Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  As she neared the stables she heard the unsteady clatter of hooves and an anxious voice torn between coaxing and cursing. She quickened her pace.

  Turning the corner she came into the smooth flagged courtyard that was bounded on three sides by buildings that Rgoric had had converted into stables suitable for her fine Riddin horses. The upper floors of the building protruded on to arched columns to form a covered walkway and, wandering in and out of the columns, was the source of the small commotion. A High Guard cadet was trying to take the reins of a large horse but the animal kept snatching its head away and then either walking round the columns or gently nudging its would-be captor sideways.

  The boy was red-faced with frustration and despair, and an increasing amount of abuse was seeping into his language as he spoke to the animal. Sylvriss smiled at the sight: the boy must have saddled the horse for her and then tried to sneak a ride on it. Then her smile faded as the horse emerged calmly out of the shadow to avoid another lunge by the boy.

  It was undeniably a Muster horse, but it was unkempt and thinner than it should have been, and it was not one of hers.

  The cadet saw her and stopped his weary pursuit to salute; there was no guilt in his manner.

  ‘I’m sorry, Majesty,’ he said plaintively. ‘It was here when I arrived. I don’t know where it’s come from, or who it belongs to and I just can’t get hold of it.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Sylvriss said reassuringly, quietly walking up to the horse. It watched her, unmoving.

  ‘It’s a Muster horse like one of yours, isn’t it, Majesty?’ the cadet said.

  Sylvriss nodded absently as she stared at the horse, her eyes widening with recognition. ‘It’s more than a Muster horse,’ she said softly, almost to herself.

  ‘You’re Hawklan’s horse, aren’t you?’ she whispered as she laid her hand on the great horse’s neck. ‘You’re Serian.’

  Serian dipped his head and shook it.

  The question, where is Hawklan? rushed into Sylvriss’s mind suddenly, but she set it aside with practicalities. ‘And you’re famished and filthy,’ she said.

  She signalled to the cadet. ‘Open the big stable, move the other horses, get food and water and bring me a brush and comb,’ she said. The boy gaped. ‘Quickly!’ she said urging him on with a wave of the hand.

  Questions cascaded into her mind again as the boy scurried off. Hawklan had gone off with Andawyr and a small party according to Eldric. But what was he doing now, without his horse? And where was he? She looked at Serian carefully. Though untidy and obviously hungry, the horse bore no signs of injury, nor did he seem to be distressed. Indeed his eyes were calm and watchful. For an instant she felt a surge of driving purposefulness that she knew must be the horse’s will.

  ‘You’ve come over the mountains, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re looking for him! No. You’re going to meet him!’ She clenched her fists in frustration. If only she could talk to the animal as Hawklan used to.

  She reached up to take Serian’s reins, then withdrew her hand. ‘Come with me,’ she said, walking away. ‘The big stable has wide doors and I’ll leave them open, have no fear.’ She smiled as she looked back over her shoulder. Even in his present condition, Serian was a splendid horse. Have no fear, she thought, mocking herself. You’d smash those doors with a single kick, wouldn’t you?

  Serian lowered his head and walked after her. Sylvriss spoke again as they walked. ‘I’ll clean you up and sort out your harness – if you wish – and when you’ve eaten, you can return to your . . . quest . . . unhindered.’ Serian pushed her gently in the back, making her laugh.

  Some while later, the cadet dismissed, she was putting the finishing touches to Serian and he was starting to toss his head restlessly.

  ‘All right, all right, don’t be impatient,’ she said, slapping him with the brush. ‘I know you feel better for it, but you’ll feel better still if you’ll let me finish.’

  Serian looked at her reproachfully. Sylvriss laughed. ‘Don’t you make cow’s eyes at me, horse,’ she said. ‘I’m a Muster woman, not some soft-hearted healer you can twist around your hoof. There. You’re done.’

  Serian bent forward and nuzzled her affectionately. Sylvriss stroked him. ‘Oh, you’re a wicked horse,’ she said, laughing again, her lilting Riddin accent suddenly full and rich. Then, more seriously. ‘On with your journey, Serian. Find Hawklan. And thank you for letting me help you.’

  She patted him once more and then walked through the wide stable doors into the courtyard. She did not look back, though she paused slightly and inclined her head when she heard his hooves slowly clattering after her.

  Coming to a small flight of steps, she ran up them and turned as she reached the top to watch the horse leave.

  Serian however, did not move. Instead he walked to the bottom of the steps and stood looking up at her. She stared at him, puzzled.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said after a moment. Serian shifted his feet and kept looking at her; there was a strange look in his eyes, almost as if he were annoyed at being kept waiting.

  Sylvriss looked at him intently. ‘You are looking for Hawklan, aren’t you?’ she said uncertainly, beginning to doubt the promptings that had given her the idea. But they were still there. The horse was journeying, he had stopped here simply for food and attention, she was sure, and now he wanted to be away again.

  Sylvriss held out her hands. ‘Serian, you can go. You’re free, you can . . .’

  Her voice faded as an unexpected and not totally welcome thought came to her. She moved down the steps and took hold of the horse’s head. ‘You want me to come with you, don’t you?’ she said, a little fearfully. Serian bowed and nudged her gently.

  ‘But . . .’

  Sylvriss looked around. Odd patches of snow lingered on the lawns and on the roofs of some of the outbuildings. The familiar walls of the palace towered over her protectively, grey and fatherly against the watery sunlit sky. There was much she had to do here in the Palace, in Vakloss . . . yet she was a Muster woman and the Muster were riding to war . . . and she was Commander of the entire allied army.

  But her son . . .

  Serian shifted his feet again and Sylvriss felt some call within her that would not be denied.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, then she turned and ran back up the steps.

  Minutes later, Hylland was bobbing in her wake as she swept through her rooms.

  ‘No,’ she said, casting a critical eye over her racks of clothes. ‘You were right before, but now I must go.’

  ‘Majesty . . .’ Hylland protested.

  Sylvriss looked at him, brown eyes unmanning him. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘We’re both of us growing stronger daily.’

  ‘Majesty, you can’t take a baby to war!’ Hylland managed at last. ‘You could be killed. He could be killed. There’ll be all manner of hardship; disease, even.’

  Sylvriss paused and looked from her packing to her child, still sleeping, despite the argument.

  ‘Damn you, Hylland,’ she said. ‘I know that. But it makes no difference. If the war is lost then we could all be killed.’ She went over to the crib, adding, distantly, ‘Or worse. He could be turned into some poisoned puppet like his father, and who would there be to save him? I’d rather see him dead than that.’

  Her voice cracked a little and tears sprang to her eyes though she did not weep.

  She turned back to her work, easing Hylland aside as she moved towards a cupboard.

  ‘Hawklan needs that horse, wherever he is, and the horse needs me – probably only to tend him – but he needs me nevertheless,’ she said. ‘Such few tasks as I’ve taken on here can easily be performed by Dilrap and his staff as before, but no one else can help Serian.’ The memory of their tumultuous first meeting came to her, he carrying Isloman and the unconscious Hawklan from Oklar’s wrath, she riding at Rgoric’s bidding to rouse the Lords in the east. ‘He and I have been one before, albeit briefly,’ she said.
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br />   The two antagonists looked at one another.

  ‘Very well, Majesty,’ Hylland said inclining his head resignedly. ‘If you will allow me a few moments.’

  Sylvriss’s eyes narrowed. ‘What for?’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘I too must prepare my travelling kit for the journey,’ Hylland replied blandly.

  Sylvriss’s expression became both concerned and exasperated.

  ‘You won’t be needed,’ she said hastily after an uncertain pause.

  Hylland inclined his head again. ‘As your Majesty wishes,’ he said. ‘In that case I must return to my Lord.’

  Sylvriss drew in a noisy breath but Hylland went on formally before she could speak. ‘I am Lord Eldric’s Healer General, Majesty,’ he said. ‘An officer in his High Guard. Officially I’m on secondment to Palace duty to attend to you and the prince, but if that secondment has now been ended then I must . . .’

  Sylvriss levelled a grim finger at him. ‘Ten minutes, soldier. And I’ll check your travelling kit – and pick your horses. You ride under Muster discipline if you ride with me.’

  * * * *

  Gavor rose into the air, his flapping wings throwing dancing black shadows through the dust-filled torchlight.

  The sound of swords being drawn hissed up after him.

  Hawklan made to step forward towards the Mandroc, but Dacu and Isloman moved in front of him, flanked by Jaldaric and Tirke. Athyr, Tybek, Yrain and Jenna moved to protect Andawyr. Dar-volci chattered his teeth menacingly.

  The Mandroc let out a surprised yelp and then drew a sword and dropped into a menacing crouch. The figures behind it moved forward out of the haze and stood by it. There were three of them in Mathidrin livery and they too were wielding their swords purposefully.

  Hawklan felt his stomach go cold at what he knew he had to do next. He pushed forward between Dacu and Isloman. ‘No prisoners,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Wait!’ Isloman said urgently, seizing his arm. Hawklan glanced at him quickly. His eyes were narrowed and his face was creased with uncertainty.

  The Mathidrin stopped at the same command, then one of them reached up and removed his helmet. The other two copied his example.

  A gasp of disbelief burst out from Dacu and the other Fyordyn.

  ‘Yatsu?’ Isloman said, stepping forward. ‘Lorac? Tel-Odrel? What . . .?’

  But his question disappeared under a sudden torrent of mutual welcomings as the Fyordyn began to greet their countrymen.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ was the common question of the two groups, but before it could be answered, a harsh, guttural voice intruded.

  ‘We must go. This is a bad place. Too near the killing rocks.’ It was the Mandroc and it was addressing Yatsu. Its eyes widened in fear as it pointed toward the tunnel from which Hawklan and the others had emerged, and its voice fell to a terrified whisper. ‘And Amrahl’s . . . creature . . . is down there. Hurry, hurry.’

  ‘Lead on then,’ Yatsu said, lifting his hand for silence. The Mandroc scurried through one of the tunnel openings and Yatsu beckoned the others to follow.

  ‘Follow that?’ Jaldaric said. Hawklan started at the snarling anger in the young man’s voice. As he looked at him, however, the memory returned to him of Jaldaric standing alone in the spring sunshine and facing Aelang and the chanting mob of Mandrocs that was to massacre his friends.

  Hawklan took his arm and felt his dreadful fear and rage. ‘Yatsu is commander,’ he said simply. ‘We talk as we walk.’

  Jaldaric turned to him, his face riven with torment. Hawklan urged him forward. ‘As we walk,’ he repeated forcefully.

  They did little talking for some time however, the route being upwards and the Mandroc setting a fair pace, for all his rolling gait. The concussions and the blasts of air gradually became less frequent and more distant and eventually the pace slowed down. As it did, the questions emerged again.

  ‘What are you doing here, and why are we following . . . that?’ Jaldaric asked, nodding viciously at the back of the Mandroc as he spoke.

  Yatsu raised a conciliatory hand. ‘That’s Byroc,’ he replied. ‘He’s one of the Ivrandak Garn tribe and he hates Sumeral more than we do.’

  Andawyr looked intently at Yatsu as he spoke and then shot Hawklan a look of appreciative surprise.

  ‘Call it what you want . . .’ Jaldaric began.

  ‘Him, Captain!’ Yatsu said grimly. ‘Him! He’s no more a thing than you are.’

  Jaldaric’s eyes blazed momentarily but Yatsu’s stern gaze forbade any further remonstrance.

  ‘Why are we following him, then?’ Jaldaric managed.

  ‘Because he’s saved our lives half a dozen times already and unless anyone here knows any different, he’s the only one who can get us out of here.’ Yatsu’s voice was angry.

  Hawklan came between them. ‘Are these explosions something to do with you?’ he asked Yatsu.

  A white grin displaced the anger in the Goraidin’s grimy face. ‘They certainly are,’ he said. ‘They’re the funeral knell of those stinking mines.’

  Mines! Hawklan thought in some surprise. Andawyr had been right, they had moved well to the west of the Pass.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Yatsu confined himself to a brief operational summary. ‘We’ve been studying them for weeks,’ he said. ‘Even managed to get right inside once or twice. When Lord Eldric told us to destroy them, we sent in a diversionary raid to draw out the guards, sneaked in a group disguised as Mathidrin to open the slave pens . . .’ He faltered and his face became pained at some memory. ‘Then we simply set fire to the storage silos. You’ve never seen anything like it. That stuff is appalling.’

  ‘We?’ queried Hawklan. ‘You three and Byroc here?’

  Yatsu’s expression soured. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There were four companies of us altogether. Veterans and the younger ones we’d trained up. There was some hand to hand fighting with the off-duty guards as we were leaving, and we got separated. The others got away, but we were cut off by the fire, covering their retreat.’

  ‘And Byroc?’ Hawklan asked.

  Yatsu frowned. ‘We came across him in a special cage of his own when the fire drove us underground.’ His voice fell as if he did not wish the Mandroc to hear. ‘I think they had him lined up for something particularly nasty; he just fell on his knees and grovelled when we released him and he’s no coward, believe me.’

  ‘And you trust him?’ Hawklan said.

  ‘He led us to three underground storage units that we never even suspected existed, and helped us fire them safely and get away,’ Yatsu replied. His eyes widened. ‘And you should have seen what he did to the Mathidrin who tried to stop us! Yes, I’m well on the way to trusting him.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Will he speak to me?’ he asked.

  ‘Go and ask him,’ Yatsu replied. ‘He’s got a mind of his own, to put it mildly.’

  Hawklan strode forward to the Mandroc. He sensed many emotions radiating from the powerful figure as he fell in step beside him; suspicion, fear, anger.

  He noticed markings on the Mandroc’s face that he recalled having seen in a book at the Caves of Cadwanen.

  ‘Why do you help us, Byroc, Chief of the Ivrandak Garn tribe, Plains Runner, Leaper of the Crags and Chosen Hunter?’ he said.

  The Mandroc’s various emotions disappeared under a surge of surprise, but apart from a quick sidelong glance he gave no outward sign.

  ‘Because they wish it,’ he said, nodding back at Yatsu and the others. ‘But keep the young one from me. He hates like the black ones.’ His voice was harsh and unpleasant but Hawklan judged that to be because he was speaking in an alien tongue.

  ‘The young one is Jaldaric,’ Hawklan said. ‘Son of a great warrior and chief. His friends were slain by your kind and he himself imprisoned by the leader of the Mathidrin – the black ones. He carries much pain inside, as you do.’

  ‘Imprisoned?’ Byroc said after a long silence.

 
Hawklan nodded. ‘Why were you imprisoned, Byroc?’ he asked.

  Byroc looked back over his shoulder, his eyes whitening, then he opened his mouth and let out a great bellowing whimper of fear that echoed along the tunnel and made Hawklan wince in its intensity.

  ‘Why were you imprisoned?’ Hawklan pressed. ‘And what frightened you back there? There are few things you would flee from.’

  ‘I would flee from Amrahl’s creature,’ Byroc said, quickening his pace, and speaking as if the words were being torn out of him. ‘The all-seeing one.’

  ‘The creature that sees through its yellow-eyed birds?’ Hawklan asked.

  Byroc nodded and quickened his pace.

  ‘It is dead,’ Hawklan said quietly. ‘The raven, the felci, the sound carvers, and this sword slew it. Amrahl’s sight is as yours now.’

  Byroc stopped suddenly, causing some commotion behind. He looked at Hawklan, and then at Gavor, and Dar-volci standing on his hind legs by Hawklan. Tentatively the Mandroc reached out towards the black sword. Hawklan drew it slowly and offered it to him, hilt first. Dacu and Isloman edged forward.

  Byroc however, did not touch the sword but withdrew his hand and stepped back a little, his mouth gaping to reveal his massive canine teeth. Then he looked at Hawklan again. ‘You . . . and these . . . slew Amrahl’s creature?’ he asked, the harshness in his voice softened by awe.

  Andawyr stepped forward. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Byroc stared at the Cadwanwr and then stepped back again in undisguised fear. ‘You are one of His kind,’ he said. ‘You wield the Great Harm, and the sword possesses it too.’

  ‘No, Byroc,’ Andawyr said. ‘I can use the same Power that He does, but it is like . . . fire or water. Whether I use it for harm or good is my choosing . . .’ He screwed his face up with effort and began speaking hesitantly in a harsh, guttural, language.

  The Mandroc replied uncertainly in the same language and a short debate ensued. As it concluded he turned back to Hawklan.

  ‘I do not understand all these things,’ he said, shaking his head massively. ‘Have you truly slain His creature? Do you truly come to oppose Amrahl’s might?’