The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Stay conscious, some inner voice shouted through his terror.

  Then a blast of air in his face returned him to the present.

  He heard a familiar voice, raucous with fear and rage, and caught a glimpse of Gavor above him, wings thrashing, attacking the attacker.

  The creature gave a cry of pain and released Hawklan to deal with this new assailant. With an immense beat of his wings, Gavor rose almost vertically into the air screaming abuse. The creature leapt after him, a muscular, purposeful shadow in the darkness. Hawklan heard the loud snap of the powerful jaws closing just short of his friend’s legs.

  Free of the terrible grip, he rolled over and felt the creature stumble as it landed heavily on his moving legs. He recognized the sound of claws scrabbling on the floor as it tried to regain its balance.

  Even chances now, the thought came to him, unexpectedly calm through his fear and pain. As he rolled over again, a tiny light, bright in the darkness, caught his eye. The sword hilt, he realized, catching the light of the distant torch.

  Another roll and his hand closed around it. Then the momentum of his movement was helping him swing up on to his feet though he was crouching and unsteady and, strangely, the sword felt heavy and awkward in his hand. Something was amiss, he sensed, but there was no time to debate it; he could just make out the shape of the creature rushing towards him.

  Raising the sword high, he stepped back with the intention of turning sideways to strike the creature as it passed him, but his retreating foot sank into something soft and yielding. A repellent smell filled the air, and his foot skidded from under him. As he fell, the creature hit him full in the chest, accelerating his already heavy fall.

  He felt the sword slip from his hand as his arms extended reflexively to beat the ground in an attempt to spare him the worst of the impact. It clattered into the distance and for an instant he was glad to be rid of it. It was not helping him. Now, in some awful way, he was free; unrestrained.

  He heard rather than felt the wind go out of him as he struck the floor with the creature on top of him, but his arms, bouncing off the hard floor, reached up automatically to protect his head from the descending jaws.

  Teeth seized his sleeve but his free hand reached up and struck the creature’s chest. It was an inadvertent blow and had no effect on the assault, but Hawklan pushed as strongly as he could in a desperate attempt to prevent the creature gripping his arm further. He could feel the creature’s feet digging into him as it struggled for purchase, and he could feel too its enormous strength and terrible murderous intensity.

  Abruptly, the creature yielded and released his sleeve. Freed, his hand jerked back towards him in reaction, hitting him in the face, while the other almost lost its contact with the creature as it twisted and lunged forward again. He managed to keep hold sufficiently, however, to slide his hand up and stop the creature’s renewed rush by catching its throat. But his position was too weak for him to apply any pressure and, in any case, he knew that his one hand would make little impression on the powerful muscles he could feel under it.

  The creature’s breath enveloped him and he felt warm saliva dripping on his face. He sensed Gavor landing heavily on its back, but nothing now could divert it from its prey. Scrabbling to steady itself further, the creature thrust one of its feet in Hawklan’s groin.

  Blackness welled up inside Hawklan at this new pain, but in the far distance he felt the stirring of an ancient and frightening desperation.

  No, it began to say.

  But before it rose to possess him fully, there were lights around him, and voices, shouting. Then a flash of steel and a dreadful thud, followed by a piteous howl.

  Hawklan felt the life under his hand quiver and begin to fade. Then the weight on top of him was gone, and the howl ended abruptly as two more heavy blows fell.

  Hawklan’s ears were filled with the sound of his heartbeat and his breathing as he looked up at the ring of concerned faces forming around him. Dacu, Isloman, Tirke.

  ‘Is he all right?’ he heard one of them say distantly.

  He closed his eyes and nodded. Hands reached down and pulled him up gently into a sitting position. A kerchief wiped his face.

  The hands helped him to his feet and for a moment he leaned on someone shakily and breathed deeply to quieten himself. As he did so, he became aware of shimmering, triumphant sounds of elation and joy all around him.

  The sounds of the Alphraan’s rejoicing, however, formed a macabre backdrop to the grim features of his friends and the mosaic of pains starting to spread through his body.

  ‘Some chase you led us, Hawklan,’ Dacu said, wiping blood and matted fur from his sword.

  Hawklan nodded and rested a hand briefly on the Goraidin’s shoulder. Partly still for support, partly in gratitude and apology. Then he flexed his fingers and tentatively felt his throbbing arm. His heavy tunic had protected him from the creature’s rending teeth, but its molars had taken some toll. ‘It’s only bruised, I think,’ he said hoarsely but with some relief. ‘Nasty, but it should be all right in a day or two.’

  Dacu looked doubtful but Hawklan waved his concern aside. ‘Let’s have a look at this creature of His,’ he said anxiously. It was a peculiarly frightening thought that Sumeral’s creatures could be alive and seemingly thriving so long after His passing and so near to Orthlund.

  The four men circled the fallen creature. Its eyes were wide and staring and its mouth was agape. The Alphraan’s happiness filled the air.

  Pain returned to Hawklan’s face. ‘Is this the creature that killed your people?’ he asked, looking up into the darkness.

  No clear answer came, but the sounds told him . . . yes, yes, yes, His creature, sierwolf, sierwolf . . . Then they danced away again.

  Hawklan knelt down by the carcass and laid a hand on it.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said softly but intensely. The sounds wavered. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted angrily.

  The sounds faded and twisted into questions.

  ‘This is no corrupt creation from some ancient time,’ he said softly again. ‘This is just an ordinary wolf.’

  There was a brief pause, then, ‘It killed, it killed,’ said the voices defensively.

  Hawklan ran his hand across the wolf. He nodded. ‘And it would have killed me too if it could,’ he said. ‘It’s half starved. But it’s no creature of His.’

  Isloman knelt by him. ‘But it’s not winter yet, why should it be starving? And even a pack of wolves won’t attack a grown man unless they’re threatened or desperately hungry.’

  Looking at the dead animal, Hawklan felt again its terrible total commitment to its struggle. He had had to fight for his life but there had been no corruption there. Isloman was right. The wolf’s action made no sense even allowing for its hunger. Animals didn’t fight like that . . . except . . .? He turned the animal over gently and put his hand to his head in dismay.

  ‘It couldn’t be helped, dear boy.’ Gavor’s voice was subdued. ‘We didn’t have any choice.’

  The wolf was a female; a nursing female.

  ‘We were both a threat and food,’ Hawklan said very quietly. ‘That’s why it fought like that. It must have been a late whelper. Wandered in here and got lost.’ He wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered. ‘Its young will be in here somewhere.’ The sounds around them faded to become a single voice again. ‘It did kill,’ it said. ‘Three of us.’

  Hawklan remembered his foot slithering from under him. He looked at his boot. It was smeared with blood and flesh. He grimaced. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But for its family, Alphraan. For its family. Not from some ancient malice.’

  Tirke handed him his black sword. Hawklan thanked him and looked at it thoughtfully. The twining threads and stars in its hilt twinkled and shone in the torchlight. Ethriss’s sword it might have been, but now it was his beyond a doubt. Yet it had not aided him this day?

  No ancient malice. His own words returned to him. That was why the sword had left him to his o
wn destiny, he realized. His arm started to throb.

  ‘Then we are all the less for this meeting,’ the voice said sadly.

  Hawklan nodded again. ‘Listen,’ he said. Out of the darkness came a faint scuffling and a whimper.

  ‘They’re over there,’ he said, pointing.

  After a brief search, the four men found themselves looking down at two small wolf cubs cowering at the back of an alcove lined with dead vegetation and the she wolf’s own fur. They were thin and obviously frightened by the torchlight, but healthy enough and curling back their lips to reveal puppy-sharp teeth.

  ‘We will tend them,’ said the Alphraan, the voice unexpectedly close and gentle.

  Hawklan looked surprised. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then he hesitated, awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry about your people, Alphraan. I was harsh. I judged.’

  ‘Do not reproach yourself, Hawklan,’ said the voice. ‘We followed you freely and soon we will have our Heartplace again. But for your guidance and help, and that of your friends, we might have dwindled forever. Now we hear awakenings. No song ever truly ends.’

  ‘There may be other creatures here,’ Hawklan said, pointing at the wolf’s simple den. ‘If she got in, then others will have. And she must have found something to eat and drink down here.’

  ‘When we regain our Heartplace, we will send to the kin we left and start to make it whole again,’ the voice said. ‘Then we will listen carefully for other creatures and learn their songs . . . and make them welcome as of old. Only our ignorance and fear made us behave as we did. We are chastened. The ancient rape of this place lies deep in our lore, Hawklan. His creatures are ever alive in our songs . . .’

  A quivering excitement suddenly disturbed the voice.

  ‘It is found,’ it said. ‘The Heartplace is found.’ Then the darkness was filled again with the shimmering sounds of rejoicing, though this time they were free of the angry triumph that had tainted them previously.

  ‘Come, humans,’ the voice rang out through it all, full of laughter. There was a brief tremor of doubt in the sounds but it was swept away.

  Hawklan, however, noted it. ‘If this is your most precious place, we’ll not intrude,’ he said. ‘We must continue on to Anderras Darion and we still have a difficult journey ahead of us. Will you travel with us again?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the voice, almost dismissively. ‘But this is truly a new beginning. Come to our Heartpl . . .’ The voice and the sounds suddenly faded, to be replaced by a hushed awe.

  ‘Hawklan,’ said the voice softy. ‘They were here. His creatures. We have found them. Come.’

  Hawklan looked at his companions.

  ‘There is no danger,’ said the voice. ‘They are truly dead. Come.’ And a silver tone sang out through the darkness, solid and strong, to guide them.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Gavor said, jumping up and down impatiently. Dacu motioned Hawklan forward.

  Following the sound, the four men found themselves walking along a tunnel that was broad and spacious, and free from any sense of oppression. Its finely hewn walls were riddled with circular openings of all sizes.

  As before, there were elaborate junctions and side tunnels and at each of these Dacu paused and made a conspicuous mark in the rock with a small metal spike.

  ‘The Goraidin has doubts about us,’ the voice said, slightly amused.

  ‘The Goraidin has survived to be this old by having doubts,’ Dacu replied unashamedly. ‘And I’m not too impressed so far by the way you cope with emergencies. I can’t risk our being lost down here if you panic and run.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the voice simply. There was a thoughtful pause, then, ‘But there’s no danger now. There was only the poor wolf.’

  Dacu grunted non-committally, but made no other comment.

  There was another pause. ‘The scars in the rock mar the song,’ said the voice tentatively.

  Dacu stopped. The comment made no sense to him but he had noticed that the texture of the walls was unusual, as if it had been finely carved in some way. He moved on without speaking, but at the next junction he made a large mark in the dust with his foot.

  Gavor chuckled, but before he could speak the tunnel suddenly opened out, the walls curving away, and the roof soaring upward beyond the reach of the torchlight. Ahead of them an ornate stone balustrade came into view, while on both sides the tunnel was transformed into what appeared to be wide curving balconies. The four men stopped, but Gavor continued, flapping up on to the balustrade and peering over the edge. He looked intently from left to right.

  ‘Hurry up, dear boys,’ he said. ‘Bring the torches.’

  The torches, however, made little difference to the visibility. Their light showed the walls curving up and over for some height, and to Isloman, leaning perilously over the balustrade, they revealed various levels of balconies below. Beyond the balustrade however, the light disappeared futilely into the vast darkness.

  Yet for all its gloom, the atmosphere of the place was open and light; uplifting, Hawklan felt.

  ‘You are at the edge of our Heartplace,’ said the voice, very softly, and full of wonder.

  ‘Bit dark,’ Gavor muttered prosaically.

  Thc voice was amused again. Soon it will be on its journey back to its old splendour sky prince,’ it said. ‘With songs and lights such as you have never seen. But come this way.’

  The four men followed the voice, leaving Gavor talking to himself about the ‘discernment and fine sensibilities of these people.’

  Like the tunnel they had just walked along, the wall to the balcony was full of circular openings of many sizes, and there were frequent side tunnels and large sweeping alcoves.

  Then the balustrade itself turned away from them, and the sound led them on to what was apparently a bridge spanning the dark abyss fringed by the balconies. It rose up in a gentle curve and was intercepted by other spans arching in from the darkness both above and below.

  ‘Remarkable stonework,’ Isloman said. ‘Very unusual. I’ve never seen the like. There’s a lot to be learned here.’

  Hawklan nodded, but seemed to be preoccupied in keeping well away from the rather small balustrades that protected each edge.

  Then they were on a wide circular plateau. The sound drew them forward until they came to a central structure. It seemed to be the base of a great circular tower, though the wide arched openings that penetrated it gave it the appearance of being the roots to a massive, symmetrical tree.

  The sound faded into nothing.

  ‘Here,’ said the voice. ‘See His creatures.’

  There was no alarm in the voice, and Hawklan stepped through one of the openings. The others followed, Gavor keeping a discreet distance to the rear.

  Hawklan let out a long, slow breath. There, white in the torchlight, were three skeletons lying in the scattered debris of what must have been an ancient den.

  He knelt down beside one and examined it silently. It was the size of a large man, or a small horse. The images clashed in his mind.

  ‘What . . . was it?’ Tirke asked.

  Hawklan stared at the skeleton, his face pained. ‘An obscenity,’ he said. ‘It looks like the worst of many things forced into a single frame – men, animals . . .’ He grimaced. ‘Nothing like this ever came into being naturally. Even so long dead, there’s no harmony in it. It must have been bred like this. And over many generations. It’s appalling.’

  ‘What was its purpose?’ Dacu asked.

  Hawklan turned and looked at him. He’ll be a fine example to the Orthlundyn, he thought, for although the man felt the awe of this almost unbelievable place and the eerie presence of these remains, his Goraidin mind still cut straight through to the heart of their need. If it was bred, it was bred for a reason and that reason should be known. What had been, could be again.

  Hawklan turned back to the skeleton. ‘Powerful legs,’ he said. ‘Probably very fast and capable of running on two legs or four. Large taloned hands, with opposi
ng thumbs to grip and tear.’ He shook his head. ‘And these,’ He reached out cautiously to touch one of the creature’s glittering teeth. His hand twitched uncertainly, as if the cruel jaws might suddenly spring open and seize it.

  All three watchers started at this involuntary gesture. Hawklan smiled apologetically and lifted the errant hand to hold his damaged arm. There would have been no brave struggling against this creature. These hands would have held him powerless and these teeth would have torn his arm off effortlessly.

  ‘Its purpose was killing,’ he said simply. ‘And if its spirit was as racked and distorted as its body, terrifying its victims also.’

  Dacu’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. It was not an unexpected conclusion.

  Hawklan stood up and looked around. Something about the place was disturbing him slightly, but it took no clear shape, and he dismissed it.

  ‘We are finding others, different,’ said the voice.

  ‘Leave them,’ Hawklan said.

  ‘They pollute our . . .’

  ‘Leave them,’ Hawklan repeated more firmly. ‘Please. Later we’ll need to study them.’ He looked round at the clutter of the creatures’ den again. ‘We must learn what we can from both their bones and the places they lie.’

  ‘Very well,’ the voice said after a brief pause, mildly injured.

  Hawklan smiled. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘They’ve lain here for generations. A week or so will cause no further harm, surely?’

  ‘No,’ the voice agreed reluctantly.

  ‘We must go now,’ Dacu said. ‘Unless there’s anything else we need or if we’re needed here. We’ve still got a long journey ahead of us and we haven’t found the gully to take us across the mountain yet.’

  Hawklan nodded.

  ‘We will guide you,’ said the voice. ‘There are ways through the mountain for even your horses.’