It was the same and yet different in some way that he could not identify. The hatred that filled it was in some way being sated, and filled with a deep, satisfied, lethargy. The quivering ceased but the noise continued like a loathsome lullaby.
Andawyr tapped him and nodded towards the birds. As he looked, he saw their eyes were slowly closing. Quickly he looked again at the route he must take should the Alphraan need him.
Then all the eyes were closed and Hawklan waited expectantly.
‘The hold is tenuous,’ said the Alphraan, very softly. ‘And taxes us greatly. Strike now, Hawklan. The rest of you be silent and still.’
Before the voice had ended, Hawklan was on his feet and racing silently along the narrow ledge. He reached the first vertical ladder and almost slithered down it.
Dacu drew in a low breath and clenched his hands.
As he landed, Hawklan rolled over the edge of the ledge.
Despite the Alphraan’s injunction, there was a gasp from the group.
But Hawklan was only lowering himself on to the ledge below; it would save him precious seconds.
Andawyr closed his eyes.
Then there was only one long ladder to reach the floor. Hawklan bounced down it four rungs at a time, silently and smoothly.
Landing, he turned and began the brief journey towards the bloated heart of the Vrwystin a Goleg, drawing the sword as he stepped delicately among the apparently sleeping birds.
As he reached the shapeless mass, the awful presence of the creature nearly overwhelmed him, and even though it had been changed by the Alphraan into an eerie sleep song, the Vrwystin’s jabbering chorus still filled his head. Hawklan found himself struggling against an almost paralysing surge of anger and fear as he tried to lift the sword to begin his assault.
Abruptly, and without a sound, the bud that had produced the bird, swung up and pointed itself at him like a blind serpent. Hawklan hesitated, hypnotised by this eyeless intelligence.
The chorus in his head changed. He sensed the Alphraan faltering but, out of the din, a tiny warning whisper darted towards him and, without thinking, he spun round, pressing himself flat against the wall. At the same instant the bud opened and spat out a stream of dark yellow fluid.
He watched in horror as the fluid landed on the floor. It hissed and bubbled for a moment and then sank out of sight into the hole it was dissolving. He tightened his grip of the sword and looked back at the bud. It had closed again but was moving from side to side as if searching.
The Vrwystin’s song changed again and Hawklan sensed a subtle stirring amongst the birds.
Still leaning against the wall, he raised the sword to strike off the bud. As he did so, a fine tendril emerged from the wall and wrapped itself around his other hand. He started at the sudden contact and was about to bring the sword down to sever it when he felt it begin to tighten.
With a frantic tug he tore his hand out of the glove. The tendril withdrew into the wall, cutting the glove in half.
Hawklan jumped away from the wall desperately, but when he turned he found himself staring into the mouth of the bud. It had a disgustingly voluptuous quality that both repelled and held him.
It was opening, he knew, but he knew also that his perceptions were racing far beyond the ability of his body to move. He would not be able to respond quickly enough. The image of the dissolving, bubbling rock, rose to cloud his vision and impede him further with its terror.
Suddenly, the bud juddered away from him. Something had seized it. Hawklan heard the familiar snap of closing teeth.
Dar-volci!
Hawklan’s mind cleared. The felci had his powerful foreclaws about the stem of the bud and was trying to stretch it out and bite it. His fur was standing on end, his eyes were savage, and his lips were curled back to reveal his terrible teeth as Hawklan had never seen them before. It was an awesome sight.
For all its seeming dormancy, however, the Vrwystin was not defenceless. The stem writhed away from the felci’s murderous attack and the bud tried to turn towards him. The movement jerked Dar-volci off his feet and it was obvious that the response was far more powerful than he had expected.
‘The tendrils, Hawklan,’ he shouted making another snapping lunge at the twisting stem. ‘Cut the tendrils.’
The bud spat out another stream of fluid which Dar-volci only avoided by releasing the stem and leaping into the air. As he landed he seized the stem again just as it was retreating into the body of the Vrwystin. He tugged at it savagely, but as he twisted round to bite it, his grip slipped and it retreated again.
Hawklan lifted the sword to help in the ensuing struggle, but the felci was twisting and turning with incredible speed, his jaw
s snapping savagely, while the bud was writhing and spitting in vicious counter-attacks as it tried to withdraw. The combat was one of instinctive animal responses and was far too fast for Hawklan to intervene without risk of injuring the felci.
‘The tendrils, man!’ Dar-volci shouted again angrily in a momentary pause.
Abruptly, the Alphraan’s voice rang out in a plaintive cry. ‘We are failing, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘It is too strong. We cannot maintain its awful dream. Strike now, in the name of pity . . .’
Hawklan lifted the sword to hack through the quivering tendrils, but as he did so the Vrwystin’s clamour changed again, and the sleeping birds suddenly rose up into the chamber in a swirling shrieking cloud, their blank yellow eyes wide.
The bud also seemed to gain new strength and Dar-volci, clinging onto the stem desperately, began to be drawn inexorably into the body of the Vrwystin. Some of the tendrils separated from the wall and began to wave about as if searching.
Hawklan swung the sword. It cut through several of the tendrils, but Hawklan felt a resistance seemingly quite disproportionate to their thickness and number.
He hacked through another cluster. The screaming of the birds around him intensified, though mingled with it he could now hear the Alphraan’s song. Some quality in it, however, told him that while they were still restraining the creature, a dreadful price was being paid, and soon they must fail utterly.
The birds in their erratic uncontrolled flight were beginning to crash into him painfully.
Dar-volci was still heaving on the steadily retreating stem, and swearing profoundly. Suddenly the stem flicked loose making him stagger backwards. As he scrabbled to recover his balance the stem flicked again and coiled a loop around him.
Several of the birds collided with Hawklan simultaneously, sending him staggering.
Dar-volci cried out as the coil began to tighten.
‘Pull Dar!’ came a raucous shout from above. Hawklan looked up as he clambered back to his feet, flailing his arms against the blundering birds. Tumbling down from the high ledge was Gavor. He seemed to be falling like an untidy black bundle, but even amid the turmoil part of Hawklan soared at the consummate flying skill of the great raven as his seemingly disordered fall carried him unhindered through the swirling mass of yellow-eyed birds.
