Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'I deduce from what he's told me that you conducted a fine campaign,’ Gulda said, without preliminaries. ‘You and your Goraidin. Well done. Bravely done, against such a foe.’ Then, before Eldric could speak, she moved to Darek and Hreldar, gave them their names and tested them similarly.

  As she did so, her gaze took in the other waiting dignitaries and their High Guard escort.

  'Commander Varak,’ she said.

  'Yes, Memsa,’ the startled commander replied, clicking his heels and bowing slightly.

  Gulda nodded and grunted non-committally. ‘Thank you for the escort you sent us,’ she said warmly. ‘They've been most efficient and helpful. Disciplined but with lots of initiative. You and I will get on well.'

  Varak's mouth opened, but no sound came.

  Eldric moved to rescue his flustered aide. ‘Memsa, we've come to greet you and your people and to escort you and your senior officers to the Palace for a small ceremony of welcome.'

  Gulda pursed her lips. ‘These people are all the welcome we need, Lord,’ she said, looking at the surrounding crowd. ‘That and a place to camp.'

  'That's all arranged, Memsa,’ Eldric said. ‘These Guards and your escort will attend to it.’ He looked at her intently. ‘Join us please. We see the value of our small ceremonies much more since the passing of Dan-Tor.'

  Gulda looked at him keenly for a moment then gave a consenting nod.

  'A perceptive observation, Lord, I commend you,’ she said. ‘Give me a little time to see the people settled first—we've covered a good distance today and they're tired, cold and hungry—then, with your permission, I'd like to walk your city again—alone—see for myself the damage that Oklar wrought on it.'

  'Alone, Memsa?’ Eldric queried awkwardly.

  'I'm well acquainted with the place, Lord,’ Gulda replied, mildly indignant. ‘You needn't fear for my getting lost.'

  Eldric began to flounder. ‘Memsa, there are a small number of disaffected elements in the City...’ he began.

  'They'll not bother a harmless old woman,’ Gulda said, turning away from him and heading back to her army. ‘Have no fear, I shall join you before noon.'

  Arinndier dismounted. He was smiling broadly as he greeted Eldric and his friends warmly. ‘Welcome to the ranks of the intimidated,’ he said. ‘If it's any consolation, the Memsa gets worse as you get to know her.'

  Eldric looked at him uncertainly. ‘That's most reassuring,’ he said.

  'I can see you don't believe me,’ Arinndier went on, laughing. ‘Well, if I were so inclined, I'd wager that you'll be discussing strategy and tactics with her before sunset, welcoming celebration or not.'

  Arinndier was correct. At noon, Gulda presented herself at the Palace where, in one of the great halls, and together with a few senior company commanders, she patiently accepted an official welcome in the form of a rather long speech from the City Rede, and a hastily shortened one from Eldric. This was followed by what was to have been a feast of welcome, but Gulda took the initiative.

  'Lords, I thank you for your welcome, but now we've much to discuss. We'll eat as we work,’ she said, but with an unexpected graciousness that disarmed even the cooks and chefs.

  Thus, to Arinndier's amusement, and well before sunset, the Fyordyn found themselves retailing the history of Fyorlund from the Morlider War to the present; retailing it in great detail under Gulda's gently incessant interrogation. At times it seemed she was allowing the discussion to ramble aimlessly; the Mandroc found in Lord Evison's castle, the brief use of the Old Power, if such it was, by Dan-Tor prior to the Lords’ assault on Vakloss, the terrible fire wagons that had been launched against the infantry, the gradual deterioration of the High Guards over the years, Hawklan's confrontation with Dan-Tor and its consequences, the illness and recovery of the King; an apparently endless list of topics were touched on and then left until, quite abruptly, Gulda clapped her hands.

  'Good, good, good,’ she said. ‘This has been most helpful. As I expected, we shall all get on splendidly. However, I must return to camp now; we all of us have duties to perform. I shall come back tomorrow and we can begin in earnest.'

  As she reached the door of the hall, she stopped and turned round. ‘You didn't falter in your duty, Fyordyn. You were foully brought down by an infinitely subtle hand. A hand that has led astray wiser than you by far before now.’ Her face became stern and the stick came up. ‘Your tellings are full of self-reproach. That must end. Cling to your past only in so far as you can learn from it. All else will cloud your vision and get your throats cut.'

  Eldric started at the unexpected harshness in her voice as she made this last comment, but before he could respond, Gulda and her small company were gone.

  He slumped back into his chair and slapped the table with his hand. A nearby goblet chimed out in protesting harmony.

  'Good grief, Arin, is she always like that? Where does she come from? The way she takes charge of things she reminds me of Dan-Tor. Are you sure they're not related?'

  Arinndier laughed. ‘No one seems to know anything about her,’ he said. ‘And she won't tell you, rest assured. I did tell you about her in my letters.'

  'I presumed you were exaggerating,’ Eldric said ruefully. Then he looked affectionately at his old friend. ‘Still, it's good to have you back. And whatever that woman is I'm glad she's on our side. From what little I saw, the Orthlundyn have sent as fine a body of men as you said.'

  'Men and women,’ Arinndier corrected off—handedly, reaching across the table for a piece of bread.

  Eldric frowned. ‘Women?’ he said as if he had misheard.

  'Women,’ confirmed Arinndier. Then catching Eldric's eye he raised his hand hastily to forestall the impending outburst. ‘And, if you'll take my advice, you'll accept it without comment.'

  Despite the seriousness in Arinndier's voice however, the observation was to little avail. ‘Women can't wield axes and swords, draw bows, fend for themselves in the field,’ Eldric exclaimed.

  'The Riddinvolk do,’ Arinndier said.

  Eldric waved a dismissive hand. ‘Cavalry's not infantry,’ he said rather peevishly, unexpectedly stung by this immediate riposte from someone who should have been an ally. ‘Besides, they're a different people.'

  Arinndier smiled but his voice and manner were uncompromising. ‘So are the Orthlundyn,’ he said. ‘Very different from us and very different from what we, or for that matter, what they thought they were. Accept it, Eldric. I've learned a lot about them these past weeks, they're a strange and powerful people. It's as if the whole country was waking from some long sleep. It behoves us all to take Gulda's advice and learn.'

  A flurry of remonstrations came to Eldric's mind, but they fell to nothing against Arinndier's resolution and he brushed them away with a reluctant growl. ‘Very well,’ he said, nodding. ‘After all that's happened of late I suppose we should be beyond being surprised. But ... women ... fighting...’ He shook his head and sighed resignedly. ‘I can't see it myself, but tell me about them anyway.'

  * * * *

  After leaving the impromptu command meeting, Gulda stood pensively on the Palace steps. ‘Go on ahead,’ she said to her companions. ‘You're tired, and there's still a lot to do. I've some things here I need to attend to.'

  As the Orthlundyn left, Gulda turned and went back into the Palace.

  Walking through its many corridors and halls, she was inevitably an object of some curiosity to the servants and officials that she encountered. Few, however, lingered to question her, finding that her stern inquiring eye invariably reminded them of duties to be fulfilled elsewhere.

  As she entered the deserted Throne Room, its many rows of torches burst into life, and the great stone throne glittered and sparkled as if in welcome.

  She looked along the deserted arches and galleries that lined the room, and at the solitary window at the far end, now pale with the uncertain winter twilight. Then she walked the long carpeted way to the steps that led up to the thr
one. Pausing before she reached them, she turned and stared at the floor. Though no stain existed to mark it, Gulda was looking at the place where Rgoric had met his cruel end.

  She stood there, still and silent, for a long time, then slowly she turned her back on the throne and returned to the great double doors through which she had entered. Gently closing them she set off again on her solitary pilgrimage around the Palace.

  Eventually her footsteps carried her through an elaborate archway and into the Crystal Hall. It was apparently deserted and the subdued light was tinted with a rich redness that the Hall had drawn from the setting sun outside.

  Gulda gazed around at the flickering sagas being silently enacted in the depths of the strange walls. Slowly she moved around the hall, her stooped form carving its own deep and subtle darkness through the shadows. Occasionally she reached out and touched the translucent, gold-threaded wall, and the scene behind it would shift and flurry in surprised agitation, sometimes seeming to flow out along her arm to hover briefly in the warm darkness.

  She smiled and the whole wall rippled with celebration.

  As she stopped before the great tree, its stark, wintry branches seemed to reach out to greet her, becoming alive with the eyes of countless glittering insects.

  She chuckled in response, then she paused. There was another presence in the hall.

  'Honoured Secretary,’ she said, without turning.

  'Memsa,’ came the acknowledging reply.

  Gulda turned round and looked at the figure of Dilrap, sitting motionless in the shade. ‘Forgive me, I'm intruding on you,’ she said, her hand extended to stop him rising,

  Dilrap shook his head. ‘No, Memsa,’ he replied. ‘There's few who appreciate the splendour of this place in its quieter moods and such as there are could not, by their nature, intrude.'

  Gulda bowed.

  'Rather, I suspect it's I who intrude on you,’ Dilrap went on. ‘The Hall pays homage to you. I've never seen it so ... alive ... not even in bright sunshine.'

  Gulda smiled and sat down beside Dilrap. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It pays me no homage, nor anyone. I understand it, that's all. I used to play...’ Her voice tailed off and Dilrap's eyes narrowed as a terrible loneliness washed over him. Impulsively he reached out and took her hand. It closed around his, strong and powerful, yet almost unbearably plaintive.

  'They're all here still, for those with the eye to see them,’ she said, after a long silence. Her voice was a throaty whisper. ‘Sunlit, glowing times, full of laughter and joy. Captured by hands and skills long, long, gone. Times before ... before He came. Before His taint sought out the weaknesses ... seeped into them...'

  She fell silent again and Dilrap folded his other hand around hers; no words, he knew, could reach into such darkness.

  Neither moved nor spoke for some time, and the redness around them slowly deepened and faded, to be replaced by the paler, quieter, stillness that came from the night-covered winter landscape outside.

  Slowly Gulda withdrew her hand from Dilrap's gentle clasp.

  'You have strangely powerful hands, Memsa,’ he said. ‘Like the Queen's.'

  'Ah, your Queen—Sylvriss—the horsewoman,’ Gulda said, looking down at her hands, her voice still uncertain. ‘Another mote in Dan-Tor's eye.’ She paused briefly. ‘I went to the Throne Room,’ she went on. ‘Her love sustained Rgoric to the very end.'

  'I know,’ Dilrap said simply.

  Gulda nodded. ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘I forgot who I was talking to.'

  She turned to him. Dilrap met her gaze, but as he looked at her his eyes filled with bewilderment and uncertainty.

  'You are not what you seem, are you, Gulda?’ he said simply. ‘Why do you choose to be thus?'

  Gulda started momentarily then lowered her eyes. ‘You have great silence around you, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘You stood at the right hand of Oklar and deceived him. Looked into his dark blazing soul and hid your deceit behind the truth. And you lived. And remained a whole man. It has given you a sight rarer than you can know...’ She hesitated. ‘But where you cannot aid, perhaps you should not look too closely. Thank you for your sharing, though. You are rich and blessed, Honoured Secretary.'

  Dilrap made no response, but Gulda's mood seemed to lighten markedly. She looked around the Hall, and gave a short ironic chuckle. ‘This place could have destroyed Dan-Tor, you know. He never came here, did he?'

  Dilrap shook his head. ‘Never,’ he confirmed. ‘It would have shown his dark, tormented soul to whatever was still human within him.'

  Gulda drew in a long hissing breath. ‘Rich and blessed indeed,’ she said. ‘Such strength we find, in such unexpected places.'

  * * * *

  Urssain shivered despite the layers of clothing he was wearing. He pulled the heavy muffling cloak tight about himself and began walking up and down again, over the well-trodden snow, stamping his feet occasionally in a vain attempt to repel the relentless penetration of the damp coldness that pervaded everywhere.

  Nearby stood the heavily armed Mandroc patrol that had escorted Dan-Tor across Narsindal to this awful place. They were motionless, as was their leader, though he was standing easy, with his muscular, hairy arms folded across his chest. A large powerful-looking creature, markedly less heavily clad than Urssain, he seemed oblivious to the temperature. His upper lip had snagged on a lower canine tooth, giving him a scornful sneer, and his unreadable, grey-irised eyes were following the fretful Commander relentlessly.

  No breeze stirred the scene and the steaming breaths of the group gathered around them, thickening the pale mist that rolled over them from the still, grey waters of Lake Kedrieth.

  'Wait,’ Dan-Tor had said as they had reached one of the approaches to the great causeway that swept out across the lake and disappeared into the mist.

  That had been hours ago. Urssain cursed inwardly. To have been chosen as escort to the Ffyrst across Narsindal was an honour he had both sought and feared. On the one hand it confirmed him indisputably, together with Aelang, as Dan-Tor's closest adviser; a vital step along his chosen path. But on the other, Narsindal was a soul-draining place; a place from which his chosen path was intended to lead him. Its decaying desolation seemed to seep into his body, but worse than that was the pervasive sensation of watching malice; a feeling that had worsened since he had last been there and one which he found now almost tangible in its oppressiveness.

  His gaze moved upwards involuntarily as if to confirm the awesome presence of Derras Ustramel: His great fortress. Torn from the living rock by some unknowable Power, its towering, ramping heights were said to see all that moved in Narsindal, even through the mists; while its roots, spread wide and deep far below the icy lake, were said to house dungeons enough to hold all His enemies for all eternity.

  But there was nothing to be seen. Only the perpetual mist. Though for a chilling moment, Urssain felt his prying gaze held as if by some unseen power, and it was only with a massive effort of will that he tore his eyes away.

  Shaken, he looked along the causeway. It was crowded with groups of slaves wearily hauling wagons and sleds under the supervision of Mandroc guards. As he watched, a Mandroc patrol marched on to the causeway along one of the other approaches and he stared at it until it too disappeared into the mist.

  Save for the slaves, no humans walked that road, though it was said that He was surrounded by men of His own choosing; men whose cruelty would ...

  No! Urssain dashed the thought aside. Rumours, rumours, rumours. That was all that ever came out of the mist. To question either Mandroc or slave who had been there would be to meet only wide-eyed terror. If any chose to serve Him, let them serve Him; he was content to pay the price of serving Dan-Tor.

  Every part of him cried out, let me be away from this place.

  Then, as if echoing this silent plea, a piercing, inhuman, scream rang out over the lake. It cut through the mist like a glittering spear thrust, and Urssain's eyes widened in horror as the sound unmanne
d him. His motionless, ordered, Mandrocs and their leader, however, reacted more violently, throwing themselves on the ground in seemingly blind terror.

  'Amrahl protect us. His will be done,’ came the gabbling chant of their guttural voices. ‘Great is His name.'

  Somewhere in the mist a bird called out in alarm and the sound of its desperate, unseen, flight chimed with Urssain's racing heart.

  The scream faded, but so slowly that, in Urssain's mind, it seemed to become a bright teeth-grating whine that might dwindle for ever, but neither die, nor leave him. Die it did, however, and in its wake came a deep and ominous rumbling. Lapping waves rose in alarm on the surface of the grim lake and the ground under Urssain's feet shook.

  The Mandroc chanting redoubled in intensity.

  'Black Lord, intercede for us,’ said the leader, clutching at Urssain's feet.

  Urssain did not reply—could not reply—his throat was too tight with terror. He stood motionless.

  Then all became silent save for the fearful babbling of the Mandrocs and the slap of the wakened waves on the lake. From somewhere, Urssain recovered his voice.

  'Be silent, and stand up,’ he said to the still prone Mandroc leader, pushing him none too gently with his foot. ‘Do you think that such grovelling would hide you from the will of Amrahl?’ His tone was contemptuous. ‘Re-form your escort. The Groundshaker is His greatest servant and he will return soon. Would you greet him with this childish folly?'

  At the reminder of this more imminent threat, the Mandroc hastily scrambled to his feet and began shouting orders to his quaking patrol. Most of them stood up and took their positions again, but a few responded neither to their leader's words nor his subsequent brutality.

  Urssain released a sigh of relief, disguising it as one of loud irritation. It was some time since he had dealt with Mandrocs but a little straightforward disciplinary action would vent his own fears admirably.

  Drawing his sword he walked over to the nearest Mandroc still on the ground, bent down and yanked the creature's head back.