by Roger Taylor
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Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]
by Roger Taylor
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Fantasy
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Mushroom eBooks
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
Copyright ©1990 by Roger Taylor
First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1990
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Into Narsindal
Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan
Roger Taylor
Mushroom eBooks
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Copyright © 1990, Roger Taylor
Roger Taylor has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published in United Kingdom in 1990 by Headline Book Publishing.
This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 1843191466
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"The time of Hawklan is so far in the past that it could be the distant future"
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Prologue
Hawklan's face was desolate.
'I remember the enemy falling back and standing silently watching us. I remember the sky, black with smoke, and flickering with fighting birds. There was a raucous command from somewhere and the enemy lowered their long pikes—they were not going to close with us again. Then the figure next to me shouted defiance at them, hurled its shield into their midst and reached up to tear away its helm.’ Hawklan paused and his eyes glistened as he relived the moment. ‘Long blonde hair tumbled out like a sudden ray of sunlight in that terrible gloom.’ He shook his head. ‘I hadn't realized who it was. A great roar went up from the circling army. I called out her name...’ He opened his mouth to call again. Both Gulda and Andawyr watched, lips parted, as if willing him this release, but no sound came from either of them.
'Without taking her eyes from the approaching enemy, she reached back and her hand touched my face briefly. “I am here,” its touch said. “I am with you to the end.” I threw away my own helm and shield and took my sword two-handed as she had. Then the figure at my back cried out in recognition. He too I had not recognized in the press. Thus by some strange chance, we three childhood friends formed the last remnant of our great army.'
He paused again and clenched his fist, as if around his sword hilt. ‘A group of the enemy threw down their pikes and rushed forward to take ... the girl. She killed three of them with terrible skull-splitting blows, but ...
'So I slew her. I slew my friend. With a single stroke. I saw her head tumbling red and gold down the slope and into the darkness under those countless trampling feet.’ He shook his head. ‘Better that than that she be taken alive.
'The rest of her attackers fled back to their pikes and the enemy began its final slow advance. Back to back we held. Pushed aside and broke their long spears. Killed several. Then my last friend and ally fell and I...’ He faltered.
'He said “I'm sorry,” even as he fell ...
'That last burden was my end and I too sank to my knees...'
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Chapter 1
Startled, Jaldaric spun round as the rider appeared suddenly out of the trees and galloped to his side. His right hand began moving reflexively towards his sword, but a cautionary hiss from Tel-Mindor stopped it. Abruptly, a second rider appeared on the other side of the road and moved to flank Arinndier.
Tel-Mindor looked behind. Three more riders were following. Despite himself, his concern showed briefly on his face. Not because the five men seemed to offer any immediate menace, though they were armed, but because he had not seen them, and that indicated both wilful concealment and no small skill on their part. However, his Goraidin nature did not allow the concern to persist. Instead he began to feel a little easier; the actual appearance of the men confirmed the unease he had felt growing for some time.
'Hello,’ said the first new arrival to Jaldaric, his face unexpectedly friendly. ‘I'm sorry I startled you. We've been following you since you came out of the mountains, but your friend here,’—he nodded towards Tel-Mindor—‘was on the point of spotting us, so I thought it would save problems if we approached you directly.'
His manner was pleasant enough but, still unsettled by the man's abrupt arrival, Jaldaric's reply was harsher than he had intended.
'Following?’ he said. ‘Do the Orthlundyn always follow visitors to their country?'
'No, no,’ the man replied with a smile. ‘You're the first.’ His smile turned into a laugh. ‘In fact you're the only people who've come out of Fyorlund since we started border duty. It was good practice for us.’ He extended his hand. ‘My name's Fyndal, and this is my brother Isvyndal.'
Jaldaric's natural courtesy made him take the hand, though part of him remembered Aelang, and was alert for a sudden attack. ‘This is the Lord Arinndier, the Rede Berryn and his aide Tel-Mindor,’ he said, indicating his three companions. ‘I'm Jaldaric, son of the Lord Eldric.'
This time it was Fyndal who started. ‘Jaldaric,’ he echoed, his eyes widening. Then, as if uncertain how to phrase the question, ‘Jaldaric who came with Dan-Tor and kidnapped Tirilen?'
Jaldaric's face coloured at the reminder of his previous visit to Orthlund. ‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly, looking down at his hands briefly. ‘To my shame.'
'And was taken by Mandrocs?’ Fyndal continued. Jaldaric looked puzzled, but nodded.
Fyndal reined his horse to a halt, as if he needed a moment's stillness to assimilate this information. His brother too seemed to be affected.
The three riders behind them also stopped.
Then Fyndal clicked his horse forward again. ‘Why have you returned?’ he asked, his manner still uncertain.
'You not only follow, you interrogate,’ Jaldaric began, but Arinndier leaned forward and interrupted him.
'We're representatives of the Geadrol,’ he said. ‘We've important news for all the Orthlundyn, and Isloman told us that we should seek out his brother Loman and the Memsa Gulda at Anderras Darion.'
Again Fyndal showed surprise. ‘You've spoken to Isloman?’ he said. ‘Where is he? Was Hawklan with him?'
He gestured to the following riders, who spurred forward to join the group. Jaldaric and the others exchanged glances. ‘Who taught you the High Guards’ hand language, Fyndal?’ Jaldaric asked.
'Loman,’ Fyndal answered. ‘He taught it to all of us.'
'Us?’ queried Arinndier.
'The Helyadin,’ Fyndal replied.
All Fyndal's answers were uttered straightforwardly and in the manner of someone stating the obvious. Arinndier opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but Fyndal repeated his inquiry.
'When did you see Hawklan and Isloman?’ he said, concern beginning to show through his affability. ‘Where are they? Are they safe?'
Arinndier shook his head. ‘We don't know where they are,’ he said, then pausing thoughtfully he added, ‘They left Fyorlund some time
ago with two of our men to return to Anderras Darion. I'd hoped they'd be in Orthlund by now.'
Fyndal frowned unhappily and made to speak again, but this time Arinndier took the initiative.
'What we do know about Isloman and Hawklan we'll tell to Loman and Memsa Gulda when we meet, Fyndal,’ he said. ‘That and a great many other things. Then it's up to them what they choose to tell you. You understand, I'm sure. In the meantime, perhaps you could tell us who you are. And what the Helyadin are, and why you follow and question visitors to Orthlund. And why this man Loman should see fit to teach you our High Guards’ hand language.'
'We're just ... soldiers,’ Fyndal answered, with a slight hesitation. ‘We're on border patrol, making sure that nothing ... unpleasant ... comes into our land unchallenged again. Loman taught us the hand language because he said it was a good one’—he gave a subdued laugh—‘and it was the only one he knew. He's taught us a lot of other things as well.'
'Soldiers, eh? So the Orthlundyn have been preparing for war.’ It was Rede Berryn and his tone was ironic. ‘How typical of Dan-Tor to tell the truth and make it sound like a lie.’ Then he looked at the young Orthlundyn again. ‘Who are you preparing for war against, Helyadin?’ he asked.
Fyndal looked at the old man. ‘Sumeral, Rede,’ he said simply. ‘Sumeral. And all who stand by His side.'
The Rede met his gaze and idly rubbed a scar on his forehead. Since Hawklan and Isloman had left his village with their Mathidrin escort he had heard only rumours and gossip about what was happening in Vakloss and the rest of the country. Such instructions as he had received told him nothing, and such inquiries as he made were ignored. The local Mathidrin company was suddenly greatly strengthened and the patrolling of the Orthlund border increased dramatically. Then a ban they imposed—and enforced—on virtually all travelling ended any hope he had of obtaining accurate information from such friends as he had in the capital.
Throughout these happenings Berryn had followed the ancient survival technique of the trained soldier and kept himself inconspicuous while clinging to what he knew to be right and true. In his darker moments, he tried to console himself with the thought that this madness must pass; the spirit of the Fyordyn surely could not be so easily crushed.
And the memory of his brief encounter with Hawklan and Isloman persisted in returning like some kind of reproach. Hawklan, the strange healer from wherever it was down there, looking every inch the warrior, yet playing the coward before the crowd until his horse laid Uskal out. And Isloman, revealed suddenly as one of the Orthlundyn Goraidin. The two of them, alone, seeking out Dan-Tor to demand an accounting for an incident that could not possibly have happened. Armed Mandrocs marching through Fyorlund to commit atrocities in Orthlund?
Yet the two men had patently been telling the truth.
The paradox had cost him sleepless nights. He, who could sleep in his saddle in the middle of a forced march.
Then it was over. First, a flurry of increasingly improbable rumours: Dan-Tor attacked? The King slain? Rebellion? Then, a dreadful silent lull and, as abruptly as they had come, the Mathidrin had left; the whole complement riding off secretly one night without a word of explanation. The villagers had scarcely had time to assimilate this change when Jaldaric and Arinndier had ridden in with a good old-fashioned High Guard escort, and announced the defeat and flight of Dan-Tor and the Mathidrin.
But they had brought worse news. Ludicrous news. Dan-Tor was Oklar, the Uhriel. Sumeral had come again and raised Derras Ustramel in Narsindal. No, Berryn had thought, rebelliously. Lord or no, Arinndier, you're wrong. Dan-Tor was a bad old devil, but I can't accept that kind of nonsense.
And he had resolved to bring himself nearer the heart of this turmoil. Someone had to start talking sense.
Thus when Arinndier had dismissed his escort, fearing that such a patrol might be none too popular in Orthlund, Rede Berryn had offered the services of himself and Tel-Mindor as guides.
'We know the border area well, Lord,’ he had said. ‘Tel-Mindor doesn't look like much, but he's worth the three of us put together. And no one's going to be upset by a limping old duffer like me.'
On the journey, however, Arinndier had talked quite freely of all the events that had happened since the Geadrol had been suspended, and Berryn had found the threads binding him to his old commonsense reality were stretched to breaking point. Now, in his simple statement, the young Orthlundyn had severed them utterly.
Oddly, the Rede felt more at ease, as many past events took on a new perspective.
Battle nerves, he thought suddenly. Just battle nerves. All that furious turmoil before you finally turn round and face the truth. The realization made him smile.
'You find the idea amusing,’ Fyndal said, misinterpreting the smile and uncertain whether to be indignant or reproachful.
The Rede looked at him intently. Young men preparing for war again, and doubtless old men encouraging them. Well he'd be damned if he'd play that game!
'No,’ he said, his voice stern but sad. ‘I've ridden the Watch and done my time in Narsindal.’ He tapped the scar on his head. ‘I'm only sorry I stopped watching too soon. Sorry for my sake, sorry for your sake.'
Something in the man's voice made Arinndier look at him. ‘Don't reproach yourself, Rede,’ he said. ‘You weren't alone. And at least we can see more clearly now. We've no time for self-indulgence. You ensured that Hawklan reached Vakloss. Without that, all could well have been lost.’ He turned back to Fyndal. ‘We need to bring our news to Loman and the Memsa as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Have you made your judgement about us yet, soldier?'
'Yes,’ Fyndal replied, taken unawares by his kindly bluntness. ‘Some time ago.’ Then his youth showed on his face. ‘Can you tell us nothing about Hawklan?’ he asked, almost plaintively.
Arinndier shook his head regretfully and repeated his previous reply. ‘At Anderras Darion, soldier,’ he replied. ‘And only then as determined by Loman and Memsa Gulda.'
For a moment, Fyndal seemed inclined to pursue the matter, but then with a resigned nod of his head, he let it go. ‘I'll ensure that you're not delayed then,’ he said. ‘I'll have the post riders send news of your arrival ahead. That will save you a great deal of time, though I fear you may find Loman and Memsa away with the army in the mountains still.'
'You have an army mobilized?’ Arinndier asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.
Fyndal nodded.
Arinndier pulled his cloak around himself as a sudden gust of the cold raw wind that had been blowing in their faces all day buffeted them.
'There's winter in the wind,’ he said. ‘I don't envy anyone doing a mountain exercise in this.'
'It's no exercise, Lord,’ Fyndal said, his face suddenly grim. ‘They're out trying to deal with an unexpected foe.'
Arinndier raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but a brief knowing smile from Fyndal stopped him.
'I'll find out at Anderras Darion?’ he suggested.
Fyndal's smile broadened, though it did not outshine the concern in his face. ‘Indeed, Lord,’ he said.
Arinndier accepted the gentle rebuke at his own secrecy with good grace. ‘You won't be accompanying us yourselves?'
Fyndal shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We have to finish our tour of duty here first.'
'I doubt you'll see any more travellers from Fyorlund,’ Arinndier said. ‘If you feel you'll be needed with your army.'
Fyndal bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said. ‘But had we been needed, we'd have been sent for. Our orders were to watch, and watch we must.'
Berryn nodded in approval.
Then Fyndal glanced at his brother and the three others, and they were gone, disappearing silently back into the noisy trees.
'Just stay on this road,’ he said, turning back to the Fyordyn. ‘It'll carry you straight to Anderras Darion. And don't hesitate to ask for food or shelter at any of the villages. They'll be e
xpecting you by the time you arrive.’ And, with a brief farewell, he too was gone.
As the sound of hoof-beats dwindled, Tel-Mindor rode alongside Arinndier. ‘I didn't see them following us, Lord,’ he admitted. ‘Whoever they were, they weren't ordinary soldiers. And it almost defies belief to think that anyone could have been trained so well in just a few months.'
Arinndier nodded. ‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think that whatever problems the Orthlundyn are having in the mountains, they're still keeping a very strict watch on their border with us, and, frankly, I don't blame them. As for the training...’ He shrugged. ‘The past months have reminded me of the service they gave against the Morlider, and it was considerable. The Orthlundyn are a strange people. I've heard them referred to as a remnant people at times. Not a phrase I'd care to use myself, but there aren't many of them, for sure, and it does prompt the question: remnant of what?'
* * * *
As the day progressed, the quartet trotted steadily south through the cold damp wind.
At the top of a long hill, Arinndier grimaced. ‘It's neither mellow like autumn, nor sharp like winter,’ he said, reining his horse to a halt. ‘Let's walk awhile, give the horses a rest.’ Then he looked around at the countryside they had just ridden through. After a moment, he nodded reflectively to himself. Despite the unwelcoming wind and the dull hues of the dying vegetation, the place had its own strange peace.
A sudden intake of breath cut across his reverie.
Turning, he saw that it was Jaldaric, and even as he looked at him, he saw the young man's face, already pale with cold, blanching further until it was almost white.
'What is it, Jal?’ he asked anxiously.
Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came. ‘It was here,’ he managed eventually, gazing around. ‘I didn't recognize it until I turned round and looked back down the hill. It was here. The Mandrocs.'
Arinndier's eyes narrowed at Jaldaric's patent distress.
