by Roger Taylor
Esselt looked up but did not speak. Jaldaric looked embarrassed.
'The Lord Dan-Tor has returned alone to Fyorlund, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘And he doesn't account to us for his actions. He's the King's closest adviser and friend. He's greatly respected and has brought many changes to our land.’ Hawklan caught his eye and Jaldaric hesitated. ‘Although I think some of them have a price we weren't originally aware of,’ he added reluctantly.
Both Loman and Isloman nodded.
'What your Lord brought to our village carried a price in its every fibre,’ said Loman. ‘It wasn't the work of Fyorlund craftsmen such as I've seen in the past. That had its own rough harmony. These objects were made by evil hands; hands that knew nothing of balance and harmony or, more probably, wilfully destroyed them.'
Hawklan briefly recalled the unreasoned horror he had felt when he looked into the face of the tiny mannequin marching up and down on his hand. A horror that drove him across the mountains to look for its source and, he presumed, was driving him still.
'What do you know about craftsmen, you soil-tilling oaf?’ sneered Esselt. ‘Nothing can equal the work that comes from the Lord Dan-Tor's workshops.'
Surprisingly, the insult seemed to roll off Loman without effect, and Esselt started as if his own venom had returned and struck him in the face. Hawklan looked straight at him.
'Esselt, you're a foolish young man, but I suspect it's beyond my skill to make you understand why. You seem to be set on an ill course and, if your rash tongue doesn't get you killed by one of your own kind, then I fear much worse lies ahead of you. Be silent and listen carefully.'
Although this was said without any menace, Esselt went white under Hawklan's gaze.
Jaldaric watched the exchange impassively and for a while only the rustling hiss of the wind-blown trees could be heard in the tent. Then he looked at Loman sitting quietly, unperturbed by Esselt's vicious taunt, and then at Hawklan, also sitting patiently, waiting. He made his decision.
'We're escort to the Lord Dan-Tor, Hawklan, but we know nothing of his purpose in being in Orthlund. What he ordered us to do here was contrary to everything that the High Guard should believe in and protect. I should have had no part of it. We betrayed freely and generously given hospitality with foul treachery. I should have spoken up if only for the sake of my men. A High Guard should not obey orders mindlessly.’ Then, in reluctant admission, ‘But the Lord Dan-Tor has a way of ...
His voice faded and there was an angry exclamation of disbelief from Esselt.
'Enough, Jaldaric. You're talking treason. This man's an enemy of Fyorlund. Seize him now. There are enough of us to take them all.'
Jaldaric turned on him furiously. ‘I'll not warn you again, Esselt. There's been enough treachery. Besides, if memory serves me correctly, you were in charge of tonight's guard, were you not? These “soil-tilling oafs” had little difficulty in slipping by your eagle-eyed watch, did they? And we could just as easily have been killed as knocked insensible for all the chance we had to defend ourselves. They've repaid our treachery with mercy, Esselt. You might care to ponder on that.’ Esselt glowered at him, but Jaldaric was warming to his work. ‘And pray, master of the guard, would you care to stroll out into the woods and see how many more such “oafs” might be waiting for us right now in these woods—their woods? Doubtless the Lord Dan-Tor will be most impressed by your contribution to this evening's work.'
Hawklan raised a hand to his mouth to hide a smile.
Esselt fired a parting shot. ‘You use his name too lightly, Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘His sanction justifies all.'
Jaldaric gave him a look of contempt but did not reply. Then massaging his ribs he grimaced in distaste as he turned again to Hawklan. ‘I don't know what to do, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Personally, from what I've seen and heard, I can't imagine that you or, for that matter, anything out of Orthlund could be an enemy to Fyorlund, but the Lord Dan-Tor has branded you as such, and this scheme for your capture was of his devising.’ He looked down, unable to meet Hawklan's gaze. ‘Tirilen was to be used to lure you closer to Fyorlund. We were to move ahead of you so that you would follow until such time as his agents could safely take you prisoner. No one was to be hurt,’ he concluded, looking up again.
He tapped his fingers nervously on the table. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘It was an error of judgement on my part to have anything to do with it. I think probably most of my men think so too.'
There were various signals of agreement from the others with the exception of a small group centred around Esselt.
'What will happen to you?’ Hawklan asked.
Jaldaric shrugged. ‘We'll return to Vakloss, report what's happened and take the consequences. But what will happen to you?'he replied. ‘I'll be subject to military discipline, but you've no such protection. Dan-Tor will send others for you...’ He hesitated. ‘And rumour has it that he has darker agents than us when need arises.'
Hawklan nodded. ‘I think I may have met some already,’ he said.
Jaldaric looked at him. ‘I don't know what you can do,’ he said. ‘Other than be on your guard. You seem more than capable of looking after yourself, and you've a friend in every Orthlundyn I've heard speak of you, but...'
Hawklan nodded again. He had known his future course of action from the moment that Tirilen's safety had been assured. It was impossible that he should attempt to recapture his old life. Loman's words about hands that wilfully destroyed harmony and balance had crystallized his thoughts. So obvious was it that he wondered how he could not have seen it before.
He used the word evil to describe the creator of these events, but he had used it as a healer, to whom evil is an inadvertent disharmony that needs correction, an accidental movement away from balance and equilibrium. Now, he realized, or perhaps remembered, that evil could be an active force. That some people knew of balance and harmony but chose deliberately to destroy them. People motivated by he knew not what, to take, and to take only. People so tormented that they could not rest while others enjoyed tranquillity.
Such thoughts had not occurred to him in his twenty years in Orthlund and with them came other, darker thoughts. Could he himself contain the seeds of such a creature? Could the strange plateau that Andawyr had shown him imprison an evil that had rightly been locked away by wise hands? However, would Dan-Tor resort to such subterfuge to waken an ally? He felt reassured. But then, evil allies would not lightly trust one another, would they?
A vista of conflicting possibilities opened before him which defied his reason to reach a conclusion. And could he trust his intuition as it cried out, ‘No. There is no evil in you'?
He had no choice. He must trust it. Both intuition and reason found no evil in Andawyr, and there had been patently much evil in that corner of the Gretmearc and in the wares offered by Dan-Tor.
Then his own words came back to him. Ignorance is a voracious, destructive, shadow-dwelling creature that must always be destroyed. Destroyed by the light of truth, no matter what horrors it exposed.
So be it, he concluded.
A light touch on his arm brought him out of his reverie. It was Tirilen.
'Are you all right?’ she asked.
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just thinking about what to do next.’ He looked at Jaldaric's concerned face.
'It would seem that neither of us knows what's happening and that both of us, and my friends, are being used in some way. I'll ride with you to meet this Lord Dan-Tor and seek an explanation from him personally. That way you'll have fulfilled at least part of his instructions, which may lessen your punishment, and I'll find out the truth of what's been happening.'
This pronouncement silenced the onlookers for a moment, then there was a babble of voices. Isloman stepped forward and took him by the arm, his craggy face alive with alarm.
'Hawklan, you can't,’ he said in disbelief. ‘You might be imprisoned, or even killed.'
Hawklan shook his head
. ‘Imprisoned? Why? I've offended no law that I know of. And I doubt I'll be killed. I'm sure that could easily have been done many times over by now. This man wants to see me alive. And I'm increasingly anxious to see him. I'm sure these young men will protect me.'
Isloman gazed skywards as if for guidance and then slapped his hands on the sides of his thighs. ‘These young men, as you call them, are soldiers, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘They'll do as their superior officers tell them. They may argue a little, but ultimately they'll do as they're ordered. And if they don't, then more soldiers will be found who will.'
'That's true, Hawklan,’ said Jaldaric. ‘If it's your choice, then you may ride under our protection but, once we're in Fyorlund, I can't guarantee your safety. I'm only a humble captain ... probably less, very shortly.'
Hawklan looked doubtful. He turned to Loman enquiringly. Without moving, Loman looked at his brother and then at his daughter. When he spoke, his voice was strained.
'You'll have to go, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘You're the centre of all this change, if not its cause. You've been chosen in some way, by some power we can't begin to understand. Jaldaric's right. Wherever you go, this Lord ... tinker ... will pursue you, and the next time he'll use less scrupulous soldiers.'
Isloman turned angrily on his brother but stopped as he met Loman's desperately sad gaze. Uncharacteristically he swore and struck the table violently with his fist as if such an outburst might assuage his doubts and pain.
'Thank you, Loman,’ said Hawklan. ‘Go with Tirilen back to the village. When you meet Ireck, tell him what's happened. Whatever happens, Gavor will bring you news.'
There were tears of bewilderment in Tirilen's eyes as she watched and listened. Hawklan took her face between his hands.
'You and I are healers, Tirilen. We have to enter into other people's pain. We have above all to see the truth no matter how painful it is. Your father spoke the truth and you know it. I have to seek out this Dan-Tor for all our sakes.'
Child and woman conflicted in Tirilen's face.
Hawklan continued. ‘You've tended your uncle's hand very well. And you did good work on that tortured heap outside the village. You'll be the village healer until I return. Don't be afraid.'
He reached into a pocket for something to dry her eyes with, and drew out the cloth that Andawyr had wrapped around his arm. It was some days now since it had fallen from his arm to reveal it sound and whole again.
'Take this,’ he said. ‘It has healing powers of some kind. Powers of weave and voice. You might be able to find out more about it in some of the books at the Castle.'
Tirilen took the cloth with a watery sniff then wiped her eyes boyishly with the back of her hand.
'You'll be all right,’ she said, half statement, half question.
Hawklan nodded. ‘Tend to the village,’ he said. Jaldaric reached out and, with a slight gesture, gently extinguished the torch that had been illuminating the tent. The change in the lighting was barely perceptible. Fyorlund torches adjusted themselves to the natural light.
'Dawn,’ he said.
'You'll find our horses nearby now,’ Hawklan said to Loman and Isloman. ‘Serian will have led them here as I asked him. Time for you to go.'
He looked at the brooding Isloman and intercepted a brief exchange of looks between the Carver and his brother.
'What are you two up to?’ he asked suspiciously. Isloman's dark look cracked into a smile, increasing Hawklan's suspicion. ‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘You're too naive to be let out on your own, as is this young man here.’ He jerked a thumb towards Jaldaric. ‘You're both going into nothing but trouble, and someone's got to look after you. Fortunately I don't have a castle to attend to, and I don't have to take orders from anyone, so I'll come with you. I could do with a change.’ He rubbed his damaged hand. ‘Besides, I've one or two questions of my own for this Dan-Tor.'
The dawn was flooding the clearing, pink and misty, as the Guards broke camp. Loman and Tirilen turned and gave a final wave before their horse carried them out of sight into the morning haze.
Hawklan and Isloman walked slowly through the dewy grass towards their horses. Gavor, sitting on Hawklan's wrist, flapped his wings restlessly.
* * *
Chapter 7
Two days later the patrol was moving briskly and steadily northwards. The sky was pregnant with great swollen clouds waiting to shed their watery burdens and send them cascading down on to the cowering land below. A boisterous west wind shouldered them into towering indignant mounds as it strove to push them eastwards over the mountains.
Jaldaric wrapped his cloak around himself and looked upwards. ‘Quite a conflict,’ he said. ‘I think we're due for a wetting soon.'
Hawklan was gazing into the grey mass accumulating overhead. Since he had seen the Viladrien sailing over Riddin some inner need had constantly drawn his eyes upwards in search of another, and his mind had been filled with a tumbling host of questions. What kind of people could live in such a place? And how? What must it be like to be at the mercy of the winds and to float through great turbulent clouds like those now broiling overhead? How must the world below seem? He had looked down from the tops of high mountains to see patchwork fields and forests, but from the height of these cloud lands ...
His imagination foundered. But the darker note that had come to taint so many of his thoughts of late would sound. ‘Enemy dispositions,’ it tolled, ‘you would see enemy dispositions.’ It saddened him, so at odds was it with the haunting beauty of the Viladrien and its barely audible, singing wake.
Jaldaric's comment brought Hawklan's mind back to earth. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think some of that water up there is about to start its long journey back to the sea.'
Jaldaric looked at him, puzzled.
Hawklan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I agree. It's probably going to rain.'
And, as if so commanded, a slow tattoo of great raindrops started to speckle the dusty road at their feet. Jaldaric turned in his saddle and looked enquiringly at his men. There was much shaking of heads and gestures to continue the journey. Cloaks were fastened and hoods pulled up. The patrol slowed to a walk.
Admitting defeat, the wind dropped and the rain came down triumphantly in a shifting vertical downpour, reducing visibility all around to a few hundred paces. Hawklan stared down, hypnotized by the coronets of spray bouncing off the road, a mobile and patternless web flowing over the almost imperceptible geometry of the ancient stone blocks.
The noise of the rain was sufficient to drown the sound of the horses’ hooves, and such conversation as there had been guttered out in the face of this opposition. Each rider withdrew into himself, and the patrol became an indistinct and introverted procession moving silently through the hissing rain.
Hawklan became aware of Isloman by his side. He raised his eyes from the glistening road and looked ahead into the greyness. Over the past two days he had seen an unexpected change come over his friend.
After the abduction of Tirilen, Loman had discarded the gruff irritation he brought to his daily duties, and had become more voluble and straightforward. Isloman, by contrast, had become quieter and had discarded in turn much of his bluff heartiness. The two brothers had moved towards one another during the crisis. An understandable reaction, thought Hawklan. Such an event must necessarily blow away the dust that daily routine laid over their real selves.
But now Isloman seemed to be oscillating between elation and troubled concern, as if two parts of him were wrestling for command of the whole.
To Hawklan it seemed that the change began after the High Guards questioned Isloman about his brother's knowledge of the Battle Language, and his own part in the Morlider War had become known.
The Orthlundyn volunteers, though small in number, had made a considerable impression on the High Guards of the day and, by now, had almost entered Fyordyn legend. To be in the presence of one and, for some of them, to have actually been hit by one, brought out an almost boyish excitement in
the young men and for a while they plagued Isloman with questions. Even the surly Esselt and his cadre showed an interest.
Now, in the grey rain, Isloman's posture showed that he was troubled again and, even though Hawklan could not see his face under the deep hood, he knew that it was pensive and lined.
'You're riding better,’ he said. ‘How are your aches and pains?'
Isloman started a little at Hawklan's voice, and then craned forward almost as if to catch the words as they fled into the distance.
'Oh fine,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I'm remembering how to ride again. And I'm easier in my mind now that Tirilen's safe.'
Hawklan picked on the word. ‘I think you're remembering more than how to ride, aren't you?’ he offered.
Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, I'm afraid so,’ he replied. ‘Talking to these young lads about the old days has brought back things I'd rather had stayed forgotten.'
'They mean no harm,’ Hawklan said. Then, in a gently mocking tone, ‘You're like something out of a history book to them. A real warrior.'
Isloman did not reply immediately, but turned his head and cast a look full of doubt at Hawklan. ‘Even you don't understand, do you?’ he said resignedly. ‘Not really.'
They rode on in silence for a while.
'It's not your fault, I suppose,’ said Isloman eventually. ‘No one can understand it who's not actually had to fight for his life—not even these ... soldiers.’ He indicated the following group with an inclination of his head. ‘It leaves you with ... feelings ... opposite feelings that shouldn't be able to exist at the same time, but do.'
Hawklan looked at his friend intently and almost immediately observed the same phenomenon in himself. The healer in him knew that Isloman must speak his concerns out loud if he was to ease his pain. But at the same time he heard his darker side coldly declaiming that Isloman must deal with this problem now or it would seriously impair his worth as a fighter. He recoiled from the thought but he knew it would not leave him.
