The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Always different, always the same,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Poor Orthlundyn. Preparing for war again.’

  She turned back and began marching towards the Castle. ‘They should be temporary,’ she said. ‘I can’t see the Alphraan taking kindly either to what I said, or to Dan-Tor’s wares.’

  ‘You were quite forceful,’ Loman said cautiously. Gulda’s speech and its blistering delivery had concerned him since they had come down from the peak, but he had found no suitable opportunity to comment on it.

  Gulda chuckled. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I told them the truth and I told them in a manner that they couldn’t ignore.’

  Loman looked at her. ‘With our people going out there, was it wise to risk making the Alphraan angry?’ he asked.

  Gulda returned his gaze and pointed towards the distant path leading up from the village into the mountains. ‘There’s only one way the Alphraan could prove to be a permanent danger to us,’ she said.

  Loman raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘By doing nothing,’ Gulda replied emphatically. ‘By just sitting quiet in their little holes and doing nothing.’

  Loman frowned uncertainly. Gulda took his arm. ‘If they do nothing, Loman, what can we do?’ She did not wait for an answer. ‘Also nothing. We’ll be left with an Armoury we can’t get into, no way of getting weapons in any quantity, and no way of reaching the people who’re causing the problem.’

  For all its brevity it was an apt summary of the grim outcome that could ensue from simple inaction by the Alphraan. It was an idea that had not occurred to Loman and it chilled him. He made no effort to reply.

  Gulda continued. ‘Fortunately they’ve already shown themselves willing to make contact with us, just by interfering, so it’s important that we respond, and respond vigorously, to provoke response in return. We must keep them moving. Each time they respond we’ll learn more about them.’

  Loman was torn. ‘And if their responses involve hurting some of our people . . . our friends?’ he asked.

  ‘People are getting hurt all the time,’ Gulda replied brusquely. ‘You can’t learn what’s got to be learnt and not get hurt at some time or another. You’ve been hurt often enough before now and come out none the worse for it.’

  Loman looked angry. ‘It’s not the same,’ he said. ‘We’re using other people to . . .’ – he searched for a phrase – ‘. . . to test the heat of the furnace. And we’ve no idea what’s going to happen to them. You’ll forgive me if I feel for them a little?’

  Gulda’s tone became hard. ‘It’s exactly the same, Loman,’ she said. ‘They’re all going of their own free will. They’ve all been told as much as we know . . .’

  ‘They were persuaded.’

  ‘They were told the truth,’ Gulda snapped back. Then, more softly, ‘School yourself to this kind of pain, Loman. There’ll be more, and worse, to come. Your concern does you credit. But there are times when you can’t allow yourself to feel for individuals too much, it’ll mar your judgement, and you’ll make mistakes that’ll plunge everyone into the furnace with a vengeance. You need balance in your compassion.’

  Loman stopped walking. ‘That’s not balance, that’s callousness,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Training and organizing is one thing, but this . . . I’m not sure I can do it.’

  Gulda tapped her stick on the hard ground, an ominous tattoo. ‘You can’t not do it, Loman,’ she said. ‘If you want to preserve all this.’ She swung her stick round in a sweeping arc to encompass the Castle, the mountains and the rolling landscape. ‘And all your friends. You’re Orthlundyn. You’ve enough shadow skill in you to know how a change in perspective changes a scene. Your perspective is changed now. You have a broader vision. You can’t see everything. No one can. But you can see more than many. Just play your part and think yourself lucky you’ve got plenty of good, sensible, capable, people around you to support you.’

  Loman looked at her, his eyes penetrating. ‘Where did you learn all these things, Memsa?’ he asked abruptly.

  Gulda turned away from him sharply, almost as if she had been struck, and started off up the road again without replying.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, as he caught up with her. ‘It is callousness. But I’m right as well. We’ve no alternative.’ She turned and looked at him, her face unreadable. ‘No alternative that we can live with. The few have always fallen for the benefit of the many,’ she said stonily. ‘Always. Our pain is to accept that; to honour our own lives when we’ve helped deny them theirs. And our task is to make that few as small as possible. What that costs us personally is irrelevant.’

  Without speaking, Loman walked off the road and across a small area of short springy turf sprinkled with bright flowers, to a jagged rocky outcrop. Standing on it, he could see the stream that bubbled out of Anderras Darion, cascading white and silver towards the river below. Beyond lay the village and the familiar countryside, small patches now scarred brown where fallow areas had been used for cavalry and infantry training.

  Gulda had told him nothing he did not already know, but the speaking of it had changed it in some subtle way. He was at once profoundly free and profoundly pinioned.

  He looked to the north and the habitual thought came – where are you, Hawklan? Isloman? What are you doing? When are you coming back? But even as the thought occurred he knew that their return would make no difference to his burden. Indeed it might well presage events that could make that burden worse. No, his greatest solace would lie in Gulda’s last statement. ‘Our task is to make that few as small as possible.’ As small as possible! That was a practical problem and would have practical solutions. That, he could apply his every resource to willingly.

  He turned away from the scene and returned to the road. Gulda had gone on ahead, leaving him to his reverie, and she was now a tiny black insignificance moving along at the foot of the towering splendour of Anderras Darion.

  * * * *

  For several days, nothing untoward was reported from the mountains. The various camps were established without any serious difficulties, and training began almost immediately.

  Visiting the central camp, Loman found Athyr well pleased. It seemed that an atmosphere almost of Festival had sprung up in the more spartan conditions of the camps, and training was being pursued more energetically than ever. The Orthlundyn were tackling with some relish the problems of using infantry phalanxes and cavalry in the difficult terrain, and were proving inventive in the development of techniques for ambush and unarmed fighting skills.

  Loman recalled Gulda’s comment that they might indeed be grateful to the Alphraan in the end. However, he detected a small note of reserve in Athyr’s report. ‘That’s far better than we could have hoped for,’ he said, when Athyr had finished talking. ‘But what’s bothering you? Injuries?’

  Athyr shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Only a few cuts and bruises among the more boisterous. Nothing that needs any special attention.’

  ‘What then?’ Loman asked.

  Athyr bent down and picked up a small rounded stone. ‘We made sure that no weapons were brought up here,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But . . . everyone’s suddenly practicing stone throwing and slinging.’ He raised his hands in premature denial. ‘Not my idea,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Loman rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then the new spirit pervading the camp swept over him. ‘Good,’ he said, laughing. ‘Encourage it. It’s as effective as bowmanship in its place, and, round here at least, you’re not going to run out of ammunition.’

  Athyr looked heartened by this response, but cast his eyes around the surrounding peaks significantly.

  ‘We told them we’d bring no weapons,’ he said.

  ‘We haven’t,’ Loman said. ‘Nor will we. We told them we were coming here to continue learning the skills we need.’ He waved his hand around the busy camp. ‘These people made this decision for themselves. Let the Alphraan see where these skills derive from – from the hea
rts of ordinary people prepared to defend what they value. And let them realize truly what a weapon really is.’ Then he laughed again. ‘And you’d better start practicing yourself. As I remember, slinging’s not exactly your strong point.’

  Loman was still in high spirits as he prepared to leave the camp, but he had only just mounted his horse when a distant but powerful whistle made him look up. It was followed immediately by a cry from someone in the camp.

  ‘Message.’

  Athyr cast about for a moment and then directed Loman’s gaze to a crag high above them. There a figure was waving two signal flags frantically.

  Loman narrowed his eyes in concentration as he read the signal. It was brief and to the point. ‘Fighting. Camp three,’ it said. Then, ‘Serious.’ The routine noise and clatter of the camp had stopped at the first cry. Now it was replaced by a buzz of concern.

  Athyr ran towards a small platform that had been built at the centre of the camp. Loman swung down from his horse and handing it to a young woman nearby, ran after him.

  Before he reached him however, Athyr was already on the platform and banging an alarm bell. Loman suddenly found himself part of a general convergence on the platform, and when he reached it he had to push his way through a growing crowd before he could clamber up to join Athyr.

  Athyr was looking up at the signaller again, but the man was peering intently through his seeing stone.

  ‘The message is confirmed,’ said a young man, who was already on the platform. He was pointing towards a second signaller on a more distant hill. Athyr nodded. ‘Keep watching,’ he said. ‘Interrupt me if you see anything else.’

  Then he spoke to the crowd. His voice was stilted because he duplicated his words in a version of the High Guards’ hand language. He was not proficient in it, nor were his audience, but it was adequate. Loman had ensured that the hand language was taught to everyone as part of their routine training, though it had never been popular. Now, however, in the mountains, with the risk that sounds could be used to mislead and deceive, he had insisted that it be used as much as possible, particularly for urgent orders.

  Gulda had made a similar contribution by unearthing the flag language for signalling. Initially, for some reason, it had caused intense amusement among the Orthlundyn, and Loman took some delight in remarking that it was the first time he had ever seen Gulda looking bewildered. However, it had been learnt diligently enough and like the hand language its value was abundantly clear now.

  ‘Be alert, all of you,’ Athyr said. ‘Reinforcements for the signallers, up there straight away. Duty patrol, mount up, Loman and I will ride with you to camp three.’ He turned to the young man, ‘Send a signal to all camps. Tell them what we’re doing. They’re to reinforce their signallers and they’re to wait until they hear from us. No one,’ he emphasized, ‘No one, is to leave any of the camps until we find out what’s happening.’

  The young man picked up a pair of signalling flags but before he could begin his message, another whistle was heard. He looked up. ‘Fighting at camp six, also,’ he repeated slowly after a brief pause.

  Athyr looked at Loman and then turned back to the now tense crowd. ‘First reserve patrol, mount up. I’ll come with you to camp six, Loman will go to camp three. Signaller, you send that as before. The rest of you – be alert,’ he repeated. He slapped his hands significantly. ‘And hand language,’ he gestured.

  Loman looked at the uncertain and concerned faces surrounding the platform, and felt very cold. We must keep the few as small as possible, he thought. Their needs come before mine.

  Chapter 24

  Within minutes of Athyr ordering out the two patrols, the interlinked system of flag messengers that had been arranged because of the risk to oral signals presented by the Alphraan had brought in further confirmation of fighting at camps three and six.

  Thus instead of wending a leisurely way back to Anderras Darion, Loman found himself trotting at the head of the duty patrol. Alongside him was Jenna, one of the members of the elite corps who had been dispersed through the camps as observers.

  ‘Any new ideas about how to tackle this?’ he asked.

  Jenna shook her head. ‘No,’ she said uncertainly. ‘If it’s like the last time, it came out of nowhere. No warning. No sounds. Nothing.’ She looked anxious. ‘It was frightening, Loman,’ she said. ‘It taught me more about real aggression – real personal threat – than any amount of training could.’ She paused awkwardly. ‘I’ve told you all this before, haven’t I?’ she said.

  Loman smiled. ‘You have, Jenna,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I understand. Speak your fears while you can. It was a hard lesson for you, but a worthwhile one, I’m afraid. It’ll take quite some time for you to get over it fully.’

  There had been some debate before the camps were established about how to tackle this type of problem, but no satisfactory conclusions had been reached. Gulda’s opinion was that divisions among the Alphraan and the absence of weapons would prevent any great harm being done. She also had some hope that sheer weight of numbers might present them with problems. But hope was all they had; the whole point of the venture was to provoke and to learn. Thus Loman and all the other leaders knew that they would have no alternative but to make their own decisions as events occurred, and study the consequences afterwards.

  The patrol rode on in silence for some time, then Loman dropped back a little until he was alongside the middle of the column.

  ‘Have any of you got throwing stones with you?’ he asked. There was some vague nodding and hand raising.

  ‘Get rid of them,’ he said. ‘All of them. Straight away. We don’t know what . . . difficulties . . . we’re going to run into at camp three, or even before, but the fewer potential weapons we have to hand, the better.’

  The request caused little debate, though he noted that some were a little reluctant to part with what were obviously carefully chosen stones.

  ‘They’re lying about everywhere, anyway,’ said one of the riders casually as he upended his pouch.

  Loman smiled. ‘True,’ he said, watching the small stones clattering into anonymity amongst their countless fellows strewn across the valley floor. ‘But they won’t be hand-chosen like those, and you’ll need to pause for a moment before you pick them up.’

  The man frowned. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  Loman reflected the frown. His casual remark had set in motion an unexpected train of thought. He did not reply but instead rejoined Jenna at the head of the patrol. For a little while he rode with his head bowed pensively.

  The memory of their first encounter with the Alphraan returned to him vividly. ‘They bind themselves,’ one of the voices had said to Gulda. ‘They have not your vision.’ And, at least in part, they seemed to have been amused by it. Surprised, even.

  The harsh drumming of the horses’ hooves on the valley turf was relentless and determined. It echoed in his head disturbingly. There was a wrongness about what was happening, but it eluded him.

  What are we going to find at this camp? he thought suddenly. An enemy, obviously, came the reply.

  Obviously?

  No, he realized. They were going to find friends. Friends being misled – used – by an enemy. An enemy that would almost certainly be unseen but who were capable of holding people immobile without even touching them. They had even held him. Him! Who could lift a man and his horse if he wished.

  Still the horses pounded on and he felt the angry spur of the patrol’s collective purpose.

  But against whom could that purpose be directed? How could it be used against an enemy that could not be seen?

  Then came the thought: and who would direct this purpose?

  He raised his hand. ‘Slow down,’ he shouted. ‘Slow down. Walking pace.’

  There was some confusion behind him and Jenna turned to him, startled. She began to protest but he waved her silent. ‘Just slow down,’ he said quietly.

  Then the rhythm of the hooves w
as gone, replaced by the uneven, soft treading of the horses and the relaxed creaking and rattling of tackle.

  ‘If we go into camp three like cavalry, then we’ll be seen as cavalry, and used as cavalry against our own people,’ Loman said after a pause.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jenna asked, almost whispering, concerned at this unexpected development.

  ‘Halt and dismount,’ Loman called out.

  There was a brief pause as Jenna cast another quick glance at her companion before confirming the order.

  Loman swung down from his horse and began walking with it. He signalled the patrol to break formation.

  Jenna could not contain herself. ‘What are you doing, Loman?’ she said angrily, though still keeping her voice low.

  ‘Thinking,’ Loman said absently. ‘Or rather, ordering my thoughts.’

  Jenna’s jaw tensed. ‘There are people in trouble up there,’ she said, pointing ahead.

  ‘I know,’ Loman replied. ‘But they’ll be in worse trouble if we go charging in like this.’

  He felt Jenna’s eyes searching his face and he raised his hand reassuringly.

  ‘Listen, all of you,’ he said, addressing the whole patrol. ‘So far the Alphraan have hurt no one directly.’

  A small bubble of protest started to form.

  Loman punctured it. ‘They’ve only made us hurt ourselves,’ he said.

  ‘You all felt the excitement of galloping along to rescue our friends, didn’t you?’ he continued. ‘Action at last against these arrogant, interfering little people.’

  The ensuing silence was uncomfortable, but no one demurred.

  He looked round at his companions. ‘But ask yourselves this,’ he said. ‘How can that excitement – that righteous excitement – that indignation – be directed against an enemy that can’t be seen?’

  He paused to let the implication sink in.

  ‘It can’t, can it?’ he said.

  He pointed at one of the younger men. ‘You’re in battle,’ he said forcefully. ‘You’ve killed your man, but your sword’s been broken. More of the enemy appear and you can’t run. What do you do?’