by Roger Taylor
Gulda leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands folded over the top of her stick. She spoke slowly, her voice soft, but very powerful: ‘They’re both people and tools, soldier. Don’t think otherwise. You shape them, sharpen and hone them, care for them, and then when need arises, you use them. You use them as you’ve prepared them – as they’ve prepared themselves – to be used, and you use them thus before someone else smashes them.’
Athyr’s eyes narrowed. ‘You blunt a tool when you use it,’ he said savagely.
‘Then you re-sharpen it,’ Gulda snapped, reflecting his manner back at him.
‘But it’s changed, isn’t it?’ Athyr said, barely holding his ground against Gulda’s response, but before he could continue, she waved her hand around the small assembly. ‘We change all the time, Athyr,’ she said, less harshly. ‘And we’ve all been damaged, blunted, by what happened. You because you could do little or nothing to stop what was happening and realize now that your very arrival may have worsened matters. Loman and Jenna because they saw what you didn’t see, but didn’t tell you. Yrain, who conceived this idea. And me who agreed with it and underestimated the power, the control, and the will, of the Alphraan.’
She turned her head and looked at Tirilen. ‘And Tirilen. Who should be tending the routine mishaps of village life and sees clearer than she wants to what might soon be coming. Who can tell what pain she carries?’
Tirilen met her gaze steadfastly, and Gulda turned away.
‘I can’t stop you – any of you – reproaching yourselves,’ she continued. ‘But you must use your feelings of guilt as goads, not shackles. Any encounter that you survive has lessons in it that must be learned. And you start by being carvers. By looking at things as they are.’
No one spoke.
She continued. ‘Now you’re all at least a little rested, I want to go through everything that happened, in as much detail as you can manage. When we’ve done that we’ll talk to the signallers and everyone else from the two camps.’
‘Everyone?’ Loman said.
‘Everyone,’ Gulda confirmed. ‘We’re not the only ones who’ve been damaged by yesterday’s exploits, Loman, and we’re not the only ones who have to learn from it. None of you were controlled by the Alphraan. We have to speak to those who were.’ Abruptly, she changed direction. ‘What’s morale like now?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Loman said bluntly. ‘I’ve spent most of the night with Athyr and the others just organizing quarters for all these extra people.’
‘It’s uncertain,’ Tybek volunteered. ‘But those who aren’t still shocked are angry, and seem to be getting angrier.’
Both Loman and Gulda looked at him sharply. ‘No,’ Tybek said, anticipating their question. ‘I don’t think it’s the Alphraan doing it. That was very sudden . . . unreal somehow. This is colder, deeper. I have it myself. It’s Orthlundyn, all right.’
Gulda frowned. ‘That’s understandable,’ she said. ‘But it might prove to be just another problem.’ She shook her head to dismiss the concern and then pointed at Athyr. ‘The facts first,’ she said.
Athyr’s tale proved to be short. Like Loman, he had sensed some wrongness as he rode with the reserve patrol towards camp six, but unlike Loman he had not identified it. When they neared the camp, they saw a large crowd milling around and fighting, but when Athyr called a halt so that he could decide what to do, some of the patrol continued galloping and rode at full speed towards the camp.
‘Whatever fighting had been going on there before stopped almost immediately and the entire camp turned on the riders,’ Athyr said.
‘And you?’ Gulda asked.
‘For a moment I was just stunned at what had happened,’ Athyr admitted. ‘But I felt the rhythm of the riding trying to drive me forward too, and I understood what it was. Especially when it just faded away. I think they were showing us what they could do to all of us if they wished,’ he added bitterly.
Gulda nodded. ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I sent a signal back, straight away,’ Athyr said. ‘I didn’t want anyone else charging along, making whatever mistake I’d made. I knew I’d have to deal with the problem on my own.’
A gust of wind shook the tent impatiently and a frayed fringe of raindrops splattered noisily on to the sodden grass outside.
Athyr’s listeners sat silent.
‘I had to stand off,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Even though we were out of range, some of them were slinging at us.’ He looked straight at Gulda. ‘You were right to forbid all weapons,’ he said.
Gulda did not reply.
‘All I could think of was to try and exhaust them,’ Athyr continued. ‘We split into six groups, and took turns at riding within range to draw their fire.’
‘Risky,’ said Loman.
Athyr shrugged. ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘We took some knocks.’ He rubbed his arm ruefully. ‘But there was no co-ordination in their fire, and we didn’t stand still, I can assure you.’
‘And it worked?’ Gulda asked.
‘Eventually,’ Athyr said, though his voice held reservations. ‘After about an hour, they stopped bothering to attack us, and started wandering about, looking confused. I dismounted and walked towards them very slowly, but all of a sudden they were demented again and I’d to run for my life, rocks bouncing all around me.’
He leaned forward and held up his hand, fingers extended. It was shaking slightly. ‘Five times that happened,’ he said, his voice hoarse again. ‘Five times. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life as on that fifth walk. By then I’d three groups ready to move to divert any fire, and a fourth group ready to dash in to try and reach me, but as I got closer and closer . . .’ He shook his head and left the sentence unfinished. ‘Anyway, nothing happened. It was over, they’d had their fun . . . made their point . . . whatever. And we were free to pick up our dead and injured and leave.’
His mouth curled viciously.
Gulda looked puzzled. ‘Why didn’t they mount up and attack you?’ she asked.
Athyr looked surprised. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All the horses were badly frightened when we finally got in, but . . . I don’t know. It never occurred to me. They just formed up along some natural . . . perimeter . . . and stayed there.’
Gulda nodded. ‘It’s interesting,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to some of the people from the camp. They said that some were affected and some weren’t, just like at camp three. But when the riders appeared, everyone seemed to be affected. They’ve all got different memories of what they thought they were doing, but their antagonism towards the riders was less than it had been to each other.’
‘Interesting’s not a word I’d choose,’ Athyr said. ‘Murdering little devils.’
Gulda accepted the rebuke with a gesture. ‘But I think we’re beginning to get some measure of them at last,’ she said. ‘I think . . .’
The tent flap was pulled back hastily and a large, burly figure strode in unannounced, his face riven with anxiety. Tirilen half stood. A brief spasm of pain on her face made Loman lower his eyes.
‘Tirilen,’ the man said urgently, ignoring the others. ‘Come quick, he’s bad again . . .’
Without speaking, but with a brief nod to Gulda, Tirilen walked straight towards the gaily painted entrance. The man turned aside and held it open for her as she passed through, then followed her. The flap, folded awkwardly, stood open for a moment until a light breeze touched it and it slowly dropped back to close out the damp coldness pervading the camp.
Gulda looked down at the ground and tapped her stick on it absently. There was a long uneasy silence.
‘Three dead?’ Loman said softly.
‘Soon, I fear,’ Gulda replied.
Barely had she spoken, than a loud cry of despair and anger reached them. Other cries formed around it. Gulda looked around the circle, her face pained. ‘I don’t know exactly what we’re going to do,’ she said. ‘But Loman’s approach will be essential. We must r
edirect that.’ She lifted her hand towards the commotion outside. ‘Or they will use it.’
Before anyone could pursue this, Tirilen returned, her face pale. She walked a few paces into the tent and then paused to look at her hand. It was bloodstained.
Loman looked at the woman who was now more than ever his and not his.
‘This obscenity must stop,’ Tirilen said, her voice shaking with emotion and her gaze fixing Gulda. ‘You and I will go and talk to these creatures, now.’
Gulda did not reply, but stood up and with a nod of her head, motioned Tirilen back to the entrance.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked as they stepped outside, but Tirilen did not answer. She simply fastened her cloak more firmly round her shoulders and pulled the hood forward purposefully against the fine, penetrating drizzle. Then she turned and began walking through the camp. Such few people as were wandering about stepped aside silently to let her pass, forming a wide, sombre aisle for her. Gulda looked at the retreating, green-clad figure for a moment, then, pulling her own hood forward, followed her.
Athyr looked anxiously at Loman, but the smith shook his head. ‘Leave them,’ he said softly. ‘Both of them are beyond anything we can help with. We’d better tend the living and make arrangements for burying our dead.’
Tirilen walked for a long time, tall and straight, though with her head bowed. Gulda, black and stooped, followed silently behind, unflagging.
At the end of a long grassy slope, Tirilen stopped on a small rocky outcrop. She pushed her hood back and gazed out into the mist. Rain dampened her face and gradually started to run down it. She looked at Gulda. The old woman returned her gaze without speaking, then held out her hand. It was a gesture of encouragement – or one seeking help.
Tirilen took the hand and held it for a little while before releasing it and, pulling her hood forward again, she set off once more.
Eventually she stopped and the two women stood at the centre of a mist-enclosed circle. Everywhere was silent and muted except for the barely audible hiss of the fine rain.
She gazed around. ‘Why have you done this?’ she said quietly into the greyness. ‘Why have you killed and maimed our people. Tell me so that I can understand, here.’ She laid the palm of her hand on her chest.
Silence.
Tirilen inclined her head a little. ‘You hear me, I know,’ she said. ‘I hear your very listening. Your pain whispers where you’d have it silent. Answer me.’
Silence.
She spoke again. ‘Whatever we were doing, be it wisdom or folly, it offered you no hurt. We raised neither sword, fist, nor even voice against you. Yet you make friend turn on friend. And now brother has slain brother.’
Gulda turned her head away, but still there was only the mountain silence.
‘Answer me!’ Tirilen’s voice suddenly shook with barely controlled emotion. ‘Tell me why, in your wisdom, you give my people this pain? Tell me how I am to bear it, who must enter into it to aid them? Tell me the words I can use to mend the cry you heard rise up from that man’s heart?’
The faint sounds of the rain seemed to shift and change imperceptibly. Doubts and regrets rose to surround the two women, though no words could be heard.
‘I need your words, your reasons, for what you’ve done,’ Tirilen said. ‘Not hints and vague nuances. If you have no words or reasons, then leave us, Alphraan. Leave us to our own destiny. Bear your own guilt as best you can.’
‘We have no guilt. We took no life,’ said a voice abruptly. It was harsh with uncertainty, and doubts fluttered all around it. ‘We did what was necessary.’
‘Words and reasons,’ Tirilen said again. ‘Give me your words and reasons for this necessity so that I can carry them back to comfort those you have injured.’
‘We will not be questioned,’ said the voice.
‘I don’t question you,’ Tirilen said with soft but unyielding purpose. ‘This terrible blood debt is yours. It will question you forever. I asked you for comfort for those you have injured – and for myself. Whatever solace you have for yourselves will help my people too, because our burdens are the same. You willed the deeds, we committed them.’ She opened her arms in a gesture of resignation. ‘If you have no words of comfort, then tell me that and I’ll disturb you no more.’
‘We are not responsible for your vi – your people’s violence,’ the voice said hesitantly.
Tirilen shook her head. ‘You are not responsible for our nature, but you cannot avoid your responsibility for what you did yesterday,’ she said.
‘We did not strike down any of your people,’ the voice said. ‘What was done was necessary to show you your folly.’
‘Who are you to show us our folly?’ Tirilen said reluctantly, as if not wishing to enter into debate. ‘You, who’ve shunned us so completely for so long that we didn’t even know you existed.’ She paused, but the words forced themselves forwards irresistibly. ‘But as we’re ignorant of you, so are you ignorant of us. And as you know yourselves, so we know ourselves.’ Her voice pleaded. ‘And we need no one to show us the darkness that lies within us.’
‘We are not responsible for your deeds,’ said the voice again, hastily, a disturbing mixture of arrogance and doubt.
‘No?’ said Tirilen, still reluctant. ‘Who but you released that darkness which we hold in gentle check as part of our own harmony? Who but you let it run unfettered in all its horror? If you cannot see the wickedness of that then content yourself with shunning us further. But leave us alone before more ill is done and the debt becomes beyond your bearing.’
‘Do you menace us . . . healer?’
Tirilen lowered her head for a moment, then lifted it and threw back her hood, as if she needed the rain to cleanse her. She held out her bloodstained hand.
‘How can I menace you?’ she asked. ‘A simple healer asking for help? I come for words of comfort.’ She pointed in the direction of the camp. ‘But can you not hear the anger you are unleashing?’
Silence.
Tirilen gazed around, blue eyes peering into the grey mist. ‘Have you no words for me then?’ she said. ‘Nothing for the injured spirits of my people?’
Silence.
Tirilen opened her arms wide again. ‘Accept then what comfort I can offer you,’ she said slowly, tears mingling with the rain running down her face. ‘For our pain is yours also, even if you do not yet feel it. We forgive you the blindness that led you to these deeds. May it pass from you before it harms further. And may you find peace.’
Suddenly, all around, the whispering returned. It seemed to pluck frantically at her very cloak, but Tirilen stood motionless. Then it rose in intensity until it became a vast babble, swelling all around to enclose the two women.
Gulda touched Tirilen’s arm. Tirilen looked around again at the grey stillness that now seemed like a great domed cave, echoing with this tumultuous cacophony. Then, without speaking, the two women set off to return the way they had come.
As they neared the camp, angry voices reached out of the mist towards them, but when the motley array of tents and shelters loomed up to greet them, it seemed at first to be deserted.
The two women exchanged a significant glance.
‘I’m going to look to my charges,’ Tirilen said, businesslike. ‘You look to yours.’
Gulda watched her until she disappeared from view behind a group of horses, then turned and walked towards the sound of the shouting.
As she neared the centre of the camp she found herself at the back of a large crowd. She scowled, unable to see what was happening over the heads of the people in front of her. Selecting a particularly large individual who was waving his fist in the air and shouting loudly, she swung her stick up and gave him a determined poke. The man turned, his brow furrowed angrily, then immediately identifying his assailant he stepped deferentially to one side, nudging the man in front of him as he did.
The nudge rippled urgently through the crowd which parted in its wake as Gulda strod
e through, swinging her stick purposefully from side to side like a farmer scything through a field of tall grasses. Reaching the platform that was the focus of the crowd she clambered up its makeshift steps to join Loman and Athyr.
The crowd fell silent as her stern gaze swept over them.
‘Carry on,’ she said incongruously to Loman after this inspection.
Loman gestured vaguely. ‘We were waiting for you, Memsa,’ he said. ‘To see if you have any news.’
An angry voice rang out from the crowd. ‘We were deciding what to do about those murdering . . .’ It was stopped short by Gulda’s levelled stick and piercing gaze, but several other voices rose to buttress its meaning.
Gulda looked at Loman. He shrugged helplessly. ‘They’re barely listening to me,’ he said quietly.
‘It seems nobody wants to listen today,’ Gulda said. ‘But you’re not trying too hard though, are you?’
Loman waved the remark side. ‘I sympathize with them,’ he said. ‘And most of them need to get rid of their anger before they’ll listen to any of my ideas about what we can do next.’
Gulda looked round at the watching, restive crowd and nodded. After a moment she held up her hand for silence.
‘We’ve a problem, ladies, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘We – or rather, Tirilen – spoke to the Alphraan. Asked them why they’d done what they did, but they gave her no answer.’ She looked round the crowd. ‘They heard,’ she continued, ‘and some of them might have listened. But they gave no answer.’
‘No more talking then, Memsa,’ someone shouted before she could continue. ‘Not after yesterday. They’ll only listen properly when they’ve had a good hiding. We should be up in the mountains flushing them out, not debating here like a Guild meeting.’
Applause and cheering greeted this observation.
Gulda let it subside, then she looked at her adviser and nodded with exaggerated gravity. ‘I’m half inclined to agree with you, young man,’ she said. ‘But only half. The other half tells me still that they’re divided amongst themselves and that we should wait a little and let that division widen. And besides, flushing them out may present some difficult problems. Think about it for a moment. We know what they can do, but we don’t know how they do it. They use weapons quite beyond our understanding, and very effectively too, although they seem to have some difficulty in dealing with large numbers of people. But that aside, how are we going to give them a good hiding when we can’t even find them? And how are we going to fight people who make us fight amongst ourselves?’
