The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Dacu looked around the strange circular enclosure for a moment, and then shook his head.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘We must travel outside. The route may be needed for others in the future – many others. It must be well drawn.’

  ‘You speak of armies?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Dacu replied.

  There was a pause, then the voice said sadly, ‘You tear us . . . friends.’

  ‘No,’ Hawklan said. ‘Don’t be distressed. You’re right in your feelings. None of us wants such a thing, but Dacu is correct. We must learn about the mountains just as you must learn about the ways that lead around and from your Heartplace here. Who travels them in the future is for the judgement of other times and other needs.’

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ the voice said. ‘Indeed, what we learn now may forestall the grimmer needs,’ it added, mildly triumphant.

  Hawklan laughed. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he echoed. His laughter was caught up and swirled around into seemingly endless distances. ‘But we must go now. It’s night and snowing outside. We must tend to our horses and our camp.’

  ‘We will guide you at least to there,’ said the voice, friendly, but brooking no debate. ‘We have found a swifter way to the gate through which you entered.’

  Hawklan looked at Dacu. The Goraidin nodded, and between thumb and forefinger delicately held up the small spike he had used to mark the rock on their journey through the tunnels.

  ‘We should prefer you to continue to make your marks in the dust, Goraidin,’ said the voice, mildly reproachful. Dacu raised his hands in acknowledgement and the voice dwindled again into a single guiding tone.

  As they followed it along another wide tunnel, Hawklan noted that all around them gentle sounds were growing. Shifting and changing, they built and intermingled until they were like a warm and welcome summer breeze enveloping the four men.

  ‘They’re coming from some of these,’ Tirke said, running a finger around the edge of one of the circular openings that decorated the walls.

  ‘A small gift to thank you,’ said the voice, riding on the breeze. ‘And perhaps to sustain you until we speak again.’ Strange sounds permeated the voice. It was struggling with its true language. ‘But we shall be ever in your debt, for what you have returned to us,’ it managed eventually.

  None of the men spoke, each sensing that their speech would jar and rend the calm that was pervading them.

  A tiny worm of doubt wriggled inside Hawklan, however. Something about the ancient bones they had found – and the remains of the old nest.

  He frowned. There were many mysteries about this place and its history. For the time being he should act as Dacu would and confine himself to what was immediately relevant; to what would bring them to Anderras Darion safely and open up a route from Orthlund direct into Darek’s estate and thence to the other eastern Lords.

  ‘What’s the matter, dear boy?’ Gavor said softly.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

  ‘Let it go then,’ Gavor said bluntly. ‘It’ll come when it’s ready.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

  The tunnel eventually opened into a wide stepped balcony that took them downwards and wound round almost a full circle until it became another arched bridge to carry the four over some unknown depth.

  Tirke looked tentatively over the low balustrade into the darkness below.

  ‘Ancient rocks down there,’ Isloman said casually, following Tirke’s gaze.

  Ancient! The word acted like a focus and Hawklan found himself looking again at the bones of Sumeral’s long-dead creation lying amidst the wreckage of its nest. He stopped.

  ‘They weren’t that old,’ he said out loud, making the others start. They looked at him, puzzled. ‘The bones,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘They were very old. But not ancient. Not going back millennia, to whenever . . .’

  Abruptly the silver tone that had guided them stopped, leaving a strange gap in the still-flowing stream of sound that pervaded them.

  A pulse replaced it; an ominous pulse. Hawklan strained forward. It was the sound of heavy running feet.

  Suddenly a wave of horror washed over him and he felt his flesh crawl as every hair on his body stood erect. Both his eyes and his mouth opened wide. One to peer deeper into the darkness beyond the torchlight, the other to shout a warning. But the warning never formed. Before it could, a stooping figure surged into the light. Powerful legs drove it forward, straight towards the motionless men, large taloned hands reached out to grip and tear, and glittering teeth framed a red maw from which an appalling scream began to sound.

  Chapter 28

  Hawklan watched in horror as the creature came straight and purposefully towards him.

  In an instant he saw that it was thin and weak and old, but he saw also that under its long fur rippled muscles and sinews more than powerful enough to dispatch him and the others with little or no effort. And its age too seemed only to have heightened the malevolence that shone red and bloody in its eyes.

  In the same instant he saw also that the bridge was too narrow and crowded for him to side-step and that in any event it was too late – the creature was too near and moving too fast.

  Suddenly, without breaking its headlong charge, the creature stood up fully on its hind legs and raised a terrible clawed hand. It was a head taller than Hawklan.

  Gavor leapt off Hawklan’s shoulder powerfully. Not in fear, but to leave his friend free to move. Catching the driving impetus of this movement, Hawklan stepped back and, turning, drew his sword. It swung up in a glittering black arc as he took another step, then down and up again as he turned to face the creature. The upward stroke cut a great diagonal gash across its torso.

  Without pause, Hawklan stepped back again and, spinning round, brought the sword down to cut a second gash across the first one.

  Despite these two desperate wounds however, the creature came relentlessly forward, carried by its own momentum and intent, but, clear now of his friends, Hawklan suddenly stepped sideways and drove the sword into the creature’s flank as it passed by him.

  The impact of the blow sent the creature staggering over the low balustrade. Still screaming in rage, it twisted as it fell and the clawed hands lunged out to seize the coping of the balustrade.

  So fast had Hawklan’s three blows been, that even Dacu had scarcely been able to draw his own sword before the battle was finished. He came to Hawklan’s side as the healer stepped forward, raising the black sword to deliver a final blow that would send this abomination into whatever depths lay below.

  The creature’s scream had become a strange whimper and its claws were scraping desperately across the stone coping as it struggled to save itself.

  ‘Kill it, man,’ Dacu said desperately, his eyes wide with horror as he looked in disbelief from the creature to Hawklan.

  Then Isloman and Tirke were there, white-faced and stunned.

  Hawklan looked down at the creature. He could see the two terrible wounds he had cut beginning to open and disgorge the creature’s entrails. The creature looked at him, then, releasing the coping with one hand, held it out to him, its eyes full of fear.

  Hawklan watched, unable to move, as the other hand screeched across the coping and, with a brief choking mewl, the creature disappeared into the darkness without a sound.

  Slowly he lowered the sword and then slithered to the floor. He was trembling. His hand involuntarily began to nurse his damaged arm again.

  The balmy sounds that had been bathing them since they left the Alphraan’s Heartplace were silent, and all that could be heard was the hoarse breathing of the four men. Gavor dropped silently on to Hawklan’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hawklan said, softly, reaching up and touching his friend’s beak. Gavor did not reply.

  ‘What was it?’ Tirke asked shakily after a long, unsteady silence.

  Hawklan lowered his head. ‘The last of its b
reed,’ he said quietly.

  He looked at his sword, gored and steaming from his last dreadful thrust. He turned away as the smell wafted in his face.

  ‘Clean it in the snow,’ Dacu said, looking at the sword then at an inadequate kerchief he had pulled from his pocket.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I wonder how many other remnants of the First Coming are still with us?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘The last of its breed?’ The Alphraan’s voice was soft and hesitant.

  Hawklan nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said sadly. ‘Without doubt. No great victory there, just a pathetic end to a grim song, as you might say.’ He looked up. ‘You’ve lost another, have you?’ he asked.

  ‘Your guide,’ the voice replied.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hawklan said.

  ‘It was not your fault,’ the voice said. ‘But we will lose no more.’ There was a new note in the reply; one of determination. It continued. ‘We sink ever deeper into your debt, Hawklan. It is not possible for us to repay you in like manner, but we are with you now, utterly . . .’ The voice slipped into its own language and the four men were surrounded by sounds which told them of past doubts set aside and the pledged and immutable allegiance of an entire race.

  Hawklan stood up – he was still shaking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, simply. ‘But there is no debt, just a common need. Pledge yourself to facing that by our side.’

  The guiding sound returned, its note now ringing and purposeful.

  Once or twice as they followed it, Isloman thought he glimpsed a tiny figure in the distance, but none of the others saw it, and even his shadow vision did not enable him to see any detail.

  Then they were at the mouth of the tunnel that had first led them into the mountain.

  ‘We will be with you,’ said the voice. The guiding note faded until it became the low moaning of the wind in the narrow cleft.

  ‘Storm’s getting worse,’ Dacu said briskly, anxious to get back to some semblance of normality and watching the light flurries of blown snow floating past them. The four men paused briefly to fasten their cloaks before stepping out of the tunnel and heading back towards their camp.

  As they moved along the narrow cleft, the wind strengthened and its low moaning changed gradually into a buffeting, echoing reflection of the storm raging outside.

  Eventually they found themselves walking through drifting snow and then at the foot of the rocks that had sealed the cleft. Hawklan bent down and cleaned the blade of the black sword with handfuls of snow. It gleamed in the torchlight, but Hawklan looked in distaste at the despoiled snow lying at his feet.

  Dacu pulled them all together.

  ‘Turn your torches up and hold on to one another tightly,’ he shouted, struggling to make himself heard above the noise. ‘It’s not far to the shelter and its beacon’s lit, but we can still miss it in this weather. I don’t particularly want to spend the rest of the night huddled behind a rock in a snow shelter. And be careful where you tread,’ he emphasized. ‘The rocks on the far side will be well covered by now.’

  His comment proved timely as they rose up over the top of the rocks; hooded figures, eerie in the flowing torchlight, stumbling awkwardly through the screaming wind, and whitening rapidly in the driving snow.

  Gavor thrust his head out from Hawklan’s cloak, muttered, ‘Good grief!’ and withdrew quickly.

  Feeling cautiously for each foothold, the group slowly struggled down the slope.

  When they were all safely down, Dacu peered into the snow-streaked gloom beyond the torchlight.

  ‘Douse your torches,’ he said after a moment. ‘And don’t move, whatever you do.’

  The blackness closed around them, leaving each alone and isolated in the screaming wind, clinging to Dacu’s last command and trying to set aside the memory of the creature that had surged out of the darkness to be slain by Hawklan scarcely an hour past.

  Gradually a faint unfocussed glow began to form, at some indeterminate, swirling distance. It was the beacon torch on their shelter.

  As soon as they were back inside, Isloman struck the radiant stones and the four men sat in a strange unreal silence until the warmth and the familiarity of their surroundings seeped into their unease.

  ‘There’s precious little left of the night,’ Dacu said eventually. ‘But I suggest we get what sleep we can. We’ve still got to get over this mountain.’

  Tirke pulled a sour face. ‘Why can’t we go through the tunnels like the Alphraan suggested?’ he asked.

  Dacu was conspicuously patient with him. ‘You heard, Tirke,’ he said. ‘We need a surface route that anyone can travel. Not one that needs others to guide them through underground chambers and passageways.’

  Tirke looked unconvinced.

  ‘We may have to bring an army into Fyorlund this way,’ Dacu went on, irritated slightly. ‘Can you see thousands of men, women, horses, tramping along those tunnels? Over those bridges, walkways . . . whatever they were? Not to mention pack animals, supply wagons, all the equipment that’s needed. I doubt the Alphraan would be our friends for long then.’

  Tirke ran his hand down his face wearily and lay down. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’

  ‘Go to sleep,’ Dacu said, repenting his hasty tone. ‘You’re entitled not to think after a night like tonight.’

  Tirke stared up at the roof of the shelter, moving as the wind shook it.

  ‘I don’t think I can go to sleep,’ he said. ‘And to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.’

  Hawklan looked at him. ‘Talk about it, then,’ he said encouragingly.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Tirke said. ‘Every time I shut my eyes, I see that – thing – roaring and screaming out of the blackness. I see myself paralysed – with surprise as much as fear. And you – twisting, turning – no effort, no hesitation, as if it were all just part of . . . of . . . a Festival dance . . .’

  He lifted himself up and rested on one elbow. His eyes opened wide, surprised, and his words seemed to force themselves out as if against his will. ‘I don’t know which was the most frightening. It, or you,’ he said.

  Dacu and Isloman turned abruptly to look at the young man and then at Hawklan. Dacu caught Hawklan’s eye and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. Hawklan nodded.

  Tirke suddenly looked stricken, realizing what he had said. He began to stammer out an apology. Hawklan raised his hand to stop him. ‘No, Tirke,’ he said. ‘I understand. It was a perceptive remark. Trust me, you’ve no need to fear your dreams while you see that clearly.’

  He lay back, nursing his still painful arm, and Gavor took up sentry duty by his head. ‘I did what I did because I’d no alternative,’ Hawklan said. ‘And I did what I did in great terror, but nevertheless wilfully and thoughtfully, to halt its attack as quickly as possible. It was old and demented, but even a passing blow from one of those hands would have killed. I had no alternative,’ he repeated. ‘However, for what it’s worth, Tirke, it was no effortless ballet.’ He sat up slowly. ‘I remember years and years of relentless training to attain the understanding that would enable me – my body – to face such a foe and to move thus.’

  Isloman looked at Hawklan intently, and Gavor inclined his head.

  ‘You remember?’ Isloman said softly, his voice almost awed.

  Hawklan turned to him. ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, with a slight shrug, ‘No faces, names, places – but the toil? Yes, I remember that.’

  Isloman was tempted to press the matter, but realized it would avail him nothing. Hawklan had told him all he could.

  Dacu, on the other hand, seemed relieved that such a skill could be acquired by effort rather than the mysterious intervention of some ancient force. ‘I was going to ask you where you learned to use a sword like that,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen some fine swordsmanship but never the like of that. Perhaps when we reach Anderras Darion you’ll instruct me?’

  Hawklan laughed a little at Dacu’s straightforward bluntne
ss then bowed an acknowledgement. ‘I’d be honoured, Goraidin.’ He turned back to Tirke and said, ‘I’ll instruct you, too.’

  Gavor chuckled ominously.

  The following day Dacu, as usual, awoke first. There was an odd quality about the light, and the shelter was very warm even though Isloman had extinguished the radiant stones before they had all finally retired.

  He muttered softly to himself then opened the entrance a little to confirm his diagnosis. Then he started to wake the others. He had intended to do this gently, but each in turn sat up rapidly at his touch, familiar by now with his normal method of rousing the camp.

  ‘It sounds as though the wind has dropped,’ he said. ‘But we’re buried – at least in part.’

  Isloman’s eyes narrowed with a brief spasm of anxiety while Tirke’s widened in frank alarm. Dacu was reassuring. ‘It shouldn’t be too bad,’ he said. ‘We were well sheltered. It’s probably just some eddying, but we’ll have to dig our way out slowly and cautiously.’

  He looked at each of the others in turn. ‘Everything is slow and cautious in these conditions,’ he emphasized. ‘Not only will the terrain be disguised completely, but if you go rushing around you’ll sweat, your sweat will freeze on you and we’ll be heading for some real problems then. Just remember we’ve still a long way to go.’

  It took them only a little time to dig their way out of the shelter and they emerged to be greeted by a soft misty snowscape. Everywhere was silent and still and large parts of the stern mountain scenery had been transformed by a swaddling whiteness. The sky to the east was a dull red, but to the north and west dark heavy clouds hung expectantly, and the peak of the mountain they stood on was still lost in the mist.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Tirke, his breath steaming.

  ‘It is,’ Dacu agreed. Without speaking, Gavor flapped off into the cold silence, black and clear against the misty haziness.

  Hawklan took Tirke’s arm. ‘Come and help me feed the horses,’ he said. ‘Then we can eat.’

  The horses had fared better than the shelter, Dacu having taken greater pains to place them well in the lee of the rocks. They were standing quietly together, scarcely touched by the snow that had eddied round and buried the shelter.