by Roger Taylor
‘What do you mean?’ Isloman asked.
Hylland’s thin face became pensive. ‘If he just lies there long enough, Isloman, his body will simply deteriorate through plain lack of use. I’ve seen it happen. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s still in such good physical condition. Something inside him must be fighting to keep him whole. It’s a very good sign, but . . .’
‘But you don’t know what to do?’ Isloman finished his remark.
Hylland nodded. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. Isloman looked at the seemingly fragile little man and saw why he had become Eldric’s most respected healer. His mind was both worldly and as simple and open as a child’s. He would face anything and try to see it for what it was. To admit his ignorance cost him nothing. Hawklan would value him.
‘Hawklan would tell you not to fret, but to follow your heart,’ he offered.
Hylland looked at him, then hitching himself on to the bed he took Hawklan’s hand. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he said, after a moment.
Isloman sat down on the bed opposite him. Hylland digressed. ‘Hawklan impressed the men,’ he said. ‘And they’re not easily impressed by any means. Particularly the Goraidin.’ He tightened his grip on Hawklan’s hand. ‘But I don’t need their opinions. Even unconscious, I can tell he’s an exceptional healer.’
He turned to Isloman, his face almost bewildered. ‘You say follow my heart, but I can’t. He’s protecting me, Isloman. He’s the hurt one, yet he’s protecting me.’
Isloman’s frowned.
‘To help him, I must enter his pain,’ Hylland said softly. ‘But can I face the pain that left such a man thus? Even now he feels my fear and he . . . won’t let me help him.’ He nodded and repeated himself softly as if to confirm this revelation. ‘Won’t let me help him.’
After a long silence he stood up and walked back over to the window. To Isloman it seemed that the little man was easier in his mind. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Or at least I think I do. It sounds like something Hawklan would do.’ Their earlier conversation returned to him. ‘You said before that we might all be able to help. What did you mean?’ The healer did not reply. Isloman raised his voice. ‘Hylland, we can’t stand by and do nothing.’
By way of response, Hylland threw open the window. The everyday sounds of the castle’s activities drifted into the room. In the purposeful tone that Isloman recognized quite clearly, Hylland said, ‘If he’s enough wit left to be concerned for me, then he might be able to hear and understand what’s going on around him.’ He turned and looked at Isloman. ‘Let’s lure him back to life, Orthlundyn. Back to the present. I’ll get some of Varak’s big lads to help carry him. You can ride him round on that horse of his. He can sit at our meals. He can sit at our talks. We can let him know that he’s not frozen at the palace gate, facing whatever horror Dan-Tor launched at him. We can let him know that he survived and is here.’
He turned round and spoke to Hawklan directly. ‘You can rest assured, young man, that Dan-Tor won’t be lying fretting about your encounter. He’ll be moving on to other matters now.’
Chapter 9
Hylland’s vigorous confidence in his robust suggestions for ‘luring’ Hawklan back to life overcame any reservations that Isloman might have had.
Indeed, after his initial surprise, he warmed to the idea. At least it was something positive that he could do, and after all, hadn’t Hawklan survived their pounding journey from Vakloss without coming to any harm?
Accordingly he spent the remainder of that day, and much of the next, seated on Serian, holding Hawklan in front of him like a tired child. He gave the horse its head and as they rode quietly along winding stony pathways, he talked to Hawklan incessantly. Gavor came with them, soaring magnificently through the cool mountain air, now high above them, a tiny dot among the towering crags, now below, a black shadow arcing over the green valleys along the strange unseen pathways that only he could feel.
Eventually Isloman drew Serian to a halt on a prominent grassy knoll so that he could gaze around at the surrounding countryside. In the distance, barely visible, he could just make out the lines of Eldric’s stronghold amid the myriad subtle shades of the mountains. Below him was a broad green valley, its sides tree-lined and scored by streams making their way to the small river that meandered along the bottom. Here and there were dwellings and patchwork patterns of cultivation, rendered tiny and toy-like by the scale of the scene. In the distance, peaks receded to the horizon like a storm-tossed sea suddenly frozen. Hints of green and blue told him of other valleys and lakes.
Dismounting, he lifted Hawklan down and carefully propped him in a sitting position against a rock. ‘It’s not Orthlund, is it, Hawklan?’ he said. ‘But it’s beautiful.’ He sat down by him and, closing his eyes, leaned back to feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Everywhere was peaceful and calm, but he knew he could not fully accept such a gift while his friend was stricken thus. And, as if signalled, came the memory of the desecration he had felt near the mines: a sensation so foul that it had almost overwhelmed him and only Hawklan, with his sword, had been able to retrieve him.
He opened his eyes and looked around again at the mountains and valleys. ‘I doubt such splendour plays any part in Dan-Tor’s scheme, though,’ he said, continuing his one-sided conversation. ‘Come back to us, Hawklan. Tell us what he is. Tell us what you saw that made you attack him. Come back. We need you.’
But there was no response.
In a rush of wind, Gavor skimmed suddenly in front of him, making him start. ‘Sorry, dear boy,’ the raven cried. ‘Just seen someone I know. Got something I need to talk about. Join you later.’
Isloman shook his head as Gavor disappeared from view into the valley below. ‘No chance of Gavor being stuck in the past, is there?’ he said. ‘He’s well rooted in the present.’
Later, as they were returning to the castle, Serian stopped and bent forward to drink from a small stream that bubbled briefly and noisily along the edge of the path before disappearing underground. Watching the horse, the thought of Gavor’s hedonistic dive recurred to Isloman, and with it came another; that he should not seek too eagerly to return Hawklan to a world which seemed to hold such burdens and so few pleasures for him.
Had he not already given twenty years of light for no tangible reward? Had he not sought out and faced an enemy who had wilfully persecuted him? Wasn’t he entitled to return in peace to Anderras Darion and let others finish the task that was, after all, none of his making?
Even as the thoughts passed through his mind, Isloman knew that Hawklan would reject them, but they left him filled with guilt. He tightened his arms gently about his friend and held him close. ‘Don’t be afraid, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who you are, but we know your worth. You’re not alone. Truly you’re not alone. And other things are stirring than Sumeral’s creatures.’
Serian paused from his noisy drinking and looked up as if he had heard something. Then, unbidden, he began to trot along the narrow path back towards the castle. Isloman, slightly taken aback by this unexpected action, concentrated on supporting Hawklan. He knew from past experience that when the horse moved thus it would go its own way, independent of any of his instructions.
As they neared the castle, he saw riders milling around the courtyard.
‘The King must have arrived,’ he said to Hawklan in some excitement. He was anxious to meet this man whose flag he had fought under during the Morlider War and in whom the Fyordyn placed such store despite his long withdrawal from public life. He was interested also in seeing what kind of a man could so command the affection of a woman as remarkable as Sylvriss. Unexpectedly, hopes rose within him. Perhaps this man had finished the work that Hawklan had begun. Perhaps he had ended the life of the man who had hunted Hawklan and who by all accounts had held him thrall in sickness for so many years.
But these thoughts withered as they bloomed. He remembered the abject terror he had felt as he cowered behind Hawklan in the face of
Dan-Tor’s wrath. Who could have faced that? And would the King be here if his troubles were ended? Then again, perhaps it was not the King but a messenger bringing good news.
However, as he rode through the gates, his darker thoughts were confirmed. The courtyard was the usual noisy confusion of men and horses that might be expected on the arrival of a large patrol, but there was no air of joyous return, and such friendly greetings as he heard were subdued and weary. Neither King nor good news had returned with these men.
Through the mêlée he saw the familiar forms of Lorac and Tel-Odrel walking towards the main door, talking, apparently casually to Yatsu. Only days ago the two Goraidin had been guiding him and Hawklan to Vakloss, to establish contacts for obtaining the information that would be needed if the Lords were to consider moving against the City in force. Why had they returned so soon? Further, though he could not see their faces, something in their postures disturbed him and his sense of disappointment turned suddenly into foreboding.
The High Guards that Varak had selected to help him tend to Hawklan, ran forward and, leaving his friend to their care, Isloman dismounted and began pushing his way through the crowd after the retreating figures.
As he stepped into the spacious entrance hall, the noise in the courtyard fell away abruptly and he could hear the purposeful footsteps of the three men still walking away from him. He ran after them, calling out.
Hearing him, they turned and waited, though when he reached them their greeting was preoccupied and unsmiling.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, but before anyone could reply the Queen appeared from a nearby stairway. Her face was flushed and excited and she was obviously running to meet the newly-arrived patrol.
She stopped suddenly as she saw the four men. ‘You’ve been so long,’ she said. Then, looking round expectantly, ‘Where’s Rgoric?’ Isloman caught the brief frightened look on Tel-Odrel’s face, like that of a man suddenly and unexpectedly attacked and wishing only to flee. Sylvriss too saw it, for it was reflected immediately in her own face.
‘Where’s the King?’ she repeated uncertainly, her glow fading as though an icy wind had just struck her.
Isloman found himself holding his breath.
Tel-Odrel stepped forward and bowed slightly. He swallowed and faced the deed he had been dreading since he left Vakloss. Despite Dilrap’s request, and his own wish, there was no gentle way to do this. Swiftness was all he could offer. ‘Majesty,’ he said tonelessly. ‘The King is dead. He was mur . . .’
‘No!’ The Queen’s voice was raucous with a mixture of fear and regal defiance. Her right hand swung up and struck him across the face as if the ferocity of the deed and the loudness of her cry might reach back through time and prevent the escape of such news. But even as she did so, the blood drained from her face, and Isloman knew that she was looking into the cold empty void that the rest of her life had suddenly become.
Tel-Odrel staggered slightly under the impact of the blow and red weals appeared on his cheek almost immediately. His left hand started to reach up to soothe the injury, but the right hand restrained it. Water came to his eyes.
‘Majesty,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘I’d take a thousand such if it would make my news untrue, but the King is dead. Murdered by Urssain and the Mathidrin at the command of Dan-Tor.’
The Queen looked at him pleadingly for a long moment, but Tel-Odrel’s tearful gaze gave her no escape. Suddenly spent, she closed her eyes and briefly covered her face with her hands.
The four men stood motionless.
When Sylvriss lowered her hands, her face was pale and strained but controlled. She looked at Tel-Odrel’s reddening cheek and her eyes narrowed slightly in self-reproach.
‘I apologize, Goraidin,’ she said quietly. ‘I behaved like a stable maid. It was inexcusable. Forgive me.’
Tel-Odrel opened his mouth to speak, but had he found the words, his taut throat would not have allowed him to speak them.
The Queen turned away and moved back towards the entrance to the staircase. ‘I shall be in my quarters for some time,’ she said. ‘I don’t wish to be disturbed.’
‘Majesty . . .’ Yatsu began, but the Queen was gone and the four men were left standing in silence, listening to the echo of her footsteps growing increasingly faster as they faded into the distance. Once she stumbled slightly.
Tel-Odrel wiped his eyes with the edge of his hand, and for some time the others avoided looking at each other.
Slowly the noises of the disbanding patrol filtered down the long corridor and helped ease them away from that terrible moment.
Yatsu cleared his throat, a strange tocsin calling them back to the present from their dark isolation. ‘I’m sorry Tel-Odrel,’ he said. ‘That was my job.’
Tel-Odrel waved the remark aside. ‘We’ve done worse for each other,’ he said. ‘Besides, you’ll have to tell Eldric and the others what happened.’
Yatsu nodded. ‘You told no one else of this?’ he asked.
Tel-Odrel shook his head. ‘No, of course not,’ he replied. ‘Only that the King wouldn’t be following.’
Yatsu looked along the corridor. In the distance he could see the neat form of Commander Varak, obviously looking for someone. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘We need a little quiet time to talk and think and . . . to accept this atrocity.’
Without comment, the three men took his lead and slipped quietly from the corridor. Varak, casting up and down for Yatsu, blinked as he thought he caught a shadowy movement in the distance. He dismissed it as a fancy.
Unthinkingly using old battle reflexes, the four men moved through the castle unseen and unheard until at last they reached a lonely room in a high tower.
Yatsu bolted the door behind them and then flopped down in a chair. His earlier calm was replaced by a restless agitation.
‘This is horrific,’ he burst out. ‘Rgoric assassinated. I can’t believe it.’
No one spoke.
‘Poor Sylvriss,’ he muttered softly, staring down at his hands. ‘Poor. . .’ He swore. Then he looked at Tel-Odrel and Lorac. ‘Tell me everything that’s happened,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘Hawklan comes back stricken in some strange fashion. Isloman tells us that Dan-Tor has razed half the city with a mere gesture. The Queen flees to us saying the King is miraculously well again. Now you tell us he’s dead – murdered. In the name of sanity, give me clear information – something to make sense out of all this.’
The tale took little telling. The two Goraidin had parted from Hawklan and Isloman when they reached Vakloss and had gone quietly about the business of re-establishing old contacts. As a result they had been well away from the palace and the two great levelling swathes of destruction that Dan-Tor had cut in his agony and rage.
Stunned and shocked by what had happened they spent some time digging frantically for survivors along with countless others. Eventually some semblance of order had emerged and they too had become calmer, gradually remembering why they were there. Circumstances having changed so appallingly, they moved into the palace to seek out Dilrap as being the most likely source of information.
Yatsu made them tell Dilrap’s tale twice, watching them intently as they did so. ‘You confirmed the King’s death?’ he said coldly, when they had finished. Lorac frowned at him. ‘Of course not,’ he said irritably. ‘But the Throne Room and all around it was sealed tight although the rest of the Palace was wide open.’ He leaned forward over Yatsu. ‘And Dilrap saw what he saw, commander, have no doubts about that. He’s supposed to be some kind of a clown, but the man’s worth ten of any one of us.’ Tel-Odrel nodded.
Yatsu put his hand to his forehead then abruptly looked up again. ‘And you ask me to believe that Dan-Tor is one of the Uhriel? Oklar . . . the earth Corruptor,’ he said, almost contemptuously.
Neither Goraidin flinched from this onslaught. ‘The King named him, Commander,’ said Tel-Odrel. ‘With his last words.’
‘Dilrap’s words,’ Yatsu sneered.
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br /> ‘Dilrap saw what he saw, commander.’ Tel-Odrel’s echo of Lorac’s words was menacing. He levelled a finger at his eyes. ‘And we saw what we saw. An army of sappers and engineers couldn’t have done that to the city in months. Only the real sweat and toil of real digging stopped us going mad. That and real people in real pain. And real death,’ he added as a grim afterthought.
He struck the sleeve of his tunic with his hand and a cloud of dust leapt up at the impact. Yatsu stared into the hovering motes. ‘That’s Vakloss, commander,’ Tel-Odrel said through clenched teeth. ‘It’s under my nails, ingrained in my skin, my hair, everywhere. And it’s no man’s handiwork.’
Yatsu turned away and sat silent for a moment. Then he turned to Isloman. ‘If this . . . force . . . was so powerful, how did you and Hawklan stand in front of it?’ he asked. His voice did not have as harsh an edge as when he had spoken to his fellow countrymen, but it was severe.
Isloman shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I was too terrified to think,’ he said quietly but in a voice that would allow no questioning. ‘Hawklan withstood the force. I merely hid behind him. Perhaps he’ll remember if – when he wakes.’
‘And you saw nothing of Dan-Tor changing into this . . . this Uhriel?’ Yatsu pressed.
Isloman shook his head again. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But Hawklan saw something very clearly, or he wouldn’t have attacked the way he did.’ He paused. ‘And Dan-Tor was changed in some way,’ he continued hesitantly. ‘Changed and unchanged. I can’t explain it. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. You can put your own worth on your own men’s words, Yatsu, but the Dan-Tor that loosed that force against Hawklan was no man.’
Yatsu closed his eyes and sat very still for some time, then, relaxing suddenly, he breathed out heavily.
‘Is that everything?’ he asked. The two Goraidin nodded. They too relaxed. ‘Sorry if that was a bit rough,’ he added.
‘You’ve been harder,’ Lorac said. ‘And it’s no easy tale. Have you any doubts?’ Yatsu shook his head.
