The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Ah well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘At least I’m starting to think straight again.’ He tapped the arm of his chair impatiently. ‘But I wish I knew more about . . . about everything in this mess . . . forces, dispositions, intentions . . . anything.’ His voice trailed off.

  There was a brief, uncertain silence, then Isloman spoke, almost cheerfully. ‘Well, He knows no more about you than you do about Him, Eldric. That’s what war’s about; uncertainty. But you at least have your Goraidin like eyes and ears all over the countryside. And I’ll wager you have, at worst, the passive loyalty of many ordinary people throughout the entire land.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘And a great many people like Dilrap watching and waiting, and perhaps quietly acting. What servant of Dan-Tor’s could come so near the heart of your counsels?’

  Eldric looked at him seriously for a moment, then smiled. ‘Ethriss protect me from optimists,’ he said, standing up. ‘But you’re right. I’m sorry. It was just a passing darkness. A patrol can be led anywhere by stealth but I find it difficult to imagine any of the western Lords allowing a Mandroc army over their land other than under the direst threat.’

  ‘And no one would attack through the Pass of Elewart unless they already held the north of Riddin in its entirety,’ Sylvriss added. ‘However, your reasoning was sound, and such a thing could come to pass if we aren’t vigilant. It confirms the rightness of our decision to leave. With Hawklan and me away, you’ll be less vulnerable, freer to take action, and easier in your heart to know that allies are being sought. I accept your escort – and the healer. We’ll leave tomorrow, if that’s possible.’

  Eldric allowed himself a brief look of regretful resignation then bowed formally to the Queen and looked at Isloman. ‘And you, Orthlundyn?’ he asked.

  Isloman nodded in confirmation. ‘We also,’ he replied.

  * * * *

  ‘Farewell, Majesty,’ Isloman said, looking down at the Queen.

  Sylvriss wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t call me that, Isloman,’ she said. ‘It comes ill from you. I’m not your ruler, nor will anyone ever be. Muster woman is as much honour as I could wish from anyone, and Sylvriss will suffice.’

  Isloman smiled awkwardly, then swung up on to Serian behind the mute form of Hawklan. He held out his huge hand. Sylvriss took it in both of hers. ‘Take care, Muster woman,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a rare companion. I’ll miss you.’

  Sylvriss squeezed his hand. ‘And I you, carver,’ she said. ‘But we’ll meet again, have no fear. And guard your charge well. My heart tells me his worth is beyond measure.’

  Eldric joined them. ‘A little chilly,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘But it should be a fine day.’

  Around them the peaks of the higher mountains were already being touched by the light of the rising sun, while far to the west could be seen the remains of the clouds that had so peevishly shed their rains the previous day. Above them the sky was pale but hopeful, and Gavor, the merest black speck, circled diligently.

  Eldric became solicitous. ‘You have everything?’ he asked anxiously. Both Isloman and the Queen reassured him patiently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked that before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Only a dozen or so times,’ Isloman laughed.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘To be honest, I’m not keen on partings, but I’m doing my best. I’ll miss you both very much, and Hawklan, and I’ll be mightily relieved when I hear you’re both safe with your own people.’

  ‘We’ll be relieved to send you that news,’ Isloman said. Then he reached into a pouch at his waist and took out two small stone discs. ‘I nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘A small gift for each of you.’

  He handed one to Sylvriss and the other to Eldric. Sylvriss thanked him with a surprised smile, and Eldric grunted self-consciously. There was a brief, slightly awkward silence as each examined their gift.

  ‘I’d have preferred to give you something a little better,’ Isloman said. ‘Miniatures aren’t my strong point and I only had my knife point . . .’

  His disclaimer was interrupted by exclamations from the two recipients.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Eldric cocking his head on one side and repeatedly turning the disc to view it from different angles. ‘It’s Hawklan on Serian.’

  ‘He moves as the stone moves,’ Sylvriss said, imitating Eldric, her eyes wide. ‘How have you done that? It’s like the Crystal Room at the Palace.’ Her voice faltered a little at the memory.

  Isloman caught the hesitation. ‘It’s my hope for the future,’ he said. ‘Not my memory of the past. Make it yours as well.’

  Sylvriss nodded and, still looking at the small carving, mounted her horse. Eldric gave his a last appreciative turn and placed it in his pocket. Then, without any further comment, he bowed to the Queen, saluted Isloman, and, clearing his throat, turned back to the castle.

  Isloman and Sylvriss looked at one another for a moment, then Sylvriss urged her horse forward and clattered off through the open castle gate. Isloman watched her for a moment and then turned to Yengar who, together with Olvric, was in charge of the Queen’s escort. ‘I’d hurry after her if I were you,’ he said, with a grin. ‘She’s liable to be halfway to Riddin before she remembers you’re supposed to be with her.’

  Laughing quietly to himself, he watched as the six men rode out of the courtyard in pursuit of their charge. Then he looked around at Eldric’s mountain castle. In the increasing claustrophobia of their re-emerging wartime thinking, all had agreed that the departures of the Queen and Hawklan should be as inconspicuous as possible. Even their true destinations were not to be announced for several days.

  However, in the shade of some of the windows Isloman could see Arinndier and the other Lords, making their silent farewells, together with Varak and Yatsu and such other of the Goraidin who were not out in the field.

  Distant and dark-shrouded though they were, Isloman looked at each in turn and then raised his arm in a broad salute to them all.

  Then he turned to his own escort; the Goraidin Dacu and the High Guard, Tirke. Both nodded to him.

  Carefully he put his arms around Hawklan and took Serian’s reins. ‘Let’s go back to Anderras Darion, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Chapter 16

  When the Guardians, Sphaeera, Enartion, and Theowart, had formed the world as a celebration of their being, they found such joy in it that they bade the First Comer Ethriss to create others so that they in their turn might celebrate the miracle of being.

  And with his three soul-friends, Ethriss created many others and taught them the Guardians’ ways and gave them of their power so that they could create and take joy in being.

  And amongst these was man.

  But Sumeral, the Great Corrupter, saw the flaw that must be in all things, and hated it and all the creations of the Guardians, especially those of Ethriss. And He saw that man was possessed of greater power of creation than any other. So as the Guardians slept, He came to him and with soft words said, ‘Blessed are the gifts of Ethriss that bring such joy unto yourself and your neighbour.’ And He passed on.

  But in the word ‘neighbour’ He laid a subtle snare, and discontent was born, and men began to seek him out, saying, ‘You are wise. Tell us, are we as blessed as our neighbours?’

  And Sumeral did not answer, but showed them the gift of the power of creation that Ethriss had given them, and said, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.’ Which was both true and false, for though joy may lie in creating, it is in the totality of the creating and the created object that the true joy of being lies.

  And men found indeed that joy was to be found in the power of creating, but under His guidance their creations were flawed, and knowing there was no true joy in them, men’s discontent grew, and they sought Him out further.

  But He dismissed them, saying again. ‘I have told you. In the use of this power will your joy be increased. Trouble me not. Create yet mo
re.’ Though privily He would say to some, dropping His soft, sweet words into the gaping maw of their desire, ‘If your neighbour’s creations are more joyous, perhaps it is a flaw in the way of things that should be mended.’

  And when they asked how this might be done, He said yet again, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.’

  And looking on the perfection of His beauty, many men believed Him, and began to gather power to themselves not only to create yet more of His flawed designs but to mar the creations of their neighbours. And their discontent grew beyond measure, until the time came when many were utterly lost in bewilderment and followed His words blindly.

  Thus His stain spread across the world, and the air and the sea and the earth became fouled with the poisons of His works, and many humbler creatures were slaughtered utterly. And He led His followers to create war, and wage it upon those who remembered the Guardians and the ways of true joy, for His own discontent grew also.

  But in His arrogance and hatred He forgot the Guardians, until the clamour of war awoke them and they opposed Him. And the conflict was terrible, for men were now as skilled in the use of Ethriss’s gift of creation as they were blind to its true purpose, and there was no limit to their awful skills.

  Yet Sumeral feared Ethriss and the Guardians, knowing that in each of those who followed Him there lay still an echo of the truth of Ethriss’s way and that the light of knowledge and truth must eventually destroy Him. So He took His three most cruel regents and taught to each a different portion of His skill in the use of the Power that had come from the Great Searing. And though He knew that their lust and folly would prevent their conspiring to overthrow Him, yet He kept from them the secret of life so that that which they desired the most, to be forever, would be always at His whim. And thus they were bound to Him utterly.

  These three He called His Uhriel: Creost, to whom he gave power over the seas and lakes and rivers, to bind Enartion; Dar Hastuin, to whom he gave power over the air and the skies, to bind Sphaeera; and Oklar, His closest and most favoured, to whom he gave power over the land and the mountains, to bind Theowart.

  And when Ethriss learned that Sumeral had so instructed and bound these men, he knew that all being could be lost, for now the Guardians must oppose the Uhriel, and could no longer aid those few armies of men that stood against Sumeral’s vast and cruel legions.

  So, silently, he sought amongst the wisest of those who opposed Sumeral and taught them to understand the Power of the Great Searing so that they might learn further, unaided, and with their own skills grow to aid both the Guardians and the armies of the Great Alliance of Kings and Peoples.

  And these he called Cadwanwr and together they were called the Cadwanol.

  And silently, with the aid of Theowart, he built the Caves of Cadwanen for their home, a fortress under the mountains, so complex and intricate that its labyrinth of chambers and passageways could have swallowed an entire army and left the occupants undisturbed. Though in its deeper parts he came upon a mystery of which he spoke to no one save to say that the caves were without end.

  For their further protection however, the Cadwanol filled the caves with myriad traps and deceptions created from the Old Power, as Ethriss had taught them, so that even he could not enter readily without their will. And he was pleased.

  And in great secrecy, protected at first by Ethriss and then by their own skills, the Cadwanol learned and grew and prospered, aiding both the Guardians and the armies of men. And for many generations Sumeral was ignorant of the strange presence that so constantly disturbed His plans.

  And when He learned of them, it was too late, for they were both cunning and powerful and through their efforts He could not then turn from His conflict with Ethriss nor could His Uhriel turn from their conflict with the Guardians.

  Thus did the Wars of the First Coming become, for their greater part, the wars of men.

  Yet the most terrible battles fought by the Cadwanol came in the aftermath of the destruction of Sumeral. For in His deep plunderings He had released from the rocks many strange creatures. Some, it was whispered, as fell as He and even older, though lacking His great power. Those He could win to His service, He did; and those He could bind, He did; but the remainder He ignored, trampling them underfoot or handing them to others for sport.

  Thus when His spirit was struck down by Ethriss, and His body by the Fyordyn, many of these creatures fled back into the depths. Some to hide in fear, some to seek their old home and forget the horrors of the world they had been thrust into. Some to wait His Second Coming.

  * * * *

  Only the arrival of the felci saved the Cadwanol from destruction.

  Appearing mysteriously one day from somewhere beneath the habited depths of the Caves of Cadwanen, one passed through the many traps and deceptions that should have bound it, and presented itself to the Cadwanol, who were celebrating His passing.

  Long-haired and long-tailed, with a sinuous body and a neck that ended in a pointed, inquisitive head, it looked more like a river creature than a cave dweller. But it waited for no curious outbursts from the assembled gathering.

  Rearing up on its hind legs it said. ‘Defend yourselves, wise men,’ in its dark, and what was to become unmistakably characteristic voice, edged even in that grim moment with a touch of mockery. ‘His allies live and gnaw at your roots.’

  Then it turned and left before the Cadwanwr could recover. As they called after it in confusion, it turned and said. ‘Hurry, or they’ll be gnawing your bones soon. And my people are dying. We need your help and you ours.’

  Then followed a terrible carnage in the uncharted depths of the Caves, as the Cadwanwr found themselves fighting the blighted remnants of Sumeral’s fouler allies.

  They came in great numbers, fighting with fang and claw, sword and axe, and His terrible weapons of fire. The felci in their turn opposed them with fang and claw, and the Cadwanwr with sword and spear, but in the dark and treacherous passageways they could not stay the onslaught.

  Then, in their last extremity, their leader gave his life by using the fire of the Old Power.

  For the close confined tunnels were choked with His creatures, and as he sent out the fire, it curled and flared around, and returning, consumed him. But as he perished he was transformed and he fell upon the enemy, sending a great light blazing through the ancient darkness, destroying those it fell upon and scattering the remnants, gibbering and blinded, into the darkness.

  And as their leader’s lingering sacrifice faded, the Cadwanwr pursued the retreating creatures, slaying many, until silence filled the caves again.

  Then, saddened, they returned to their Caves and began to seal them against the return of such horrors. It was no light task, and they were assailed many times before the work was completed, and though each time they were attacked with diminishing force, their losses were sore.

  It was many years before the depths were deemed to be free of these grim remnants of Sumeral’s long reign.

  * * * *

  Oslang frowned a little as with a pass of his hand he sealed the heavy door. Andawyr noted the expression but made no comment; no one liked wandering about so deep below the mountains. They were very nearly at the lowest habited level of the Caves, and though nothing had stirred in the outer depths for generations, the bitter aftermath of the Wars of the First Coming were etched deep into the lore of the Cadwanol.

  No bright summer light was brought down here by mirror stones. Only torches lit the passages and rooms and, bright though they were, they seemed to struggle against the oppressive mass of the mountains above.

  Yet, paradoxically, the sensation that Andawyr and many of the others felt at this depth was not one of being burdened from above, but of being exposed, as if at a great height above some strange mysterious world into which a careless step might plunge them.

  The two men walked for some way along a bare passage. One day, Andawyr thought, as he invariably did on the rare occasions he cam
e down so deep, we must face this strangeness and push out further and deeper. But at the same time he set the problem comfortably low on his list of priorities. Then they were at their destination. Stopping outside a sealed door, Andawyr hesitated, but Oslang stepped forward purposefully and opened it.

  The room was circular with a wide column at its centre. From the far side of the column, an uncertain blue radiance spilled round into the whiteness of the torchlight.

  Andawyr grimaced and hesitated again. Oslang pushed him gently. Still reluctant, Andawyr moved round the column towards the source of the blue light.

  It came from an alcove set into the column. Inside the alcove lay the sinister bird that Hawklan had inadvertently brought into Andawyr’s hidden quarters at the Gretmearc. One of the myriad eyes of the Vrwystin A Goleg – Oklar’s creature.

  It was sitting motionless, but as Andawyr moved closer it burst abruptly into a frenzy of activity, its eyes and beak wide and its wing and claws beating frantically. The blue light surrounding it swirled.

  Though no sound came out of the blue depths, both Oslang and Andawyr stepped back involuntarily, Andawyr lifting his arm across his face as if for protection, his eyes wide with fear.

  Then, like an echo of the bird’s reaction, Andawyr’s face twisted into an expression of seemingly uncontrollable rage and he levelled his hand at the demented creature. A stream of white light came from it, striking the bird and sending it crashing into the back of the alcove where it continued to struggle desperately. Light still streaming from his hands, Andawyr stepped forward as if to reach in and throttle the bird.

  For a moment Oslang stood stunned, then he seized Andawyr’s arm powerfully. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, his voice hoarse with fear and disbelief.

  The white light faltered, and Andawyr rounded on him angrily. But with a further effort, Oslang managed to drag the smaller man away. The light faded completely and almost immediately Andawyr’s face became apologetic. He put his hand to his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That awful – thing – I just want to . . .’ He drove his fist into his palm.