by Roger Taylor
'It eludes us all,’ Gulda said gently. ‘As the answer to the question, “why?” always must, in the end. All our reasons falter eventually. But not being able to answer questions such as “why the rain? why the wind?” doesn't prevent us knowing their joys and discomforts, does it? And consider even your carving, carver. You may have filled a lifetime debating this and that subtlety and refinement of expression and technique, but still you don't know why you carve, do you? Whatever need drives you, your only answer is to carve. And whatever need drives Sumeral, be assured, His only answer is to destroy the works of Ethriss and the Guardians.'
The old man nodded slowly. His face was pained. ‘I see that you've thought the same thoughts as I have, and come to no wiser answers. Yet I still dread what we're going to ask of our young people.’ He lifted his hands a little and dropped them on to his knees in a gesture of resignation. ‘I can ask no more,’ he said sadly. ‘Except that we, in the safety of our years, remember always those to whom will fall the lot of implementing our wills.'
Someone behind him leaned forward and laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder.
Hawklan looked round the room again. He knew that the old man had spoken the hidden thoughts of many of those present but he could see that Gulda's simple statement had also answered the predominant question in so far as it could be answered. He was glad the man had spoken. It was good to admit that such questions had been asked but had remained unanswered.
He smiled. ‘You've opened our discussion well,’ he said kindly. ‘Now we're left only with practicalities, and there I think we can reach some answers.'
The atmosphere in the hall changed quite suddenly and there was a modest outbreak of coughing and shuffling as the further release of tension found expression in changes of posture.
Gavor flapped his wings noisily and hopped up on to Hawklan's shoulder.
'Motivation aside, I have my own views on what Sumeral's immediate intentions are and how we should deal with them,’ Hawklan went on. ‘But I'd rather hear all yours first.'
He extended his hand towards Arinndier and nodded to him to begin.
Arinndier cleared his throat and sat up very straight. ‘I would imagine that Sumeral, and Oklar, are assessing the extent of the damage they've suffered, why they suffered it, and where our weaknesses and strengths lie now that we've been exposed in battle. We here have been doing the same, of course, as I'm sure they have back in Vakloss. The only real questions that I can see are: when will He venture forth again, and at the head of what kind of army? This time we fought men—sadly for us, many of them our own kind, sorely misled. But twice to our knowledge He's used Mandrocs and by tradition they were always the mainstay of His armies. And there were those dreadful blazing wagons, the like of which I've neither seen nor heard of before.'
No one seemed inclined to disagree with these observations, but Arinndier himself looked uncertain. ‘The most critical of these two, is the “when?” We can debate the probable constitution of his army in due course, but I think we can safely assume that it'll be very large, disciplined and well armed, and that accordingly it will have to be met by a similar force; one requiring perhaps all our High Guards and as many of yourselves and the Riddinvolk as are prepared to help us.'
The dilemma then became that which had faced both Eldric and Dan-Tor. The maintenance of a large inactive fighting force for any length of time presented difficult morale and supply problems, but worse than these were the social consequences of removing so many young men and women from their homes and crafts and the consequent burden that must fall on the more elderly. Yet to have no such force ready was to court defeat.
Hawklan stayed silent as the subsequent discussion moved to and fro, intervening only occasionally as it drifted too far into the vague and general, or into inappropriate detail.
Suddenly, a strange, excited whistling filled the hall and brought all debate to a bewildered conclusion.
Andawyr smiled broadly and stood up. There was a scuffling at the door of the hall, then an oath, then the door lurched open and the sinuous brown figure of Dar-volci tumbled in. There was a little more profanity about the design of the doors ‘in this place,’ as the felci rolled over and scrabbled to regain his balance on the polished floor. Then, righted at last, he scampered across to Andawyr, who bent forward, arms extended, to receive him.
'Where've you been all this time?’ he said, not without a hint of the anxious parent in his voice, as he struggled to contain the wriggling felci which was now clambering all over him and chattering noisily.
Dar-volci began an elaborate whistling, apparently in reply. It was so piercing that most of the watchers grimaced and several put their fingers in their ears.
Andawyr frowned in exasperation and, over-balancing under the impact of Dar-volci's attentions, flopped down into his chair again.
'Dar, you're talking felci,’ he shouted above the noise. ‘And loud enough to send to Riddin. Talk properly.'
The felci stopped wriggling abruptly and the whistling sank through a brief glissando into a dying fall. He stood for a moment on Andawyr's lap, his head cocked on one side.
'Properly?’ he said. ‘I was talking properly. Only a cloth-eared human would confuse this rumbling cacophony with real speech!'
'Of course, of course,’ Andawyr conceded hastily and insincerely. ‘You're right, as always. But where've you been?’ he repeated. ‘And what have you been doing?'
He took hold of the felci. ‘You're thinner,’ he went on, anxiously. ‘And your coat's a mess.'
Dar-volci began to scratch his stomach vigorously with his forepaws, sending up a cloud of dust, then, balancing precariously, he brought his back leg up to reach more inaccessible places. This sent up more dust, and the vibration of the scratching made Andawyr clutch the edge of his seat. Finally Dar-volci shook himself violently.
'Off my knee, if you're going to do that,’ Andawyr said, coughing. He stood up and dumped his friend unceremoniously on the floor.
'Dar-volci, you're so thin. Where've you been?’ The felci mocked Andawyr's anxious tone reproachfully.
Andawyr glowered at him as he beat the dust off his robe.
'You're so inconsistent, you humans,’ Dar-volci went on, with the infuriating manner of a teacher yet again repeating an old lesson to a particularly obtuse pupil. ‘Always have been. One minute you're all fuss and concern. The next—boom—you're dropping us on the floor.'
'Which is where you belong, you furry dustheap,’ Andawyr snapped, still generating a fair cloud from his robe.
Dar-volci sneezed, then blew a loud raspberry.
'I like this rat,’ Gavor whispered in Hawklan's ear.
'That's the last time you call me that, crow,’ said Dar-volci, levelling a menacing clawed forepaw at his flatterer.
Hawklan felt the impatient tap of Gavor's wooden leg. Sensing the beginning of an acid and acrimonious exchange, he cleared his throat conspicuously.
'My friends,’ he said loudly. ‘This is Dar-volci, the brave felci...’—he nudged Gavor with his head—‘who gave us much needed assistance at the Gretmearc. I've thanked him once, but I'm happy to thank him again, in front of you all. Welcome to our conference, pack leader.'
The felci sidled over to Hawklan and, placing his forepaws on Hawklan's knees, stared at him intently.
'Thank you,’ he said simply, after a moment. Then he looked at Gavor, who craned his neck forward and met his stare like a jousting knight.
'Truce ... raven,’ the felci said, with a significant hesitation.
Gavor's eyes narrowed, then he said. ‘Truce ... felci,’ in like vein.
'Come here, creature.’ Gulda's voice interrupted the uncertain peace-making. Her face was screwed up in puzzlement and she was beckoning the felci. Dar-volci dropped down on to all fours to sidle over to her, then sat up on his haunches and examined her as he had examined Hawklan and Gavor.
'Where do you come from?’ Gulda asked eventually.
Dar-
volci laughed a deep and rumbling laugh. ‘From long ago and far away,’ he said with a lilt. ‘Just like you, old one, only more so ... much more so.'
Gulda started slightly but she made no attempt to pursue her question. Instead, she reached out and stroked him. ‘You are a mess,’ she said.
Dar-volci shrugged. ‘Nothing that a good scratch and shake won't deal with. When I can have one without interruption,’ he added, looking significantly at Andawyr.
'What have you been doing all this time?’ Gulda asked.
Dar-volci's excitement returned. ‘Meeting the Alphraan again. Singing, playing, telling the old tales, but mainly clearing their lesser ways. You think I'm a mess, you should have seen those! But all will sing to all again soon. And their Heartplace...’ His voice tailed off into a series of ecstatic flutings.
'What do you mean, lesser ways, all singing to all?’ Hawklan asked, remembering the remarks the Alphraan had made as they had talked during their journey from Fyorlund.
'It's beyond your understanding, Hawklan,’ Dar-volci said, though not unkindly. ‘Suffice it to say that the scattered families are coming together again, re-born and full of hope. Their song is echoing from here to the Caves of Cadwanen, healer, and they are eternally in your debt for your guidance and the epic slaying that freed their Heartplace.'
Hawklan frowned. ‘I want no heroic songs about that,’ he said coldly. ‘I slew that creature by good fortune and out of grim need. And it was old and beyond its time.'
'It would have seen all of you off without any difficulty,’ Dar-volci said defensively.
'That's why I killed it,’ Hawklan said, an edge to his voice. ‘But make no songs and legends of it. It's not a matter for pride. How are the wolf cubs.'
Dar-volci's look became sly. ‘They're well—very well,’ he replied. ‘Remarkable creatures.'
Then he chattered to himself for a moment uncertainly. ‘Songs and legends make themselves, warrior,’ he said. ‘Consider yourself fortunate if they come anywhere near the truth.'
Hawklan did not reply.
'What did you mean, Dar, the ways are open as far as the Caves?’ Andawyr said, apparently satisfied with the state of his robe, and holding out his hands again.
The felci clambered back up on to the Cadwanwr's lap and, circling twice, curled up into a relaxed bundle.
'What I said,’ he murmured. ‘And I'm worn out. It's a long way. Still, the others are here now so they can carry on. I'm going to sleep for a week.’ Then he yawned massively and brought his head down wearily on to his forepaws. ‘But carry on talking,’ he said, faintly. ‘I'll be listening.'
Hawklan looked at Andawyr who shrugged helplessly.
'He'll tell us when he's ready,’ he said, stroking the sleeping felci. ‘But he has been working very hard. He's thin and exhausted.'
Hawklan nodded, then, on an impulse, looked around and said, ‘Are you ready to join our conference also, Alphraan?'
A soft, elusive, sound filled the hall like a myriad tiny bells, and at its heart a voice said, ‘Thank you, Hawklan, you have brought us from the darkness, and we are yours to command. We wish to serve until He is no more.'
Arinndier, Jaldaric and Tirke, looked round in amazement, as did some of the Orthlundyn elders. Hawklan smiled. ‘I doubt you'll see anything,’ he said. ‘For some reason they're reluctant to show themselves.’ Then, looking around again in spite of himself, he said, ‘Won't you join us in person now that we're friends and allies?'
'No,’ came the simple and immediate reply. There was no animosity in it, but the word was surrounded by subtle shades of meaning that conveyed an absoluteness to the answer which placed it quite beyond debate. There would be no explanation of their conduct.
Hawklan bowed. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless you are at all times welcome to come and go through Anderras Darion as you please, and to listen and speak at our debates.'
'Thank you,’ said the voice.
An awkward silence descended on the hall as the Alphraan's voice faded, but a sudden explosive snore from Dar-volci ended it abruptly.
'Let us return to our debate, then,’ Hawklan said, laughing. ‘Has anyone else anything to add to the remarks already made about the problems of billeting a large army in Fyorlund for any length of time?'
'Without some idea of when an attack might occur, nothing can be determined, however much we talk,’ Dacu said.
'Is it possible for the Goraidin to move into Narsindal and perhaps get some idea of what's happening?’ Athyr asked.
Dacu shrugged slightly. ‘Very difficult,’ he said. ‘The seeing stones in Narsindalvak are extremely powerful. That means night travel. And the mountains beyond the eyes of the tower are effectively impassable at the best of times.'
'It could be done though?’ Athyr pressed.
Dacu nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It could be done, but not quickly. And it would be dangerous. And I doubt it would serve any useful purpose. The natives are Mandrocs, and it's simply not possible to pose as one of those. And we know far too little about the Mathidrin to risk infiltrating them except at the lowest levels. The best we're going to be able to do is establish look-out posts and report what we see. And even that's going to be difficult.'
Athyr let the matter rest. He had trained enough with Dacu over the past weeks to respect his judgement.
Then Dacu cut across all the debate about the problems of maintaining a standing army. ‘We can't just sit around and wait for an attack,’ he said simply. ‘It'll destroy us as effectively as any army He could send against us.'
Hawklan looked around at his friends as the debate wilted.
Yrain looked tentatively at Gulda, then raised her hand to speak.
'If we can't risk waiting, then that leaves us no alternative but to take the initiative ourselves,’ she said.
The elder who had opened the discussion looked up and stared at Hawklan, his expression saying clearly that this was what he had feared.
Such is the power of Sumeral's teaching, Hawklan thought, though it occurred to him, not for the first time, that humanity provided singularly apt pupils.
He dismissed the thought; it was neither helpful nor relevant.
'Are you suggesting that we should attack Him?’ he asked, his voice neutral.
Yrain hesitated. ‘From what's been discussed so far, I don't see that we've any alternative,’ she said. ‘It seems that negotiation isn't worth serious consideration. And in any event, as Memsa said, we need to be able to stop Him by force even if we'd rather talk.’ She leaned forward, her voice intense. ‘We know definitely that the longer the delay, the greater will be our problems. We accept that this might be the case too with the enemy, but we know nothing of their society, nothing at all, except that it's produced a large number of disciplined and, by all accounts, brutal, troops. Then there are the Mathidrin. We don't know how hardened they really are, but seemingly they faced the High Guards outside Vakloss calmly enough, and retreated only when their leader retreated; and then in good order. Then there are the Mandrocs. We know they travelled in stealth across Fyorlund and into Orthlund to destroy Jal's patrol, and we know they slaughtered your Lord...’ She paused to recall the name. ‘...Evison's entire company of High Guards; no small feat of arms I'd imagine. We also know, from Andawyr, that armed bands of them led by Mathidrin are wandering Narsindal where once only their tribal hunting parties roamed. I'd say that all this betokens a harsh military society and as such, one that will benefit from delay by building up its strength.'
Hawklan looked at Andawyr.
The old man looked pensive. ‘The Mandrocs are tribal and territorial, with a warrior culture, I suppose you'd call it,’ he said. ‘A tribal leader selects himself by the simple expedient of killing anyone who opposes him and their system of justice consists of retribution—usually violent. I've seen the results of one of their tribal “settlements". It was horrific—an entire community destroyed—males, females, young, animals even, all slaughtered
, and the village razed utterly. But while their fighting's fierce, it's primitive and wild, and they've no concept of strategy and tactics. It's just a matter of charge in and kill the enemy until there's no one left or until you're dead or incapacitated. I'm afraid that Yrain's right. We can only conjecture about how it's been done, but it looks as though their natural savagery has been harnessed—channelled—in some way. It's not a happy prospect.'
'It's a chilling prospect,’ Arinndier said. ‘The Annals of the Watch from only a few generations back are full of tales of seemingly arbitrary attacks on patrols along the lines you describe. Primitive weapons, primitive tactics, but terrifying ferocity. But the armour that came back from Evison's was anything but primitive, and from what Jaldaric can remember of their attack on his patrol their behaviour was anything but undisciplined. Sometime, somehow, a powerful will has stamped its mark on the Mandrocs and, on balance, I have to agree that delay may only enable the enemy to increase His strength.'
Gulda intervened. ‘If we march into Narsindal then we are the aggressors. But setting that small point of morality aside, we'll be the ones with the lines of supply extended through hostile territory, and we'll be the ones battering ourselves against an enemy who only has to hold its ground until we're sufficiently worn down for it to ride out and mop up the remains.’ Her tone was caustic.
Yrain answered her immediately, her face flushed slightly. ‘By His conduct, Sumeral's given notice of His intention to attack both Fyorlund and Riddin without any provocation from either of them. There's no immorality in ambushing an ambusher.'
There were some murmurs of approval from her listeners. Gulda raised a menacing eyebrow.
Yrain faltered for a moment, then she clenched her fist and ploughed on. ‘And another thing. The Morlider touch many lands in their journeying. If Creost controls them, who knows how many other countries have been swayed to His cause? For all we know, we could already be encircled. Mandrocs to the north, the Morlider to the east, and who knows what to the south and perhaps even the west?'
