The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘And be ready to run?’ Jenna said.

  Loman nodded earnestly, and the two moved forward again.

  ‘This is difficult,’ Jenna said, after a while. ‘I’m trying to be at ease, but I’m too tired and anxious to think about carving, or to look at the moon shadows. Or anything except . . .’ She nodded ahead.

  ‘Yes,’ Loman agreed reluctantly. ‘Me, too. I think that’s the best we can do this time. Be concerned. It’ll suffice. At least it’s not warlike.’

  In the deceptive perspective of the mountains the route towards the approaching riders seemed like a gently undulating slope, but as Loman and Jenna moved gradually down into the valley, they found that the column disappeared for long periods behind large local variations in the terrain.

  Eventually Jenna raised her hand. ‘We’d better wait here. We might pass them if we go much further.’

  Loman agreed and they positioned themselves on a conspicuous outcrop washed with bright moonlight.

  The mountains around them were patched with shining silver and subtle moon-hazed shade. Here and there, tumbling streams caught by the moonlight shone more brightly than they did on a summer’s day. The whole scene was hauntingly beautiful.

  ‘I can sympathize with anyone wanting to keep war and violence away from here,’ Jenna said, keeping her voice low, as if it were an intrusion.

  Loman nodded. ‘Better here than in the villages,’ he said sadly. ‘At least the mountains are oblivious to our antics. They were here before we were, and they’ll be here when we’re gone.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  Loman turned to her. ‘I understand,’ he said. But in his mind was the thought that just as the mountains were gradually changed by forces they knew nothing of, so might that not also be the case for humanity also? It was a dark, frightening thought, and he did not welcome it.

  As if disturbed by its rider’s sudden unhappy preoccupation, Loman’s horse stirred slightly, its hooves scraping on the rock. Moonlight glinted off its harness, catching Loman’s eye like a brilliant evening star. He smiled and patted the animal gently. At the worst, he thought, if he couldn’t see his chains, at least he felt free. At the best, he was free.

  Slowly the soft night noises of the mountains were joined by the faint clinking and rattling of the approaching column. But no voices could be heard.

  Loman’s horse whinnied.

  Jenna reached out and took Loman’s hand. The lead rider came over the rise immediately by them. His head was bowed. Behind him came the rest of the column, silent and ghostly in the white moonlight.

  Chapter 25

  The four men stood in silence for some time, staring up at the mountain that barred their way.

  Tirke voiced the predominant apprehension. ‘We don’t have to go . . . over that, do we?’ he asked, pointing hesitantly towards the mountain’s cloud-covered peak.

  Dacu chewed his bottom lip. ‘Damn near,’ he said, and, without further comment, he mounted his horse and rode forward. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We must get as far as we can before that lot arrives.’ He inclined his head towards the darkness shadowing the clouds to the north.

  The others mounted and rode after him.

  ‘There’s no way round?’ Isloman asked.

  Dacu waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. The mountain rose out of a long series of high peaks and ridges which faded into the grey, rain-swept distance.

  ‘Wouldn’t west take us straight through to Orthlund?’ Isloman said.

  Dacu nodded. ‘Just about,’ he said. ‘But it’s precious little shorter and I’ve no idea if we can get through that way.’

  ‘What do you know about this way?’ Isloman asked, nodding towards the mountain. ‘Did you ever get this far when you were training?’

  Dacu shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, slightly surprised. ‘Of course not.’ He patted one of his pockets. ‘But according to the map and what we could glean from the records at Eldric’s, there’s a way through up there.’ He pointed up at the broad spur swinging down on the right hand side of the mountain.

  Isloman looked at it. ‘The map,’ he said uncertainly.

  A small spasm of irritation shone in Dacu’s eyes. ‘The map’s fine, Isloman,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s got us this far without any problem. There’s a lot missing from it, but what it shows has been correct.’

  Isloman frowned. ‘So far,’ he said. ‘If the Goraidin never came this far south, then probably no one has for years. There could be anything around the other side of that spur.’

  Dacu’s jaw came out. ‘I’m aware of that. But we’ve got our wits, haven’t we?’ He slapped his map pocket again. ‘And no reason to suppose there isn’t a way through when we get up there. At least we have some semblance of a route. Who knows what we’ll run into if we turn west?’

  Isloman turned to Hawklan. ‘Do these mountains mean anything to you, Hawklan?’ he asked.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. But we’ve had no real certainty about a route since we came into the mountains. Why the sudden concern?’

  The question was unexpectedly sharp and seemed to startle Isloman. For a moment he did not speak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually, slightly flustered. ‘I’ve got bad memories of being lost in the snow . . . I . . .’

  Hawklan rode alongside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten. But they were different times, Isloman. And you survived those against both the elements and an enemy. Don’t let the Morlider destroy you now, twenty years later. Not when you’re heading home with friends.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Isloman repeated. ‘It was just a shock coming on that mountain so suddenly. It’s so big. Just give me a little time.’ Then he urged his horse forward to ride just behind Dacu at the front of the small procession.

  For the rest of that day, the quartet rode on in comparative silence. Isloman’s unexpected moodiness gradually passed, unable to sustain itself against his natural disposition now its cause had been named, but the blustering showers confined everyone to their cloaks and hoods, and the absence of the Alphraan left them all with an indefinable sense of loss.

  Dacu pressed forward steadily but relentlessly and by the end of the day they had crossed the valley and made good progress up the huge rocky spur.

  Sitting in the quiet warmth of the shelter their spirits began to return, though concern about the following day’s travel and the fate of the Alphraan returning to their mysterious Heartplace, tended to dominate their thoughts.

  ‘I keep expecting them to interrupt at any minute,’ Tirke said, breaking a brief silence in the conversation.

  Hawklan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s very strange. An entire people living as our neighbours for so long, and no one knowing anything about them.’

  Gavor coughed.

  ‘Except the “Sky Prince” here, of course,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Or whatever it is they call you.’

  Gavor was haughty. ‘I can quite see why they kept themselves to themselves, dear boy,’ he said. ‘They’re obviously people of considerable refinement and good taste. Unlike certain parties around here.’

  ‘Of course, your highness,’ Tirke said, fluttering his elbows and bowing.

  Gavor looked at him balefully. ‘Would you like some more help with your journal, dear boy,’ he said loudly. ‘You seem to have forgotten it tonight.’ Dacu raised his eyebrows and Tirke glowered at his betrayer. ‘Oh, and don’t forget, there are two Ls in valley,’ Gavor added.

  Hawklan called a truce, and a companionable silence descended on the group as Tirke dutifully worked on his journal.

  After a while Hawklan yawned and lay down to stare contentedly at the roof of the shelter as it moved gently to and fro in the still boisterous wind. Occasional flurries of rain rattled against it, and each time Dacu inclined his head slightly, unconsciously listening for the change in tone that would indicate a change from rain to snow.

 
; Catching himself at it, he smiled and shook his head. Then he pulled out the map and began studying it pensively. Isloman leaned across and peered over his shoulder. Dacu eyed him uncertainly, like a schoolteacher expecting an impertinent question.

  ‘We’re about here, I presume,’ Isloman said, after a moment’s consideration. His large finger tapped the map gently.

  ‘Yes,’ Dacu replied. He made a small cross where Isloman had indicated, and wrote a number by it. Then, with a slow steady stroke of his pen, he joined the cross to another at the end of a line which wound down through the mountains from Fyorlund. It was a small, complete, and relaxed gesture that, to an eye like Isloman’s, told of years of discipline and practice.

  Isloman smiled. ‘I’d forgotten how precise you all were,’ he said reflectively. ‘Except when it got really . . . grim . . . Commander Dirfrin kept his journal meticulously, just like you do. And he made the others keep theirs. They were works of art. I even used some of your drawing techniques in my carving plans.’

  Dacu glanced at him without lifting his head. ‘Really?’ he said in soft and genuine surprise. ‘You surprise me.’ He waved a hand over the map. ‘This is just routine information recording.’

  ‘You misjudge yourself, Goraidin,’ Isloman said, leaning back. ‘It’s far more than that. It’s artistry – a kind of perfection.’

  Dacu looked at his handiwork and then at Isloman to see if the carver was teasing him. But Isloman was quite serious.

  ‘Others depend on our precision,’ Dacu said, slightly embarrassed. ‘We can always yarn to each other about our exploits and our terrible sufferings.’ He laid his hand on his chest in self-mockery. ‘But these’ – he tapped the map and the journal – ‘must show only what is relevant to the needs of other people in other times.’ He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is like your carving. When it’s done well it shows none of the pain of its making.’

  Isloman nodded appreciatively and looked again at the map.

  ‘Where’s this route around the mountain?’ he asked.

  Dacu indicated a short broken line on the map. ‘It’s a narrow gully, apparently.’

  ‘Not far,’ Isloman said.

  Dacu raised his eyebrows. ‘Not on the map,’ he said, reaching up to increase the brightness of his torch. Immediately, under the touch of the torchlight, the subtle colouring and shading of the map gave a look of solidity and depth to the mountains. The spur could be seen rising up steadily out of the green of the valley, tapering gradually into a narrow ridge that buttressed the peak. Other ridges and peaks in the vicinity also seemed to stand sharply out of the map.

  Isloman was admiring. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘That’s very good. Whoever drew that knew his shadow lore. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t studied in Orthlund. The depth expression is remarkable.’

  Dacu nodded. ‘It’s an old map,’ he said with a touch of sadness. ‘I doubt anyone knows how to draw them like this these days.’

  The image of Dan-Tor, slowly, methodically, destroying the old ways of the Fyordyn, came to Isloman. ‘They will again,’ he said. ‘Your map shows the way back to those times just as it shows a way through the mountains.’ He smiled. ‘Providing we use our wits,’ he added, mimicking Dacu’s earlier reproach.

  A gust of wind shook the shelter and, with a yawn-stifled, ‘Good-night,’ Tirke doused his torch and lay down. Isloman looked again at the map. The difference in heights between Dacu’s latest cross and the broken line was now clearly visible.

  ‘It’s a lot higher up, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Dacu nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Almost as high again as we’ve travelled today. Well into the snow, and probably the mist.’ He looked at Isloman. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Isloman replied. ‘It was just a shock coming on it so suddenly. It just . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘We’ve all got old wounds, Isloman,’ Dacu said quietly. ‘We know Dirfrin’s group had a bad time that winter. But better to admit the fear than let it fester.’

  ‘I know. But it’s never easy, is it?’ Isloman doused his own torch and lay down. ‘I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’

  Dacu opened his journal and, dimming his torch a little, began writing.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t think this gully’s going to be easy to find. Unless visibility’s good I think we’re going to need your eyes.’

  * * * *

  Visibility the next day, however, was not good. During the night the wind dropped, and when they woke it was to a motionless mist, tinted grey by the pending dawn. It had a characteristic chill.

  Dacu allowed no time for conjecture. Rapidly he stripped the shelter to galvanize his charges, then issued a swift series of orders for the harnessing and loading of the horses.

  ‘What about something to eat?’ Tirke pleaded, struggling with his pack. Gavor anxiously added his own concern to the request.

  ‘You can eat as you ride,’ Dacu said, his breath steaming. ‘It’s going to snow today, beyond a doubt, and I’ll be surprised if this mist lifts much. We must move while we can.’

  ‘Which way?’ Hawklan said, when they were all mounted.

  Dacu pointed a finger upwards. ‘For at least four or five hours, I should say, then we’ll have to move more carefully. We could have problems if we wander past the gully.’

  They were able to ride for quite some distance and gradually the mist brightened and thinned as the unseen sun rose and reached out with its warming touch. The group’s unease lightened with it, but the chill remained.

  Perched on Hawklan’s shoulder, Gavor looked at the silver droplets decorating his iridescent feathers. He shook himself, wreathing Hawklan’s head in fine spray.

  ‘Thank you, Gavor,’ Hawklan said with heavy irony, hunting for a kerchief.

  ‘It’ll freshen you up, dear boy,’ the raven replied, only mildly repentant.

  ‘Go and see what the weather’s doing,’ Hawklan said, casting a glance upwards. ‘See if you can get over this mist.’

  ‘Dear boy, I might get lost,’ Gavor protested.

  ‘Not while we’re carrying food, you won’t,’ Hawklan said unsympathetically. ‘Go on.’

  With a martyred and dignified sigh, Gavor left.

  A few minutes after his departure, the party found itself at the foot of a much steeper incline. Dacu dismounted.

  ‘We’ll have to lead the horses from now on,’ he said. ‘Be careful. Slow and steady will get us there. Rushing could kill us all.’

  Slow and steady, however, was their only alternative, as the men had to make several journeys up and down each section of the incline to help the struggling horses. Hawklan took his guidance from Serian.

  ‘This is difficult, Hawklan,’ the horse said. ‘They’re good nags, but they’re getting frightened and it’s sapping their will.’

  ‘Reassure them,’ Hawklan said.

  The horse chuckled. ‘Only humans lie, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We’re much simpler souls. We only see the truth.’

  Hawklan smiled at the reproach and patted the horse’s neck. ‘Goad them, then,’ he said. ‘There’s nowhere else we can go except forward.’

  Gavor floated down out of the greyness. ‘My, you have been working hard, haven’t you?’ he said to the four men, who were steaming almost as heavily as the horses.

  ‘The weather, Gavor,’ Hawklan said, glowering at him.

  Gavor became more serious. ‘Not too good, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘This mist is local, but it’s widespread and it’s not going to clear. The clouds are dropping. It won’t be long before the snow reaches us.’

  Dacu was unsurprised. ‘If our information’s correct, this incline should ease after a while, then we’ll have to start searching for the gully. Let’s hope our luck holds for a little.’

  As if in mockery of this prayer, a solitary snowflake tumbled silently out of the mist to land softly on his arm. Dacu looked up. Black agai
nst the grey sky, like the vanguard of a great host, more flakes twisted and turned purposefully towards him.

  ‘Let’s move,’ he said quietly.

  For a further hour they struggled up the rocky slope, the horses slipping and slithering as the snow thickened around them, slowly obscuring the uneven ground.

  ‘I can’t see any army making its way over this lot,’ gasped Tirke at one stage, as he and Dacu heaved one of the pack horses back on to its feet.

  ‘Armies can get over anything when they want to,’ Hawklan said, overhearing the remark. ‘Mountains and rivers are obstacles only to the will, and only the will falls before them.’ Dacu looked at him strangely. What quality was it in this man that made him at once so approachable and so frightening? He realized that at times he felt before Hawklan as he had when he first saw this mountain looming ahead of them, far bigger than he had imagined, and dominating their way forward, utterly oblivious in its ancient patience to their fleeting needs.

  Yet Hawklan was also the opposite. He was wholly concerned with the needs of others.

  As if catching his thoughts, Hawklan reached down and extended his hand to help Tirke over an awkward boulder. As they climbed, the snow began to fall more heavily and visibility became very poor. Gradually, however, the slope became less severe and eventually the horses were able to walk unaided.

  Dacu halted and, crouching down, ran his gloved hand through the snow. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Fresh on top of old. We’re up in to the permanent snow now. We’ll have to start looking for the gully.’

  He peered into the silent grey anonymity around them.

  ‘Should we camp and wait to see if the snow stops?’ Tirke asked.

  Dacu looked up at the sky. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘This is well set in and there’s a lot of daylight left yet. We must keep moving.’

  ‘But if we miss the gully, we could wander anywhere in this,’ Tirke said. ‘Up on to the mountains to the west – anywhere.’

  ‘True,’ Dacu agreed, walking over to one of the pack horses. ‘But we’re also too exposed here. If the wind starts blowing it’ll reduce what visibility there is, and give us some real problems. Not to mention problems for the horses. We’ll have to keep moving if only to find better shelter.’