by Roger Taylor
In all his years as Castellan, scarcely a day had passed when he did not find some new wonder. Sometimes it would be tiny-a small carving or piece of metalwork, some exquisite miniature. At others it had been unbelievably large. Several times he had found entire chambers, and the feeling was always with him that there were many still to be found. In fact, the feeling was almost that they were hiding from him playfully.
Now, the presence of so many other people seemed to be accelerating this rate of discovery. There was a liveliness about the place that he had never known before. Voices, laughing, earnest, loud and secretive, whispered and rattled along corridors that for many years had known only the occasional soft footstep, until they floated expansively into empty halls and up into hidden crannies and crevices to fade into the Castle’s ancient calm. The Castle soaked up the many new sounds like the sands of the parched southlands soaked up rain and, like a great creature waking cell by cell, it seemed to take them as nourishment and transmuted them into a low background harmony note to under-score its song of welcome to the newcomers.
For all the dark purpose of the visitors, the Castle forbade gloom. Time enough for that should the skills they were learning ever be needed, then perhaps memories of the happy sounds of Anderras Darion might carry them through when all else failed.
Loman smiled to himself and opened his eyes. Standing up he stepped up on to the low windowsill and looked out of the tall narrow window down to a courtyard, dotted with lawns and flower beds and the strangely comfortable stone benches that were a characteristic feature of much of the Castle’s outdoor furniture.
Two liveried apprentices scurried past, intent on some errand and unaware of his watchful gaze. He was pleased with his apprentices. In his hastier moments he normally categorized them as insensitive little devils, but the new atmosphere seemed to have reached even them now.
He took in the rest of the scene playing before him. Assiduously avoiding the lawns, a small group of younger children were pursuing each other in an elaborate chase game that he remembered vaguely from his own childhood. One or two figures sat isolated on the benches and lawns reading with varying degrees of attentiveness, while an equal number just lay about idly in the sunshine, books discarded. In the far corner, Gulda was holding court to a group of older men and women. He regretted he could not hear what she was saying, because even though he still carried a substan-tial residue of his childhood terror of the woman, he had come to admire and enjoy her great expositions.
They were liable to happen at any time and any-where and when she started a small crowd invariably gathered to stand enthralled. He watched her now for several minutes talking apparently without pausing for breath, hands and arms flying expressively from one gesture to the next, an occasional thrust with her stick for emphasis, and her great nose wafting through the air like the sail of a tacking yacht as her head moved rapidly from side to side scanning her audience for the telltale signs of blankness in the eyes.
Loman had ceased to ponder about Gulda’s nature, as he had Hawklan’s many years earlier. Not a topic could be raised but what she knew something of it. And she worked tirelessly. Ferreting through the Library, unearthing the most remarkable old books on military lore, organizing the newcomers, organizing those leaving, organizing him!
And she never seemed to sleep.
Once Loman had met her walking slowly down a long moonlit corridor deep in the dark hours of the night. He had been poring over some old books and, having neglected the time, was hurrying to his quarters to catch a little sleep before rousing his apprentices.
‘Memsa, can’t you sleep? You’ll be exhausted,’ he said anxiously.
Gulda started a little, then continued her slow pace, acknowledging his concern with a nod that brought her hood forward and threw her face into shade. Loman did not have the skills of his brother but he was Pedhavin-born and shadow lore was in his blood. He saw what she had intended to hide. A look of despairing loneliness that almost made him step back.
Instead he stepped forward.
‘Gulda,’ he said gently. ‘You do too much. Perhaps Tirilen can help you. She’s no Hawklan, but… ’
In response to his gentleness, a soft smile appeared in the shade of the hood and she laid a hand on his arm. ‘What would I do with sleep, Loman?’ she asked distantly. ‘There’s nowhere for Gulda to hide, least of all in sleep, where memories run unfettered.’ Then she walked slowly past him.
He had watched the stooped black form retreating down the moon-shadowed corridor. In the glistening light her shape became so black and dense that it looked like the entrance to a long dark tunnel and, for an instant, he had the feeling of long interminable years stretching back endlessly from this brief time of his to times and peoples unimaginable. ‘Nowhere for Gulda to hide’, had floated back to him as she slowly merged with the distant shadows. He had swayed slightly as if he had woken suddenly to find himself exposed on a great height, his stomach fluttering with vertigo.
The sun now streaming through into the deep em-brasure of the window could not illuminate that haunting memory and Loman stepped away from the courtyard scene thoughtfully. There could be no understanding someone like Gulda. Nor anything gained from wondering who she was or why she was now here. Shaking off his reverie he strode out again. He needed to think, but not about this. Hawklan’s last message had been the one he had feared most of all.
Such was the impetus given by Gulda, Loman and the Morlider veterans, and such was the natural adaptability of the Orthlundyn, that within weeks of Hawklan’s leaving the many vague ideas that had started the enterprise had settled into familiar routines, and offshoots had begun to branch out. Already the more capable trainees were returning to their villages to start preliminary training locally in order to spare the limited time of the Castle’s instructors and to minimize the disruption of ordinary village life. They would also survey their own districts to note features of tactical value should conflict develop.
‘This is vital,’ Gulda emphasized. ‘Real strength can only come from firm and tenacious roots. And you,’ she swung her stick around the assembled instructors, ‘will bring all this information together as soon as possible so that we here will have a complete and detailed picture of the whole country.’
Loman’s feet took him upward and outwards until he found himself on the Castle wall looking out across the rolling landscape. He was tired and stiff; though not unpleasantly so. For all her impudence, his daughter had eased the more excruciating pains very effectively.
He stretched massively, drawing the fresh summer air into his barrel chest and closing his eyes to feel the sun on his craggy face. Hawklan had been right. The Orthlundyn, himself included, he realized, strove naturally for perfection and, while it gave them a profound satisfaction to do well, much of it was only because it was a step to something better. Perhaps only an outlander could see that in us, he thought.
In truth though, he could not have imagined that so much could have been achieved so quickly. Few had expressed serious reservations about what was being done. The evil that had come into their land had awakened some long-dormant spirit in the Orthlundyn and, while they regretted the need, they took to their new studies with the same thoroughness that typified all their acts. Their weakness, Loman knew, was that few of them were battle-hardened. Combat was not an extension of training, it was profoundly different. But, for all that, a tool was being formed which could do fine service if the need arose. He frowned anxiously at the thought as if the very thinking of it might fulfil it. He patted the stone in front of him with his powerful hand almost superstitiously. Then he turned his eyes northwards towards Fyorlund.
The string of riders established as a message line for Hawklan and Isloman had been used frequently as part of various training exercises and Loman knew that the two men had made steady and uneventful progress, and that they in turn knew of the progress that had been made at the Castle.
Then had come Hawklan’s last message before t
hey disappeared into the mountainous approaches to Fyorlund. ‘Well done. Now select your finest and train them beyond their limits, for special needs.’
It was a message he had feared Hawklan’s reason would lead him to eventually: the formation of an elite corps. He had assiduously avoided mentioning such an idea to Hawklan because in it were enshrined all the painful and irreconcilable paradoxes of the wilful use of violence. Further, he and Loman had both served with such a group: the Goraidin. The only non-Fyordyn ever to do so. It had been a difficult experience, at once enriching and impoverishing, and he had little desire to relive it.
Even now, so many years later, he would wake occa-sionally in the night, shivering, full of the nightmare of that first meeting.
Their small unit had been scattered by a surprise night attack and he and Isloman had spent days wandering through the snow-covered terrain trying to find out where they were and what exactly had hap-pened. Then the weather turned and the two brothers found themselves clinging to one another in mortal fear. Everything disappeared into a horrifying glaring whiteness that burned into their eyes. Mountains, forests, even the sky and the very horizon were gone-not as in a mist-not hidden from view but vanished utterly into brightness. Only vaguely could they see one another and their footsteps in the snow. Their main awareness of one another came through touch and, hand in hand, they wandered aimlessly for miles until eventually they stumbled across a fallen tree whose roots offered them some shelter.
They built a rough snow wall to keep out the wind, and slumped down in the cramped space to contemplate their imminent demise. Even with their Orthlundyn clothing, and the extra garments that the local Riddin-volk, used to such conditions, had given them, the bitter cold struck through and both knew that without food and warmth they would soon die.
Loman was wakened from a fitful half sleep by his brother clamping a hand over his mouth and whispering in his ear. ‘Morlider. Just outside. Listen.’
Nearby voices speaking a strange language drifted into their shelter. Loman craned forward, listening intently, and then raised four fingers to his brother. Isloman nodded. Four men.
‘Food,’ mouthed Loman silently. Isloman nodded again and raised a clenched fist. This time Loman nodded and cautiously slipped his gloved hand through the straps of his shield. Isloman slowly did the same and, on his brother’s signal, the two of them crashed down their snow wall and charged out roaring and shouting at the four men.
Except that there were not four, but six. Without pausing to assess the consequences of their mistaken arithmetic the two brothers pressed on. Strong even in those days, Loman sent two of the men staggering with a single blow of his shield and then swung his club at the head of a third.
But the blow never landed and, instead, Loman found himself sprawling on his back only vaguely aware of where he was and how he got there. There had been no impact, he was sure. He rolled over and tried to regain his balance and then there was an impact. A stunning blow came from nowhere and exploded in his head, filling it with white light. Now he was face down in the snow and sufficiently aware to know that he was losing this battle utterly. He was going to die. Some-where he could hear his brother’s voice and the sound of fighting.
‘I’m coming, Isloman,’ he shouted weakly and, with head still ringing, he struggled to his knees. His shield and club were gone, but he had his fists and his strength. As he moved, he heard a gasp of surprise and the sound of a sword being drawn. Looking up and focusing blearily, he saw a white, fur-clad figure approaching purposefully with a white-bladed sword in his hand. He was not going to be able to move in time.
‘Wait,’ cried an authoritative voice. ‘Wait.’ The fig-ure paused. A second figure joined it and, bending forward, spoke to Loman.
‘What did you say?’ it demanded.
Loman, uncertain at this strange turn in the pro-ceedings, swore at him roundly and tried again to stand.
‘Well I’m damned,’ said the figure. ‘Orthlundyn or I’m a Mandroc. What are you doing here?’
Loman kept his gaze on the drawn sword. ‘Wishing I was somewhere else,’ he said.
The figure laughed unexpectedly and stepped for-ward, its hand extended. ‘Yes. Orthlundyn without a doubt. Put up your sword, Yatsu, we mustn’t slaughter our allies, even if they do ambush us. Take my hand, man.’
Hesitantly Loman grasped the offered hand and struggled to his feet, swaying dizzily. The two men steadied him, and for a moment he leaned on them both while his head cleared.
The second man chuckled again. ‘I didn’t know Orthlundyn were so hard,’ he said. ‘One kick from Yatsu is usually sufficient to take a man out of this world and you’re only a bit dizzy. Remarkable.’ He gestured to an untidy white mound by the roots of the fallen tree. ‘Let him up,’ he said, and Loman watched the mound break up as four more fur-clad individuals rose to their feet and released his bruised and winded brother.
‘Well, Orthlundyn,’ said the man, turning back to Loman, ‘you gave us quite a surprise. I think we’ll talk a little. My name’s Dirfrin, and this little group you’ve assailed is a detachment of King Rgoric’s Goraidin.’
The name meant nothing to either of the brothers, and Dirfrin did not seem disposed to elaborate.
After a little wound counting and some awkward introductions, Dirfrin laid a sad hand on Loman’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid your unit’s been wiped out, Loman,’ he said. ‘We came across the remains of them earlier. I’m sorry.’
Loman cast his eyes upwards, while Isloman dropped his head into his hands.
After a moment, Dirfrin continued. ‘Worse,’ he said. ‘The Morlider have moved in unexpectedly and now occupy this entire area. If you go off on your own, then the weather, the terrain or the enemy will kill you within a couple of days.’
Loman looked inclined to demur, but Isloman laid a hand on his arm and shook his head.
‘Furthermore, I don’t want you falling into enemy hands. They’re none too kind with prisoners and they’ll find out about us for sure, and if that happens we’ll be in even more trouble than we are now. It’s a matter of urgency that we get back to the army and report where the enemy are and in what strength.’
‘What can we do?’ asked Isloman.
‘You’ll have to come with us,’ came the reply. There was some muttering in the strange language that the brothers had heard before. Dirfrin looked angry. He drew a long knife and offered it, hilt first, to one of his men.
‘Well, kill them here in cold blood if you’ve the stomach for it, because that’s the only alternative we have.’ The man lowered his eyes and waved the knife away. Dirfrin returned it to its sheath and Loman and Isloman unclenched their fists.
Dirfrin fixed them with an unwavering stare. ‘Listen carefully, both of you. The Goraidin are the finest fighters in all Fyorlund. Our training’s so hard that not one in a hundred ordinary High Guard will even aspire to it and only one in three of those who do is likely to complete it. I’m afraid all I can offer you is a slim chance or no chance, but you look fit, you’re certainly strong, you’re well-clothed and, looking at your shelter, you’re not stupid. We’ve picked up extra supplies from your dead friends so we’ll take you with us.’ He leaned forward urgently. ‘But we can’t allow you to delay us. We’ll teach you what we can as we go and you’ll have to learn as you’ve never learned before. But understand,’ he paused, ‘you’ll obey any of these men without question, and without hesitation.’ His tone was unequivocal. ‘Too many people, ours and yours, depend on the information we have for us to be jeopardized by you. If you give us any trouble you’ll be killed without compunction. Do you understand?’
Standing on the walls of Anderras Darion, warm in the summer sun, Loman shivered as he recalled Dirfrin’s relentless gaze and grim voice. Looking over the sunlit plains of Orthlund, he nodded his head as he had done that bitterly cold day so long ago huddled in a mountain forest in Northern Riddin.
Now Hawklan wants us to train our own Goraidin, h
e thought. The request still fretted him. He and Isloman had travelled successfully with the Goraidin. They had learned. They had also taught.
‘Well, at least you’ll have sharp swords now and know how to use the shadows a little more wisely,’ he remembered telling Dirfrin when they had finally parted.
But some of the skills he and his brother had learned disturbed Loman to this day. Countless ways to kill people and to wring information from them. Countless ways to rend and destroy. Yet other things were indisputably fine and made him proud to have been with the Goraidin. Courage, loyalty, sacrifice, the knowledge to survive in the most appalling conditions. He looked northwards pensively. And their actions did save many lives in that bitter war.
Loman breathed out noisily and curled his mouth in self-reproach. He was wasting his time debating this. He had no alternative. He had had no alternative ever since he accepted the necessity of the Orthlundyn arming themselves, if for no other reason than the knowledge that any enemy would be doing the same. He needed no trust in Hawklan to tell him that, nor advice from him about what he should do.
He was Orthlundyn. Whatever had been achieved could, and must, be improved.
He walked along the top of the wall towards one of the stairways. As he strode down the steps, two at a time, he went through a list of names that he realized had been forming in his head over the last few weeks. The names of those trainees who would probably be suitable for special training.
Chapter 26
‘What do you make of them?’ said Isloman discreetly.
