The waking of Orthlund tcoh-3

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Interesting notion, young Loman,’ she said. ‘Your daughter’s, I presume.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Loman said, bridling a little. ‘But it came out of something we were discussing.’

  Gulda nodded. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Tirilen’s ideas are usually worth listening to.’

  Three days later, Loman was asked to give his opin-ion on an extensive revision of almost every training programme. Looking at the sheaf of papers in his hand, all written in Gulda’s immaculate script, he shook his head. ‘Do you never sleep, Memsa?’ he said.

  ‘Let me know what you think,’ she said, ignoring the question and walking away.

  As he expected, Loman had very little to add to Gulda’s work. It was detailed, meticulous and appropri-ate, and superior in every way to what he had suggested. Later he told her so.

  She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement of Loman’s rough compliment. ‘I only stand on your shoulders, Loman,’ she said, unexpectedly offering an explanation. Then, with a deep chuckle, ‘You should do it more often yourself. The view’s better.’

  Rather than allow time for reflection, Gulda had chosen to ease the intensity of the entire training programme. ‘It was a timely thought, Loman,’ she said. ‘We nearly made a serious mistake. We nearly allowed the training for war to become dominant.’ She shook her head. ‘An old mistake.’

  She sat down opposite Loman and fixed him with her piercing gaze, sending him back to his schooldays again. ‘To become better fighters, better able to defend what they value, people need to find a place in their ordinary lives for their new knowledge. They need to reaffirm, to appreciate and understand the value of being warriors by being farmers and carvers first and warriors a poor second.’ She paused, unhappy with her last comment. ‘Or perhaps I should say, by realizing they can be each as required. I think you’ll find that debates and discussions will arise naturally and that’ll be all to the good. We mustn’t be arrogant, must we? We must learn from our pupils. They’re Orthlundyn amp;mdashthe remains of a great people.’ She paused. ‘Still a great people,’ she added pensively. ‘They’ll absorb most of what’s good in what we taught them and forget most of what’s not so good.’ Then, businesslike, ‘And there’ll be enough training continuing to keep everyone up to scratch.’

  The more relaxed training regime, however, could not apply to Loman’s elite group. By its very nature, their training demanded intensity.

  Having made the decision to form such a group, Loman had gathered together his most able ‘students’ and described to them as truthfully as he could his own experiences with the Fyordyn Goraidin during the Morlider War. All of his listeners had accepted the need for and value of such a group, but despite Loman’s stark telling, only a few of them had had the sight to realize that the cost of such service would be too high for them. Others were to learn later, as the relentless and severe nature of the training took its toll, though insofar as he was able, Loman ensured that none left the group feeling other than richer for the experience they had gained.

  Eventually, he was able to leave much of this train-ing to others, but initially, as a matter both of necessity and of personal honour, and to some extent to salve his conscience in forging such a tool, Loman personally trained the groups, teaching everything by his own example.

  ‘You are too old for this, father,’ Tirilen growled emphatically each time he returned home from some protracted survival expedition into the mountains and, free from the gaze of his students, crashed down into a chair and gazed skywards. ‘Far too old,’ she would repeat. ‘I’ve got people who are really sick to attend to, you know. This… ’ She waved her hand over his collapsed remains in sweeping dismissal, ‘is self-inflicted.’

  Her hands, however, belied her words, and she soothed his aches, eased the stiffness from reluctant joints, and repaired the damage that was incurred from time to time as he taught his students the skills needed for survival against both animate and inanimate enemies.

  But she could not ease the pain that sometimes wracked his heart. Only Gulda could come towards that. Not that he ever approached her. She would appear as if in response to some silent call and, blue eyes looking deep into him, would say quite simply. ‘You know it’s necessary, don’t you?’ The words were trite enough, but her presence and the assurance of her own inner knowledge would lighten his burden in some way he could not define.

  Occasionally as he stared back into her piercing eyes, the memory would return of the handsome and proud face he had glimpsed briefly when, running in terror from the labyrinth, he had burst suddenly into her room. At such times, Gulda’s eyes would narrow, then she would lower her gaze, pull her hood forward and stump off, more stooped than ever.

  It was in his elite group, however, that Loman found other problems multiplying. By its nature, their training took each individual to some extremity and exposed flaws in their characters that, left unseen, might have destroyed them at some future time, or worse, destroyed others they were responsible for. Angry outbursts were not uncommon and sometimes, of necessity, discipline was both severe and delivered summarily. But there’ve been too many such, Loman thought one night, sitting alone on a small balcony which faced up through the valley that Anderras Darion’s builders had sealed; up into the mountains. Too many.

  Gulda had said, ‘I think we too are assailed. Ponder your anger of late and that of your people.’ It was an enigmatic remark and she had offered no explanation nor mentioned it again, but he knew that that was because she was uncertain. She had spoken only the words she could, and he realized abruptly that in so doing she was asking for his help.

  Ponder your anger…?

  A bright full moon had swept the stars from the sky, and under it the rooftops and courtyards of the Castle sprawling out before Loman’s high vantage glistened damply. Ahead of him the black shadow of the moun-tains was broken by washes of silver brightness.

  Slowly, he brought to mind the various violent inci-dents that had occurred over the past few weeks. Superficially, all of them were provoked by some trivial act, but there was nothing mysterious in that. The real cause could usually be identified as an accumulating series of similarly trivial acts, each one unrelieved until finally catharsis had been sought in a blow, sometimes delivered, sometimes threatened and restrained. He himself had offended; delivered summary punishment with his fist or his hand when, even as he struck, he knew words would have sufficed.

  But too often, he thought again. Too often.

  And in the wake of this came a newer realization. Not only were there too many such incidents, they were getting worse. If it continued, it was only a matter of time before someone was killed. His stomach suddenly became leaden and icy. It would happen! And how could he face that? Three men and one woman had already died in training accidents and he had had precious little real comfort to offer their grieving parents. How then could he answer for the murder of one of his charges by their own?

  He could not.

  We must be eternally watchful with these old skills we’re re-learning, Gulda had said. But it was more than that, Loman thought. He knew the dangers amp;mdashthe Orthlundyn knew them. Indeed, in some strange way, they had not been re-learning old skills, they had merely been discarding the dust and clutter that had been hiding them for generations. They would not be so careless, so unaware, as to be so easily used by their darker natures.

  The word, careless, however, hung in Loman’s mind. He stood up and stared intently at the mountains, the memories of the four deaths returning to him vividly.

  Memories of saying, ‘I don’t understand. It was such an odd thing to do. So out of character.’

  His hands tightened around the moon-sheened rail that edged the balcony. The mountains, still and silent, watched and waited.

  So out of character…

  * * * *

  Gulda was sitting on a long stone bench in a quiet sunny courtyard that she seemed to have made her own. The book lying open acros
s her knees was a treatise on siege warfare though she seemed to be paying scant attention to it. Rather, she was watching a group of small birds bobbing to and fro across the close-cropped lawn in search of food.

  Loman closed the door behind himself very gently, but the birds were gone in a sudden flurry. Gulda looked up at him as he approached. No haughty presence there, he thought, just a strange, probably lonely old woman. Where did she come from? And how did she know so much about so many things? He smiled and she nodded.

  Crouching down in front of her, knees cracking slightly, he came straight to the point. ‘What’s happen-ing in these mountains, Memsa?’ he said, his eyes indicating the surrounding peaks.

  Gulda’s eyes went to her book. ‘Only what’s hap-pened for generations,’ she said off-handedly. ‘The mists come and go. The birds and the animals… ’

  Loman placed a hand over the book. ‘Memsa,’ he said almost angrily. ‘Don’t be obtuse. You asked me to think about my anger. I’ve thought. All last night I thought. And the morning’s brought no change. There’s a pattern of violent behaviour occurring within our special group when they’re in the mountains that I can’t explain. Something is affecting them.’

  Gulda looked down at the smith’s powerful hand and with a delicate thumb and forefinger removed it from her book. Her mouth curled impatiently. ‘Be specific,’ she said.

  Loman was. He detailed the deaths and injuries caused by unexpected lapses of concentration; the violence provoked by incidents which should have passed unnoticed. It took him some time. Gulda affected to read while he spoke, but Loman knew she was listening intently.

  ‘It’s a problem inherent in this kind of training,’ she said when he had finished.

  ‘Some of it, yes,’ Loman replied. ‘But not this much. And it’s getting worse. And there are other things. Not serious, but odd, untypical.’

  Gulda looked at him.

  ‘Sickness, for want of a better word,’ he said. ‘Head-aches, tiredness, sometimes very severe.’

  ‘It’s the height,’ Gulda said dismissively, returning to her book.

  ‘Memsa,’ Loman said, softly, but very firmly, ‘I know about being too long at too great a height; there’s no peak around here that Isloman and I haven’t climbed unwisely at one time or another when we were young. This is different. We’ve all of us had headaches come without warning. I never mentioned it to Tirilen, but some I thought were going to burst my head open. And then, just as quickly as they came, they were gone. And fits of tiredness the same.’

  He gripped her arm tightly, bewildered by her con-tinuing indifference. ‘I don’t get headaches, Memsa. I was at the last battle of the Morlider War. I’ve ham-mered iron the thickness of my leg into the finest wire. I just don’t get headaches. Nor do I suddenly lose all my strength and will like some over-tired child. What’s happening?’

  Effortlessly Gulda raised the arm he was gripping and closed her book. The unexpected ease and power of the movement caused Loman to lose his balance slightly.

  ‘Sit down, Loman,’ Gulda said, indicating the empty seat by her side. Loman did as he was bidden.

  Gulda picked up her stick and, folding her hands over the top of it, rested her chin on them. ‘I agree with you,’ she said. ‘Your analysis was good. Cleared my own thoughts on the matter considerably. You’re improving. Something is amiss. I’ve only vague suspicions about what it might be, but if I’m right I’m far from clear what it means, or what we can do about it.’ Her face looked pained, and Loman waited silently.

  Gulda sat motionless for a long time and one of the birds made a tentative return.

  She eyed it narrowly.

  ‘Do you remember Hawklan telling us about the birds that followed him to the Gretmearc?’ she contin-ued. Loman remembered too well. The kidnapping of Tirilen and all the subsequent events had been distress-ing enough, but at least they were understandable to some degree in human terms. Hawklan’s tale of his journey to and from the Gretmearc on the other hand, with its sinister watching birds and its strange people with inexplicable and violent powers, had been profoundly disturbing, and he was reluctant to dwell on its implications.

  The bird hopped towards him. He froze. ‘That’s not one, is it?’ he said nervously.

  Gulda gave a small jovial snort, and the bird flew off quickly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I think those eyes have been hooded for the time being. But do you remember about the one that Hawklan carried into Andawyr’s tent?’

  Loman screwed up his face in concentration. Pushed into the back of his mind, it all seemed so long ago. ‘Gavor killed it, didn’t he?’ he offered eventually. ‘Or stunned it, or… ’

  As he spoke, he remembered the tale of Gavor and the bird falling from the sky and the two strange shadows in the mist. But it was too late.

  ‘Really, Loman,’ Gulda said crossly, her fingers twitching around the top of her stick. ‘How can you train your own Goraidin if you don’t listen to what you’re being told. Some things you only get told once.’

  Loman winced and hastily raised his hands in apol-ogy. ‘Elflings,’ he said helpfully.

  ‘Alphraan,’ Gulda corrected wearily. She turned and stared up at the surrounding peaks, solid and comfort-ing in the bright sunlight. After a moment she turned back to Loman, apologetic. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t rebuke you. I gave the incident precious little heed myself until recently.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Memsa,’ Loman said. ‘I really don’t know what you mean. If I remember, it was Gavor who thought he saw two figures, and went rambling on about them singing. Hawklan wasn’t too sure what he’d seen. And I’ve never even heard of little people living in the mountains hereabouts. Anyway, what would they have to do with the problems we’ve been having?’

  Gulda stood up. ‘Come along,’ she said, nudging Loman’s foot with her stick. ‘I’ve forgotten what little I ever knew about the Alphraan. We’d both better go to the library and see what we can find out.’

  Loman had no desire to go prowling round the li-brary with Gulda, prone as she was to become distracted. ‘Didn’t Gavor say there were tales about these little people on the Gate?’ he suggested.

  Gulda’s stick swung up to point at him. ‘Which I can doubtless read dangling from the top of a ladder, eh?’ she said caustically. ‘Come along. Stop wasting time.’

  * * * *

  Loman, however, found it hard to believe that Gulda’s ladder climbing days were over. His feet were burning and his legs were aching, but she seemed to be unaf-fected by the slow and seemingly endlessly trek round and round the tiered circular balconies of the library as she made him accompany her on her search for some elusive guidance.

  Book after book she discarded, and when finally she separated two large, beautifully bound books to retrieve a small, nondescript-looking volume, he was well into the stage of shuffling and stamping his feet like a waiting carthorse.

  ‘This looks as if it might be useful,’ she said, exam-ining the spine. ‘This fellow was much respected in his day. A good writer. And very accurate.’

  Loman looked over her shoulder but the author’s name meant nothing to him. ‘It looks very old,’ he said. Gulda did not reply, but set off for a nearby table.

  Loman frowned as Gulda opened the book. She answered his question before he could ask it. ‘That’s the ancient Fyordyn language, young Loman,’ she said. ‘I doubt there’s many can read it these days, and even fewer speak it properly.’

  ‘Can you?’ he asked. Gulda snapped her fingers and indicated the chair next to her. ‘This might take a little time,’ she said. Loman sat down with some relief.

  As Gulda read, Loman relaxed and looked around the library. It was alive with people from all over Orthlund, drawn there by Loman’s bidding to prepare for war. They were moving busily hither and thither, though their movement was so silent that it reminded him of autumn leaves blowing in a gentle breeze.

  On every tier and across the main floor far below, people cou
ld also be seen bent over books and docu-ments. Some were writing earnestly, sheltered by books piled high around them like redoubts. Some were thoughtfully perusing maps and scrolls, others were sat high on mobile ladders or crouched low, moving frog-like as they searched the floor-level shelves. One or two were asleep.

  Loman smiled to himself. Despite the slumberers, the scene reminded him again of the sense of awakening that seemed to pervade the country, a sense that he felt most vividly in this wonderful Castle so arbitrarily given to his charge that dark wintry night some twenty years ago. He gazed upward towards the higher tiers towering above. What knowledge must be here? What people had gathered it together thus? What must this place have been like once when its population matched its scale?

  Gulda muttered and clucked to herself softly as she read, her head bouncing gently to some soundless rhythm and her mouth forming silent words. The performance drew Loman’s attention and he watched her for some time in mild surprise; Gulda usually sat motionless when she read.

  ‘What is it?’ he ventured after a while.

  Rather to his surprise, she smiled and answered him immediately. Even more to his surprise, she answered in a strange language, although he thought he detected fleeting overtones of the High Guards’ battle language. He gaped, and, surprised herself by this reaction, she mirrored his expression until realization dawned.

  ‘I’m sorry, Loman,’ she said. ‘I was so engrossed. I’d forgotten how fine a writer he was. And it’s such a beautiful language.’ Her face became thoughtful. ‘I wonder if any of the Fyordyn can still speak it,’ she said.

  ‘Memsa,’ Loman prompted her gently with a glance at the book.

  Gulda nodded, and with a little sigh, returned to the present. ‘It’s a poem,’ she said.

  ‘A poem,’ Loman echoed, rather more coldly than he had intended.

  Gulda eyed him. ‘An epic, historical poem,’ she added sternly. ‘It’s a record of an old oral tradition, and it’s probably the nearest thing we’ve got to an accurate source for information about the Alphraan.’