The Call of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  As Jaldaric walked away, Dan-Tor fixed his gaze implacably northwards. The interruption had irritated him. Like some buzzing insect. What did these so-called soldiers know of waiting, of boredom? Boredom. A fitting word for this merest blink of a penance. What word existed to measure the unending eons he had been bound in the darkness?

  He grimaced. Orthlund was a fearful place, and lingering here with matters unsettled irked him immeasurably, clouding his thoughts and judgement and twisting like an ancient knife in his heart. Especially so near to that sinkhole of a castle, Anderras Darion.

  Anderras Darion. Twenty years open and he had not known; his spies impotent in this accursed land.

  But had He? What other eyes did He have?

  Or had he, Dan-Tor, been sent like some expendable lackey into the darkness, to be His eyes because all others had failed? What tremor had He felt those twenty years ago? The implications made his flesh crawl.

  A cloud moved in front of the sun, and his dark thoughts ebbed away slightly. At least his presence gave his birds their sight here. And wait he must, now. Wait until they told him of the binding of Hawklan by his servant at the Gretmearc. Then he could abandon his southward journey and return with his triumphant news to Narsindal.

  At that very thought however, doubts surged in upon him. What train of consequences had he set in motion with his impulsive decision? Had this land blinded him to make him take such a risk?

  Blinded and perhaps blighted.

  Still, the deed was done. If Hawklan were not Ethriss, then no harm could arise. He was still an enigma, a man with a strange history and strange skills that could beyond doubt be used against Him in the fullness of time. He must be examined, perhaps even turned to the true way. Many before had been so persuaded, and been of great value, rising high in His service, not least himself.

  But if he were Ethriss, what then? Ethriss awake would see all; would rouse the Guardians and sweep all before him more cruelly than before.

  The chill horror of his Master’s wrath pervaded Dan-Tor as he stood in the warm Orthlund sunlight.

  And yet the trap, though new-made, was of an ancient and well-tried form. One of His designing in times gone. No one could see it for what it was without the insight of the Old Power, and certainly none could escape it without great skill in the use of the Old Power. No. The trap could not fail. It was subtle beyond any human imagining. And it would be well laid. His servant there was able and well skilled.

  But is he? The doubt rankled relentlessly. Can he safely use the Old Power against such a prey? What if he is opposed by a powerful will? Will his paltry human frame and spirit not shatter under such a burden? Is he not already unsound?

  Dan-Tor drew in a long hissing breath of rage as his thoughts took him on a seemingly perpetual and unbreakable cycle of elation and terror. What rewards would come to him who bound Ethriss for His pleasure? What horrors would be bestowed on him who jeopardized His intent through an impulsive whim?

  The Lord gazed steadily northward, but his eyes were unseeing. His every fibre listened for the approach of his sinister flying messengers.

  Chapter 15

  Then they were there. Altfarran, where three rivers ended their tumultuous journeys from the mountains and formed the swirling head of the River Endamar. And there was the Gretmearc; the massive, rambling market that sprawled either side of the river, its two halves joined by a huge, many levelled and ramshackle bridge which seemed to be permanently full of people, animals, and vehicles travelling in both directions.

  It was a brilliant spring morning when Hawklan parted from the old woman but it was late afternoon by the time he arrived at the Gretmearc. He was quite tired, having tried to walk too quickly through the increasing crowds, but his heart lightened at the sight that greeted him. The Gretmearc was a blaze of colour and movement. Its tents and stalls and booths, its rambling buildings, its people, everything, flickering and shining in the sunshine. Its noises rose and fell like the sound of waves on a shore, and everywhere there were pennants and bunting and flags, countless flags. The flags of countries, of towns and cities and villages, of great houses and of individuals and companies, all cracking and fluttering noisily in the brisk breeze.

  Although he had grown used to crowds and bustle on his journey after leaving the mountains, Hawklan found that the presence of so many people and so much noise and activity disorientated him a little at first. Gavor however, kept laughing raucously and flapping his wings.

  ‘Look at all those trees,’ he cried, indicating the forests fringing the market on the far side of the river. Hawklan did not understand immediately.

  Gavor explained. ‘Where there are trees, dear boy, there are nests. Where there are nests, there are . . .’

  ‘. . . friends.’

  Hawklan finished his sentence resignedly.

  ‘Exactly,’ confirmed Gavor, tapping his wooden leg in emphasis and anticipation.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘I should have recognized the tone of voice by now,’ he said. Then, sternly: ‘I haven’t come all this way to end up treating your deservedly pecked behind, Gavor. Just concentrate on looking for anything like that tinker brought with him.’ Gavor slumped sulkily.

  Despite his tiredness, Hawklan began his search immediately, though as he began walking around the Gretmearc’s many aisles and walkways, he realized that his strange prior familiarity with places had been fading since he left the mountains and was now apparently gone. For a moment he felt uneasy, but his alarm soon passed in the bright sunshine and happy crowds.

  All around him, people were shouting and peddling their wares.

  ‘Now, ladies, ladies. You know me. I’m always here. I wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘I’m not asking twenty for this. Not eighteen. Not even sixteen . . .’

  ‘Trust me. No, no. Don’t. Go and see for yourself. If you can’t find these same up the posh end at twice the price, I’ll . . .’

  Jewellery shone and glittered; dishes and plates, apparently unbreakable, were rattled and clattered casually from skilled hand to skilled hand; clothes and ribbons were waved and flourished, held out into the sunlight and against bosoms for critical inspection.

  Then, out of the din, ‘. . . the very finest crafted toys . . .’

  Nearly dislodging Gavor, Hawklan looked round hastily for the owner of the voice. His eye lit on a small, round ball of a man with a laughing face. He was behind a stall overflowing with all manner of children’s toys on the far side of a crowded aisle on the level below where Hawklan was standing.

  Not seeing a stairway near at hand, Hawklan followed what seemed to be the common practice and, climbing over the guard rail, swung down to the lower level.

  As he reached the stall, the little man craned his head back and looked up at him with mock exaggeration. ‘Yes, young man,’ he began, a peculiar though not unpleasant nasal rasp in his friendly voice. ‘Looking for presents for your children?’

  ‘I’ve no children,’ said Hawklan unthinkingly, caught by the little man’s familiarity.

  ‘Never mind, sir. A well set up lad like you, plenty of time. Perhaps something for the nephews and nieces?’ He rolled round and riffled hastily through a mound of toys at the back of the stall. Turning back he brandished two ornate toy swords under Hawklan’s nose and made a ferocious face. ‘Morlider and Muster sets, sir. Always popular.’ Then, prodding himself with one of the swords, ‘Guaranteed harmless, sir. Gretmearc guaranteed,’ he added significantly.

  Hawklan, laughing at the man’s antics, shook his head and looked at the bewildering array of toys displayed before him.

  ‘Do you have any tiny dolls?’ he asked. ‘Walking dolls – soldiers perhaps?’

  The little man’s arms opened to indicate the miraculous justice of a fate that had brought Hawklan to this very stall, and rolling round once more to his multi-coloured stockpile he emerged with a small box.

  Opening it delicately, he reached inside and produced a tiny figurine. Placing it
on the wide counter he snapped his fingers, and the figure started to march.

  ‘Expensive, sir,’ came the little man’s voice. ‘I’ll not deny that. But marvellous work, sir.’

  Hawklan bent down and watched the tiny figure carefully. It was indeed a marvellous piece of work – walking up and down, as the tinker’s had, even executing a little sword drill. But it was sincerely made, and without corruption. With mixed feelings he stood up and, thanking the stallholder, rejoined the crowd.

  As the afternoon wore on he examined many articles on many stalls, but he found no hint of the corruption that the tinker’s doll had borne. He soon learned that the toy seller’s nasal accent was that of the permanent inhabitants of the Gretmearc. It stood out distinctly among the wide range of accents and dialects that filled the air incessantly. He noticed too that the locals talked louder and faster than anyone else, with a sharp and ready wit which could be very abrasive if they thought they were being trifled with. It surprised him a little at first that this accent should be so different from the singsong lilt of the Riddinvolk; then he remembered the old woman telling him that the Gretmearc itself was not technically part of Riddin but a separate, self-governing enclave.

  He was a little disconcerted by the attention he himself attracted, with his commanding presence, his Black Sword and, not least, the still sulking Gavor on his shoulder. Only one person really troubled him however, a weasel-faced man who latched onto him as he was passing a weapons stall, and who kept making ludicrous offers for the sword.

  Hawklan refused the man politely several times while Gavor slowly emerged from his sulk to watch the man’s antics. Finally he whispered in Hawklan’s ear, and at the man’s next approach, Hawklan spun round, his cloak billowing, his green eyes blazing, and his hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘I’ll give you this sword where you’d least appreciate it if you don’t go away,’ he thundered.

  Gavor, with his sense of the theatrical, hopped on to Hawklan’s head and spreading his wings wide so that he looked like some ferocious helm, hissed menacingly at the man, his black eyes glinting and his black mouth gaping wide.

  The man stumbled backwards and fell over under the impact of this assault, then scrambling to his feet he fled into the crowd. There was laughter and scattered applause from nearby stallholders, and some jeering after the fleeing man.

  One stallholder threw Hawklan a large piece of fruit as a token of appreciation. The weasel-faced man was obviously well-known. The incident cheered Gavor up considerably, though Hawklan was a little subdued by the effect of his own mock ferocity.

  For some while longer he wandered around but, coming unexpectedly across one of the formal sleeping areas, he decided to abandon his search until the next day.

  The cheapest and simplest section of the sleeping area was filled with open-sided shelters looking like great, wide-canopied mushrooms, each with a plain timber floor raised a little above the grass.

  Hawklan flopped down into the first free space he saw, gratefully ate the fruit the stallholder had given him and, wrapping his cloak around himself, fell asleep almost immediately. Gavor cast a glance towards the distant trees then, after some hesitation, took up a post by Hawklan’s head. Soon, he too was apparently asleep, but to the keen-eyed, a glint of starlight could be caught in his shining black eyes from time to time.

  Towards the middle of the night, Hawklan awoke, slightly alarmed, as if disturbed by some noise.

  ‘Sorry, dear boy,’ whispered Gavor apologetically. ‘Tummy rumbles. Must have missed a meal today.’ Hawklan’s face creased into a smile in the moonlight.

  ‘You never missed a meal in your life. It’s probably someone you ate. Some unsuspecting insect having its revenge.’

  Gavor snorted, and Hawklan stretched himself carefully to avoid disturbing his neighbours. The air was punctuated by a hissing cacophony of snorts, whistles and wheezes and, lifting his head, he could see the area was completely full of sleeping people lying in every conceivable posture. Some were lying by the dying embers of an open stove that had been lit to protect them from the cold night air. Hawklan was glad of the cloak that Tirilen had found, which had kept him warm in the snows and cool in the hot sun.

  He lay back and stared out at the sky. Most of the stars had been obliterated by a brilliant full moon that silvered the black void. He asked himself again what could have drawn him here so compulsively after twenty years of quiet contentment in Pedhavin. But no answer came. No reason, no logic took him from cause to effect. Just the drive that had said he must come here. Just the tinker’s voice. ‘At the Gretmearc at Altfarran. They have many such toys there.’ Toys! He shuddered at the memory of the prancing mannequin.

  But what was he to do? All that he could do was look around. If he came across any sinister item such as those the tinker had sold, perhaps he would know what to do next. Would he have to trace these things back further to a more distant source? And then what? Who or what could be making such things, and why? And again, why was he being driven, or drawn towards them?

  The thoughts tumbled to and fro in his mind, chasing one another around and around as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He could not exorcise them, so he left them alone, letting them flit about as they wished. Eventually he fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

  The following day it rained. High grey clouds had blown in from the north, and they lingered over the Gretmearc to deposit their contents in a long steady soaking stream that showed every intention of staying for the day. Fires appeared in the mushroom-shaped shelters and other places, and most booths and stalls became drying centres for the squelching crowds. Hawklan remarked that although there was no conspicuous sign of anyone in authority over the Gretmearc, things seemed to get done with remarkable speed and efficiency.

  ‘Self interest, dear boy,’ remarked Gavor. ‘We’re some way north here, and the weather’s more often bad than good, so – keep the customers here by keeping them comfortable, and make a trade of it at the same time. These blighters pray for bad weather you know,’ he concluded with an airy wave of his wing enveloping a busy line of stalls.

  ‘I’d no idea you were so cynical, Gavor,’ replied Hawklan. Gavor pooh-poohed the suggestion.

  ‘Not cynical, dear boy. Wouldn’t dream of being cynical. It’s no different to the Pedhavin farmers sharing their crops with one another, or making Isloman their First Carver and then giving him food because he won’t be able to grow his own. Self interest. They want his carving and his knowledge, so they look after him. Same here. They need these people, so they look after them.’

  Hawklan conceded the point suspiciously. He was certainly glad of the numerous opportunities he would have to get warm and dry if need arose.

  Gavor however, was less enchanted. ‘This is ruining my feathers, dear boy. I’ll really have to ask you to excuse me. See you later.’ And then he was gone, in a flurry of feathers and spray, before Hawklan could speak.

  In what promised to be a weary repetition of the previous day, Hawklan found himself wandering again through the myriad winding aisles and different levels of the Gretmearc, looking for something he hoped he would recognize. The rain streaked down in a steady, unremitting vertical stream, but in spite of it, and in spite of the grey leaden sky, the Gretmearc seemed to be as full and as busy as ever, and only marginally less cheerful than it had been the day before in the spring sunshine.

  He pulled his hood further over his head and wrapped his cloak around himself. He was quite glad that the rain allowed him to do this as it made him feel less conspicuous and hid the Black Sword that had attracted such attention yesterday.

  Towards the end of the day, he was beginning to reconsider the worth of the intuition that had brought him there. True, it had been an interesting journey over the mountains, and the Gretmearc itself was indeed well worth a visit – he promised himself he would persuade Loman to allow Tirilen to come here in the summer, or perhaps next year – but he had neither seen nor felt anyth
ing untoward once he had become used to the rather frenetic atmosphere of the place. An excess of it, he knew, would not be to his taste, but it seemed to be free from corruption. And all the goods he had looked at had been free from any taint that he could note. Many of them were poor in quality by the standards of Orthlund, but all were sincerely made and without malice. Indeed, some items had been made with a skill and inner knowledge that would have earned praise even in Orthlund. Bowls and glasses, pictures, tapestries, jewellery, carvings in many materials, objects brought from far distant places, things of great beauty and harmony.

  The tinker must have lied, Hawklan concluded eventually. It was obvious on reflection. If the man knew the nature of the goods he was selling, and he surely must, then he would have no desire to have the source of such articles discovered.

  Rather disconsolately, Hawklan went back to the rest area. Sitting with his back to the central pillar, he stared for a long time out through the open walls at the still busy market.

  Shortly before sunset, the rain stopped and the cloud broke a little. Evening was heralded by a deep red sky and the plip-plopping of the last raindrops falling off leaves and gutters. The air was fresh and cool and clean, and Hawklan could hear the gurgling of water running along in places he could not see. Gradually he felt his despondency ease a little.

  Gavor appeared from nowhere, looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Ah. My faithful body shield,’ said Hawklan, raising an eyebrow. Gavor was only slightly abashed.

  ‘Dear boy. I did keep an eye on you for a long time, truly. Then I met an old friend, and we fell to talking and . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Hawklan. ‘Spare me the details. Your inability to resist the lusts of the feather is legendary. One of these days it’ll get you plucked. I thought this place would be too much for you as soon as you showed me those trees.’

  Gavor contrived to look injured.