Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  A buzz of alarm rose up from the listening group. A faint flicker of a smile passed over Gulda's face and she sat back in her seat without commenting.

  Dacu caught Hawklan's eye.

  'Perhaps we should consider ourselves from the enemy's point of view,’ he said. ‘If He wants a delay, for whatever reason—building up His army or acquiring allies—then He'll wait. If then we wait, we lose, while if we attack, we catch Him perhaps less prepared than He'd choose. If, however, He doesn't want a delay, then it's in His interest to lure us to Him so that He can fight a defensive war as Memsa's outlined. He's not strong enough yet to invade us, or He'd have done it. So if we attack, then unfortunately, we do His bidding, but if we don't...’ He paused. ‘I fear He'll lure us forward with some atrocity like Ledvrin. And He'll commit further atrocities until we say “Enough". On balance, I don't think we've any real choice. To delay is to risk certain defeat or the death of innocents.'

  The Goraidin's analysis was like the closing of a terrible trap, and a bleak silence followed it. Hawklan, Gulda and Andawyr exchanged glances.

  'Alphraan, you're silent,’ Hawklan said.

  'We've nothing to add,’ the voice said flatly and simply, as if trying to quell the awful regret and fear that resonated around it.

  'Has anyone anything further to say?’ Hawklan asked.

  There was some head shaking, but no one spoke.

  Hawklan looked down at his hands. ‘Sadly, nor have I,’ he said. He indicated Gulda and Andawyr. ‘The conclusion you've reached is that which we three reached independently. I wish truly it could have been otherwise, but...'

  He left the sentence unfinished and silence seeped back to fill the hall like a cold mist.

  When he spoke again, his voice was distant.

  'It seems we have no choice,’ he said. ‘We must levy our troops and take the battle to the enemy. We must do what even Ethriss did not do. We must assail Derras Ustramel itself.'

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  As Hawklan's voice faded, the silence returned, colder than ever, seeming to freeze the entire group into immobility.

  'Will you lead us, Hawklan?’ Athyr asked eventually, his voice sounding strained.

  Hawklan avoided his gaze briefly, then stood up and drew the black sword.

  'There are forces at work here of which we know nothing,’ he said. ‘This sword,’—he looked around at the austerely decorated walls and ceiling—‘this whole castle fell to my hands by some mystery beyond my understanding and, I suspect, beyond all our knowing. I will lead you if you wish, but you must know that since my journeyings and my encounter with Oklar I have learned much about myself, including memories of a time when I was other than I am now. Of a time before when I led a great Orthlundyn army. When I led it to a defeat so total that not one of its fighters survived.'

  The atmosphere came suddenly alive again. Agreth leaned across to Arinndier and whispered to him. The Lord nodded, and the two men rose quietly, Arinndier beckoning to the other Fyordyn as he did so.

  'This is an Orthlundyn matter,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘We will leave you.'

  'Stay,’ Hawklan said, sitting down and laying the sword across his knees. ‘I thank you for your courtesy, but if the Orthlundyn choose me, then I fear the Fyordyn and the Riddinvolk will gravitate to me also, whether I will it or no.'

  Arinndier met the green-eyed gaze squarely. It was free from pride and ambition, and free from spurious regret and false humility. It was the gaze of a man who saw the truth and knew he could not turn from it.

  'Hear what has to be said,’ Hawklan went on. ‘So that in your turn you can decide when the time comes. I'll take this burden willingly if it is thrust upon me, but thrust upon me it must be. I have its measure and I'll neither seek it nor avoid it.'

  Slowly, Arinndier sat down.

  Then Hawklan told his listeners the history of the Orthlundyn as he had recalled it and as it had been completed for him by Andawyr and Gulda.

  There was a strange, deep, quietness when he had finished. Although obviously intrigued and curious, Agreth and the Fyordyn remained silent out of courtesy. The Orthlundyn, however, remained silent because most of them seemed to have been profoundly moved by the tale. Some were openly weeping.

  Hawklan waited. ‘Your minds say “How and why did we not know this history?” That, seemingly, was Ethriss's choosing. But your hearts acknowledge its truth. It's a tale that makes you ... us ... more whole.'

  No one questioned him.

  'Choose your leader now,’ Hawklan said quietly.

  The first to speak was Aynthinn, the elder from Wosod Heath. His manner and tone were emotional, but at odds with the prevailing solemnity. ‘I think we've had this conversation before, healer,’ he said, shaking his head and chuckling. ‘And it seems to be more for your benefit than ours. With your every word you confirm what we know about you. I always suspected you were an Orthlundyn deep down, for all you're rock-blind. Now you've come to us at a time of need, armed with a knowledge of Him from another age...'

  Hawklan interrupted him. ‘My memories offer me no guidance or support that you yourselves have not offered,’ he said. ‘The enemy is of this time, I am of this time, and your decisions must be of this time, strengthened perhaps by the knowledge of time past,’—he held out the sword—‘but untainted by mysterious portents, the true meaning of which is beyond us.'

  Aynthinn looked at him patiently, his face becoming more serious. ‘The portents you speak of do affect us deeply, it's true,’ he said. ‘How could they not? And the tale you've just told us enriches us in some way beyond immediate fathoming; we are truly in your debt. But you are the one who's beginning to cling to the past, not we. We have no choice but to be in the present,’—his face brightened again,—‘and no one could accuse the Orthlundyn of being obsessed by history. I say again, you come armed with a true knowledge of Him from another age. And knowledge is everything. We choose you not because of your sword and your castle, or because of the value that Sumeral seems to place in you, though these things weigh with us. We choose you because we've known you for twenty years and we know you're our best man.'

  The simplicity of Aynthinn's conclusion shook Hawklan, and he looked around, uncertain what to say next.

  Arinndier could not forbear chuckling at his surprise. ‘I've known you for only a matter of months, Hawklan, but I've seen enough to recognize your worth. The High Guards must choose their own leader as need arises, but you have my sword—and those of Eldric, Hreldar and Darek.'

  Dacu made an almost imperceptible hand signal. Hawklan caught the gesture and nodded an acknowledgement. ‘You have the word of your companions?’ he asked.

  'If you saw the gesture, yes,’ Dacu replied smiling.

  Hawklan laughed, then looked at Agreth. The Riddinwr bowed. ‘I ride with you, Hawklan, if Urthryn will release me,’ he said. ‘I shall tell the Moot all that I've heard and seen. I shall tell them of my own judgement, and that of the horse you ride, which is a judgement shrewder than mine by far, and I've no doubt that Sylvriss too will speak about you, if she hasn't already.'

  Hawklan thanked him and stood up to return the sword to its scabbard.

  As he did so, another voice spoke. ‘We are with you too, Hawklan.’ It was the Alphraan, and though their voice was soft, it filled the hall with echoing subtleties of loyalty, obedience, friendship, and many other images of support and aid. Hawklan felt the sword come alive in his hand, and looking at the hilt he saw its myriad stars twinkling and the two intertwined strands glittering brightly into its unfathomable depth. He felt Loman and Isloman looking at him.

  'Thank you,’ he said simply, as the Alphraan's voice faded.

  Then he looked back to his audience. ‘I accept the burden that the Orthlundyn wish me to carry,’ he said quietly. ‘Because I know that if I fight amongst such people then I am but one man, and if I fall, the army will be but one man less.’ There were some protests, but he silenced them with a wave of
his hand. ‘It must be thus,’ he said firmly. ‘You, above all, know this. Nothing less is acceptable if we are to face Him.'

  Then he turned to Agreth and the Fyordyn. ‘I accept now your personal loyalties and I offer you mine,’ he said. ‘As for your armies...’ He shrugged. ‘There's no haste for such decisions. Let's see how events unfold.'

  Dar-volci interrupted the proceedings with a noisy splutter and rolled over on Andawyr's lap until his legs were in the air.

  Andawyr supported him carefully to prevent him rolling off, and gave Hawklan an apologetic look.

  'Dar never did have any sense of occasion, I'm afraid,’ he said.

  Hawklan smiled. ‘He's only missing humankind planning one of its greater follies,’ he said. ‘I doubt he'd be other than dismayed at the spectacle.'

  Andawyr did not reply, but looked down at the sleeping felci, with its tight closed eyes and incongruously gaping mouth. Gently he stroked its stomach.

  Hawklan sat down and looked round at his gathered friends and countrymen. Am I about to betray you all again? he thought, but almost immediately the answering thought came that though he had led the Orthlundyn to defeat, he had not betrayed them. It was little consolation, and his original thought simply transformed itself into, am I going to lead you all to defeat again?

  He crushed the inner debate. It was futile. Now was now. He must learn from the past, but be uncluttered by it. Now he must tell the Orthlundyn and the others how he intended to lead them.

  He leaned back in his seat.

  'My first task as your leader should be to discuss with you what strategy we must use against this powerful foe,’ he began. ‘However, I shall not do that. Instead I shall tell you what the Orthlundyn must do and I shall ask you to do it as I know you can do it...’ He paused. ‘But without me.'

  There was a brief, stunned silence, then a babble of questions filled the hall. Even Gulda and Andawyr turned to look at him in some surprise.

  Hawklan raised his hand for silence.

  'This is indeed a man we go to meet,’ he said. ‘In that lies perhaps our greatest hope. But He is no ordinary man. He is, in truth, an unbelievably ancient and powerful force. A force well beyond our understanding, that has chosen to appear as a man because only thus can it conquer the world of men. And even though His three Uhriel were once human, they are now barely so, so corrupted by power are they.

  'When the Lords of Fyorlund decided that they must attack Oklar, just as we've decided we must attack his Master, they knew a little of Oklar's power and they devised field tactics that they hoped might offer them some protection. The worth of those tactics will never be known because Oklar, as we know, was bound in some way, and not permitted the full use of his power.'

  He paused, and his face became grim. ‘However, I am told that the power Oklar used against me was...’—he made a dismissive gesture—‘a mere fraction of what he might have done. Put another way, no field tactic, however ingenious, could have saved the Lords from Oklar's power had it been truly launched against them.

  'Now we propose to send a similar army of men against Oklar and his Master, and, in all probability, Creost and Dar Hastuin, for he too is probably abroad somewhere. How can any mortal army face such power?'

  The hall became very still.

  'It cannot,’ he continued quietly. ‘Sumeral could destroy our vaunted armies with precious little effort. Yet He does not use that power to achieve His ends. Instead He moves silently and with cunning as He builds up a great mortal army of His own.'

  He paused and watched the effect of his words on his audience.

  'Perhaps He fears Ethriss and the Guardians,’ he continued after a moment. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps equally it is all some horrific lure, to draw our might to Him so that our destruction will be both easier and more complete.’ He paused again.

  'We don't know,’ he went on. ‘We cannot know. But we can't take such a risk.'

  He became more casual. ‘This we've known since my return from Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘But it's something we've not dwelt upon, having chosen instead to concentrate, quite rightly, on preparing ourselves to meet mortal enemies.

  'Now however, we've come to the sharpening of spears and swords, to the burnishing of armour, to the deciding of the orders of marching, and this knowledge must be faced squarely.'

  His green eyes became intense as he looked at his motionless listeners.

  'Orthlund, and such allies as come to its side, will march directly against the enemy, and prosecute the war with all their skill up to and through the gates of Derras Ustramel, and to His very throne. You will be led by Loman and, if she is prepared, by Memsa Gulda. I will not be at your head. Andawyr and I, with others, will go another way—to levy the forces that must be levied if you are to be protected from the power of Sumeral and His Uhriel.'

  The silence disintegrated.

  'No,’ cried several voices.

  Gulda raised an eyebrow and Loman shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  'We mean no disrespect to Loman or to the Memsa, but...’ was the gist of the protests. Hawklan raised his arms to silence them.

  'You forget too easily,’ he said coldly. ‘With the Memsa's guidance, Loman's skill and his sight into truth made an arrow that struck down Oklar—that would have killed him had I been more able. And you, you carvers become fighters, did I craft you into an army, or did they? Did my insight protect any of you from the Alphraan, or did theirs? No. I was elsewhere fighting the same war in another place.'

  He held out his hand to prevent further debate and turned to Gulda. ‘Are you willing ... ready ... to do this now?’ he asked. ‘To move against Dan-Tor?'

  Gulda, watching Hawklan intently, nodded, but did not speak.

  'Very well,’ Hawklan said, turning back to his still shocked audience. ‘Then that is how it must be. The army under Loman and the Memsa will assail Narsindal while I go another way.'

  'What do you intend to do?’ someone asked through the silence.

  Hawklan hesitated. ‘That you must not know,’ he replied.

  'Must not?’ his questioner echoed. ‘Are we not to be trusted with your intention.'

  Two needs vied within Hawklan for dominance: the commander's need for obedience, and the healer's faith in knowledge. But both would have to be met.

  'I trust you with the duty of destroying Sumeral's army,’ he replied. ‘You in your turn must trust me with the duty of destroying Sumeral's other power.'

  'But...'

  Hawklan raised his hand again. ‘The details of what I intend are as undefined now as are your tactics for dealing with some unknown army on some unknown terrain at some unknown time in the future. That much I can tell you. I can tell you also that with others more powerful than I, I shall be striking to the heart of Sumeral's Old Power, just as you will be striking to the heart of his armed might. Between those two tellings, no one knows what I intend, not even Andawyr and the Memsa. Should the merest whisper of what lies there reach Him then it would be my downfall. And if my venture fails then we are all doomed, just as surely as we are if yours fails. Do you still wish to know my intention?'

  The man looked at him for some time then slowly shook his head. ‘No,’ he said simply.

  This brief exchange seemed to have silenced most of the questions that had bubbled out when Hawklan had made his announcement, though he now found he was the focus of the entire hall's silent attention; not least that of Andawyr and Gulda. He stood up and walked to one of the decorated panels that lined the hall. For a moment he studied its uncharacteristically simple patterning. Then he touched a raised lip that protruded from the sill.

  Slowly the pattern dissolved to reveal a window scene carried to the hall by the Castle's many mirror stones. It was a view over the Orthlundyn countryside as seen from just above the main wall, and the winter hues of the landscape were oddly heightened by a heavy grey sky. Both landscape and sky merged into a common greyness well before either reached the horizon.

 
There were several expressions of surprise, Hawklan's included.

  'Well, for all the indications we've had of an early winter, it seems it's going to snow sooner than we all imagined,’ he said. ‘And heavily, by the looks of it.’ He looked at Arinndier and Agreth. Riddin had been inaccessible for some time due to snow in the higher mountains, but now it seemed that Fyorlund too was likely to be cut off very soon. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

  Isloman made reassuring noises. ‘I doubt anyone will start a campaign in this weather,’ he said. ‘Certainly the Morlider have no love for snow. We suffered badly when the winter came early during the war, but they suffered worse.’ He turned to Agreth. ‘If they've any choice about it, I think it's unlikely they'll attack until the winter's showing signs of easing.'

  'Thank you, Isloman,’ Agreth said. ‘But I'm afraid I'll just have to live with the uncertainty. I doubt Urthryn will allow any relaxation of the coastal watch so at least my people won't be taken by surprise if the Morlider do come.'

  Arinndier too seemed undismayed. ‘If the winter's early here then almost certainly the northern mountains at home are well blocked already. Only the most desperate would try to bring an army through them, and of the many things we've seen from Oklar, desperation was not one. Besides’—he indicated Agreth—‘as in Riddin, our people will be watching, regardless of the snow.'

  Hawklan turned round, a dark silhouette against the grey backdrop. ‘So, circumstances determine our plans for us,’ he said. ‘The northern reaches of Fyorlund snowbound and, presumably, Narsindal also; while to the east, the mountains that prevent us helping the Riddinvolk also protect us should any harm befall them. The winter comes like a benevolent besieger to confine us safe in our nests, pending a call to arms in the spring.'

  'Take care, Hawklan,’ Gulda said.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Indeed,’ he said thoughtfully, then, quietly, but very positively: ‘Loman, start general winter training immediately, and speed up the Helyadin's—Dacu, will you help with that? And make sure the villages along our southern and western borders are on their toes—Yrain's point was sound. I don't think anything serious is going to happen in the next few weeks, but having determined our strategy, we must tell the people and have them prepare to mobilize at a moment's notice. The sooner they get used to the idea, the better.'