Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  The two Uhriel stopped their advance as if they had been struck and Loman felt their terrible presence waver.

  ‘In Ethriss’s name I offer you redemption and release from your torment, if you forsake His way now,’ the figure went on.

  There was a long silence, then Dar Hastuin spoke, his voice hissing and shrieking like the winds he rode. ‘What creature are you to know such ancient names and to speak of the Great Heretic thus in our presence?’

  ‘No creature, Lords,’ the figure replied. Then slowly it reached up and raised the visor. Loman could not see the rider’s face.

  ‘I offer you redemption, my Lords – or death,’ the voice said. For a moment, Loman saw the two Uhriel become once again men; powerful men, ever seizing, ever fearing, but faced now with that which they had been ever fleeing.

  Then the vision was gone.

  Neither Uhriel spoke, but both suddenly raised their swords and charged towards the lone figure.

  ‘We were great warrior kings . . . before.’

  Oklar’s words returned to Loman vividly as he felt the ferocity and power of their charge. No man could stand against such force. He and his two companions would have been brushed aside like chaff for all his strength and their skills.

  Usgreckan rose from the ground, shrieking, its huge wings throwing up clouds of spray. Creost’s steed crouched low like a great serpent.

  Unexpectedly, Serian leapt forward to meet them. It was a seemingly reckless response to such an attack, but as the protagonists closed, Serian suddenly twisted to one side and the unknown rider struck Usgreckan a blow on the neck that half severed it.

  With a terrible cry, the creature crashed into the ground sending its loathsome cargo tumbling among the heaps of dead and dying.

  The fall, however, had little or no effect on the Uhriel, and as Serian turned, it was to the sight of Dar Hastuin clambering atop the bodies and shrieking as if the dying Usgreckan had entered his soul. His clawed hand reached out towards the rider who immediately dismounted and strode towards him.

  Dar Hastuin screamed again at the approaching figure in some strange language, then he fell silent and the two were face to face, sword to sword – both quite motionless save for the whirling mass of Dar Hastuin’s clawing hair and the rain running from the rider’s armour.

  The brief timeless stillness was filigreed about by the sounds of the battle around them and the clamour of Creost recovering control of his mount following Serian’s sudden avoidance. Loman watched, wide-eyed and intent. Then he started suddenly, as did Yengar and Olvric, though both were subtle and experienced swordsmen. They had seen scarcely any movement by either combatant, but now, without either threat or feint and in what seemed to be the flicker of an eye, Dar Hastuin was impaled on the rider’s sword.

  His awful scream began, but petered out almost immediately, and the rider was lowering him to the ground amid the other dead, with a strange gentleness.

  As his mind fought to recall the beginning and end of this almost unbelievable slaying, Loman saw that Creost had recovered and was charging again; silently and towards the rider’s back.

  He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but his responses felt slow and leaden, and even as he heard himself cry out, the rider was turning to face the onslaught.

  To Loman’s horror, however, the rider did not move back from the path of the charging creature, but stepped in front of it. Loman’s warning shout was still leaving him as the rider’s sword cut the creature’s throat and then swung round to deliver an upward lunge on Creost’s unguarded side. The bloody sword point emerged from Creost’s shoulder and he was torn from the saddle, such was the force of the blow.

  With four strokes the rider had slain the two Uhriel and their steeds.

  Then the rider struck two more terrible blows, mounted, and turned Serian in the direction in which Oklar had fled.

  * * * *

  Hawklan ran on and on, supporting the hobbling Andawyr.

  It seemed to him that since he had used the sword, everything was slipping from him and great forces were converging on him. He ran along Sumeral’s road through the bleak mists of Narsindal, but he did not know where he was running, or scarcely why.

  Some voice within him propelled him forward faster and faster.

  And despite his pain, Andawyr propelled him also.

  Skittering footsteps caught up with them. It was Dar-volci.

  The sight of the felci apparently unaffected by the mounting horrors of their journey made Hawklan feel calmer.

  ‘Where’s Gavor?’ he gasped.

  ‘No idea,’ Dar-volci replied. ‘I saw him deal with a few Mandrocs then I got a little involved myself and I didn’t see him before I left.’

  Hawklan grimaced with self-reproach. In his own turmoil he had forgotten the others fighting to protect him.

  ‘What about the rest,’ he asked.

  ‘Still fighting when I left,’ Dar-volci replied. ‘I thought I’d be more use here than there.’

  They ran on in silence, until Andawyr slithered to the ground.

  ‘I must rest,’ he said desperately.

  Hawklan stared into the mist. There were no sounds of pursuit, but still he felt a driving urgency.

  He bent down and took Andawyr’s ankle, but the Cadwanwr snatched it away.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The pain focuses my mind so that I can remain where I am and perhaps still hide us from His will. Go on with Dar-volci, quickly before I’m overwhelmed.’

  He reached out to stroke the anxious felci.

  ‘I won’t leave you,’ Hawklan said. ‘What’s happening? Why’s everything suddenly so . . . fraught, so . . . desperate?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Andawyr said. ‘You used the sword. I can feel terrible things happening somewhere. I can feel my brothers. I can feel the Uhriel. And other things too – the Guardians, perhaps. But no pattern, no shape. Just a chaos and disorder with you at its centre. Only He seems to be steadfast – watching, waiting. Go!’

  Hawklan peered along the mist-shrouded road. Its silence and stillness were bizarrely at odds with his own whirling inner confusion and Andawyr’s almost frenzied declamation.

  Then, unceremoniously, he swept Andawyr up on to his shoulder and set off again. There was a brief protest from the Cadwanwr, but it foundered against Hawklan’s patent resolution.

  As Hawklan ran, he felt again as he had felt earlier, that he was climbing some interminably long and increasingly steep slope. Eventually he came to an exhausted halt.

  ‘No more,’ he said slumping. ‘No more.’

  Andawyr slithered down and stood in front of the despondent healer. He tried to smile encouragingly, but desperation leaked through and swept the smile aside.

  ‘Lean on me,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m fresher now.’

  ‘Hush, both of you,’ Dar-volci said suddenly.

  Hawklan bent his head forward. There were still no sounds of pursuit. ‘What . . .?’ he began.

  ‘Hush!’

  Then into the silence came the soft lapping of waves.

  Andawyr seized Hawklan’s arm and, limping heavily, dragged him to the side of the road and down the embankment.

  A line of dark, glistening waves came into view. Andawyr stopped and, hopping unsteadily on one leg, looked at the grim turbulent surface that disappeared into the mist.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said, his voice alive with a mixture of fear, disbelief and excitement. ‘We’re here. The causeway across Lake Kedrieth. We’ve reached His lair undiscovered, and His every resource is still turned towards the battle.’

  Hawklan felt his confusion fall away. They had succeeded. Now, whatever the outcome, his journeying was truly near its end. Soon he would come face to face with the monstrous author of all the foulness that he had come upon since that fateful spring day when a twitching sharp-eyed tinker had pranced his spider’s dance on the green at Pedhavin.

  He helped Andawyr back to the road.

  ‘Across this ca
useway to our enemy, Cadwanwr,’ he said softly, loosening the black sword in its scabbard.

  Andawyr nodded and ran the palms of his hands down his soiled robe as if preparing for some heavy task.

  As they moved forward they began to pass abandoned carts and wagons; anonymous hulking shadows in the mist.

  Then, abruptly, one of the dark shapes rose up in front of them. Hawklan cried out and drew his sword. Dar-volci chattered his teeth and snarled.

  ‘Welcome, Hawklan,’ said Oklar. ‘I see that, as ever, you come to strike at the heart of your foe; like an assassin, silent and treacherous. You would have been wiser to keep Ethriss’s ringing sword sheathed. I heard it amid the heart of the destruction of your army and drove my steed to its death so that I could lay it and your carcass before my Master.’

  Hawklan released a long breath. ‘I have no words for you, Uhriel. It is your Master from whom I seek an accounting. Stand aside or die. My sight is truer than it was.’

  Oklar bowed. ‘Then see this, healer,’ he said, extending his hands.

  Hawklan felt the dreadful presence of the Uhriel in all his power, tearing through the fabric of the reality around him. It gave him an awesome measure of his own inadequacy.

  And this is but a servant, a voice said somewhere inside him.

  But then Andawyr stood in front of him, and the presence of the Uhriel receded.

  ‘You above all will be punished when this day’s work is finished,’ Oklar said.

  ‘No, Uhriel,’ Andawyr said quietly. ‘This day will be ours. Your time passed millennia ago when Ethriss struck you down. This is but a dream in the great sleep he sent you to.’

  Oklar’s eyes blazed red through the mist. ‘The dream is yours, Cadwanwr,’ he said, his voice taut with fury. ‘Your brothers fail before us, your army falls before us. Where are your Guardians? And where is the great Heretic himself?’

  ‘The Guardians are all around us, Uhriel,’ Andawyr replied. ‘Did you not wonder why your once great power is so weak?’

  Oklar’s anger was replaced by contemptuous amusement. ‘A detail, learned one,’ he said. ‘One that time will overcome for us, as you, above all, know. And time we shall have when these irksome peoples about our southern borders have been crushed.’

  ‘Enough,’ Hawklan said, moving forward to stand by Andawyr. ‘Each moment this puppet and his Master live, people are dying in bloody horror.’

  Andawyr interposed himself again, but Oklar stepped forward and struck him a blow that sent him sprawling. With a roar, Dar-volci leapt forward, his great mouth agape.

  Oklar swung round and caught him squarely with his foot. The felci arced into the air and fell with a thud near to the fallen Cadwanwr.

  Oklar’s eyes blazed again. ‘Learn Cadwanwr, as your fellows did, that while your vaunted skills can stunt our powers for the moment, we were warriors great in a world of greatness before we bowed to His will. And as a warrior I shall slay you here.’

  Hawklan stepped back involuntarily as Oklar drew his sword. It glowed a menacing, shifting red in the mist.

  Hawklan took the black sword in both hands and let go such ties of fear as bound him.

  The two assailants faced each other.

  Then two objects landed with a dull thud on the ground between them.

  As they rolled to a standstill, Hawklan stepped back in horror. They were the heads of Creost and Dar Hastuin, gaping and awful.

  ‘Have you no word for the Lord Vanas and the Duke Irgoneth, mighty Lord?’ said a muffled voice above his head. ‘Your erstwhile comrades-in-arms, and bloody perpetrators of His will.’

  A horse pushed gently past Hawklan. It was Serian, foam-covered and steaming. Riding him was a visored figure.

  Oklar knelt down to examine the two heads, then stared up at the newcomer.

  His face was alive with emotion.

  ‘It cannot be,’ he said. ‘No ordinary blade could hurt them, Cadwanwr or no. Who . . .?’

  ‘Look at me, Uhriel,’ the rider said.

  Oklar stared up at the figure and his eyes opened in terror. ‘It cannot be,’ he began again. ‘You wear the armour of the Lords of the Iron Ring; the true armour forged by the Heretic’s smiths.’

  ‘Why should I not, Lord?’ said the rider. ‘Did you not see me that day? Or did the ravens mocking you from above dim your true vision?’ Oklar’s hand clawed at the ground as he stared transfixed at the figure. ‘Did you not see me stare into His eyes and show Him His own soul, so that even He faltered at the horror of it and fell before Ethriss’s pity, and the Fyordyn’s arrows?’

  ‘It cannot be,’ Oklar said again, like a soothing response in a dreadful litany. ‘Who . . .?’

  The rider moved forward and reached up to remove the visor.

  ‘Do you not know me yet . . . father?’

  Oklar staggered back; for the moment, Uhriel no more, but a man. ‘Gwelayne?’ he said softly. ‘My . . .’ His voice faded and Hawklan turned away from the torment in his face. Then Oklar let out a demented cry. ‘No, no, no. Gwelayne is gone. Gone even before I became . . . Gone into . . .’

  ‘Gone where, father?’ the rider said. ‘Gone into legend? Into some misty cloud at the edge of your conscience?’ She leaned forward and her voice hissed with hatred. ‘Know this, father. That I have the gift you sought. The gift you so lusted for that you betrayed and sold me in the hope it would be given to you. Knowing what he was you sold me! Innocent and trusting; who could not have loved you more. Now it is I who have His greatest gift. It was His scornful, dismissive, blessing at our parting. “Be forever,” he said, and I have walked the world ever since.’

  Oklar shook his head, transfixed by the image in front of him.

  The rider spoke again. ‘Now He has struggled to rise again, I shall cast Him down again, as I have these creatures. And so utterly that there will be no further awakening. I will deny Him the gift he granted me.’

  Oklar’s head shook more and more, as if the action would dash all the words from his ears. ‘You could be His again,’ he gasped. ‘Rule as you did. Powerful, haughty . . .’

  He flinched back at some expression in the rider’s face that Hawklan could not see. Man and Uhriel fought for possession of him, then suddenly, he let out a great scream and, plunging forward, seized the heads of his slain comrades. Hawklan started towards him, ready to strike, for he was Uhriel again, whole and terrible – more terrible even than before.

  ‘Cadwanwr,’ he said, rising to his feet holding a head in each hand. ‘I see your hand in this foul charade, and you will live long to regret it.’ Andawyr raised a hand towards him, then stepped as if held by some great force. ‘I own I misjudged your power,’ Oklar continued. ‘But so did you mine. For in slaying these you gave me their power, and I am His equal now. His Will shall be mine. All things shall be mine.’

  ‘No, father. Please . . .’ The voice was pleading.

  Oklar’s eyes blazed and with a raging cry he swung his sword back to strike down this fearful spectre from his long-buried humanity.

  The rider did not move, and briefly Oklar faltered in his terrible intent. As he did so Hawklan drove the black sword of Ethriss towards the Uhriel’s heart with all the skill and power he possessed.

  With effortless ease, Oklar knocked it from his grasp. It clattered to the ground and he stood astride it.

  ‘Now no weapon can injure me,’ he said.

  Strangely calm, his hand came round to point at Andawyr. ‘Your suffering shall begin now.’

  But as he spoke, a sinuous brown body slithered from between the Cadwanwr’s legs and ran towards him.

  Oklar hesitated, and Dar-volci scrambled nimbly up his lank form until he was on his shoulder. A mailed hand moved to dislodge him, but Dar-volci reached out a powerful claw and slashed a great gash in it.

  Then he whispered in Oklar’s ear. ‘Know this, corrupter. We are creatures of the deep rock. Here before your time and brought unwilling to this new world.’

  Oklar star
ed at the welling blood, and terror suddenly filled his face. Desperately he reached back to seize the felci, but Dar-volci’s claws were already about his throat and his formidable teeth were closing around the back of his neck.

  ‘Noooo!’

  Oklar’s scream rose above the sound of the crushing bones. It reached a terrible climax then faded suddenly and his long frame fell to the ground almost silently.

  Dar-volci jumped clear of the tumbling destruction, then scratched his stomach and spat something out distastefully. The rider pulled the visor back over her face and dismounted. She bent down and with great tenderness lifted the dead Uhriel’s head into her lap.

  Hawklan knelt down beside her.

  She turned to look at him. Hawklan could see no part of her face, but he could see tears shining in her eyes.

  He touched her gently and she bowed her head gratefully.

  Then she reached out and, picking up Ethriss’s sword, handed it to him. ‘Your people are dying, prince,’ she said. ‘All hangs at the point of balance and all His power is returned to Him. You must destroy Him.’

  Hawklan took hold of the sword and, for the first time, felt its true power. He turned and looked at Andawyr. The little man nodded urgently, his eyes wide and desperate.

  And then Hawklan was running along the broad causeway, the only sound his soft footsteps and the icy lapping of Lake Kedrieth.

  He felt the warrior in him listening, peering into the subtle shadows within the dense mist, and preparing every part of him for combat against any foe. He felt the healer too, silent but acquiescent, waiting for the terrible healing work that was to be done.

  But above all, he felt alone.

  Then a great coldness spoke inside him, like that which had touched him as he had fallen before Oklar’s fury at the palace gate. But it was worse by far. And as beautiful as it was fearful.

  ‘Welcome, Hawklan, Prince of Orthlund, and greatest of My Uhriel.’

  Chapter 34

  Sylvriss’s eyes opened in alarm and dismay as she looked at the group of men trudging wearily back into the camp. She wrapped her arms about her child protectively.