by Roger Taylor
Loman looked out across the valley. The base camp could be seen, toy-like, far below. Neighbouring peaks sat solid and patient like wise old women pretending to sleep while in reality watching the antics of the giddy young folk around them. It was a calming sight, a sight to correct the perspective, and Loman stood looking at it contentedly for several minutes.
Eventually he turned and looked at the tumbled landscape immediately around him. He much preferred scrambling over rocks such as these to plodding up relentlessly steep grass slopes. However, it could not be denied that the huge jumbled masses of boulders offered far more nooks and crannies in which to conceal cave entrances.
One of the section leaders waved a greeting and, coming forward, echoed his thoughts. ‘It’s going to be much slower now, Loman,’ he said. ‘It’d be a help if we knew how big a hole these people need for access.’
Loman looked at the man. ‘We will, soon,’ he said. ‘Take your time. Don’t let anybody rush. Any doubts – check again.’ He smiled. ‘We’re going to have to look Gulda in the eye and tell her we searched this mountain thoroughly,’ he added significantly.
Jenna looked up towards the rocky skyline that obscured the summit of the mountain. ‘This is going to take at least two more days,’ she said.
Loman followed her gaze. ‘Probably more,’ he corrected.
The woman’s eyes flickered around the neighbouring peaks involuntarily.
‘You’re thinking it’s impossible again, aren’t you?’ Loman asked.
Jenna shook her head and mouthed a definite ‘No’ while allowing her eyes and face to say ‘Yes.’
Loman laughed.
Suddenly a cry rang out, one of fear and pain. The section leader spun round looking along the ragged line of searchers for the source of the cry.
‘There!’ cried Loman, pointing. Over to their left, the line had broken and people were converging on a man who was staggering dangerously across the rocks. Loman and Jenna joined the movement, but as he strode out, Loman felt a twinge of anger at this interruption to the search.
Then the man fell, heavily, and his cry became one of anger. Loman stopped suddenly and reached out to stop Jenna and the section leader. For a moment he watched the small, concerned crowd growing around the fallen man and felt the swirl of anger in him struggling to grow similarly.
‘It’s a trap,’ he said, forcing a calmness into his voice which was radically at odds with the turmoil he felt inside. ‘Go back and stop anyone rushing into this,’ he said to the section leader. ‘Get as many people as you can. Tell them what’s happening and remind them to walk here as calmly and quietly as they can manage. Tell them to look at the scenery . . . talk about their carving – anything. Just so that they’re quiet in their minds when they get here.’
‘But the man might be hurt,’ the section leader protested, trying to move forward.
Loman took his elbow and gently turned him round, away from the scene. ‘He probably is,’ he said. ‘But there’ll be worse if we don’t stop this before it starts. Can’t you feel the anger in yourself already?’
The man looked at him uneasily for a moment, breathing unsteadily. Then he moved to intercept others who were running almost compulsively towards the stricken man.
Loman forced down his irritation again and looked into the valley. Down there they had all been together; a large crowd and, for the most part, happy. There they had successfully withstood the Alphraan’s assaults. But here, they were spread out. Without the great stabilizing reservoir of people around them, individuals could be attacked and used as a focus to draw more and more people into an ever greater conflict.
Loman actually felt it happening as he heard increasingly angry voices coming from the group around the fallen man.
‘Call out to them, Jenna,’ he said softly. ‘Tell them they’re under attack and to stay as calm as they can until we get more people there.’
Jenna did as she was bidden. At the sound of her voice, several members of the group around the stricken man turned angrily, confirming Loman’s analysis.
Jenna’s voice started to rise in pitch until Loman took her arm gently. ‘They don’t mean it, remember?’ he said. ‘It’s the Alphraan. Tell them the same. Tell them the obvious. We can attend to whoever’s been hurt when everything’s calmed down.’
Loman glanced around. People were gathering behind him. He felt afraid. How many could the Alphraan affect at once? They’d wrought havoc in camp six. How effective would the Orthlundyn’s own awareness of the nature of the attack be as a defence against it? If this crowd slipped out of control . . . up here! He forced the thoughts aside. It was up to him to see that this did not happen.
‘We’re being attacked,’ he said to them quietly. ‘Just remember that we dealt very successfully with many such assaults when we were in the valley yesterday and, by staying calm, we’ll deal with this one too. We must be getting very near to their . . . homes . . . now, so this will probably be the first of many attempts to drive us away.’ He looked at the crowd intently. ‘Set aside any feelings of anger you have, no matter how justified they seem. Remember that we’re dealing with a frightened people now, and that calmness and gentleness are our only weapons.’
Angry voices came again from the group around the fallen man. Loman felt his own anger begin to rise in response to the sound, then, unexpectedly, it slipped from him.
He started to move forward. ‘Are you going to persist in this, Alphraan?’ he asked. ‘Are you not going to cease until more terrible deeds have been done? Until more people have been killed?’
‘We will not allow you your weapons, human.’ The Alphraan’s voice was fraught and vicious. ‘We will not allow you to scar the world with your evil and treacherous ways again.’
Loman looked surprised. He had not expected an answer to his question. ‘We?’ he said ironically, still continuing forward. ‘I still don’t believe you speak for your people, voice, but let that pass. I won’t debate the rights and wrongs of our actions with you further. You’ve heard enough to appreciate them fully, even though you seem to prefer not to listen. And you’ve heard and seen enough to know that, as promised, no matter what the cost, we will protect ourselves and we will move ever into your domain until you release the Armoury and agree to leave us alone.’ A wisp of anger floated into his voice, but it was his own and he used it. ‘We are preparing to fight against the monstrous will of Sumeral Himself. Did you think that we would yield so easily to your petty tyranny?’
A sound formed in the air that might have been the beginning of a reply, but Loman dismissed it with a wave of his arm.
With the Orthlundyn walking silently behind him, Loman reached the fallen man. The group around the man had fallen silent at his approach, and Loman looked at each in turn. ‘Well done,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Their will is failing, just as ours is growing in strength. All will be well soon.’
Then he bent down and examined the injured man. He’s got a nasty gash on his head, but I think he’s just unconscious,’ he said after a moment. ‘Take him down to base camp, gently.’
As the man was carried away, Loman turned to the silent, watching people around him. ‘Somewhere around here is one of the entrances to the Alphraan’s . . . our neighbours’ domain,’ he said. ‘Look for it, carvers.’
Before anyone could move, a terrible screech rent the air. ‘Never, human!’ screamed a voice – many voices – cracked with rage.
Loman staggered back under the impact of the appalling sound, his hands to his ears. Only instinct enabled him to keep his balance on the uneven boulders. He cried out in pain.
Around him he could see the crowd was similarly affected, people staggering and stumbling on the unforgiving rocks. They were his responsibility, but all he wanted to do was flee this place – to run and run until he was free of this dreadful pain. Yet his feet would not respond and, oddly, there was a quality in the sound which encouraged him to stand and oppose.
But there was also
desperation. This was a last effort.
Here, smith, you are re-forged or marred forever, he thought.
Then the quality of the sound changed. It lapped around him, mocking, taunting, tearing at him. It unearthed old and fearful memories which rose up and threatened to send him fleeing blindly across the mountainside until he crashed to his death over some unseen cliff.
But it woke another memory. A memory of trials faced and survived.
Loman stood up straight and took his ineffectual hands from his ears. ‘No, Alphraan,’ he said, though he could not hear his own words. ‘You may destroy me, but I will not die whimpering. I will not die dishonouring all those who have made me what I am.’ He opened his arms as if to receive the assault. ‘I have walked the labyrinth, and its ancient power had judged me no enemy. I am not afraid of your petty malice.’
Then, as if moving against a powerful wind, but without bowing, he began to move slowly forward. The sounds filling him became unbearable, and he felt consciousness slipping from him.
‘If I fail, others will follow,’ he said. ‘They will follow always, until you have released what you have unlawfully bound.’
He took another step forward, somehow still managing to keep his balance on the uneven rocks.
‘Tirilen . . .’ he thought as he felt his last ties breaking under the terrible onslaught.
But the sound changed again. Abruptly it became loud and shrill, though, Loman realized, it had moved from him. The blackness receded and he was standing again amongst his friends surrounded by a deafening, but harmless clamour.
He looked around. The crowd had been scattered somewhat, but all were now motionless, listening spellbound to the noise rising and falling about them. For even though no coherent language could be heard it was patently a furious argument.
Loman grimaced as he felt anger, frustration and resentment all around him, mingling with regret, fear and denunciation. It seemed to go on interminably, then, as if cut by a sword stroke, it stopped suddenly and for a moment there was silence. Loman stared around in disbelief, thinking briefly that the sound had destroyed his hearing. But before he could speak the noise swelled up again.
This time however, it was profoundly different. This time it was full of disbelief; a disbelief that turned gradually to wonder and joy. Despite his recent ordeal, Loman felt a lump in his throat as he found himself the inadvertent witness to a great rejoining: the coming together again of a family that had been so long apart that each half had thought the other to be perhaps no more than a mere myth.
The poignancy was almost unbearable, and, feeling intrusive, Loman turned to walk away. As he did so, however, other sounds began to impinge on him. A frantic whistling from all sides.
Loman felt again the weight of the mantle of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He looked down into the valley.
Sound signals! What are they playing at? he thought.
Then the content of their messages impinged.
‘Hawklan is coming,’ they said. ‘Hawklan and Isloman, from the north, with two riders.’
Loman looked north, fumbling in his pouch for his seeing stone. As he did so a familiar voice spoke behind him.
‘Well, well, dear boy,’ it said. ‘You do look trim. Been exercising?’
Chapter 29
Sylvriss rode forward and led her mount delicately out to the edge of a rocky outcrop. Her cloak was wrapped tight about her but her hood was thrown back and her face was flushed, as much with exhilaration at the progress they had made over the last few days as with the chilly air.
She looked out over the northern plains of Riddin. Home, at last, after all these years and so much turmoil. Admittedly, Dremark was far to the south, and the north of Riddin was sparsely populated, but soon she would be down there with her escort, and it would be only a matter of time before they encountered a patrol from one of the Muster lines.
Yengar joined her. ‘Your country, Majesty,’ he said, part question, part statement, his breath steaming.
Sylvriss nodded. ‘Ties of birth and family bind tightly, Yengar,’ she said. ‘But so do those of marriage and the loyalty of the Fyordyn, my people.’ She turned to him as she emphasized the word ‘my’.
‘I belong to both Fyorlund and Riddin now,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor brought me and Rgoric together for his own unseeable ends – probably to corrupt Riddin as he has corrupted Fyorlund – but it was an error, and we’ll give him full measure of it before we’re through.’
The mention of Fyorlund drew her eyes to the distant snow-covered peaks behind which that country now lay. The snow had caught them unawares, slowing their progress and making the journey difficult and laborious, but, being past the highest peaks when it arrived, they had encountered no special dangers.
Yengar followed her gaze and spoke her thoughts. ‘The snow’s early, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I fear that it’s the beginning of a long winter. I doubt there’ll be any way back to Fyorlund before the spring, except for hardy souls.’
Sylvriss looked at him, her mind full of thoughts of Eldric and the other Lords, facing the unknown power of Dan-Tor and ignorant of the fate of her and of Hawklan and Isloman.
‘Messages could be sent?’ she asked tentatively.
The Goraidin looked at the mountains again. ‘Oh yes,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘But not easily and not without considerable risk. But troops?’ He shook his head. ‘Not in any worthwhile number.’
Sylvriss nodded. The harsh reality of the Goraidin’s simple comment briefly dimmed the joy of seeing her home at last.
Still, she thought, there would be plenty of time for debating tactics and strategy when they got to Dremark. And at least Eldric and the others were preparing for war. They were not sitting in their castles in guileless innocence anymore.
She looked again at the land spread out below her. ‘Come on,’ she said, easing her horse back from the edge. ‘Let’s go and find the Muster.’
They had to spend one more night camped in the mountains, but the following day saw them leaving the last of the great crags, and venturing out over the empty, rolling countryside.
During the whole of the day the group moved steadily southwards. Although the weather was cold and overcast, they were all happy to have left the difficult mountain terrain behind and, for the most part, their progress was at the trot.
Towards evening the sinking sun broke through a gap in the distant clouds, and for a while the landscape was flooded with a brilliant yellow light, peculiarly at odds with the greyness of the low clouds overhead. The riders’ shadows stretched and wavered, long across the short harsh grass.
‘We’ve seen no one all day, Majesty,’ Yengar said. ‘It’s really quite eerie. I seem to recall that Riddin was quite a bustling place.’
Sylvriss smiled. ‘The last time you were here, you were fighting a war,’ she said. ‘There were all manner of temporary camps here then. But this isn’t a very fertile region. It’s scarcely worth settling. And, as I remember, the war blighted what little settlement there was. Such villages as were here had to be abandoned or were simply destroyed. I’m happy to be here now, but it’s not a happy place for the Riddinvolk generally. Too barren, and too many bad memories.’
Yengar nodded. Bad memories he could understand. That was why the place seemed eerie, he realized.
But Sylvriss had been a young messenger in those days and knew of the region’s condition only from the words of her father and his advisers. The countryside itself touched no old wounds in her. If anything, it reminded her of times of bright and youthful excitement when she had thundered, invulnerable, hither and thither from camp to camp at the behest of the line leaders.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, turning to Yengar and laughing a little. ‘There’ll be people enough as we get nearer the River Endamar. And once we’ve been seen, the news will be known all the way to Dremark almost within the day. I hope you weren’t intending to reach there quietly.’
Yengar shook his he
ad. ‘No, Majesty,’ he said. ‘The bigger the escort the better, as far as I’m concerned. I doubt we need to protect you here.’
A fine drizzle was falling when they finally halted and made camp for the night. As she had done throughout the journey, Sylvriss tended the horses while the men erected the shelters, then she joined them for their meal.
Relieved to be away from the constant concern that had necessarily pervaded their journey through the mountains, the group were soon in high spirits, their laughter ringing out into the damp darkness like a celebratory carillon.
Abruptly, the entrance to the shelter was torn open.
The group’s good spirits tempered their immediate surprise.
‘It’s the Muster!’ Sylvriss exclaimed delightedly, struggling to get to her feet in the confined space. But Yengar laid a restraining hand on her arm. He was watching Olvric’s hand.
Nearest to the entrance, Olvric was peering out at the unexpected visitor. He was smiling, but his hand, behind his back, was signalling.
‘It’s armed men, but it’s not the Muster,’ Yengar whispered urgently to Sylvriss. ‘Follow Olvric’s lead until we find out who they are and what’s happening.’
Sylvriss’s face went white but she controlled her expression and nodded. Her thoughts were suddenly in a turmoil. Armed men, but not the Muster? It was unlikely that Olvric would be wrong. But who could they be? Surely Dan-Tor’s treacherous arm couldn’t have reached this far?
Olvric stepped out of the shelter and looked at the newcomers. As one of them made to speak, Olvric raised a hand in apology and looking up into the rain, bent down to the entrance again.
‘Pass my cloak, please,’ he said waving his hand towards it. Marek handed it to him.
Sylvriss heard Yengar catch his breath. ‘Morlider!’ he hissed, almost in disbelief. ‘At least twelve of them.’
Sylvriss felt her stomach turn over, and for an interminable, dreadful, moment, she thought she was going to faint. But sterner resolves buoyed her up as her mind cut through the questions about how and why the Morlider should be there, to the certainty that she had not battled alone against Dan-Tor for so long, to become a squealing victim to any fish-stinking brigands.
