The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘When was this tuned last?’ she asked Loman, moving her hands lightly over the keys as if dusting them.

  He was obliged to shrug vaguely. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘No one to my knowledge has ever played it seriously. Tirilen used to pound on it when she was small. It’s unlikely it’s ever been tuned.’

  Gulda played a series of chords. The instrument’s tone was mellow and singing. Apparently satisfied and looking more than a little surprised, she struck a single note. ‘Boys, how’s this for pitch?’ she asked, inclining her head enquiringly towards them. They all nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Fascinating. Still in perfect tune after all this time. Such craftsmen.’

  She looked sadly thoughtful for a moment, then turned to the three boys and smiled. The expression carried Loman back immediately to the time when he had been her pupil. When she smiled like that, they were in for an exciting day’s learning. No one could teach like Gulda, when the mood took her. Sunny days and that smile meant new wonders to be seen and heard. Such a magical time. Unexpectedly he felt his stomach tightening in anticipation and he had a suspicion that this emotion was showing on his face also. He turned away casually and tried to scowl out of the window, but old happy ties would not allow him.

  In the end he was to sit for over an hour, basking in warm memories of his own childhood, as he watched and listened to Gulda teaching again. At this distance he was willing to forgive the less harmonious lessons he had also had from her.

  ‘There’s an old tune I’m trying to remember,’ she began, confidingly, to the boys. ‘Something like this.’ And with wilful awkwardness she poked inaccurately at the keyboard with one finger.

  Loman recognized the tune immediately and was about to call out its name but his wiser nature silenced him. ‘We know it, we know it,’ the boys cried. ‘It’s the snowman’s song.’ One of them reached past her and, tongue protruding slightly, played the tune cautiously, self-consciously displaying the use of all five fingers.

  ‘I’ve not been learning long,’ he apologized when he had finished, but Gulda was fulsome in her praise.

  Then she had them singing it. When Loman quietly left the room, the sound of the three voices was ringing like a silver bell in his head, the tune was leaking out intermittently through his gruff tenor, and its bouncing complicated rhythm was breaking his steady stride.

  For many days the sound of the singing echoed round the Castle, ringing faintly along its endless corridors and carried by strange resonances through halls vast and small, far distant from the small room where Gulda was weaving her special magic. Coming across it unexpectedly from time to time, Loman would stop and listen. It seemed almost as if the Castle itself was singing.

  As the days passed, however, Loman noted a change in Gulda. She was quieter, less forthright, than usual. Finally his resolve to ask no direct questions slipped. ‘What are you doing, Memsa?’ he asked. ‘Even my stone ears can tell those boys are singing beautifully. Why are you doing it and why is it disturbing you?’

  Gulda sat down and rested her chin on her stick. She gazed into an unfocused distance for a long time, apparently not having heard the question. Loman once again had the feeling of mist slipping through his fingers when, very softly, she said, ‘Of all Ethriss’s gifts, music alone speaks directly to the soul. So many memories, so long, I . . .’ Her voice trailed away into another silence. Then, abruptly, ‘I think we’re ready now.’

  ‘Ready?’ he risked.

  ‘Get yourself and two of your people ready for a trip into the mountains,’ she said. ‘Starting tomorrow. Fully armed. I’ll be coming as well, with the three boys.’

  Loman raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’ he asked, bluntly.

  Unexpectedly, Gulda looked doubtful, though her voice was firm enough. ‘We have to contact the Alphraan,’ she said. ‘At best they’re hampering our training, at worst they may seek us out and destroy us for bringing war back into their domain.’

  Loman made to speak, but Gulda continued. ‘Besides, they’re in as great a danger as we are, and we need to be allies if not friends. They need to be told the truth. They’ll have to make the old choices that we’ve had to make, sooner or later, whether they like it or not. They’ll not be able to use their singing against an army. Least of all, His army.’

  * * * *

  With the exception of Gulda, the entire party sat down gratefully on the damp rocks.

  ‘This is the place?’ she asked.

  Loman nodded. ‘We’ve been training all around here, except when we’ve needed to go up above the snowline,’ he said, pointing to white peaks rising above them from adjacent valleys. ‘This is about the centre of the area we’ve been using most of the time. But our problems haven’t been localized. They’ve occurred everywhere we’ve been.’

  Gulda looked round reflectively. They were three days from Anderras Darion, and the plains of Orthlund were long behind them. Now they were standing on the wide jagged summit of a mountain that commanded an expansive view of nearby crags and valleys. A precipitous cliff face dropped away from them on one side, curving round in two sweeping ridges to join the peak to its lesser neighbours, as if it were resting its broad arms on them. In every direction mountains marched to the horizons. Loman and his chosen companions, Athyr, a veteran of the Morlider War, and Yrain, had anticipated a comparatively leisurely stroll as escort to an old woman and three young children. However, Gulda had confounded them by setting a relentless pace from the very start.

  ‘How does she do it?’ Athyr whispered as Loman waited by him while he re-fastened his boots. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but she doesn’t even seem to be hurrying.’

  Loman shook his head. ‘I’ve stopped thinking about it,’ he said. ‘I’ll be surprised when she does something I expect. Don’t worry. She’ll stop when the children get tired.’

  That indeed proved to be the case, but the pause was only to allow the three adults to pick up the three children.

  ‘Look on it as full pack training,’ she said, chuckling. ‘You’ve had plenty of time to rest these last few days, and I want these boys in good voice when we arrive.’

  However, although the final ascent to their present position had involved no climbing, it had been long and steep, and even Gulda had relented. It served as little consolation to the three adults when the boys ran ahead and scurried up the slope well ahead of them, closely followed by Gulda.

  As they all rested, Gulda prowled round the summit. After a little while she poked her stick into a small grassy knoll. ‘Here will do,’ she said. ‘Put your weapons here.’

  Athyr and Yrain looked at Loman in surprise. ‘What for?’ Loman asked. ‘What are you intending to do?’

  ‘I’m intending to contact the Alphraan, or at least try to,’ she replied.

  Loman glanced round to ensure that the children were occupied. ‘If they’re here, then they may have killed four of our people already,’ he said softly. ‘Do you seriously want us to face them unarmed?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve attacked anyone so far,’ Gulda replied, equally softly. ‘I think they’ve just tried to chase people away. We have to take a chance. If we come conspicuously disarmed then they’ll perhaps be more inclined to see us as peaceful.’

  ‘And the children?’ Loman asked.

  ‘Whatever happens, they won’t harm them, that I’m sure of,’ Gulda said. ‘Do as I ask.’

  Reluctantly, Loman unbuckled his sword belt and nodded to the others to do the same. Taking the collected weapons, he laid the belt knives in the middle of the knoll that Gulda had indicated and arranged the three swords in a neat pyramid over them.

  Gulda watched the process with interest.

  ‘Now the rest,’ she said, when Loman had stood back, apparently satisfied. Loman’s look of innocence barely reached his face before it retreated in disarray and he nodded again to the others resignedly.

  Gulda walked around the resultant armoury of knives and other small fighting devices tha
t Loman laid under the three swords, then she looked intently at Yrain.

  ‘All of them, young lady,’ she said eventually. Yrain held her gaze for a moment, then reached down and pulled another knife out of her boot. Standing up she offered it hilt first to Gulda who took it and laid it with the others.

  As Yrain sat down again, she dislodged a large stone. It came to rest near her hand.

  Gulda walked over to her and placed her stick on the stone. Yrain smiled up at her, pleasantly.

  ‘No,’ Gulda said. ‘I commend your thinking and your technique, Yrain,’ she said. ‘And your caring. It’s to your credit that you’ve learned so much so quickly. But no.’ Her stick flicked the stone out of reach. ‘If you want to become a true warrior you must understand that true defence doesn’t lie in your knowledge of how to use weapons but in your knowledge of when to use them.’

  She crouched low before the seated woman and looked into her eyes intently. ‘Very occasionally in your life, you may have to fight. Very occasionally, you may have to run away. Mostly however, you’ll have to watch, listen, talk, and above all, learn and understand. While you lean on your weapons or your technique you’ll cloud your mind. You’ll neither see, hear, nor explain, and you’ll certainly never understand. You’ll need both weapons and technique increasingly, and increasingly they’ll fail you.’

  Yrain’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry, Memsa,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Gulda smiled and stood up. ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not alone in that, but while you’ve the wit to realize it, you understand more than you think.’

  ‘But if these Alphraan are dangerous?’

  This time Gulda chuckled. ‘Only we humans are truly dangerous, Yrain,’ she said. ‘Believe me, except in extremity, nothing that walks this world willingly attacks one of us other than our own kind. And if the Alphraan choose to meet us they’ll be like nothing you’ve ever known. Try to see them with a true warrior’s vision; a carver’s vision. See them as they are, if you get to see them at all.’

  She turned away and called to the three boys, currently clambering amongst the rocks. As they converged on her, laughing, she led them towards the edge of the cliff face and pointed her stick towards the snow-covered mountains.

  ‘Now young men, in a moment I’ll want you to sing our song,’ she said. ‘Just like we’ve rehearsed. I want you to imagine you’re singing to someone up there, in the snow, so start as loudly as you can then they’ll be able to hear you clearly.’ She leaned forward and placed her arms confidentially around all three.

  ‘But at the end, as soft as you can. Like you’ve practiced. Watch me carefully.’

  Then she returned to Loman and the others. Her voice was low but her tone was unequivocal and authoritative. ‘Whatever happens from now, say nothing and do nothing, except on my express command. Is that clear?’

  Loman nodded. ‘Yes, Memsa,’ he said.

  She walked back to the boys and settled herself on a rock, her hands folded over the top of her stick. Her eyebrows went up, together with a long finger, and then the boys were singing.

  The jaunty tune that had woven its spell through the halls of Anderras Darion rang out into the clear air, still moist from recent rain. It echoed off distant rock faces, bouncing hither and thither to add a laughing shimmer to the busy stillness of the mountains. It was an old, happy tune, rhythmic and lively, and punctuated by hand-clapping in which Gulda, wedging her stick between her knees, joined in with relish.

  A snowman made by some children sings of his happiness at the gift of his creation. He watches the children playing, sees the winter festival, sees the season’s many moods, howling and fierce, bright and sharp, until finally a bird arrives to tell him that spring is coming. Gradually he melts, but even as he grows smaller and smaller, he sings continuously of his joy at being and at having been.

  The end of the song was a long trailing diminuendo; the same line of farewell and thanks being repeated over and over again, each time a little softer than the last.

  Slowly each boy in turn faded out of the song until only one was left. On and on he sang, softer and softer and softer, but without losing either pace or rhythm. His eyes were fixed intently on Gulda’s expressive face and her gently moving finger as she guided him down this long final descent.

  Then the song was finished; ended with the faintest whisper, in the middle of a line. Loman and the others found themselves holding their breaths and leaning forward, fully as intent as the singer, as the last few words floated into the mountain silence.

  No one moved. No one spoke.

  Yrain felt a movement by her side. She turned suddenly, but something sent her sprawling on the ground, her hands over her ears, and her mouth and eyes wide in silent scream.

  Before he could react, Loman was suddenly overwhelmed by a terrible fear. As a surge of panic swept through him, he tried to flee, but his body would not respond to his mind’s prompting. A small spark of calm inside him managed to turn his eyes towards Athyr, but there was no help to be found there: the man’s face was alive with terror.

  With a further effort he sought out Gulda. She too, however, seemed to be affected, as did the three boys, though much less so. Then, disjointed and uneven, as if from a great distance and carried on blustering wind, Gulda’s voice spoke.

  ‘Was this small gift so poor that its bringers deserve such?’ it asked. ‘Our young!’ The anger in her voice tore through the strange distortion that was pervading Loman’s mind. ‘And release the girl,’ Gulda continued. ‘She’ll die if you continue. You’ve killed four of us by accident. Would you now do murder?’

  Loman felt confusion whirling round him. In it were mingled many things: anger, indignation, fear, and then thanks and regret. Though he still could not move, he saw the three boys suddenly start to laugh and clap their hands. Yrain too seemed to be released from whatever pain she had been in, and his own terror eased, though neither she nor Athyr seemed yet to be able to move.

  ‘Two.’ A soft voice filled Loman’s head. ‘Only two. And we regret that. But you bring evil ways with you. Human ways. They carry inevitable consequences. Violent death is one of them. We want none of you. Take your weapons and go.’ Every syllable of the voice seemed to be full of the most subtle, elusive, nuances, bringing far more to the content of the words than he would have imagined possible.

  His fear abating slightly, Loman found that he was able to move his hand a little. With a prodigious effort he pushed it into the ground and tried to stand.

  ‘Don’t move.’ Two voices gave him the same instruction. One, inside his head, but different from the previous one, the other, Gulda’s, still strained, distorted and oddly coarse. ‘We do not wish to harm you, but we do not want you here. Return to . . .’ Loman thought then that he heard the words ‘Anderras Darion’, but in their sound was a subtle richness that described the Castle more totally than any he could have found in a lifetime’s searching. Its beauty and awe took his breath away. ‘Is it not wonder enough for you that you should take up arms to venture forth in search of a greater?’

  ‘Don’t presume to judge us, Alphraan,’ said Gulda, her voice a little clearer. ‘We’ve laid our arms aside and sought to bring you here with our small gift because we have grim news. News that affects us all. We must speak to you.’

  ‘You are here because we would not allow you to use our mountains to practice for your war.’

  ‘This is true,’ Gulda replied. ‘But only in part. By your choice we didn’t even know you still lived. Had we known, we’d have sought your aid sooner.’

  At the word aid, Loman again felt confusion around him. Into his head came images of compassion and responsibility mingled with a sense of burden and fear and inexorable entanglement.

  The sensations were again almost unbelievably subtle but a voice eventually said, ‘It would have been denied, then as now. We have foresworn all weapons, all violence . . .’

  ‘You bind thes
e in violence,’ Gulda said.

  There was amused tolerance in the reply. ‘They bind themselves, old woman, as you know. In their own fears. They have not your vision.’

  ‘As you will,’ Gulda replied. ‘But you’ll hear our news whether you wish it or no.’

  ‘No, leave us.’ Many voices rang in Loman’s head.

  From the corner of his eye, Loman saw Gulda raise her stick. As she moved, there was a sound like the rattling of countless iron chains. It stopped abruptly. ‘Know that you cannot bind me, friends of Ethriss.’ Her voice was suddenly clear. ‘Hear the truth. Hear that He is risen again and that His Uhriel are abroad. If we prepare, and find again Ethriss and the Guardians, we may defeat Him before His poisons spread out into the world as before; but if we turn away then we shall fall, and what price then your kingdom under your mountains when Oklar takes on the mantle of Theowart?’

  There was great irony in the word ‘your’ and her statement was followed by a long silence. It was as if the unseen speakers were gone; but still Loman found he could not move.

  ‘You are powerful and skilled, old woman,’ came a voice eventually. ‘And there is an ancient strangeness about you which we do not understand. We rightly fear your kind. You were ever treacherous and faithless. Even now you lie to us. Sumeral and His Uhriel were crushed utterly. Swept from this world forever. All that remains of Sumeral is what is carried in the hearts of humankind.’

  ‘There is some justice in that, Alphraan, but you never bore the burden that humankind bore. Your frailty was never thus tested. Know that He is come again and . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ many voices rang out again, angrily. ‘What do you know of burdens, human? Of testing? Henceforth our mountains are forbidden to you. You must set aside your arms.’ There was a pause. ‘Not only will we not aid you, we will oppose you in your folly.’