Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

Hawklan raised an apologetic hand and the group continued northwards.

  Eventually one point in the scene ahead of them began to displace the dominance of the cold magnificence of the mountains. It was the bleak maw of the Pass of Elewart.

  'Well over a day's ride,’ Dacu estimated as they paused to look at it.

  There were doubting murmurs from some of the others, but Andawyr nodded. ‘We'll not even reach the caves by tonight,’ he said. ‘School yourselves for another night in the shelters.’ His manner was cheery and somewhat at odds with the sombre mood that the sight of the Pass had induced in the others. With unexpected enthusiasm he clicked his horse forward. ‘And do you think you could do something about whoever's snoring, Hawklan, he keeps waking me up,’ he shouted back.

  Both he and Dacu were correct. As night fell, the Pass seemed little nearer, and they were obliged to make camp again.

  The following day greeted them with whirling showers of sleet: damp snowflakes and large cold raindrops. Tirke, still cautious of Dacu and his unequivocal wakening technique, was as usual the first awake. He opened the entrance of the shelter, peered out groggily, and broke the news.

  'My favourite weather,’ he said heavily as he crawled out and peered around.

  The Pass, the mountains, everything beyond a few hundred paces, was gone, hidden in a dull greyness.

  'Welcome to the mountains,’ Andawyr said, his unwarranted cheerfulness persisting.

  Quieter than ever, the small procession of grey silhouettes set out again, Andawyr taking the lead and the horses picking their way carefully through the damp, treacherous snow.

  Hawklan gazed around. Even in the mist, he could feel the mountains nearby, huge and oppressive. It was a sensation quite different from that of the mountains which bordered Orthlund and couched Anderras Darion. Remembering Isloman's response to the mines, he looked across at him anxiously. The carver however, seemed more intrigued than distressed. He caught Hawklan's glance and brought his horse alongside. His expression was amused.

  'I do believe you're hearing the rock song at last, Hawklan,’ he said. Then he laughed, and the sound echoed from somewhere. ‘Mind you, you'd be deaf not to. These rocks have a powerful song indeed. Like nothing I've ever heard before. There'll be some rare carvings to be found here; rare carvings.’ He fell silent for a little while. ‘We must come here one day,’ he said softly, apparently to no one in particular.

  'Doesn't the Pass disturb you?’ Andawyr asked.

  Isloman shook his head. ‘I can feel some distress there, but nothing can disturb me after the mines,’ he said. ‘And this isn't the same. The mines were like a ... deep ... purposeful, malevolence. What I feel here is more like an echo—an echo of a long dead rage. Long, long dead. Something whose effects are well buried under eons of rain and wind. I look forward to seeing the Pass. I think it'll have a strange song all its own.'

  Andawyr looked at him approvingly, but did not pursue the discussion.

  Gradually the sleet became a fine soaking drizzle and the mist cleared a little. Coming to the top of a small incline, Tirke was about to ask, ‘How much further?’ when Andawyr pointed towards a cluster of buildings which were just becoming visible.

  They stood at the foot of a rock face which rose sheer above them to disappear into the mist, and their apparently indiscriminate positioning over the tumbling ground reminded Hawklan immediately of Pedhavin.

  The resemblance ended there though as, unlike those on the Pedhavin houses, the roofs were very steep, with eaves that swept down past the walls as if anxious to usurp their function and fasten themselves to the ground. So steep were the roofs in fact, that little or no snow had stuck to them and even from a distance, the travellers could see ornate patterns laid out in the green and blue slates that covered them.

  'Home sweet home,’ Andawyr said, smiling broadly.

  Most of the party tried to look enthusiastic, but whatever they had been expecting, a quaint hamlet of stone cottages was not it.

  Inevitably it was Tirke who paved the way for the virtuous to follow. ‘Where are the caves?’ he asked Andawyr, almost querulously.

  Andawyr fought off a smile and waved a casual hand in a direction well to the left of the village.

  'You surprise me, Helyadin,’ he said. ‘I'd heard you had quite an eye for such things. That's a bit bigger than an Alphraan's cave, isn't it?'

  Tirke followed the pointing hand and then cleared his throat awkwardly.

  Looming through the rain-swept greyness was a dark shape in the rock face. It was so large that it made the village seem like a cluster of children's toys, and several of the group closed and opened their eyes in an attempt to accommodate the sudden change in perspective.

  Isloman threw back his head and laughed. ‘Never mind, Tirke,’ he said, laying a great hand on the young man's shoulder. ‘If it's any consolation, I didn't see it either.’ And as he laughed again, the sound spread over his companions like sunlight bursting from behind a dark cloud.

  Despite the enormous cave mouth nearby however, Hawklan still could not avoid a sense of anti-climax in finding that the home of the Cadwanol was no more than a mountain village, albeit with rather unusual architecture. He made no outward sign however, continuing to smile at Isloman's merriment.

  Unexpectedly, Dar-volci peered out from Andawyr's robe. He gazed around for a moment, twitching his nose, then, grunting gruffly to himself, slithered down from the horse and lolloped off across the snow. ‘See you later,’ he shouted back over his shoulder, and suddenly, with a joyous whistle, he was gone.

  Andawyr shook his head and smiled, but said nothing.

  As they drew nearer to the village, Hawklan saw that the streets were empty but, quite suddenly, without any bell or other alarm apparently being sounded, people, hastily pulling on cloaks and capes, began to emerge from the houses and gather in the main street.

  Andawyr dismounted as they reached the first houses and was immediately surrounded by the villagers. He shook the hands of some, embraced others, and generally talked to several people at once; there was much laughing and excitement. Guiltily, Hawklan found that his sense of disappointment was not lessened by the very ordinariness of these people.

  Gradually, Andawyr managed to bring about some semblance of order to the small crowd, then he gestured the others to follow him and set off up the winding main street through the village. Hawklan and Isloman exchanged glances as they set off again; despite the haughty appearance of the strange high-pitched cottages, and the towering proximity of the great rock face, the village at close quarters was even more like Pedhavin, save for the absence of carvings filling every blank wall.

  The villagers walked alongside the group like smiling flank guards, though none made any attempt to speak to the new arrivals.

  Andawyr eventually stopped outside a building which, like others nearby, was built hard against the looming rock. Some of the villagers ran forward to drag open two large wooden doors, and Andawyr gestured his companions inside.

  As the doors closed behind them, Hawklan and the others dismounted and looked around. It was a large barn, high roofed and airy, with one side occupied by a great haystack which filled the air with a characteristic mixture of freshness and mustiness. Along the other side were stalls for the horses, and an assortment of rakes, pitchforks, ropes and harnesses, and many other pieces of farming paraphernalia.

  Gavor thrust his head out from Hawklan's cloak, and with a cheery croak, flapped up to one of the high roof beams. As he landed he disturbed a small flurry of dust which floated lazily down through the still air.

  Hawklan looked up at him and noticed that though the place was well lit, he could see no lights of any kind.

  'Unsaddle your horses and rub them down,’ Andawyr said, taking a host's command over the hesitating group. ‘There's plenty fodder and water for them here and there'll be plenty for us when we've finished.'

  'Are we going to walk to the caves?’ Isloman asked, gesturing vaguely to
wards the doors. ‘It looked to be quite a distance.'

  Andawyr looked puzzled for a moment, then, realization dawning, he shook his head. ‘Ah, you mean the cave, just outside the village,’ he said, his two hands drawing out a great arch through the warm, comforting air. ‘No,’ he went on, disparagingly. ‘That's just to impress visitors. The Caves proper are well hidden. Don't worry, you won't get wet reaching them.’ He chuckled to himself then set about unsaddling his horse. ‘Come on, I'm hungry,’ he said.

  Though none the wiser, his guests followed his enthusiastic example. It took some time to dry off the horses, but no one seemed inclined to hurry. It was the first time that any of them had been in a building other than a tent or shelter since they had left Orthlund and, humdrum though the place was, its large, warm space gave it a distinctly luxurious aura.

  The task eventually done, and the horses feeding contentedly, all eyes turned to Andawyr expectantly. He gestured to a small battered door at the rear of the barn. It looked as if it might be the entrance to a disused storeroom.

  'Don't worry about the lights as you step through,’ he said, struggling with the latch. ‘They're rather bright and you may have difficulty seeing clearly. They need adjusting. Just walk straight ahead to the far door and go through it, I'll be with you in a moment.’ The door creaked open and a brilliant light flooded through the opening, causing some gasps of surprise from the watchers. The barn around them was plunged into gloomy unreality by contrast, and Gavor's black shadow expanded across the roof space as he glided silently down to join the others.

  'They certainly do need some adjusting,’ said Isloman, laughing, as he lifted a hand to shield his eyes, but Andawyr made no acknowledgement other than to shepherd them all urgently through the doorway. As Hawklan passed behind the others, Andawyr stepped after him and pulled the door shut.

  The barn became real again; rich with warm odours and silent except for the occasional clatter of a horse's hoof on the stone floor.

  After a few short paces through the dazzling brightness, the group passed through a second door and emerged into a long corridor, blinking and laughing like bewildered children. A soft echoing ring sounded as each came through the doorway.

  Waiting to meet them were two old men, dressed in simple white robes such as Andawyr wore, but noticeably less untidy.

  'Philean, Hath,’ Andawyr said, smiling broadly as he stepped forward and took their extended hands. ‘It's good to see you both manning the fort so well. And it's good to be back. Have you water and soaps and warm towels for your beloved leader and his guests?’ He closed his eyes rapturously.

  The larger of the two Cadwanwr looked at him sternly. ‘You were ever a hedonist, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘But in deference to the rigours your brave companions have been through, we've prepared a modest greeting for them which we hope will meet with their approval.'

  'Lead on, lead on,’ said Andawyr unrepentantly, waving his arms enthusiastically. ‘I'll introduce everyone as we go.'

  * * * *

  Later, lounging back into a soft, supporting chair, Isloman stared up at the ceiling. It was undecorated, like the few other rooms and corridors he had seen, but it was delicately curved and lit by torches very similar to those that lit Anderras Darion. He smiled in appreciation of the subtle shadows that they threw, then he blew out a long, sated, breath. ‘I had no idea I'd become so disgusting after all those weeks marching and camping,’ he said. ‘And I'd forgotten completely what good food tasted like. Andawyr, you have a slave for life.'

  A few grunts from his neighbours confirmed that this was the opinion of them all and that further discussion would be superfluous.

  'Don't thank me,’ Andawyr said. ‘Thank Philean and Hath and the other brothers who prepared everything.’ He chuckled. ‘Mind you, I suspect the baths were as much for their benefit as ours. We've become used to one another, but I shouldn't imagine any of us were too fragrant, and Philean was always very fastidious.'

  'Your wisdom remains undimmed, Andawyr,’ Philean said, bowing ironically.

  The room fell silent again and apart from the soft undefined noise of occasional activity outside, the only sound that could be heard was that of Gavor's wooden leg as he clumped about the table in search of uneaten morsels.

  Slowly the euphoria passed and the needs of the times began to reassert themselves. Andawyr levered himself upright and stretched. Philean and Hath were seated on either side of him. He looked from one to the other.

  'Now we must talk,’ he said. ‘The essence of the battle I put in my message. Do you need to know anything further about it before we begin?'

  Both shook their heads. ‘Your message told us everything,’ Philean said. ‘A terrible affair. It needs no immediate amplification. Only the future matters now.'

  Andawyr nodded. ‘Creost and Dar Hastuin came north,’ he said. ‘Did you see them?'

  'They flew along the Pass,’ Hath replied, grimacing. ‘Our seeing stones brought the sight to us, and the sound of Usgreckan seems to echo yet around the peaks.'

  Andawyr folded his hands in front of himself and shook his head pensively.

  'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked.

  Andawyr squeezed his nose between his fingers. ‘I'm finding it difficult to think that we're succeeding,’ he said. ‘Sumeral's Uhriel have all been returned to their Master, wounded and demeaned. Yet it has the feeling of having been too easy. Almost as if it were intended to be thus. It concerns me.'

  'Dismiss your concern,’ Hawklan said coldly. ‘Only a little while ago we were tired, hungry, and dirty; now the discomfort's all forgotten. Days ago you and Atelon were faltering, facing death or worse, before Creost's assault, yet your agony was forgotten almost as soon as Cadmoryth's ship struck him. Months ago I floundered across Riddin, Orthlund and Fyorlund and was swept into who knows what world by Oklar's anger; yet all that confusion and pain is forgotten now. It's the nature of the creatures we are to forget the totality of the horror of such things. If we're lucky, we remember enough to learn from. Think, Andawyr, think. You know that nothing so far has been easy. We've all been tried to new limits in our different ways and any of us could have fallen at any time. Suffice it that we're all here now, as whole as we've ever been. Wiser by far, and set to continue on our journey.'

  He leaned forward and stared into Andawyr's face. ‘And remember this. We decided that we wouldn't concern ourselves with Sumeral's intentions. His mind is beyond us. We can't use cunning and treachery as He does, we must use simplicity and directness.’ He waved a hand round his listeners, almost angrily. ‘Tell them why we're here.'

  Philean and Hath seemed disconcerted by this public rebuking of their leader, but Andawyr just nodded thoughtfully.

  'Yes,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry. You're right. The debating's long ended.'

  He looked round the room hesitantly, then cleared his throat.

  'When you were asked if you wished to accompany us on this journey, we told you what we told everyone else,’ he began. ‘Namely, that we were going to search for Ethriss and waken him. Our army—and the Muster, and the Fyordyn—go forth in the belief that they will face only soldiers—men, Mandrocs, whatever—but mortal creatures, capable of being brought down by the sword. They believe that my brothers will protect them from the dreadful Power of the Uhriel and that Ethriss will be brought forth somehow to oppose Sumeral Himself.'

  Despite the warmth and comfort of the room, his tone seemed to bring a chill to everyone.

  'But ... ?’ Tirke anticipated, seizing on the doubt in Andawyr's voice.

  'But,’ Andawyr echoed, as though grateful for the prompting. ‘We do not know where Ethriss is.'

  There was a long silence, and when he spoke again, it was slowly and apparently with great reluctance. ‘The Guardians themselves do not know where he is. We could wander for generations and not find him. And even if we found him, there's no guarantee that we'd have the skill to waken him.’ He looked around at everyone again. ‘We cannot assume
that Ethriss will aid us. We must be prepared to face Sumeral alone.'

  Though no one moved, Hawklan felt the emotions whirling round through his companions; disbelief, doubt, fear, anger—mainly anger.

  He spoke before it found voice.

  'You may ponder all these matters as I have done, endlessly, but you'll find nothing that could have been done to keep us from the path which has led us here.’ The pending questions spent themselves unheard against the rock of his presence.

  'But this is not the time of the First Coming,’ he went on. ‘Things are not as they were. Now Sumeral is known for what He is before He has spread His corruption throughout the world. The Cadwanol is wiser and stronger by far than in those times, while the Uhriel are weaker. And some power has given us the great armoury of Anderras Darion to arm the awakened Orthlundyn, and the black bow and sword of Ethriss...'

  'And you, Hawklan,’ Andawyr said, before he could continue. ‘We have been given you, with your strange skills learned and honed in another age.'

  Hawklan did not answer.

  'What are we here for, if not to find Ethriss?’ Yrain asked. Her voice was carefully controlled but her face was strained.

  'We're here to go quietly into Derras Ustramel, and kill Sumeral.'

  The voice was Dacu's. All eyes turned to him and then scattered back to Andawyr and Hawklan.

  Both nodded, unsurprised by the Goraidin's correct deduction.

  There was a sudden babbling upsurge of questions, but Hawklan spoke over and through it, his voice final. ‘This can be done,’ he said. ‘Andawyr, Isloman and I go because we cannot do otherwise. Yrain, Jenna, Tybek, you were chosen because you're amongst our finest Helyadin. Athyr, you also, and because you're a Morlider Veteran. Dacu, because you're Goraidin and a Veteran. Jaldaric, Tirke, because you bring special qualities of your own; you, Jaldaric, from your imprisonment, you, Tirke, from your journey through the mountains.'

  'We haven't the skills of Yrain and the others,’ Jaldaric said awkwardly.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But you're more than good enough to hold your own and you bring old Fyordyn skills with you, as does Dacu.'