Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Both men shook their heads. ‘No,’ Loman said. ‘But we'll have to camp soon, the...'

  'There's no time for rest.’ The Alphraan's voice interrupted him. ‘Hurry. We will guide you, have no fear.'

  The three men looked at one another. There was a note in the voice that could not be denied. Loman looked up at the darkening sky and checked his torch.

  'Come on,’ he said resignedly. ‘I doubt any of us would be able to rest anyway.'

  Hawklan glanced at Isloman, who nodded, and the three set off again. As they moved slowly forward, the ridge became progressively steeper and the cloud covering the mountain moved down to greet them.

  Soon they were climbing through the mist, guided by the Alphraan's urging note and stepping carefully by the light of their torches. Increasingly they had to stop and rest. It had been a long day and the way was becoming not only steeper but rougher, obliging them to relinquish their snowshoes to scramble over the rocks. The Alphraan allowed them little respite however, their guiding tone if anything becoming more urgent still.

  'Enough,’ Loman said eventually, flopping down on a rock and breathing heavily. ‘This is madness. We're going too fast and we're getting too tired. One of us is going to have an accident. Look, even Gavor's looking seedy.'

  Hawklan turned his torch on Gavor. The raven did indeed look subdued, standing in the snow with his head bent forward as if he were listening for something.

  'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked him.

  Gavor did not reply. Concerned, Hawklan bent forward and picked him up, but still he made no response.

  'Alphraan,’ Hawklan said, an edge to his voice. ‘Is this your doing?'

  But the question was ignored. ‘Come quickly,’ said the voice. ‘It is only a little further. They need you, but they doubt.'

  Hawklan scowled. ‘Enough,’ he said, echoing Loman's plaint, his voice grim. ‘I asked is this your doing?'

  The guiding note stopped abruptly. Hawklan looked around. In the sudden silence, it seemed that the darkness beyond the torchlit dome of mist was closing in upon them, as if some great weight were pressing down. Somewhere, he heard ... sensed ... a sound. A vaguely familiar sound.

  Suddenly, Gavor stirred in his arms, then wriggled free violently. ‘This way,’ he said hoarsely, and flapped off into the darkness.

  Hawklan swore, and all three turned up their torches. But Gavor was gone, swallowed up in the night and the mist.

  'Come on,’ Hawklan said, turning to the others. But Loman seized his arm.

  'Where, Hawklan?’ he asked. ‘We've nothing to guide us now. We've been walking steadily uphill since before sunrise.'

  He slapped his chest with his hand and took a deep breath. ‘It's already getting difficult...'

  Abruptly, Hawklan held up his hand for silence. ‘Douse the torches,’ he said. Loman scowled at the interruption but after a brief hesitation did as he was bidden. The darkness closed around them like some ancient predator.

  'What is it?’ Loman whispered.

  'I thought I saw something,’ Hawklan said. ‘But...'

  'You did,’ Isloman interrupted. ‘Look.'

  Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the intense darkness, Hawklan noticed a hazy glow some way ahead of them. Cautiously he started to move forward.

  'Careful,’ Isloman said. ‘There are ... figures ... moving about.'

  Hawklan screwed up his eyes, but his vision was not that of the Orthlundyn carver and he could distinguish nothing but the faint glow. He wondered for a moment if Isloman could be seeing the figures that he had seen gathered around Gulda at their first meeting. But there was no driving compulsion here as there had been in the cold, damp, glen.

  'Who are they?’ he asked softly.

  He sensed Isloman shrugging. ‘I can't see clearly enough,’ he said. ‘But I presume they're whoever the Alphraan wanted us to meet. Let's go and see.'

  Carefully, using only a single dimmed torch to show them the ground, the three men moved slowly through the crunching snow towards the glow. As they neared it, Hawklan began to distinguish the figures to which Isloman had referred, though for some reason they seemed to become no clearer as he drew nearer. The effect was strangely disorientating, especially when he saw also that prowling up and down in front of them, stark and clear-cut, was Gavor.

  Hawklan screwed up his eyes again to make some sense of what he was seeing and realized abruptly that the mist around the figures was denser by far than the mountain mist that surrounded him and his friends. It was as if it were contained in some way. Further, it was the source of the light. It seemed almost as though it was a vague doorway into some bright, private mansion.

  'This is he?’ said a voice. It was soft, gentle, and slightly muffled and it came from one of the figures.

  'This is he,’ replied the Alphraan, their voice, as ever, clear and disembodied and without any direction.

  'Who are you, and what do you want?’ Hawklan said, moving towards the figures.

  'Come no closer ... Hawklan,’ said the voice. ‘The mist you see keeps our worlds apart. We have moved as deep as we dare and need it for our protection. If you pass through it you may perish, as would we if we came to you.'

  Hawklan stopped. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated.

  One of the figures stepped forward, and Hawklan could see the others reaching out nervously to restrain it.

  'I am Ynar Aesgin,’ it said. ‘One of the Soarers Tarran of Hendar Gornath, Margrave of this land. These are my companions in flight. ‘We are...'

  'Drienvolk,’ Hawklan completed the sentence. The memory of the great cloud land he had seen floating through the spring sky over Riddin returned to him vividly. Involuntarily, he glanced upwards as if expecting to see the huge bulk of the sky island towering above him, but all was darkness.

  A flood of questions surged into his mind, but all that he could voice were, ‘How did you come here?’ and ‘What do you want?'

  'We came here because that was the will of Sphaeera,’ said the figure.

  'But ... Viladrien have never come to Orthlund before,’ Hawklan said, still uncertain what he should be saying.

  'Not in countless generations,’ Ynar said. ‘But many things are not as they were. Not now that He is awake again, and His Uhriel are turning to their old devilment.'

  Hawklan put his hand to his head. Were not even the citizens of the skies to be allowed peace? ‘Does He assail you also?’ he said.

  Ynar nodded, but before Hawklan could ask any further questions, he said, ‘The Alphraan tell us you are a great prince, wearer of the black sword of Ethriss and key-bearer to Anderras Darion. They say you have made whole their shattered family and struck down Oklar himself with an arrow from Ethriss's bow. Is this true?'

  There was an unexpectedly plaintive, almost desperate note in his voice.

  'It may be that I was once a prince,’ Hawklan answered quietly. ‘The prince who led the Orthlundyn to their doom, if you know the tale. But now I am a healer and the Orthlundyn know no ruler, nor have since that time.’ There was no response from the Drienvolk but Ynar was leaning forward slightly as if listening intently. Hawklan continued. ‘It's true that I carry Ethriss's sword and hold the key to his castle, but how that has come to pass is beyond my knowledge. As for the Alphraan, it was they who brought their own family together, and while it was I who fired the arrow that wounded Oklar, this was the smith who made it.’ He indicated Loman, then Isloman. ‘And this the man who saved my life by bearing me on a Muster horse from the horror of Oklar's wrath.’ And finally Gavor, still pacing fretfully up and down at his feet, ‘And this the friend who made Oklar show his true nature.'

  The figures in the mist milled around, seemingly in some excitement. ‘What of Oklar now?’ asked one.

  'I don't know,’ Hawklan replied. ‘He is pinioned in some way. It seems he could not free himself of the arrow, and he did not use his Power when the Fyordyn launched their army against him. Now he skulks in the tower fortress
of Narsindalvak. The Fyordyn watch him, and we are preparing an army to ride into Narsindal and face Sumeral Himself.'

  There was more agitation amongst the Drienvolk.

  'In our pain and distress we doubted you, Alphraan,’ said Ynar. ‘But this man—these men—are fired by Ethriss's spirit beyond doubt and their telling seals the truth of your own words. Forgive us. How can we atone?'

  'The pain of our own ignorance is all too near for us to offer you any reproach, old friends,’ came the Alphraan's voice. ‘And the music of your great land echoes now through our Ways to put us eternally in your debt.'

  As Ynar turned back to him, Hawklan repeated his earlier question. ‘Who assails the Drienvolk, Ynar?’ he said.

  'Dar Hastuin assails us, Hawklan,’ the Drienwr replied simply. ‘He rides the Screamer Usgreckan again and has been amongst us for many years.'

  'Amongst you?’ Hawklan said, instinctively resting his hand on his sword hilt. He felt Loman and Isloman becoming suddenly alert behind him. Was this, after all, another subtle trap, with the Alphraan as innocent dupes?

  'Amongst some of our people,’ came the reply, hastily, as if noting the concern the remark had caused. ‘He has corrupted and possessed the minds of many of our kind on other lands, but not yet ours.’ Suddenly there was defiance in the voice. ‘Nor will he, though he hurl us to the depths of the ocean.'

  Hawklan flinched from the passion in the voice; it betrayed the desperation of a man prepared to lose all in order to destroy his enemy. Yet it was uncertain. Childlike almost?

  'Your voice tells me you're sorely pressed,’ Hawklan said. ‘I know nothing of your ... lands or your people, but we are allies against a common foe; tell me how you will be attacked and how we can help.'

  There was a mixture of gratitude and gentle amusement in the Drienwr's reply. ‘We are both at some extremity here, Hawklan, and we cannot even touch, let alone help one another,’ he said. ‘But you help us more than you know by your very presence. And your news that Oklar is harmed and that the peoples of the middle depths are rising to oppose Sumeral will bolster us in our last days.'

  Hawklan looked round at Loman and Isloman in concern, then he stepped forward towards the strange mist. ‘Your last days? Do you go to war looking only to your defeat?’ Suddenly, and somewhat to his own surprise, his voice became angry. ‘War is chance run riot. Where the merest gesture, the shifting of a pebble, the braying of a horse, may tilt the balance. You cannot wield your sword while your hearts and minds are so bound.'

  Except for Ynar, the figures in the mist retreated a little. ‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘You admit to knowing nothing of us or our lands. We will be attacked in ways you cannot begin to understand. It is...'

  Hawklan cut across him. ‘I understand that if you are defeated, then Dar Hastuin will own the skies and will be free to add his power to that of Oklar and Creost which is already ranged against us.'

  The Drienwr bridled. ‘You do not understand, Hawklan,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Like Creost with the Morlider Islands, Dar Hastuin has committed the ultimate blasphemy. He moves the lands to his own will. He can command the higher paths and destroy at his whim any land that opposes him. Either binding them with his legions or...’ He hesitated, as if having difficulty speaking. ‘...crushing them in the depths. So far chance has kept us from him, but he knows of us and even now is seeking us out. When he finds us...’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  Hawklan hesitated. He did not indeed understand, he realized, but the word blasphemy hung in his mind. He recalled Agreth's telling of the interrogation of the Morlider Drago by Oslang. To Drago, the moving of the islands had been a matter of mystery and awe; to these Drienvolk however, it was a blasphemy, and blasphemy implied choice.

  'Can you not move your own land?’ he said quietly.

  There was no reply.

  He repeated the question.

  Still there was no reply. Gavor flapped his wings noisily in the cold air. At the sound, Hawklan suddenly felt as if he were one of the figures on the other side of the glowing mist, looking through at this strident black shadow of a man from the choking middle depths, who had had the effrontery to stand in judgement over them.

  'You are right,’ he said contritely. ‘For all we are both human, we are too far apart for us to understand one another truly. I should not intrude. You have your own choices to make in the light of your own ways and your own needs.'

  He bent down by Gavor, who stopped fidgeting and looked up at him. ‘But war tests many things. It is the horror of Sumeral's gift that we must accept it to oppose it. Healer though I am, I know that I must be as He, to defeat Him. If I am fortunate I hope I will stay my hand from excess in victory. That tiny hope is all that will distinguish me from my enemy when we finally meet. So it may have to be with you. Many valued things have to be set at hazard.’ Then, Andawyr's conclusion about Creost returned to him unexpectedly. ‘But remember,’ he said. ‘If Dar Hastuin uses his Power to move your lands then he is that much weakened in himself.'

  Ynar moved as if to speak, when suddenly there was a small commotion behind him. Hawklan caught ‘...the paths move...’ spoken urgently.

  'We have little time, Hawklan,’ the Drienwr said hastily. ‘Sphaeera wills us away, and it is already dangerous for me and my companions to stay here; we've been too deep too long. We will ponder your words. We will ponder your heart. But we have not your strength. Wish us ... good fortune...'

  'Light be with you,’ Hawklan said impulsively.

  'Ah,’ came the response. ‘So we are as much alike as we are different.’ Then, shocked. ‘But this is of no import. In burdening you with our cares I'd forgotten. We came to warn you that...'

  Ynar staggered suddenly before he could finish, and the mist shifted and swirled violently. Some of the figures in it seemed to be disappearing—upwards, Hawklan thought, though he could not see their passing. He felt a cold breeze on his cheek. When he looked at the hazy figure of Ynar again, he saw anxious hands reaching out to draw him away. The Drienwr, however, was resisting their pull and extending his arms out towards him.

  Again on impulse, Hawklan drew his sword and, taking hold of the blade, thrust the hilt towards the reaching figure. There was no resistance when the black sword entered the mist, but it became white, brilliant and shining. So bright that Hawklan had to turn his eyes away.

  The Drienwr's right hand closed around it and the air was suddenly filled with the sound that only Hawklan and a quiet Riddin child had heard on a sunny spring day months ago; the song of the Viladrien. Now, however, it was vast and joyous and seemed to fill the entire sky.

  'Wait!’ It was Gavor. Abruptly, his great wings started to thrash violently, throwing up flurries of snow, and slowly he rose and flew into the mist. As he did so, he too became white, and the movement of his powerful beating wings seemed to become infinitely slow, their great pulse matching that of the song of the cloud land. As Hawklan watched, he saw Ynar extend his left hand and Gavor alight on it. They were talking, Hawklan thought, but the scene was almost dreamlike and it seemed to Hawklan that Ynar was moving upwards with Gavor, although he could still feel the Drienwr's light but strangely powerful grip on the sword.

  Then the mist was gone, though, like the moment of the onset of sleep, none of the three watching men noted the moment of its passing.

  Hawklan found himself holding the blade of his sword, its blackness glinting in the subdued torchlight that had illuminated the last part of his journey. He was flanked by Loman and Isloman, gazing uncertainly upwards into the darkness.

  For some time no one spoke, as if fearful of disturbing even the memory of what had just passed. Then the mounting breeze that had presumably carried the Viladrien away, buffeted them, and Hawklan started out of his reverie.

  'Gavor,’ he cried out. ‘Where's Gavor?'

  His cry galvanized his friends and the three of them set up a great shouting.

  Hawklan clenched his teeth in anxiety as he thru
st his sword back into its scabbard. What had happened to his friend? Then, following in the wake of that question came the memory that the Drienwr had said he had come with a warning.

  For a moment Hawklan was overwhelmed by an appalling sense of loss. His friend taken; some warning unheard; who knew what allies were perhaps lost now? And all through his angry impetuosity. He did not dare to look at Loman and Isloman for fear of the reproach that might lie in their eyes.

  'Look.’ Isloman's voice reached into his darkness. He was pointing into the sky.

  Hawklan drew his hood about his face to protect himself from the cold wind. The sullen clouds that had covered Orthlund for the past days were now scudding across a sky tinged yellow with moonlight. In the distance, and high above them, marked by Isloman's pointing hand, was the dark form of the Viladrien; vast among the breaking clouds, and with its upper surface glittering with countless lights.

  The three men stood spellbound at the sight.

  'Such things we've seen, Hawklan,’ Isloman said after a long silence. ‘I'd be a rare carver indeed if I could catch one tenth of that vision.'

  Though buoyed up briefly by the majestic sight, Hawklan lapsed again into angry self-reproach.

  'And a rare captain I'd be if I'd listen to people instead of lecturing them,’ he said. ‘Gavor's gone who knows where, and whatever the Drienvolk had to tell us is gone too.'

  Before Loman and Isloman could speak however, something struck Hawklan's head a glancing blow, and fell into the snow a few paces away. A familiar voice swore out of the darkness, then came, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’ Loman turned up his torch to reveal Gavor struggling to right himself in the soft snow.

  'At last,’ he said churlishly. ‘You might have done that sooner. ‘I'm not an owl you know.'

  'Where've you been?’ Hawklan said, crouching down and holding out his hand for the bird. ‘I thought you'd gone with Ynar.'

  Gavor's truculence vanished. ‘I did, in a way,’ he said distantly. ‘He took me where all Sphaeera's creatures should go. I saw it, Hawklan. Saw it. Sphaeera's ... Anderras Darion. Great mansions and halls, towering and open ... and the lights and colours ... such a land ... and such people ... I soaring everywhere...'