The Call of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  ‘What did she call me?’ he muttered disbelievingly under his breath.

  ‘Shush,’ said Hawklan urgently, as his legs involuntarily marched him towards the beckoning woman.

  The cause of the disturbance was a slight collision between the woman’s cart and the youth’s, which had left them with their wheels locked together. Looking at the two protagonists, Hawklan had reservations about the old woman’s immediate declamation of the youth’s guilt but, exchanging a quick look of understanding with him, he decided not to pursue the matter.

  It took only a few minutes to separate the carts, after which the youth was summarily dismissed and Hawklan conscripted to hold the horse’s head while the woman checked her load.

  ‘You on your way to the Gretmearc?’ she cried, from the far side of the cart.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Hawklan, stroking the horse’s head. It was a fine, strong-spirited animal that radiated well-being.

  ‘I’m going part of the way myself,’ said the woman, bustling back purposefully to take the horse from Hawklan. ‘The horse is rested now so you can ride with me. It’ll save your legs. And you won’t mind, will you, horse?’ She patted the horse’s cheek solidly and Hawklan felt the warmth of the animal’s response. ‘Besides,’ she continued, glancing up at Gavor. ‘It’ll be someone for you to talk to. You must get lonely with only your pet for company.’

  ‘Hawklan . . .’ began Gavor menacingly.

  ‘Oh,’ cried the woman. ‘It talks.’

  ‘It!’ hissed Gavor under his breath. Hawklan threw him a pleading glance and with wilful awkwardness Gavor hopped over his head and on to the shoulder farthest away from the woman. ‘In deference to our position as visitors here, Hawklan,’ he whispered, ‘I shall refrain from entering into any badinage with this old . . . horse-person, but do at least advise her that this it is a he. I can assure you I am anything but neuter.’

  Hawklan smiled and, reaching up, tapped Gavor’s beak. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll defend your honour,’ he said quietly. ‘But I don’t think you and the lady are going to get on too well. Give your feet a rest.’ And Gavor was gone, his powerful wings lifting him high into the spring sky.

  The woman watched him as Hawklan climbed up onto the cart. ‘I hope I didn’t frighten it,’ she said anxiously. ‘It’ll come back won’t it?’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.’

  The woman grunted then flicked the reins gently. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked as the horse started forward. Hawklan settled himself to the cart’s gently swaying rhythm.

  ‘Orthlund,’ he answered.

  She looked at him in some surprise. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘We don’t get many Orthlundyn over here. Quiet kind of a place I’m told.’

  Hawklan glanced at the busying traffic all around them, and nodded. ‘Quieter than this, for sure,’ he said.

  The old woman laughed pleasantly. ‘You shouldn’t travel the Altfarran Road if you want peace and quiet,’ she said. Then she clucked at her horse, and fell silent.

  ‘You’re not going to the Gretmearc?’ Hawklan ventured.

  ‘Bless you, no,’ the woman replied. ‘I’m taking some things up to my sister’s. She lives just this side of Altfarran.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Mind you, I might look in there. It’s a long time since I’ve had a good wander round, and I might find something for the Line’s celebration.’

  The Line, it transpired, was her local Muster group, and the celebration was an annual event in honour of its founding.

  ‘Really,’ she confessed confidentially, ‘no one knows when any of the Lines were founded. It’s just an excuse for a party and a bit of showing off.’ Then she laughed again. ‘Mind you,’ she added, more seriously, ‘we might have the Ffyrst with us this year.’

  ‘Ffyrst?’ queried Hawklan.

  The woman’s look of surprise returned. ‘Urthryn,’ she said, and then, casting her eyes upwards. ‘I forgot. You Orthlundyn don’t have a Ffyrst do you? Or a King?’ She shook her head. ‘I really don’t know how you manage over there without someone in charge.’

  It was a question that Hawklan could not begin to answer. ‘We just look after each other,’ he said, vaguely, but the words sounded oddly inadequate as a measure of the great respect that each Orthlundyn held for his neighbour’s right to pursue his life unhindered yet not uncared for.

  ‘Horses for ploughs, horses for battle,’ she said, shaking her head and frowning slightly, her tone suddenly more serious. ‘It’s not really for me to talk. Your people pulled their weight when the Morlider were here, and that’s not forgotten, but a people need someone to lead them. What would you do if someone like the Morlider suddenly attacked you out of the blue? Started destroying your farms and your homes? Slaughtering your friends? Fight them one at a time?’ She looked at him purposefully.

  Hawklan offered no comment. The thoughts were dark and grievously at odds with both the bright day and the motherly figure sitting next to him. They had never occurred to him, but something deep seemed to move inside him. The woman continued. ‘Still, as I said, it’s none of my business how you run your country. You were good neighbours when you were needed.’ Then, looking at him appraisingly, ‘Besides, you’re a fighting man, I can see that. You know you’ve got to have someone in charge, don’t you? However you pick them. We choose our councillors and they choose the Ffyrst – first among equals. Up in Fyorlund they’ve got their King Rgoric and their . . . what is it? Geadrol?’ Her voice tailed away and she sighed. Hawklan felt her mood slip into sadness.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, partly from concern, partly to lead the woman away from this oddly disturbing topic.

  The woman shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just mentioning Rgoric reminded me of Urthryn’s lass, Sylvriss. I was at their wedding, you know. Head over heels with Rgoric she was, and he with her. They were so happy. But . . .’

  Her reminiscence was interrupted by Gavor who dropped out of the sky onto Hawklan’s shoulder, making her start.

  ‘There’s some kind of commotion along the road behind us,’ he said softly.

  ‘Commotion . . .?’ began Hawklan, but before he could continue, he caught a distant sound. It was peculiar – like a single word being shouted by different people one after the other. He turned to the old woman to ask her what it might be, but she too was craning her head to catch the faint sound.

  Then, abruptly, she turned away from the sound and roared, ‘Muster!’ in the opposite direction. Hawklan winced at the force of her voice, but noted that the call was immediately taken up by others. It was soon echoing faintly along the road ahead of them.

  ‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ the woman said, smiling broadly, and before Hawklan could ask what was happening she clicked at the horse and it negotiated its way over to the side of the road and stopped.

  ‘Come along young man, down you get, and sharp about it,’ she said briskly, and with remarkable sprightliness she jumped down from the cart and signalled Hawklan to join her.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he managed eventually, as the woman positioned herself in front of him and gazed back along the road, screwing up her eyes in an attempt to see further.

  ‘Muster,’ she said, without elaboration. No wiser, Hawklan looked around and noticed that the road had been almost completely cleared. What had been a busy, rambling crowd seemed to have been swept to the sides of the road as if by a great brush. It needed no heightened perception to see now who were Riddinvolk and who were strangers, for the crowd fell clearly into two parts. Those, like the old woman, standing purposefully at the front, forming a friendly but complete barricade, and those like himself, standing somewhat bewildered at the rear. For all its informality, it was an impressive display of discipline.

  ‘Muster?’ Hawklan inquired.

  ‘It’ll be here soon,’ she said with a beaming smile of pride lighting up her round red face. ‘Won’t be long. Ever seen it before?’

  Hawklan shook his head.

/>   ‘Most strangers find it very exciting,’ the old woman continued. She rubbed her hands together gleefully. ‘I do. Even now, after all this time.’ She patted her horse’s nose. ‘Not as good as riding in it though, is it, old friend?’ she said quietly.

  The good-natured firmness of the Riddinvolk, together with natural curiosity, silenced any reproaches from visitors about this unexpected interruption to their progress, and an unsought stillness fell over the waiting crowd. It was punctuated only by the odd figure scuttling rapidly across the road to seek a better vantage point.

  Then the sound of cheering and shouting reached them and, presaged by a fearful rumbling which grew in intensity until many of the strangers began to look alarmed, the Muster burst upon them.

  Hawklan estimated there must have been about sixty riders, although he had little time to do more than gasp and take an involuntary step backwards. He had an impression of crouched bodies – men and women both – urging themselves forward, of long heads and necks reaching out, of flying hair and manes, of gleaming eyes and elated and determined faces. And of noise: the noise of hooves striking the hard ground, of riders shouting, tackle rattling, and the crowd shouting and cheering. He noted that even the old lady was bobbing up and down with excitement, and clapping her hands.

  Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone, and a shuffling silence descended on the watchers as they stood uncertainly in the settling dust. For a moment it was as if the force that had just swept through them had taken their will to move for its own need.

  The old lady turned round. ‘There you are, young man,’ she said. ‘Only a small group, but at full gallop on a training run. And going well too,’ she added with a knowing condescension. ‘What did you think of that?’ She did not wait for an answer, but dug her elbow in his ribs. ‘Something to tell the folks back home, eh?’

  Hawklan agreed readily. The whole thing had made a deep impression on him. The skill of the riders in travelling at such a speed along the comparatively narrow road, so close to onlookers. And the discipline and speed of the locals in clearing the busy road ahead. He found that his heart was beating rapidly and powerfully, and his breath was fast and shallow.

  What a formidable fighting force, he thought. They must be able to handle all but the most highly disciplined infantry. Then almost immediately he wondered where such a thought could have come from. He had an unnerving sensation that, more and more, such dark and strange images were gathering at the edges of his mind.

  Who am I? he thought, unexpectedly.

  Chapter 14

  In a small clearing in a wood about a day’s ride to the north of Pedhavin, the bright spring sunshine shone down on a group of young men. Some of them were cleaning weapons or tackle, and one or two were reading, but the majority were lounging about idly.

  Their camp was clean and orderly as were the men themselves, but from their various postures and the vigour, or lack of it, with which those working pursued their tasks, it was apparent that they had been there for some time and, despite the spring weather and the pleasant ease of their location, they were ceasing to relish an enforced leisure.

  ‘Has he told you when we’re going to move yet, Jal?’ one of them asked, brushing an insect off his nose as he stared straight up into the blue sky.

  The recipient of this question was a well-built individual sitting on a grassy knoll and leaning against a tree. He had fair curly hair and a round, rather innocent face. Looking up, he eyed his questioner narrowly and then furrowed his brow as if searching his memory.

  ‘I make that the . . . twenty-fourth time you’ve asked that question in two days, Idrace,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Twenty-fifth,’ came a voice from somewhere. Someone else clapped leisurely and Jaldaric raised an acknowledging hand.

  ‘It could well be,’ he conceded wearily. ‘It could well be. But the answer’s still the same.’

  The questioner levered himself up and leaned on one elbow. He was dark-haired, with a hooked nose and powerful deep-set eyes. ‘Well then,’ he said, with exaggerated shrewdness, ‘that means it must be at least two days since you asked him about it, mustn’t it, Captain?’

  Jaldaric looked round idly for something to throw at his tormentor, but finding nothing suitable, he stood up awkwardly and stretched. Orthlund was a beautiful place, but this inaction was beginning to be soul-destroying.

  ‘Thank you, Idrace,’ he said, with mock formality. ‘I shall attend to my lack of diligence immediately. I shall also retail your anxiousness faithfully to the Lord Dan-Tor. I’m sure he’ll be most impressed by your eager zeal.’

  ‘No, no,’ Idrace replied magnanimously. ‘I insist you retain the credit for yourself, Captain.’

  Jaldaric dropped grass on his friend’s head. ‘Where is he then?’ he asked.

  ‘Usual place,’ said Idrace, shaking his head and indicating the direction with a flick of his thumb as he resumed his supine vigil under the spring sky.

  Jaldaric brushed the grass and leaves from his tunic and, circling his shoulders to relieve their stiffness, set off down a narrow winding track.

  It was in fact four days since he had inquired about when they would be breaking camp and continuing their southward journey, and he judged that another careful inquiry now would not be too presumptuous.

  Normally he did not have any great problem in dealing with the Lord Dan-Tor, though opinions among the Fyordyn generally were divided about him, often quite markedly. At one extreme, he was the King’s saviour and good right arm, cutting through old and fusty ways and leading Fyorlund into a newer, brighter future. At the other he was a destroyer of long, cherished and valuable traditions, and a man whose influence on the King was wholly pernicious.

  For Jaldaric himself, there was, admittedly, some quality in the man that made him feel uneasy. Something he felt he could not see, like a shadow in the corner of his eye. But as a Captain in the High Guard, seconded to Palace duty, he had to judge the man by his actions, and hitherto, in his day-to-day dealings, he had found the Lord pleasant, courteous, clear in his orders, and generally thoughtful about the men and animals. He’d served under far worse in his time.

  After his lone visit to that village though, Dan-Tor had changed. He made a single statement on his return, and the tone of its transmission had brooked no questioning. ‘Our journey is delayed, perhaps even abandoned. We must wait here until I receive news.’ Since then he had become quieter, even abruptly irritable on occasions. And he had taken to spending most of his time away from the camp, deeply preoccupied, just staring out over the countryside.

  Jaldaric made a leisurely progress along the narrow path. It took him through soft burgeoning grasses and under natural arbours decked in scented blossoms. All around him birds were singing, and he could hear small animals scurrying away busily at his approach. Eventually it took him out of the dappled shade of the trees and onto a small rocky outcrop overlooking the rolling Orthlund countryside.

  He paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, then following the path around the rocks, he came to the place where the Lord was most usually to be found. Today was no different. The tall, lank, figure was standing motionless against the skyline, looking northwards. Not for the first time, Jaldaric wondered how the man could stand so still for so long.

  ‘Captain?’

  Dan-Tor’s voice made him start. He had not sought to approach secretly, but his training made him both naturally silent and aware of his gait and he had made no noise that he was aware of.

  ‘Lord,’ he replied. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  The figure turned slowly and looked at him for a moment, then a brilliant white smile cracked open the lined brown face. ‘Not at all, Captain,’ he said. ‘You’ve been remarkably patient. I presume you’ve come to ask when we’ll be restarting our journey.’

  Jaldaric let out a discreet sigh of relief and returned the smile. ‘Indeed, Lord. The men are getting a little . . .’
/>
  ‘. . . bored.’ Dan-Tor finished the sentence. ‘And you’re not finding it too exhilarating yourself are you?’

  Jaldaric avoided the question. ‘Perhaps if you could tell us what happened in the village, Lord, it might help,’ he offered. Dan-Tor did not reply, but turned away to look northwards again.

  There was a long silence. Jaldaric did not wish to press his question and, having intruded, was loth to move away without being formally dismissed.

  ‘Don’t be deceived by this land, Captain,’ Dan-Tor said unexpectedly. ‘Nor by the people.’

  ‘Lord?’

  There was another long pause, then, ‘Terrible things have come from this land in the past, Captain, and may yet again in the future.’

  ‘Lord?’ Jaldaric repeated, stepping forward. ‘I don’t understand you. This is a beautiful country, and such people as we’ve met have been . . .’

  Dan-Tor’s hand went up sharply and Jaldaric fell silent. ‘You have neither my sight nor my knowledge, Captain,’ he said, his tone suddenly sharp. Jaldaric waited cautiously. Once again, the Lord’s mood had changed abruptly. ‘This land is not what it seems, and its people are deep, devious, and dangerous.’

  Dangerous to whom? The suddenness of the thought caught Jaldaric by surprise and only a conscious effort prevented him from speaking it out loud.

  ‘Set the men to their drills,’ Dan-Tor continued curtly. ‘Remind them that but a few years ago they’d have been serving in The Watch at Narsindalvak and that would have been a most salutary lesson in boredom and futility for them. We’ll be here until I receive news. It may well be some time. Dismiss.’

  ‘Lord.’

  Chastened, Jaldaric saluted and set off back down the narrow track. Once in the shade, he scowled slightly at the rebuff he had just received. The Lord’s comment however, was apt. He would indeed have to bend his mind to keeping his men properly occupied. This idleness was becoming corrosive. It was only a matter of time before the Lord’s arbitrary irritability began to affect them all and then there would be problems, so far from home.