Into Narsindal
Page 65
Hawklan remembered the vision Sumeral had shown him. Beyond words in its endless, beautiful, perfection. It had seemed to become empty and futile in the light of Ethriss’s will, yet . . .?
He walked on. Serian was right, he knew, though amid such carnage, the knowledge made his spirit no less heavy. A dreadful price had been paid, but a great evil was gone and the energy that had gone into its destruction could gradually be harnessed to the work of healing. Yet such a bargain was wrong. Such a savage accounting should never have come about when simple vigilance would have prevented it. Ethriss’s greatest and most flawed creations must strive ever to know the measure of their imperfection or seal such bargains thus always. How the future, near and far, would learn from this event would depend on its telling now, but the greatest protection for all could lie only in the truth, no matter how awful.
And, Hawklan thought, awful it would be – must be.
He looked around. Among these bodies would be people he knew. Eventually he would learn their names and carry the burden of his own grief and remorse and that of his friends and their families. Yet he could grieve now only for the one whose death he did know of. That of Gavor, his companion since he had awakened in the snow-filled mountains, indeed, it seemed, his awakener.
Gavor, irreverent and hedonistic, yet faithful and true. Gavor, tormenting Loman, practicing his bird impressions, gliding high in the sunlit mountain air, tumbling and laughing just out of joy at being. The true spirit of Ethriss and a fitting steed for him at the last.
He looked up in the hope that among the birds swooping and squabbling there, perhaps one of the black silhouettes might be his old companion. But he knew that nothing could have survived the onslaught that had destroyed even its own creator.
Suddenly, one of the birds swept low to land nearby. Hawklan stepped forward, heart lifting, but it was only some raucous Narsindal crow and it flapped away noisily as he came near. Sadly, he mounted Serian and turned back for the camp.
He had travelled only a little way when frantic cries reached him.
‘Whoa, whoa, dobbin!’
The voice was unmistakable. Hawklan spun round and looked up again into the crowded air.
‘Down here,’ came the irritated response.
Hawklan looked down. A short distance away, the familiar form of Gavor appeared, stumping awkwardly through the corpses.
Hawklan dismounted and ran towards him. The raven was dirty and bedraggled and not at his most endearing. ‘That’s the last time I give a lift to any of your friends, I can assure you, dear boy,’ he declaimed indignantly. ‘I’ve never had to fly so fast in all my life as when I had to get out of that place.’
Hawklan picked him up gently.
‘Ow, ow, ow,’ Gavor protested. ‘Be careful.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked anxiously.
Gavor was still indignant. ‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve bust my chuffing pectoral again. I’ve had to walk all the sodding way and my feet are killing me.’
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Bust your pectoral,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘Don’t get technical with me, bird. I’ll do the diagnosing, you just stick to the flying.’
Gavor snorted. ‘Where are you going to drag us off to next?’ he asked crossly.
Hawklan looked out across the grim, seething, battlefield.
‘Home, I think, Gavor,’ he replied. ‘Home. Back to the light. Back to Anderras Darion.’
And So . . .
Many events occurred after the Last Battle of the Second Coming which cannot be told here.
Sylvriss returned with her triumphant raggle-taggle squadron and relieved a harassed Oslang of his noisy burden.
The heads of Creost and Dar Hastuin were retrieved from the shattered causeway at Lake Kedrieth and then burned together with their bodies and those of their awful steeds, so that all could see their destruction and know of it. Their ashes were scattered to the winds so that none could so easily worship them again.
The body of Oklar was not found, and Hawklan, looking into Serian’s eyes, sought no answer.
Gulda was not seen again, though the Alphraan sang of her journeying south, past Anderras Darion, giving her a name that no human could truly hear.
Tirilen and Hawklan tended the injured and sustained also the healers in their great pain.
Gavor developed hypochondria again for a while.
Under Loman’s leadership, and through its deep discipline, the army of the allies had lost but a few hundred dead while their reckless enemy had lost countless thousands. Each of the dead was remembered then, and through the years, but all who had been there remembered that day every day of their lives thereafter.
‘There is no healing for this, any more than there is truly for any hurt,’ Hawklan said. ‘Time will blur and cloud the memory of the pain, but your lives cannot be as they were. Make of it a learning and you will become whole, and worthy teachers for your children. Cherish it as a grievance and you will twist and turn through your lives seeing only your own needs, betraying and burdening all around you.’
To Urthryn and the Lords, he said, ‘Sumeral’s teachings are deep within us. Only in the light of knowledge and truth can we truly see and understand them. You must begin the Watch again, but to study and learn about Byroc’s people and their tortured land. Let Orthlundyn, Riddinvolk and Cadwanwr ride with you and let Narsindalvak become both a fortress and a repository of learning. Let its great seeing eyes see all things.’
* * * *
Gavor glided along the unseen paths that came and went among the sunlit towers and spires of Anderras Darion. His black shadow leapt nimbly from wall to roof to keep pace with him. Far below, the villagers were preparing for the spring Festival and, in one of the castle’s many halls, Hawklan sat idly watching a splash of sun-carried colour move across a table, and pondering the worlds that Sumeral had shown him.
Gavor dipped agilely and disappeared under a broad over-hanging roof.
He landed with consummate elegance on a shady, twig-strewn ledge and stood for a moment by a nest hole presenting his best side in silhouette against the blue sky. Then he turned and peered through the drowsy motes hovering in the half-light of the nest.
‘Dear girl,’ he said, stepping inside. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve been such a time. Recuperating from my war wound. A damaged pectoral, you know.
‘Now, where were we . . .?’
* * * *
So ends the fourth volume of
THE CHRONICLES OF HAWKLAN
But . . .
There are many lands and many peoples in Hawklan’s world
and
Sumeral’s teachings are spread both deep and wide . . .
As can be read in . . .
Dream Finder
Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor
The Call of the Sword
The Fall of Fyorlund
The Waking of Orthlund
Into Narsindal
Dream Finder
Farnor
Valderen
Whistler
Ibryen
Arash-Felloren
Caddoran
The Return of the Sword
Further information on these titles is available from www.mushroom-ebooks.com