by Roger Taylor
‘Yes,’ Hawklan said. ‘The creature is truly dead. And many others than we move to oppose Him also.’
There was a low rumbling in Byroc’s throat. ‘I was to be given to it,’ he said. ‘My spirit was to be slowly torn from me and . . .’ His voice deteriorated into a low, moaning, howl. Hawklan looked at Andawyr.
‘The Vrwystin exists on many planes,’ Andawyr said. ‘Even we can feel Byroc’s fear. Those parts of the Vrwystin’s nature that are elsewhere feed on such emotions.’
Hawklan grimaced. ‘And the part that was here?’ he asked.
‘That would feed on flesh and blood,’ Andawyr replied reluctantly.
Hawklan remembered the tendril that had bound his hand and severed his glove. He shuddered.
‘I owe you blood debt for ever,’ Byroc said, suddenly stern. ‘I will go with you even to Amrahl Himself and be your shield.’
Hawklan looked at him. Here was one of the creatures – the savage animals – that had massacred Jaldaric’s patrol, that had cruelly butchered Evison’s entire garrison, that he himself had cut down like so many unwanted weeds in the sunlit Orthlund forest. Here was one of the creatures that formed the heart of Sumeral’s dreadful army during the First Coming; creatures so irredeemable that they had finally been abandoned by the Great Congress and condemned to live in Narsindal under the Watch of the Fyordyn. Yet here too was dignity and some form of honour and, above all, some form of opposition to Sumeral’s domination of this land.
Many things are stirring, said a voice inside him.
‘I release you freely from all debts, Byroc,’ he said. ‘I want no slaves, and your burden is ours. If it’s your will, follow us and fight by us and welcome. All I’ll ask of you now is that you take us from here. We also have been too long away from the sky.’
Byroc stood motionless for a long moment, his head inclined slightly, then he uttered a strange howl, bared his teeth, and began walking up the tunnel again.
The group fell in behind him, but their long underground pilgrimage was nearer its end than they had imagined. Within minutes, they found themselves walking towards a distant grey light that could only be daylight.
As they drew nearer, the light came and went a little as if there were clouds blowing overhead.
And then they were silently edging their way towards the ragged mouth of the tunnel. Cautiously, Isloman crept forward and peered out. In the distance, his carver’s vision could just make out groups of tiny figures running down the rocky slopes towards the grey, mist-covered, sparseness of Narsindal. Overhead, a cloud of dense black smoke was blowing northwards.
He signalled the others to wait, and there was a long silence as they stood motionless, breathing in the cold mountain air and screwing their eyes tight against the brightness of the dull sky.
Crawling forward on his stomach, Yatsu joined Isloman who levelled a cautionary finger at the distant figures. Yatsu nodded, then looked up at the billowing smoke and smiled.
‘Escaping slaves and the remains of the mines,’ he said, and edging back from the entrance he sat up and leaned luxuriously against the rock wall.
The others followed his example.
‘Now,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘Tell us how you come to be here.’
‘In a moment,’ Hawklan replied, turning to Byroc. ‘I need to know first how the chief of the Ivrandak Garn tribe came to be trussed up as a meal for his great Leader’s creature, and then fought and killed His soldiers, and helped destroy His mines.’
‘He is not my leader,’ Byroc replied immediately, his dog-like snout curling viciously. ‘The Ivrandak Garn know no leader but whoever they choose. And I am their chosen, for all they are scattered and broken.’
Hawklan’s eyes narrowed at the pain and bitterness in the Mandroc’s voice even though it was masked by his harsh tone.
‘What happened to your tribe?’ he asked.
‘We would not worship Him,’ Byroc replied. ‘As our fathers would not worship Him when they waked Him.’
‘They?’ Andawyr interrupted.
‘The Dowynai Vraen,’ Byroc’s eyes widened and the fur ringing his face became rigid as he spoke. He was a fearful sight. ‘They were ever corrupt and treacherous, a tribe of liars and thieves, who preyed on the terrors of the weak and foolish and who meddled in the Ways that should be forgotten . . .’
Hawklan raised his hands gently to stem the Mandroc’s mounting anger. ‘They woke Him?’ he asked.
‘They woke those who woke Him,’ Byroc said, his voice still angry. He rasped several words in his own language, venomously.
‘The Uhriel,’ Andawyr translated partially.
A growl rose in Byroc’s throat, but when it emerged it was a cry of pain. ‘But for all their magicks we would not worship Him. The Ivrandak Garn worship nothing. Not the mountains, nor the rivers, nor the thunder. They have our fear and our respect, but not our spirits.’
He scanned his audience. ‘Would you worship a mere mortal creature?’ he snarled. ‘Or set his word above all things?’ No one answered.
‘And the other tribes?’ Hawklan asked.
‘They worship Him. They have lost their true selves and placed their hands beneath the feet of the Dowynai Vraen,’ Byroc said scornfully. ‘A great madness possesses them. They fall down even before the black ones and cry out His name. They forget the wisdom and ways of their fathers, the ways of the plains and the mountains and the mist.’
‘But in His name do they not become great warriors?’ Andawyr suggested.
Byroc growled and struck his chest with his fist. ‘Great warriors fight fearing the end of life, yet ready to embrace it,’ he said. ‘He tells His warriors that there is a wondrous land beyond death to those who die in battle, where every desire is given without trial or strife. And they believe Him and rush to it in their blindness.’ His tone was withering.
‘And your people?’ Hawklan said.
Byroc turned to look about at the grey daylight. ‘Across the seasons, our lodges were burned, our hunting ranges poisoned, our wives and young taken to the slave pens,’ he said. His manner was subdued, as if the pain were too deep to be encompassed by words. ‘Then I was betrayed and captured like some animal, and though each took ten for his own life, the warriors with me were slaughtered while I stood bound.’
Hawklan looked at Jaldaric and noticed that even he was moved by the Mandroc’s unexpected eloquence.
‘An evil story, Byroc,’ Hawklan said after a long silence. ‘One that has been told in other lands before now.’
‘If He is not slain, it will not end until it has been told in every land, sword bearer, until the seas are dry, the mountains levelled, and the skies emptied – even of their stars.’
Hawklan felt a chill at his very heart as Byroc intoned this grim prophecy.
‘Where will you go now, chief?’ he said quietly.
Byroc looked at him. ‘With you,’ he said. ‘On your journey to slay Him.’
There was an uneasy stir amongst his listeners and he made a noise which was eventually identified as a chuckle. ‘Did you think that the chief of the Ivrandak Garn could not recognize hunters?’ he said. ‘And that was forged for only one prey.’ He levelled a finger at the black sword.
Hawklan did not reply, but turned to Yatsu. ‘Are you three going back over the mountains to your company?’ he asked.
Yatsu shook his head. ‘Too risky from this side,’ he said. ‘We’ve no equipment and precious little food. Besides, they won’t have waited. They’ve no way of knowing that we weren’t killed in that blaze.’ He looked at Hawklan and then added, half-heartedly, ‘We could head west towards Narsindalvak, I suppose. The army will be there by now, I imagine.’
Hawklan looked at Dacu. ‘How are our supplies?’ he asked.
‘Sufficient as we are,’ Dacu replied. ‘But not so good if we have an extra four along; we’ll have to live off the land much sooner. And the shelter’s going to be crowded, to say the least.’
Hawklan th
ought for a moment then nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We all go. Yatsu, Lorac and Tel-Odrel are too valuable to be wandering back to join the main force, and Byroc knows the country.’
‘No!’ It was Jaldaric. ‘We can’t take a Mandroc for pity’s sake, they’re . . .’ He faltered, remembering Byroc’s tale; but the sight and wet-fur smell of the Mandroc evoked memories that surged through him and found voice despite himself. ‘They’re His creatures. They killed my friends. He’ll betray us,’ he said.
In an echo of his own meeting with the Goraidin many years ago in snowbound Riddin, Isloman drew his knife and offered it to the young man.
‘You kill him, then. Now,’ he said flatly.
Jaldaric looked at him for a long moment and then, with an oath, turned away.
Hawklan intervened. ‘If you remain standing on that Orthlund road, facing Aelang, you’ll betray us, Jaldaric,’ he said starkly. ‘And if you ever meet the man again he’ll kill you for the same reason; he’ll be here and you’ll still be there.’
Jaldaric glared at him but Hawklan offered no resistance to his reproach and anger, and Jaldaric felt it turning back upon himself. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Hawklan watched him silently, then continued.
‘We’ll live off the land whenever opportunity presents itself, starting now,’ he said. ‘Sentry duties will ease the accommodation problem.’ He looked round at his companions intently. ‘Be aware, all of you, all the time, as never before. We’re very near the end now.’
After a short rest and a redistribution of their packs, the group set off again. Released from the confines of the tunnel, Gavor stretched his wings massively and launched himself into the air without a word. Hawklan smiled as he watched his friend climbing steadily into the pale sky. Soon Gavor was no more than a tiny circling dot.
‘What do you know about Derras Ustramel and Lake Kedrieth,’ Hawklan asked Byroc as they made their way down the rocky slope.
The Mandroc growled. ‘Only that it is a bad place,’ he said. ‘The lake is as deep as the sky is high, and the marshes around it are foul and treacherous, and full of dancing fires. And those who see His lair are changed forever.’
‘Do you know of any paths through the marshes?’ Hawklan asked.
Byroc shook his head. ‘There are no paths,’ he said. ‘The waters shift and change. There is only the road. His road.’
He pointed. Hawklan followed his hand. Far below he saw a thin white ribbon meandering gently for a little way then straightening out and running northwards into the mist.
‘We do not need it here, but at the end, only that can bring us to the lake,’ Byroc said. ‘If we are parted for any reason, follow it.’
The journey down the mountain from the cave was oddly euphoric for the group. There was little talking. Each seemed uncertain how to respond to the openness and the cold wind that was blowing after the rocky walls and roofs that had hedged them in for so long.
They made good progress however, and towards evening the mountains were behind them. Dark and ominous against the gloomy sky, the disordered ranks of crags and peaks rose up forbiddingly to deny unequivocally any easy retreat back to the south.
As the light faded, so also did the euphoria, and the pervasive unease of Narsindal that it had kept at bay, began to seep into the group.
They were subdued as they made camp in the lee of one of the large patches of twisted undergrowth that dotted the rocky landscape.
Byroc watched as they unpacked and erected the shelter. Once or twice he took hold of the fabric and rubbed it between his fingers or sniffed at it. When the shelter was completed he peered inside cautiously and curled his lip.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked, standing by him.
‘Bad smells,’ Byroc answered. And without further explanation he lumbered off towards the dense undergrowth. ‘I shall be near,’ he said.
Hawklan was about to call after him when he suddenly felt the Mandroc’s overwhelming loneliness. For a moment he saw the shelter as alien and unnatural, and his companions as flat-faced expressionless creatures hung about with angry and frightening memories.
‘Whatever you wish, Byroc,’ he said. ‘But the shelter is yours if you need it.’ The Mandroc, however, made no reply, and as Hawklan watched he quietly faded into the undergrowth.
Inside the shelter, Hawklan told Yatsu and the others the tale of their journey from the Caves of Cadwanen and of his intention to confront Sumeral. It caused little surprise.
‘I told you before that you were near to the player in this game, Hawklan,’ Yatsu said. ‘I’m glad you made the right decision.’
It was a remark that allowed no further comment.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr. ‘This place has a bad feel to it,’ he said, unknowingly echoing the words of generations of Fyordyn who had ridden the Watch.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Few things have ever lived joyously in Narsindal,’ he said. ‘The fear from His First Coming still entwines the heart of everything. Now . . .’ He paused. ‘He’s all around again. Stronger than when I came only months ago. Watching, waiting, listening.’
‘Watching?’ Hawklan said, picking up the words in some alarm.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘No, He can’t see us now,’ he said. ‘He’s watching for Ethriss . . . watching for those small signs that might presage his awakening.’ He looked at Hawklan. ‘If I use even a vestige of the Old Power,’ he said. ‘It would be like a clarion call to Him.’
‘We knew that when we started,’ Hawklan said.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But now it begins truly. I’ll need the help of all of you. I must reach out and be aware of Him, but I mustn’t oppose Him, not with so much as the weight of a falling leaf. Please keep what tranquillity you can in your own hearts, and protect me if you find me absent and withdrawn.’ He found a smile. ‘Treat me like a dotty grandparent.’
The brief flash of humour held little sustenance, however, and most of them slept fitfully through a night full of strange animal calls, to wake just before dawn, ill-refreshed and reluctant.
After they had eaten a silent and small meal, they broke camp. Gavor came gliding down out of the grey sky. ‘There are some strange-looking creatures in this place, but no people that I can see, though it’s not easy with all this mist,’ he said, settling on to Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘I suggest you go that way, dear boy,’ he went on, leaning forward like a figurehead. Hawklan cast a glance at Byroc, who nodded.
As they walked, they found that the mist came and went in accordance with mysterious laws of its own and with scant regard for the damp wind. Sometimes they could see to the horizon, at others, visibility was reduced to twenty or thirty paces. During such times, Byroc would raise his muzzle into the air and sniff rapidly and audibly at regular intervals.
The vegetation around them was stunted and seemingly deformed, as if it had fought some great battle just to struggle through to the surface. The dense patches of undergrowth that littered the plain and which loomed up out of the mist alarmingly on occasions, seemed to consist mainly of tangled brambles, as thick as tree trunks in places, and armed with vicious thorns.
From time to time, various animals bolted suddenly and startlingly in front of them causing a mixture of alarm and amusement. Hawklan frowned; for the most part the creatures were such as might be encountered anywhere in such wild terrain, but they were strangely altered. Teeth, claws and colouring betrayed powerful predatory needs, and eyes revealed constant watchful alarm. Occasionally he caught a brief snatch of speech, and that too was full of a mixture of menace and fear.
‘Is there nothing here that hasn’t been touched by Him?’ he said softly to Andawyr.
‘No,’ Andawyr replied, adding enigmatically. ‘Including us.’
Hawklan looked up into the grey sky. High above, Gavor was circling, spurred and watchful. Around him the Goraidin and the Helyadin were moving silently, armed and watchful.
Did you think that the chie
f of the Ivrandak Garn could not recognize hunters? Byroc’s words came back to him.
He looked up again at Gavor. At least we have the eyes now, he thought. It gave him comfort. The combined skills of the group would keep them from the eyes of men, and Andawyr’s silence would keep them from His sight. Their presence was unknown and thus unlooked for.
* * * *
Dan-Tor dismissed the exhausted and quaking Mandroc messenger. He sat silent for some time, a strange sensation stirring inside. When it emerged, he recognized it as amusement, black and rich. It bloomed to enfold the vision that had been tormenting him since the eye of the Vrwystin he had been holding had shrieked and, impossibly, died; the vision, fleeting but vivid, of Hawklan wielding the black sword of Ethriss and destroying his precious creature.
Now came the news that at the same time as the Vrwystin had been slain, the mines had been attacked by an unknown force of men, and that all the workings had been destroyed, and the shafts and adits sealed utterly by a terrible fire.
Dan-Tor luxuriated in the irony. Silently creeping into my domain again, Hawklan, he thought. Seeking to destroy my eyes and the food for my weapons with your treacherous cunning, and now destroyed in your turn by your own men.
A rumbling laugh began to form. So His enemies stumble and fall. Their every seeming success had been but a failure in disguise. Soon the rest would come clamouring across the plains of Narsindal to be destroyed in their turn; Cadwanol, Fyordyn, Orthlundyn and Riddinvolk; the old enemies, to be crushed this time at the very outset.
But through his malevolent delight shimmered a cold, sharp, sliver of uncertainty.
Hawklan had eluded destruction and capture so often; had appeared where he should not have been; had struck mysteriously beyond where he should be able to reach.
‘Commander Aelang,’ he said.
Aelang appeared from an adjacent room and saluted.
‘You heard the message, commander?’ Dan-Tor said.
‘About the mines? Yes, Ffyrst,’ Aelang replied.
