The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘And no one helped you?’ he said.

  ‘Faint songs came from the north of great battles in the ways there, but most men were content to entomb what they could not find and destroy.’ The voice was quiet and resigned.

  ‘Ethriss was gone, and none helped us because none knew of us,’ it said simply. ‘That was of our own doing and is our cruellest burden.’

  The wind blew Hawklan’s hood back. As he tugged at it, Dacu spoke. ‘Could your people not defend themselves against these creatures?’

  ‘No, warrior.’ There was a bitter humour in the voice now. ‘Our wars against the Mandrassni had been so fearful, that we had turned utterly from violence, and such arts of war as we had were long forgotten.’

  Isloman and Hawklan exchanged glances at this ominous parallel with the Orthlundyn.

  Dacu’s face wrinkled in pain and bewilderment. ‘But how could you ignore the lessons that you must have learned so bitterly?’

  ‘You seek to judge us again, Goraidin,’ said the voice, though not unkindly. ‘You must wait until your own people have been utterly destroyed before you can begin to understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dacu responded. ‘You’re right. I was judging you. I was wrong. But if my people were destroyed I think part of me would seek out vengeance.’

  ‘Ah.’ This time, the Alphraan’s sigh was full of realization and understanding. ‘Yes, Goraidin. Part of you would,’ the voice said, very gently. ‘Humanity was Ethriss’s greatest creation and his most flawed. That is why in each of you there is the darkness that yearns towards His way. Your balance is subtle far beyond our understanding.’

  Then, a strange stirring urgency filled the air.

  ‘This has been a great learning for us,’ said the voice hurriedly. It was fading. ‘And a strengthening. But we must leave you now.’

  ‘What’s the matter – where are you going?’ Hawklan asked anxiously, leaning forward.

  ‘To our trial, healer,’ said the voice. ‘If our courage . . . and our fortune . . . holds, we shall speak again . . . on the other side of the mountain.’

  ‘No!’ Hawklan shouted. ‘Wait. We must help you.’

  ‘Gavor, if we do not speak again, tell our kin that we have gone into the ancient Heartplace. By your telling they will know the truth of our fate.’

  ‘No!’ Hawklan shouted again. ‘Stay with us.’

  The voice was very faint now, for the first time seeming to be carried away by the wind. ‘We cannot, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘We will need our every resource.’ Then, fading utterly, ‘. . . where we go . . . Sumeral’s creatures . . . may . . . yet . . . live.’

  As the voice disappeared into the increasing noise of the wind, Hawklan found himself gazing around, searching desperately for the unseen speaker, a sense of desolation pervading him.

  The whole group had stopped, stunned by this sudden and unexpected departure.

  Dacu was the first to speak, though not about the suddenly departed Alphraan. He pointed ahead. ‘We’ll need our every resource as well,’ he said. ‘If we’re to get past that.’

  Hawklan looked up. Dominating the horizon was a mountain that overtopped all those around it. Its peak was hidden in mist but two broad, curving spurs ran down from its snow-covered shoulders to arc round like the arms of a great chair. Its grim presence however, offered no sense of comfort.

  Instinctively, Hawklan turned away from it and looked to the north. There, another mountain dominated the scene. A growing mountain of heavy grey cloud, pregnant with the first of the real winter snows.

  Chapter 23

  For the first time since Hawklan had left there had been serious dissension among the Orthlundyn.

  None could deny the vulnerability of their country as revealed by the visit of Dan-Tor and the subsequent slaughter of the High Guards by armed Mandrocs. And most agreed readily to the restraints placed on their ordinary lives by the need to build up sufficient skill at arms to mend this weakness. However, no small part in this agreement was played by Gulda’s organizing skills, which ensured that these restraints were modest and reasonable and that, for the most part, few had had to leave their homes and farms for any length of time.

  Now, however, with the proposal for wholesale movement of almost all training into the mountains, the disruption promised to be considerable and, unexpectedly, Loman and his colleagues found themselves spending long hours first persuading village elders of the real threat raised by the Alphraan’s action, and then helping them in their turn persuade their villagers.

  ‘The Riddinvolk don’t have this much trouble, I’m sure,’ Loman said one evening, slumping into his chair and gazing up at the carved ceiling. By an irony, it showed a scene of an orator skilfully swaying a great throng. Pulling a rueful face, Loman closed his eyes. ‘I must have spent half the day up at Oglin just sorting out who should tend whose fields, who should feed whose stock, who should collect whose stones from the quarry, mend this, mend that’ – he slapped the arms of his chair and uttered a strangled growl – ‘who should scratch whose backside . . .’

  Gulda looked up from the book she was reading and, surprisingly, laughed. ‘The Riddinvolk are different,’ she said. ‘They’re born to it. Their whole society pivots around the Muster and has done for generations. They have their family homes and lands, but they’re much more used to mobility and the kind of communal sharing that goes with it.’

  Loman nodded. ‘I know, Memsa,’ he said more quietly. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m only venting my frustration through the rafters. I’m just worried. This is taking much longer than I thought. It was hard enough changing the training schedules, but this reluctance, by people . . .’

  He sat up, leaving his comment unfinished.

  Again surprisingly, Gulda did not seem to share his concern. ‘There’s nothing else you can do, is there?’ she said, her voice still mildly amused. ‘You can’t drag them up into the hills one at a time and make them train.’ She laid down her book and looked at him. ‘The Orthlundyn are every bit as mobile as the Riddinvolk, Loman, but in a different way.’ A long finger rose to tap her temple. ‘In here. In their minds.’

  She turned her book over and gently ran her finger over its ornate binding. ‘I’ll confess, this delay is unsettling me a little as well,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be for the best in the end. Once people accept the changes freely, they’ll commit themselves to them, you’ll see. In the long run, we may thank the Alphraan for what they’ve done. They’ve shown us again how vulnerable we are to the whims of outsiders, and also made us face the problem of the social upheaval that goes with self-defence.’ She looked at him significantly. ‘An item I fear we’ve shied away from previously if the truth be told.’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling people,’ Loman agreed. ‘And most of them agree eventually. But it’s still heavy going.’ With a dismissive wave of his hand, he changed the subject. ‘Have you found your wedge yet?’ he asked, leaning forward and looking at her intently.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Gulda replied, returning to her book. ‘I always knew what that would be. I just wanted to have a long talk with Tirilen about it first. Now she’s reasonably happy about it, I’m simply waiting for you to tell me everyone’s ready for the change. Then we’re off.’

  ‘Off?’ Loman queried suspiciously.

  * * * *

  It was not a particularly warm day, but Loman and Athyr were perspiring freely as they trudged up the last and steepest part of the mountain where Gulda had first lured out the Alphraan with the singing of the three boys.

  ‘At least you’re not carrying the children today,’ Gulda said, leading the way.

  Loman risked a sour look at her back and then adjusted his pack.

  ‘We might as well be,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how that damned tinker carried this lot on his own.’

  ‘He had more than that with him when he came, father,’ Tirilen said, wilfully unhelpful. ‘And we are carrying some of it for you.’

  Loman looked
at the small neat pack on his daughter’s shoulders. ‘I’m indebted to you, my dear,’ he said acidly. ‘There must be a good two to three bracelets in your pack.’

  ‘Take no notice of him, Tirilen,’ Gulda said. ‘He’s just getting old.’

  With difficulty Loman remained silent. He judged he had little alternative if Gulda and Tirilen were going to conspire against him. Athyr grinned widely.

  At the top, however, it was with some relish that Loman noted his daughter too was looking rather red-faced.

  His glee, nevertheless, was tempered with deeper emotions. It seemed a long time since he had walked in the mountains with Tirilen, and while he, in many ways, had become younger over the past months, she had aged noticeably. Not in her appearance, but in her manner and demeanour. The quiet, slightly reserved young woman that had grown from the boisterous, almost raucous tomboy, now seemed to have developed into a much more solid, purposeful individual. He felt a strange twinge of regret.

  He shook his head in self-reproach at this unexpected emotion, then gratefully lowered his pack on to the ground, and flexed his arms and shoulders. Athyr did the same. Gulda plumped herself down on a rock nearby and folded her hands over the top of her stick, though Loman noticed that, as previously, she seemed to be quite unaffected by the climb.

  Tirilen, however, did not sit down immediately, but walked to the edge of the cliff that fell sharply away from the far side of the summit. There, she stood motionless except for her head moving gently from side to side as she gazed around the valleys and lesser peaks spread out below. The wind, strong and cold at this height, buffeted her and blew her hair awry, and eventually she pulled her cloak tight about her. It was a calm, unhurried movement, however, quite free from the hunched and hasty clutching that many others might have shown. Tirilen embraced the winter-presaging wind as readily as she would embrace the warm summer sun.

  Loman watched her, his face impassive.

  Unexpectedly, Gulda reached up and took his hand. He looked down and met her gaze. ‘They have to leave, Loman,’ she said softly. ‘One way or another. Just as we left our . . .’ She faltered. ‘. . . parents, and they left theirs. The only way you’ll keep her is to let her go.’

  ‘I know,’ Loman said. ‘I understand.’ Uncharacteristically, he sighed. ‘I think I’m used to the idea of letting her go – but not my need to protect and care for her. It’s difficult. And I get so frightened for the future.’

  Gulda squeezed his hand. The caring and affection – or need for it? – in the contact were suddenly almost unbearable. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That need I can’t help you with. Take heart that Tirilen’s well founded in her life. She’s as ready to face and cope with its problems as she is to savour its joys. As for the future,’ – she shrugged – ‘sight of that is denied to us all, thank Ethriss. But at least your people aren’t such innocents any more, Loman. They’ve been given the opportunity to think and prepare for some of the grimmer futures that might come to pass, and they’ve seen it and acted on it in a manner that barely fouls the present.’ She looked pensive. ‘In fact, I think it may even be enriching it.’

  ‘Not for the people we’ve lost,’ Loman said.

  Gulda squeezed his hand again, ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. Then, releasing him, she clapped her hand on her knee to signal the end of the debate. She stood up and, for an instant, Loman felt himself again in the presence of a younger, immensely powerful, almost frightening woman.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gulda said grimly. ‘You know well enough that the preparations themselves might prevent the very future they’re intended to meet. No Mandrocs – or anyone – could march through Orthlund now and be slowed only by fatigue, could they?’

  Loman nodded. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘But . . .’ He waved his arm around the mountains. They had returned to the reason for their journey. Their lack of weapons.

  Gulda flicked a long finger at the two packs they had brought. ‘Tip that lot out over there,’ she said.

  Loman and Athyr did as they were bidden. Out on to the grassy knoll tumbled the decaying remnants of the wares that Dan-Tor had brought to the village in the spring. Tirilen turned at the sound, her face uncertain.

  She walked over to the knoll and, opening her own pack, added its contents to the pile. All four looked at the results with distaste. Metal objects were pitted black and red, fabrics were frayed and mouldering, and wood was cracked and split with unpleasant damp and gaping fissures. The whole, even the children’s toys, exuded an almost tangible unhealthiness.

  Unthinkingly touching the slight blemish on her throat, Tirilen crouched down and carefully picked up individual items. ‘They’re still getting better,’ she said after a while. ‘But it’s painful.’ She looked up at Gulda questioningly. ‘Are you sure this is necessary? she asked.

  Gulda raised her eyebrows. ‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘But it’s all I’ve been able to think of.’ She looked around at the mountains. ‘It’s an obscenity to bring these things here, but some, perhaps most, of the Alphraan don’t seem inclined to listen, so they’ll have to see for themselves. That plus our new training exercises might make them think a little.’

  Tirilen nodded reluctantly. ‘Before we leave, I’ll do what I can to make sure they don’t harm anything – or anyone – that happens on them by chance,’ she said. ‘But I’d rather have them by the Leaving Stone where we can all see them. It’s bad enough that they foul one patch of ground.’

  Gulda laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You can do no more,’ she said gently. ‘That’s why I asked you to come. That, and the fact that you need the mountains for your healing skills.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tirilen said softly, looking round and smiling. ‘I do. I hadn’t realized.’

  Gulda gave a satisfied grunt and stumped over to the cliff edge where she stood for some time like an angry black cloud.

  ‘Alphraan,’ she shouted into the blustering wind. ‘We came to you before with a gift and a message. You took the one and ignored the other. Now we bring you another gift, and the same message. You’re divided amongst yourselves, that much we heard in your song, but the debate is not yours alone. Know the truth. Sumeral is awake and we must all – all – of us prepare to face Him. Know too that He cannot be hidden from. He will seek us out, each in our turn, when His strength is sufficient. And this may be soon. Nothing can prevent this and nothing can protect you except your willingness to protect yourselves.’ She levelled her stick at the pile. ‘Here’s our gift,’ she continued. ‘It’s what His agent brought to Orthlund. And far worse followed in its wake, which we’ll tell of when you want to listen. But for now, study these corrupted wares well. If in the face of these, the ignorant and foolish among you still prevail, then so be it. You would not be the first in history to turn your backs to the knife.’

  Her voice suddenly became more powerful. ‘But you cannot oblige others to do the same. You must release the weapons of Anderras Darion; the weapons of the Orthlundyn; Ethriss’s weapons. The Orthlundyn are a free people. They have made their decision and they accept its responsibilities. You have no right to do what you’ve done unless you are prepared to carry the burden of protecting them when His hordes come!’

  Her voice seemed to echo round the surrounding crags, but as it faded no other sound could be heard apart from the wind swirling around the peak where they stood.

  ‘Not so talkative today,’ Loman said. ‘Do you think they heard?’

  Gulda chuckled. ‘They heard well enough,’ she said. ‘Every word. And watched our every action.’

  ‘We’re leaving now,’ she shouted abruptly. ‘Tirilen’s healing will protect you and anything else from the random harms that might come from this . . .’ She pointed again to the pile. ‘And have no fear. In time we’ll return and take it back to the village. The people of Pedhavin know it was to their shame that they didn’t see these things for what they were, and they’ll both bear that odium and learn from it. But until we return, feast your senses upon
what you find here, sound carvers. See what songs it inspires.’

  Still there was no reply.

  Gulda nodded to herself and turned away. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she turned back again. ‘Our people will be returning to the mountains soon,’ she said. ‘To continue practicing the skills – the awful skills – that must be acquired to face Him. Skills which may yet be used in time to protect you. They will carry no weapons, but you must watch and listen, and learn. And do not seek to harm those who are prepared to face the evils you would turn away from.’

  Loman looked at Gulda sharply. Her whole speech had been delivered with what was tantamount to angry scorn, but the nuances in her voice during this last statement were strange and he was unable to tell whether it was a plea or a threat.

  Before he could comment however, she turned away purposefully and signalled to him and Athyr to pick up the packs and prepare to leave.

  Throughout their journey back to the Castle they heard no sound other than those of the mountains.

  * * * *

  Immediately on their return to Anderras Darion, Loman ordered the commencement of the new training exercises and, within days, large groups of Orthlundyn began making their way into the mountains to establish a series of temporary camps.

  ‘At least, I hope they’re temporary,’ Loman said to Gulda as they walked up the steep road to the Castle from the village. ‘It’s been a hard struggle to persuade everyone that it’s necessary, and there’re still some reluctant souls out there.’

  Gulda stopped and turned round to look down at the village with its solid houses scattered about the slopes below. To the north, the sky just above the horizon looked grey and misty, but a pleasant sun shone on the village, cutting sharp shadows through its maze of streets.