Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  He turned to look at it, then stepped into the shelter of the doorway. As he did so, the door opened suddenly to reveal a large man. He was leaning with his left hand on the door frame and his right behind the half-opened door.

  He peered intently into the hood of his visitor then seemed to become more relaxed in his manner. The rider spoke and the man nodded and then, ushering the rider forward, he stepped out with him into the rain.

  In his right hand was a large axe.

  Holding it close to the head he extended it towards the far end of the village and then tilted it first to the right and then the left, at the same time talking earnestly to the rider.

  The rider waved out the same instructions with his right hand, then, thanking his guide, he returned to his horse. As the group prepared to ride off, he gave the man a further brief salute and received an acknowledging wave of the axe in return.

  One of the riders glanced back as they gathered speed down the empty street. Shoulders hunched, the man was scuttling back into the warmth of his home.

  'Is that a tradition in these parts, Lord?’ he asked. ‘Greeting strangers at your door with the threshold sword in your hand?'

  'After Ledvrin, I'm afraid it is, Sirshiant,’ replied the leader.

  The Sirshiant grimaced.

  The Lord caught the expression. ‘You're from the west,’ he said. ‘You had burdens of your own, I appreciate, but they weren't those of the people around here. Take no offence at such actions. It grieves me to know why they happen, but it causes me no distress to see people willing to guard their own. Besides, you know well enough that an object's a weapon only when it's used as such.’ He laughed, unexpectedly. ‘In this case, that axe wasn't an axe, it was a signpost.'

  The group splashed out of the village and followed the road through the sodden countryside for some way until they came to a crossroads. Turning right they rode a little way and then hesitated at a narrow gateway. Beyond it was a rough-surfaced cart track leading to an isolated farmhouse.

  The Lord nodded and one of the riders dismounted and opened the gate. The others passed through and galloped on towards the farmhouse as he closed the gate and remounted.

  As they clattered into the farmyard, the door of the house opened and a woman appeared with a cloak cast hastily over her head.

  'This way, Lord,’ she said. ‘Your men can go into the barn over there. I'll send someone over to help them straight away.'

  The Lord and one of the other men dismounted and followed the woman into the house.

  They found themselves in a broad hallway, its ceiling supported by heavily carved wooden beams and its walls bearing a homely mixture of pictures, outdoor clothes, and various bits of harness and tackle. Behind the door hung a short sword, its blade dark and pitted with age, though its edge was recently sharpened.

  The woman threw her cloak on to a peg and with a brief ‘excuse me,’ trotted along the hall to a room at the back where she could be heard giving instructions to someone.

  As the two men waited, the steady drips from their clothes formed large spreading pools on the tiled floor. The Lord fidgeted impatiently as he waited.

  A door opened and a young girl came out. As she saw the two men, she stopped in the doorway and smiled pleasantly. The Lord, however, was looking over her head into the room. Gently, but hastily, he eased her to one side and stepped inside. The other man held out a tentative hand as if to restrain him, but did nothing.

  'Lord Eldric,’ said Sylvriss, looking up at the mud-stained and soaking figure who had just entered.

  'Majesty...’ he began.

  'Lord!’ came a stern voice from behind him. Eldric started. It was the woman of the house. ‘You can't go in there in that state,’ she said witheringly. ‘You must get out of those wet clothes and muddy boots immediately.'

  Sylvriss lowered her gaze and smiled as the discomfited Senior Lord of the Geadrol retreated in disorder.

  'I'm sorry, your Majesty,’ said the woman leaning in and closing the door. ‘You know what men are like.'

  Within a few minutes the woman returned, leading a marginally drier and more presentable pair of visitors.

  'Lord Eldric, Hylland,’ Sylvriss said, smiling broadly and holding out a hand to the two men.

  'Majesty, are you all right?’ said Eldric, kneeling down by the side of the bed and taking the offered hand.

  'Yes, Lord Eldric, we're both of us well,’ she replied, inclining her head to the other side of the bed.

  Eldric looked across. Hylland was bending down and reaching a playful finger into a simple crib. The tiny sleeping figure lying there moved its head from side to side, frowned, and smacked its lips contentedly.

  Eldric stood up and moved round to the crib. Looking down at the heir to Fyorlund's throne, he smiled with grandfatherly wonder and fatherly memory.

  'How did you come to be here, Majesty?’ he asked after a moment. ‘We came as soon as we heard, but...'

  'Lord,’ Hylland interrupted. ‘Will you excuse us? These questions will wait awhile. Now, her Majesty and I must talk alone for a moment.

  Eldric looked at him impatiently then nodded with awkward understanding and once again retreated.

  He was pacing the hallway and affecting to look at the pictures when Hylland emerged some time later.

  'Is everything all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You were a long time.'

  The healer smiled. ‘Healer's privilege, Lord, to play with the baby first,’ he said, then he laid a reassuring hand on the Lord's arm. ‘They're both fine. Mother and son. She's a little tired and he's a bit small, but that's only to be expected. He'll soon catch up. The birth caught everyone by surprise but went well enough seemingly, and I couldn't have tended them better at the Palace than these people have here. Our concerns were needless.'

  Eldric let out a long breath. ‘Can I go in?’ he asked, unconsciously casting a glance towards the rear room that housed the Queen's new protector.

  Hylland opened the door for him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She's waiting for you. I'll go and give the men the news.'

  Eldric grunted nervously, and stepped inside.

  He paused for a moment as he closed the door behind him, taking in the atmosphere of the room. It was clean and spruce, but only a little more so than it would be normally, he felt, and it held a subtle mixture of scents: old ones, rich and solid, deep sunk into the floor and walls, and echoing the lives of generations; and newer, sweeter ones, dominating for the moment, but ephemeral, and due to pass away soon, like the melting snow outside.

  But perhaps not totally, he thought. Perhaps they too will add a small lasting note to the room's old chorus.

  He looked at his Queen. Her face was as rich in tales as the room. A little fuller than it had been, it told of tiredness, both from old trials and new, yet it was lit from the inside by a joy and a vigour that could not be touched by a mere passing physical weakness.

  She was beautiful. Unexpectedly Eldric felt his knees go weak ...

  He cleared his throat noisily and stepped forward carefully on his momentarily unsteady legs.

  Sylvriss indicated a chair that had been placed by her bed.

  'Sit down, Lord Eldric,’ she said. ‘You look tired.'

  Eldric sat down. ‘Not as tired as I was only minutes ago, Majesty,’ he said. He looked across at the crib.

  'A fine baby, Hylland tells me,’ he said. ‘Our Queen back amongst us, and an heir. It'll do much for the people.'

  Sylvriss looked at him in silence.

  'It'll do much for us all, Majesty,’ he added, meeting her gaze.

  Sylvriss smiled and laid her hand on his arm. ‘It does much for me, to be back,’ she said. ‘Back in my other home. My husband's home.'

  Despite her smile, Eldric caught a note in her voice that made him look at her uncertainly.

  'I've shed all the tears that I need to shed for his absence from this precious event,’ Sylvriss said, answering his unspoken doubt. ‘Besides, he's here w
ith me now more than he's ever been and I intend to honour his life by the quality of both my own and our son's.'

  Eldric nodded understandingly, though there was a slight anxiety in his eyes. ‘You are well, Majesty?’ he asked. ‘And the baby? Hylland said it was a little small, and it ... he ... did come much earlier than we expected.'

  Sylvriss laughed. ‘He came earlier than I expected, Lord,’ she said. ‘But it's hardly surprising after what's been happening. However, be assured. We are both well.’ Her face became mischievous and she patted his arm. ‘I dropped him like a well-seasoned mare,’ she said confidentially.

  Eldric coloured and cleared his throat again, turning away from the Queen's laughing eyes.

  Eventually she released him. ‘But we have to talk, Lord,’ she said, more seriously. The hand on his arm became purposeful. ‘I've no words adequate enough to thank you and the others for what you did in freeing Fyorlund from Dan-Tor and his evil. I wish I could have ridden with you. In due course you must tell me everything, but for now there are more pressing matters. Do you have any news of my father? Are there any problems with the Orthlundyn and the High Guards working together? When do you intend to move against Narsindalvak?'

  Eldric held up a hand to end this stream of questions.

  'Majesty, you must not concern yourself too much with these matters,’ he said. ‘Your task is to tend your child, Rgoric's heir. Fyorlund's future king.'

  This declaration was a mistake, as the grip on his arm, and the tightened jaw told him.

  'Lord Eldric. I shall tend my child, have no fear, but I am your Queen, by both right and by acclamation, as you may recall, and my other task is to tend my people.’ She levelled a finger at him, and for a moment Eldric thought he heard Rgoric speaking. ‘And there'll be no Fyorlund for anyone to rule if I fail in that, will there?'

  Eldric opened his mouth to speak but the Queen's look silenced him. ‘I didn't follow in my father's hoofprints, rallying the houses that Bragald's ranting had undermined, nor chase over the mountains and halfway across Fyorlund after the Orthlundyn army, to spend my time surrounded by maids and soft perfumes,’ she said. ‘We are at war, Lord. My small party managed the journey over the mountains, but my father had no other choice than to go the way he did and he'll need help, perhaps right now. Narsindalvak will have to be taken if...'

  'Majesty, majesty,’ Eldric interrupted in some alarm, as the Queen looked set to leave her bed and gallop off to Vakloss. ‘I meant no harm by the remark. I was concerned. First the winter kept news of you from reaching us, then came word of Creost and the Morlider invading Riddin. We've spent much of the time of your absence fearful that we might have sent you into danger instead of safety.'

  Sylvriss looked a little repentant. ‘I understand, Lord,’ she said, more quietly. ‘But until Sumeral and all his minions are brought to account, there'll be no true peace for Fyorlund ... or for any of us.’ She reached out and laid a hand on the crib. Her voice became stern. ‘And I'll no more sit idly by like a helpless stable maid while these matters are decided, than Rgoric would have.’ She paused and lowered her eyes. ‘And I am concerned about my father.'

  Eldric raised his hands in surrender. ‘Majesty. Even now, we're preparing plans to assault Narsindalvak in order, at least, to occupy Dan-Tor's forces while your father approaches.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘We can't protect him on his journey through Narsindal, though, Majesty, and we've no news of how he's faring.'

  Sylvriss nodded and a spasm of concern flitted briefly across her face. ‘I realize that,’ she said. ‘But he knew what he was doing and he'll be riding in close defensive order.'

  'And he has Yengar and Olvric to help guide him,’ Eldric added. ‘They're no ordinary men and they've both ridden the Watch.'

  'And Oslang,’ Sylvriss said, then she let out a small sigh. It seemed for a moment that the chill mists of Narsindal had entered that warm room. The baby whimpered and Sylvriss rocked the crib gently.

  The mood passed however, and Sylvriss gave a tight smile. ‘Still, that's beyond us,’ she said. ‘We can't let it hinder us here. Our main concern must be with Narsindalvak. Give me an outline of your intentions if you would. I'm afraid Hylland's forbidden me the saddle for a little while, so I'll have to stay here until he says otherwise, but...'

  'Majesty, there's a coach and your attendants following,’ Eldric said. ‘We can...'

  He stopped in mid-sentence as Sylvriss's eyes widened in a mixture of shock and disbelief. ‘A coach!’ she said. Her voice became measured. ‘Have you ever known me to ride in a coach, Lord Eldric?'

  Eldric's hands fluttered vaguely.

  'I am a Muster woman, Lord,’ Sylvriss went on, quietly and slowly, but with inexorable resolution. ‘By tradition, we dismount only long enough to give birth, then we remount.'

  Eldric sank into his chair a little for protection as Sylvriss continued. ‘In deference to your Fyordyn ways I will accept Hylland's over-cautious stricture, but I will not be towed back to Vakloss in a cart like a sack of farm produce. Very shortly, I will ride. With my son for all the people to see. And you will ride by my side. In the meantime you will tell me of the plans for the intended assault on Narsindalvak.'

  'Majesty,’ said Eldric, bowing.

  * * * *

  Hawklan stood motionless, hypnotized for a moment by the mass of red eyes glinting in the darkness ahead of him.

  Hypnotized, until he realized they were moving towards him.

  'Against the wall!’ he shouted, scrambling back to the shelter. ‘Gloves and knives!'

  'And torches!’ Jenna added, overtaking him.

  There was a momentary delay amongst the drowsy watchers who had crawled out of the shelter after Hawklan, then the creatures emerged out of the tunnel like a streaming black river, and a flurry of knives, blankets and clothing were dragged out of the shelter with wide-eyed midday wakefulness, and great speed.

  Gavor extended his wings in agitation and Dar-volci drew back his lips to reveal his own terrifying teeth.

  The creatures were like rats, but bigger, and with large glittering round eyes. The hissing that in Hawklan's dream had become the rustling of distant trees, was a combination of their high-pitched squeaking and the scrape of their taloned feet as they scrambled across the rocky floor. They were tumbling over each other in their haste to enter the chamber.

  In the brief seconds it took the travellers to arm and position themselves against the wall, the black tide spewing out of the tunnel spread to occupy over half the floor.

  All of the watching group had faced different and dangerous trials in their lives, and faced them with courage, but none showed anything other than rank fear at the sight before them. Its seething activity was made the more horrible by contrast with the many days they had spent seeing only motionless rock and stone about them. Gloves were donned, and blankets hastily wrapped around exposed arms, but their few blades seemed pitifully inadequate against such savage, scurrying, numbers.

  They watched dry-mouthed and gaping, as the tide flowed into the chamber; squeaking, scratching, clambering.

  They watched for an interminable, unmeasurable, interval.

  Then, slowly, the realization dawned that the flood was passing them by unheeded.

  And then it was gone.

  As silence returned to the chamber, the cohesion of the warriors disintegrated. Almost all of them slithered down to the ground as their legs gave up the uneven struggle between terror and stability.

  Hawklan tried to sheathe his sword, but his hands were trembling too much.

  'All right,’ he managed, wiping his hand across his clammy face. ‘Breathe easy. Whatever they were, they'd no interest in us, apparently.'

  'This time round,’ Yrain said, wrapping her arms about herself and shivering. ‘And what if we'd been walking along that tunnel when they came through?'

  Hawklan looked at her helplessly, then at Andawyr.

  'It's the way we must go, Hawklan,’ said the Cadwanwr, s
haking his head.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘We'll think about it in a moment when we've all got over the shock a little,’ he said.

  He tapped his sword idly against a rock. ‘Is there any point my asking you what they were, Andawyr?’ he said, though not unkindly.

  'They were rats,’ Tirke declaimed definitively, before Andawyr could declare his ignorance.

  'I've never seen a rat with eyes like those,’ Jenna snapped viciously. ‘Nor that size.'

  'Peace!’ said Hawklan angrily before Tirke could reply. ‘It's not that important what they were. Let's bend our minds to Yrain's problem. What do we do if we run into them when we're fully loaded with packs and moving along that tunnel tomorrow?'

  He walked across to the tunnel, peered casually into it and then turned to look along the route the creatures had taken.

  Dar-volci chattered his teeth. ‘It mightn't matter what they were,’ he said. ‘But what they were doing might.'

  'Why?’ Hawklan said. ‘That was probably a feeding frenzy or a mating frenzy, or something.'

  Dar-volci made a disparaging noise. ‘They were running away,’ he said categorically.

  Hawklan looked at him doubtfully. ‘Running away?’ he said. ‘From what?’ He stepped forward.

  Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than two long arms swept out of the tunnel mouth, and grasping three-fingered claws snapped together where he had been standing.

  Hawklan spun round at the sound in time to see a large triangular head surging towards him. He had a fleeting impression of large bulbous eyes focusing on him and two waving antennae, but dominating his attention was a wide gaping mouth which split the head in two with a grotesque and malevolent grin.

  He jumped backwards to avoid the apparition but as he did so, one of the creature's misshapen arms struck him a glancing blow and sent him sprawling.

  The black sword clattered out of his hand.

  He became aware of a great commotion as screams and shouts rose up to fill the cavern. Vaguely, at the edge of his awareness, he sensed his companions rushing to his aid, but the two arms, obscenely articulated, were drawing back to strike again.