by Roger Taylor
There was a brief silence. Gavor's head appeared from behind a bowl of fruit. ‘What about me, dear boy?’ he asked.
'You're coming to guard my back and to watch our way,’ Hawklan said, turning to look at him.
Green eyes and black met; old friends.
'Ah,’ Gavor said, after a moment. ‘And as a conscript I see.'
'Yes.'
Gavor gave a soft ‘Hrmph,’ of injured resignation and disappeared behind the fruit bowl again.
The brief exchange eased some of the confused tension that had filled the room.
'This venture was kept from the people for fear of its inadvertently coming to the ears of the enemy,’ Hawklan said. ‘The journey will be hard enough without their being warned of our coming. However, I'll admit that the deceit distresses me...'
He fell silent and stared absently at the table. A nearby torch was shining through a clear glass goblet and throwing a splash of multi-coloured light on to the heavily grained surface. He gave a slight sigh, and Gavor's head came inquisitively over the fruit bowl again.
The brief introspection faded quickly, however, and he looked round again at his companions. ‘Our chances of success at the end are not calculable,’ he said. ‘They're probably very small ... I just don't know. If any of you wish to leave, then do so without any reproach from me. Ride back and wait for the army and hold your peace.’ Then, in contrast to these words, his voice and manner became grimly purposeful. ‘However, if you wish to stay, understand this: I value Orthlund and my life there, and however small the odds, I intend to return to both in due course. I have no intention of winning this cause by dying for it. I have a memory of advice from someone, somewhere: “You win by making the other poor devil die for his cause.” It's advice I intend to follow. Indeed, I commend it to you all.'
He sat back. ‘Now,’ he concluded. ‘Who rides with us?'
'I do,’ said Dacu quietly. His reply was echoed unanimously round the table. The healer in Hawklan rose to reproach him at his success in engineering the loyalty of his chosen group, but the warrior rose too and laid the reproach aside. ‘They are as trapped as we are,’ he said, ‘and their vision is clear enough for them to see it.'
'Good,’ Hawklan said simply.
'Er ... ?’ said Gavor tentatively.
'Silence in the ranks,’ someone said, and the last vestiges of tension disappeared in laughter.
'When do we leave?’ Tirke asked.
'Fairly soon,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Within the next few days. We need to study whatever maps and charts are to be had here, and plot out a route as well as we can. We need to learn what we can about the ways of the Mandrocs, and we have to replenish our supplies and also learn enough about Narsindal to be able to survive when they run out.'
There was much head nodding at these observations and Yrain started to ask a question.
Hawklan raised his hand. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said gently. ‘Tomorrow, we begin properly. But for the rest of this evening, let's just talk and enjoy this peace.'
Yrain tried not to frown.
Hawklan smiled. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Just this one last thing. And let me anticipate your question. We have no specific plan of campaign. We are Helyadin and Goraidin, doing one of the things that such troops are intended to do; entering the enemy's territory like shadows and doing as much harm as possible. In this instance, striking to its very heart. Our tactics will be to put one foot in front of the other ... very carefully.'
* * * *
Over the following days, the group studied the documents that the Cadwanwr produced for them and, amongst other things, decided upon the route for the first part of their journey. It was not one they had anticipated and it left Hawklan with a sad task which he postponed until the end.
'You cannot come with me,’ he said to Serian, laying his hand on the horse's muscular flank. Serian shifted, his feet clattering on the stone floor, but he did not speak.
'We have to go through the caves to reach Narsindal,’ Hawklan went on. ‘Andawyr fears that the Pass itself may be watched, and any news of our arrival could prove disastrous.'
Serian shifted again. ‘This is not the way it should be,’ he said eventually. ‘You and I should ride against Sumeral together.'
Hawklan pressed his forehead against the animal and closed his eyes. ‘So our hearts say, horse,’ he said. ‘But circumstances dictate otherwise.'
Serian's hoof scratched at the floor fretfully.
'I go where I must, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Set me free to find another destiny.'
'You've always been free, my friend,’ Hawklan said. ‘I've already told the Cadwanwr that your door is to be open so that you may leave when you please.'
Serian bowed his head low. ‘Farewell then, prince,’ he said. ‘Until we meet again.'
Hawklan put his arms round the horse's neck and embraced him, then he turned and left without speaking.
'At Derras Ustramel,’ Serian said softly as the battered door closed and the sudden flaring light in the barn became dim again.
* * * *
Returning to his companions, Hawklan found them fully laden and anxious to start. Their enthusiasm drew him from his introspection and he smiled as Dacu helped him fasten his heavy pack.
'Everything checked?’ he asked. The Goraidin grunted a terse confirmation.
'Who's carrying my food?’ Gavor asked suddenly, in great alarm.
Each looked at the other and shrugged a wide-eyed disclaimer.
'Don't worry, Gavor,’ Tirke said. ‘We'll see you get well fed. You're the emergency ration.'
There was some laughter at this, but a small circle cleared expectantly as Gavor walked slowly across to him.
'Very droll, Tirke,’ the raven said darkly. ‘Very droll.’ Tirke cringed a little in anticipation of some form of retaliation, but Gavor turned as if to move away. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning back again casually. ‘I was sorry to hear about your sore leg.'
Tirke, mildly relieved at escaping so lightly after such an indiscretion, gazed at him in some surprise, and shook his head. ‘I haven't got a sore leg,’ he said.
'Really?’ Gavor said, then his black beak shot forward and struck Tirke's shin with a resounding thud. ‘I could have sworn you had.'
While Tirke was executing a small hopping dance to renewed laughter from his friends, Gavor flapped up on to Hawklan's shoulder. ‘And another thing, Tirke, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It's not wise to talk about eating one's companions when one's made out of meat oneself, is it?'
'Peace,’ said Hawklan, trying not to laugh. ‘There'll be plenty to fight about before we've reached the end of this journey. Andawyr, lead on if you would, please.'
Andawyr did some final wriggling underneath his pack until it was comfortable then set off down the long stone corridor. Though it was deep below ground it was well lit by the window stones which brought bright, daylight scenes from the surface. Since Andawyr's return, the seeing stones had been readjusted, and at least half of them gave a view of some part of the Pass. This had been done throughout the whole cave system thus ensuring that in addition to a formal watch being maintained, a substantial informal one was kept also.
Occasionally they passed through an arch decorated with strange glowing symbols and the same soft echoing ring that had greeted their entry to the Caves sounded again.
'What is that?’ Athyr asked.
'The Caves are on Full Watch,’ Andawyr said. ‘They're riddled with traps and devices to protect us from the many strange foes that have beset us through the ages. Had you carried His taint, you'd not have survived so far. The chime celebrates your wholeness.'
The matter-of-fact tone of his voice was more chilling than any threat could have been and Athyr let the topic lie.
Then Andawyr led them through a short dazzling passage like the one through which they had passed from the stable.
As Isloman stepped out, blinking, he found himself in another long corridor. It too was brightly lit, but by
torches not window stones. He gazed around, his head back like an animal scenting some subtle change carried on the breeze. ‘We're much deeper,’ he said. ‘Very much deeper. How can that be?'
Andawyr nodded appreciatively. ‘How did you know we were so deep, carver?’ he said by way of answer. Then, relenting a little, ‘We call them the Slips,’ he said. ‘They spare us the toil of endless flights of stairs but they're really a part of our defence system. Each entrance has many exits and some are into regions which are far away from here, and far from pleasant.'
Again his matter-of-fact tone was chilling.
'We could use them at Anderras Darion,’ Isloman said ruefully, remembering the endless stairs of the Castle.
Andawyr laughed. ‘You have them at Anderras Darion,’ he said. ‘But they'll only work when they're needed. If the Castle were to be attacked, for example.’ He laughed again. ‘Ethriss always did have a bit of the stern puritan about him.'
They walked a little further in silence until, rounding a corner, they came upon Philean and Hath, waiting by an open doorway.
Andawyr unslung his pack and spoke to the two men quietly for a moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, he turned to Hawklan. ‘This is where the bird is kept. The eye of the Vrwystin a Goleg that you brought to my quarters at the Gretmearc.’ He paused and looked a little apologetic. ‘In my heart I abused you for a profound fool at the time, but now I marvel at the slender threads that brought it to us, to waken our Order and blind our enemy.’ He shook his head. ‘We do right to be simple and direct,’ he said. ‘Who can say what ends any act may lead to?'
Hawklan peered into the room. Behind a large central column a blue radiance tinted the torchlight. He made to step inside, but Andawyr laid a hand on his arm. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I came this way just to satisfy myself that it was soundly held. No one knows the true powers of the creature. I'd rather it didn't see you.'
Hawklan nodded and stepped back as Andawyr entered the room.
The Cadwanwr was scarcely in the room, however, when the blue radiance flared up abruptly and an ominous rumble shook the room and the corridor. Andawyr faltered, and even as he hesitated the blue light flickered brilliantly then vanished, and the air was filled with a hate-filled shrieking that Hawklan recognized at once.
The bird was free.
Strange, strident chimes began to echo along the corridor.
Hawklan watched spellbound as Andawyr's arms rose up and a brilliant white light shone from them and wrapped itself around the wide column. The shrieking intensified.
'Hide yourself!’ Andawyr's voice, speaking unexpectedly in the Fyordyn battle language, seemed to come infinitely slowly to Hawklan's ears as he felt other reflexes taking command of him.
The black sword was in his hand almost before he realized his intention to draw it, but as he stepped forward, a figure moved in front of him and struck him a blow on the chest that sent him staggering. ‘Hide yourself,’ came the slow command again. Hawklan saw that it was the old Cadwanwr, Hath, and even as he fell backwards he wondered at the old man's speed and strength.
Both Philean and Hath were now in the room; wild struggling silhouettes against a demented flickering brilliance which seemed to resonate with the appalling screeching of the bird.
Briefly, a hint of blue returned to the light, but almost immediately the room and the corridor shook violently, and with a cry all three men were sent sprawling back through the doorway.
Scarcely yet on balance, Hawklan had a vision of a flitting brown shape and two malevolent yellow eyes seeking for him. Into his head came the terrible cacophony that had tormented him at the Gretmearc, but now it was thunderous and triumphant, like the song of a pack of predators converging on its prey.
He could see the Cadwanwr reaching out to him, but they would be too slow, he knew. Then his arms were swinging high and the black sword struck the demented creature an appalling blow in mid-flight.
There was a bright, blood-red flash.
Days before, a far lesser blow had cleaved a stout Morlider shield effortlessly, but instead of the bird falling, broken and destroyed, it merely flew on, still shrieking. Hawklan felt the Sword torn from his grasp by the impact.
He heard it clattering to the floor somewhere as he himself was falling over, raising his arms to his face to shield himself from the screaming bird.
Before the baleful eyes turned to him, however, a long, brown shape interposed itself and with a powerful twisting leap, Dar-volci closed his massive teeth around the swerving bird. The tone of the shrieking changed immediately; not to anger, Hawklan noted, but to a mixture of surprise and fear.
As Dar-volci landed, he gave his head a blurring series of neck-breaking shakes. The bird's screaming wobbled incongruously and with a final shake, Dar-volci released it and sent it crashing back into the room.
The door slammed shut behind it untouched, with a deafening crash, and the three Cadwanwr threw themselves against it. The rumbling that had shaken the cave before redoubled itself, but it faded as the three Cadwanwr passed their hands over the thin line that marked the edge of the door.
Finally all was still, though the strident ringing still clattered along the corridor. Turning round and leaning against the door, Andawyr slid gracelessly to the floor. His two companions looked at him but made no effort to lift him up. All three looked shocked and drained.
Someone retrieved Hawklan's sword and thrust it into his hand. He became aware of the sound of running feet and knew that Cadwanwr from all over the Caves were converging on this one small room. When he spoke, his voice seemed to echo strangely in his head, ‘What happened?’ he asked inadequately.
Andawyr did not reply but began struggling back to his feet. Dacu and Tirke stepped forward to help him. He nodded a cursory thanks then turned again to face the door, at the same time reaching out to take hold of Philean and Hath.
The three stood for a moment in some strange, silent, communion, then Andawyr stepped back. ‘We can do no more,’ he said. ‘It would do too much harm.’ He looked at the gathering crowd of brothers and acolytes. ‘We've been massively assailed,’ he said. ‘But the creature's held and the immediate danger's over. I commend you all on the speed with which you answered the call, but no help is needed now. Brothers Philean and Hath will tell you exactly what's occurred shortly, in the meantime, return to your duties. Maintain the Full Watch.'
Reluctantly the crowd began to disperse.
'I'll come with you to the last door to ensure the seals are sound,’ Hath said to Andawyr. ‘But we mustn't delay.'
Andawyr nodded and, picking up his pack, began urging Hawklan and the others forward. ‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘We must leave immediately. If the Vrwystin tries to free the bird again, the Caves may be sealed automatically.'
Hawklan postponed his questioning in the face of Andawyr's urgency. Hastily the little man hustled them along the corridor and then through another Slip.
They emerged into a wide circular area with a low, domed ceiling. Around it were several arches, though what they led to could not be seen as beyond each lay darkness.
'This way,’ Andawyr said, striding towards one of them.
As they passed through, torches burst into life to illuminate a long corridor. It was markedly smaller than any of the others they had been through and the walls were more roughly hewn and less well polished. There was also a sense of oppression about the place that the torches, with their dimmer, yellower light, did little to alleviate.
The corridor took them steadily downwards and ended in a small flight of steps. At the bottom of these was a heavy wooden door secured by three great iron bolts. Hath went down first and, after passing his hand over them, slowly drew the bolts.
Isloman clenched his fists as he watched the Cadwanwr pull on the door's ornate handle. It seemed that the door would be far too heavy for such a frail soul to open.
But it opened smoothly and easily and with a faint, sighing movement of air. Hath beckoned the wat
chers down quickly and pointed to a further flight of steps beyond the door.
'You'll need your lights now,’ he said. ‘Go down the steps and wait. Light be with you all.'
Cautiously the group obeyed him, Dacu going first and Hawklan last, save for Andawyr himself.
Hawklan paused at the foot of the steps and looked up at Andawyr and Hath standing on the other side of the door. Andawyr hesitated on the threshold then turned and embraced his friend.
Their brief conversation drifted down the steps to Hawklan.
'Light be with you, Andawyr,’ Hath said shakily. ‘We'll remember your teachings and your courage, and hold this place no matter what transpires.'
Andawyr did not reply but just patted his friend's arm and turned away quickly.
As he started down the steps the door closed behind him with a booming thud that echoed away into the cavernous darkness beyond the torches of the tiny group.
* * *
Chapter 22
As the reverberations of the closing door dwindled into silence, all eyes turned to Andawyr descending the stone steps.
'What happened back there?’ Hawklan tried again.
'Show me your sword,’ Andawyr said.
Hawklan drew the sword and handed it to the Cadwanwr, who examined it carefully and then squinted along it knowingly, humming slightly to himself as he did so.
'Did it hurt you when you hit it?’ he asked.
'A little,’ Hawklan replied. ‘I didn't expect such an impact.'
Seemingly satisfied, Andawyr handed the sword back and took hold of Hawklan's arms in a grip that Hawklan recognized. ‘Well, healer?’ he asked with some irony.
Andawyr smiled. ‘Well indeed,’ he said. ‘Both of you are unscathed. I'd no serious doubts about the sword. But you could've been hurt badly.’ He shook his head in relieved surprise. ‘You wielded the sword well. You are indeed much changed.'
'For the third time, Andawyr,’ Hawklan said slowly and with heavy determination. ‘What happened back there.'
Andawyr's manner asked for patience from his questioner; despite their unprepossessing surroundings he seemed much more relaxed. ‘We'll talk as we walk,’ he said. ‘Keep together. Keep the torches low, we've a long way to go. Two will suffice; one front, one back. That'll make sure no one starts to fall behind.'
