Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Hawklan picked him up gently. ‘But you were gone only a few minutes,’ he said.

  'No, I was there for hours,’ Gavor replied.

  Hawklan looked at him thoughtfully and then abandoned his interrogation. ‘Did you hurt yourself when you landed?’ he asked.

  'No, no,’ Gavor replied.

  'I'll carry you anyway,’ Hawklan said. The two friends looked at one another, and Gavor nodded.

  'We'd better leave and find a camping place lower down before this wind gets any stronger,’ Loman said. ‘This is a dangerous place.'

  'We shall be with you,’ came the Alphraan's voice, as the three men turned up their torches.

  Their descent was slow and cautious, each knowing that tiredness and gravity were treacherous downhill companions. Gavor remained silent and warm inside Hawklan's cloak, and when they finally made camp they ate a simple meal and lay down to sleep with barely a word.

  The next morning a clear blue sky and brilliant sun displayed the white peaks and valleys surrounding the three travellers and they broke camp and continued their descent in good spirits. Gavor in particular seemed unusually boisterous and was soon floating high above the sweeping valleys.

  Despite the beauty of the scene however, Hawklan's thoughts were dominated by his conversation with the Drienwr. It seemed that Dar Hastuin had power over the Drienvolk as Creost had over the Morlider. Of the Uhriel, only Oklar so far had been successfully resisted. But what did it mean? Creost's intended assault on Riddin could be understood, but what did Dar Hastuin's power in the air mean for the Orthlundyn and Fyordyn armies?

  With difficulty Hawklan managed to set his concerns aside. Ynar had been right, he didn't understand; indeed, he couldn't understand. He knew nothing of the Drienvolk, nor, he suspected, did anyone else, perhaps not even Gulda. Gavor probably did, but could he explain it? Such little as he had mentioned was strangely confused.

  But he could not set aside the knowledge that the Drienvolk had sought him out to warn him of something and he had thrust it from Ynar's mind with his unexpected anger.

  Eventually he voiced his concern. ‘Alphraan, do you know what Ynar tried to warn us of?'

  'No, Hawklan,’ replied the Alphraan. ‘When our ways met there was great happiness, but we came to you when we felt their pain. They gave us no warning, we...'

  'Oh, I know about that, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted, landing softly on Hawklan's shoulder. ‘I thought you'd heard Ynar telling me. You should've asked.'

  * * * *

  Gulda had been told by the Alphraan about the sudden departure of Hawklan and the others the previous day, but on questioning them had received no answer other than, ‘We may not tell,’ overlaid with sounds of reassurance.

  Unable to interrogate the Alphraan, she had taken the rebuff with an ill grace and had eventually retreated to the deserted wall where she had stood, black and motionless, defying the ubiquitous whiteness like a rock in the ocean.

  Seemingly oblivious to the cold wind that was blowing over the snow-covered landscape, she stood for a long time rapt in who knew what thoughts.

  Suddenly she started. Hawklan was speaking to her.

  'The Alphraan carry my voice, Gulda,’ he said. ‘We are needed in Riddin. Begin the levying of the army and select those who can march across these mountains.'

  Gulda cocked her head on one side, as if testing the sound she was hearing, then, without speaking, she turned and walked towards the door that would lead her down into the Castle.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Pandemonium was well established when Hawklan and the others returned to Anderras Darion on the day following their meeting with the Drienvolk, and it continued steadily for the next few days. On receiving Hawklan's strange, disembodied instruction, Gulda had immediately sent messages to all parts of the country and gradually the chosen contingents were beginning to converge on the great Castle, bristling with arms and supplies, and with just enough enthusiasm and curiosity to keep their alarm at bay.

  At a brief council of war, Hawklan told of the strange meeting and of Ynar's message that the Morlider islands and a great armada were gathered off the northern shore of Riddin.

  'It'll be a difficult journey,’ Loman said. ‘A forced march across the mountains and right across Riddin in far from ideal conditions.'

  No one disagreed. ‘I don't think we've any alternative,’ Isloman said. ‘If what that Morlider—Drago—said about his people being united and learning to fight with some semblance of discipline is true, then the Muster's going to be hard pressed especially in this weather. Good infantry can stand off cavalry and defeat it if their nerve holds. And if the Morlider have numbers and Creost...’ He left his conclusion unspoken.

  By now familiar with the open speaking of his hosts, Agreth was only mildly defensive at the suggestion that the Muster was anything other than invincible. ‘It's a fine infantry that'll stand long against our charges,’ he said. ‘But I agree, if they have the advantages you suggest, then we'll be hard pressed.'

  Later, alone with Andawyr and Gulda, Hawklan discussed the route that Ynar told Gavor the Morlider Islands were apparently taking.

  'Why would they come so far north?'

  'They probably think they can establish a good base before the Muster catches wind of them,’ Gulda suggested unconvincingly. ‘It'll also give them the mountains to their back. Make it harder to flank them.'

  Hawklan pulled a sour face. ‘It also gives them the Pass of Elewart at their back, and it cuts off the Cadwanol,’ he said, looking at Andawyr.

  Andawyr shrugged. ‘I doubt Creost knows the Cadwanol still exists, let alone where,’ he said. ‘At least I hope so. More importantly, it occurs to me that they might be expecting reinforcements down the Pass.'

  It was a grim thought. Hawklan scowled. ‘It's also an escape route into Narsindal for Creost if anything goes wrong,’ he said. Then, slapping his knees impatiently, he stood up. ‘Still, I think we'll be wasting our time worrying about Creost's strategic thinking. If he's expecting reinforcements then all the more reason we get over there quickly, and if he's got any escape routes planned let's make sure he can't use them.’ He looked at Andawyr darkly and his voice was suddenly cold.

  'He's your province, Andawyr. According to Dar-volci, the Alphraan have their ... ways ... open as far as the Caves so presumably you can ask them to send a message of some kind. Rally your people's every resource. I want Creost bound or dead at the end of this venture.'

  With difficulty, the Cadwanwr held Hawklan's menacing gaze, but he did not reply.

  Hawklan walked to a window and stared out. ‘If Riddin falls then not only do we lose a massive cavalry force, which will be vital in Narsindal, we'll have to tie down most of our own army simply guarding our borders. We'll have to meet Creost and the Morlider head-on and crush them utterly. Whatever the cost of success it can't begin to compare with the cost of failure.'

  Gulda grimaced. ‘What about your own plans?’ she said, turning away from Hawklan's cruel summary.

  'They're unchanged,’ Hawklan said. ‘In fact, moving to oppose the Morlider gives us a legitimate reason for being in that area if Sumeral has spies there. We'll have to judge the situation as we find it, of course, but if all goes well, we should be able to slip away to the Caves and thence to the Pass at some juncture.'

  Then the countrywide uproar faded and a substantial part of the Orthlundyn army stood ready at a temporary camp just outside Pedhavin, fired by Hawklan's determination and anxious to begin its desperate trek across the mountains.

  'You have our best there,’ Gulda said quietly as Hawklan prepared to mount Serian. He nodded but did not speak. Instead he looked up at the Castle Wall towering high above him, massive and solid against the grey sky. It was snowing a little and a few flakes settled on his face and slowly melted. For a moment a terrible pain showed.

  'The Alphraan will tell you of our progress while we're in the mountains,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I leav
e the disposition of all the other troops with you and Lord Arinndier. See what reply Eldric sends to our news then head into Fyorlund as soon as you can. The people know what to do if things go wrong. The castle's well stocked and self-sufficient ... if...’ His voice faded.

  Gulda shook her head reproachfully. ‘We've been over this ten times, Hawklan,’ she said. ‘We all know what to do. Take care.’ Then she stepped forward and embraced him. As she released him, Hawklan felt his arm held in a merciless grip and his eyes pinioned on her blue-eyed stare. ‘Ethriss go with you, prince,’ she said. ‘You and I will meet again at Derras Ustramel. We'll end this horror either dead or with His head impaled on your sword.'

  Then, without further comment, she turned and stumped back towards the Castle Gate. Hawklan watched her go, shaken by the terrible passion of her unexpected declaration. He was uncertain how long he stood there but suddenly he found Tirilen standing in front of him. She had been saying farewell to her father and her uncle and she was weeping, though not pettishly or with a clinging heart. A healer herself, she knew it was the only release she had for the measureless sorrow and pain she felt, and she knew not to deny it.

  Hawklan wanted to say something, but he found no words that would do anything other than rattle vainly in the cold winter air. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She placed an arm around his neck and held him for a moment.

  'Take care,’ they both said simultaneously. Then Tirilen turned to follow Gulda, and Hawklan swung up onto Serian.

  'Carry me to my army, Muster Horse,’ he said. ‘My legs unman me.'

  * * * *

  The journey through the snow-clogged mountains proved to be quite as difficult as had been envisaged. The path to Riddin was not designed to accommodate an army, and the several thousand troops were soon spread out along valleys and ridges in a thin, rambling line.

  'I'm glad we don't have to guard our flanks in this terrain,’ Hawklan said to Isloman as he reached a prominence and stared back at the great winding procession.

  Necessarily, progress was slow and careful as they had brought no carts and for the most part each individual was carrying his or her own equipment and supplies, although the few hundred horses they had brought for the use of scouts and skirmishers served as useful pack animals also.

  For the first few days the weather confined itself to bright sunshine and occasional light falls of snow, and the natural good spirits and camaraderie of the marchers lessened the effects of the cold and the discomfort. As they climbed steadily towards the heart of the mountains however, the weather deteriorated markedly and the wind began to whip the snow into a dense, obscuring blizzard.

  For a while the long twisting line eased forward, but as the light began to fail, Hawklan brought it to a halt, and gradually a thin, blurred skein of beacon torches began to thread its way through the white-streaked darkness as the army gratefully pitched camp.

  In the command tent, Hawklan was not too concerned at the change in the weather. ‘We've made good progress so far,’ he said. ‘Very few accidents, no animals lost, and morale good.'

  Loman was less sanguine. ‘A situation that could change very quickly if we get stuck here for any length of time,’ he said.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘There's no question of that,’ he replied unequivocally. ‘This weather won't be keeping the Morlider away. We rise early tomorrow and we move forward, regardless. Everyone's well-equipped and fit, and we can't afford to dawdle. If anyone objects, remind him that we haven't the supplies and our friends haven't the time to wait the weather's whim.'

  And move they did, for all the wind was screaming its relentless opposition. The way was too narrow and the line of march too long for Hawklan and the others to move to and fro offering encouragement, so each section had to maintain its station by the simple expedient of shouted or whistled signals. Hawklan expressly forbade the Alphraan to help. ‘You won't be with us on the plains of Riddin,’ he said. ‘These disciplines must be well learned from the start.'

  The strong wind blew for several days but, driven both by Hawklan's will and his example, the Orthlundyn army plodded slowly and defiantly on, each individual, limbs aching with fatigue and head bowed against the pitiless wind, concentrating on the person immediately in front, trying not to wait for that precious instruction to halt and camp that would eventually drift out of the whirling din ahead.

  Finally the wind seemed to lose heart and, subsiding, allowed distant peaks to come into view once more.

  It was with no small relief that Hawklan clambered up on to a ridge and confirmed for himself that his army was still intact. He remained on the ridge as the long column wound slowly past him, then he walked its length from rearguard to vanguard, bringing his healing touch to bear where the blizzard had torn into the will of his people.

  'You're quiet,’ Isloman said that night.

  Hawklan chuckled ruefully. ‘I'm exhausted,’ he said. ‘That's a long, thin army we've got out there.'

  Surprisingly, more injuries occurred during the subsequent fine weather than during the blizzard. The worst was the loss of a young man in an act of foolish bravado on an icy ridge. His flailing, sickening progress down the steep cliff face was watched in silent, impotent horror by a thousand eyes until he finally disappeared from view. Then there was uproar and ropes were lifted down from horses.

  'No!’ Hawklan cried in distress. ‘He's beyond our help now. We'll find him when we return.'

  But it was the gentle whispering voice of the Alphraan that stilled the noise.

  'We will find and tend his body,’ it said. ‘Go on your way. Greater needs drive you.'

  That same day, another had a leg broken trying to help a struggling horse up a slithering icy slope. Thence came a flurry of sprains, dislocations and bruises caused by falls, together with cases of frostbite, exposure and even some snow-blindness that had kept silent through the blizzard. Few of these reached Hawklan however, Tirilen and Gulda having ensured that each contingent had someone versed in healing. The consensus in the ranks was that some of these healers left a great deal to be desired, but equally this proved quite an effective incentive to staying careful and uninjured.

  Along the journey, Hawklan noted the landmarks he had seen when he had travelled to Riddin during the spring: the hollow where he had been surprised by Loman and Isloman on his return; the high knoll where he had encountered the strange brown bird and, unknowingly, the Alphraan; the valley where he had met Jareg and the ailing Serian. Then finally they reached the long steep ascent where Gavor had mocked him as he came perspiring to the top and looked for the first time out across the Decmilloith of Riddin.

  Now, of course, the scene was very different. The forests and farmlands, the hedges and roads, were buried beneath a great whiteness, soft and deceptive under a pale yellow sun. And behind him was no mountain silence, but the rumbling clamour of his labouring army. Some way below, he knew, was the place where he had seen the Viladrien. How strange, he thought, that one of those great cloud lands had reached out and drawn him hither again.

  He turned and looked at his toiling people and then back at the white expanse of Riddin. Once he had held out his arms to receive this country's harmony. Now, black on the skyline, he drew his sword and holding it high let out a great cry of defiance. Gavor, sitting on his head, flapped his powerful wings like a living helm. As Hawklan's cry echoed around the valleys, it was taken up by the army who sent it ringing out until it seemed to fill the whole sky.

  As they moved down through the gentler foothills fringing the mountains, the Orthlundyn encountered none of the Riddinvolk. The few small hamlets and farms they passed seemed to be deserted, though there were fresh hoof prints in the snow to indicate that they had been visited recently.

  'Where is everybody?’ Hawklan asked Agreth.

  The Riddinwr looked puzzle. ‘Urthryn must have called a General Muster,’ he said. ‘That means everyone has been mobilized.'

  'Everyone?’ Hawklan said.
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  Agreth nodded. ‘Even the sick and the incompetent have a task in the General Muster,’ he said. ‘The people from these farms and small villages will have moved to one of the bigger villages nearby. The livestock will be being tended by runners in rota. They'll all be helping, planning ... it'll be a great sharing...’ Though he was trying to affect casualness, he could not keep the emotion from his voice.

  'This is not usual?’ Hawklan said, more statement than question.

  Agreth shook his head slowly. ‘Not even in the War was the General Muster called.’ Almost as if he could not help himself, he swung up on to his horse and, standing in the stirrups, stared out over the white landscape.

  'My people,’ he whispered softly to himself, then dismounted.

  'What does it mean?’ Hawklan asked.

  Agreth shook his head again. ‘It means that Urthryn's committed the entire nation to the destruction of this enemy. It means total and utter war. But as to what's happened, I just don't know. We'll have to wait until we meet someone.'

  Hawklan nodded. ‘Well, let's march,’ he said. ‘If we're needed, we're needed now. If we come upon a Morlider victory celebration then we'll give your people vengeance, if we come upon your own victory celebration then so much the better.'

  Agreth looked fretful and Hawklan laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You'll be with your people soon,’ he said. ‘And you'll have our swords by your side. Lead on.'

  Agreth frowned in self-reproach. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘Don't think me a churlish guest. It's just that all this ... has taken me by surprise. I...'

  He stopped and with an effort quelled the turmoil inside himself. ‘Until we find out what's happened I suggest we send out Dacu and the Helyadin as scouts,’ he said, his voice purposeful. ‘The rest of us can follow the route we've discussed previously.'

  Hawklan smiled and motioned to Loman to transmit this advice as an order. ‘As you command, Line Leader,’ he said.