The Fall of Fyorlund [Book Two of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Alone in the dying light, he sat down on a grassy knoll that overlooked the long valley they had spent the day negotiating. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a longing for Anderras Darion and the calm and harmony of its encompassing mountains and rolling countryside; for Pedhavin and the silver river that ran through it; and for all his many friends there.

  Without thinking he drew his sword and, pressing its cold black hilt against his face, closed his eyes. Thoughts suddenly burst in on him as if they had been penned by some great dam. Thoughts of a tiny mannequin full of corruption; of the huge, bustling Gretmearc and the sinister trap that was laid for him there; of the malign presence of Dan-Tor seeking him out, spreading corruption into his life and through him into the lives of all the Orthlundyn; of Andawyr, that strange scruffy little man filled with light, who searched into his mind and came to him mysteriously with terrible needs; of Mandrocs and of the slaughtered guards; of a fume-choked Vakloss and of the knife-wielding vengeance of a lone, lost woman against her persecutors; of appalling carnage fringing a blackened castle, and of mines and quarries, the very sight of which had brought down his friend.

  These and many others surged and tumbled through his head beyond all control, swirling like a frenzied maelstrom seeking a path down into a cold, dark stillness.

  For a moment he floundered, then, abruptly, he let them go. They were beyond resolution. They were the myriad tiny ills that he had seen so often emanating from wounds and disease. Some could be eased for the comfort of the sufferer, but always the source should be sought and its influence assuaged.

  But was this healing in his gift? Or was he only a humble part of a greater healer's work? Again, no resolution. Only a healer's faith. Whoever or whatever he was he would oppose this corruption where he found it and seek towards its centre when he could. He had no choice.

  Gradually the clattering thoughts faded and went their way unhindered. He sat for a long time in silence and stillness until he became aware of the cold mountain air blowing around him.

  Opening his eyes, he held out the hilt of the Black Sword and looked at it. The stars inside it glittered and twinkled like reflections of the sky above him, and the intertwined strands pursued their journey into an endless distance. He felt a lightness again that he had not realized he had lost.

  They reached Eldric's stronghold late the following day. Yatsu took one look at the four travellers and immediately postponed the questions that had been building in his mind since the return of Ordan with the Mandroc armour and his tale of horror. ‘We'll hold an Officers’ Council tomorrow,’ he said simply. ‘Now you must eat and rest properly.'

  * * * *

  Hawklan sat pensively in a high-winged chair. It was ornately carved, though its arms and rails had been worn smooth by countless years of use. It was also extremely comfortable. Just above his left shoulder, Gavor slumbered, his claw closed around the top of the chair. He was muttering incomprehensibly in his sleep. Opposite Hawklan, in an identical chair, was Isloman. He was sitting upright, but his eyes were half shut and it needed no healer's touch to tell he was oblivious to everything around him.

  Hawklan gazed at him, as he had been doing for the past hour. Wilfully he avoided fretting about his friend's condition, hoping that some inspiration would drift into his mind.

  What came, however, was not what he had either expected or hoped for. This man's a liability in this condition, it said. He's too good a soldier to lose, he must be brought back into fighting fettle. The thought was so cold and callous that Hawklan slammed the palms of his hands into the arms of his chair as if the noise and pain would prevent his hearing it, or as if to punish himself for it.

  'Damn it, Isloman,’ he said fiercely. ‘Don't leave me like this. Other people depend on us. Speak, man.'

  The outburst woke Gavor, who fell off the chair and only just managed to regain his balance before hitting the floor. He glided up on to the mantelshelf that topped the large open fireplace separating the two men and, ruffled, looked down at Hawklan indignantly.

  Before he could speak, however, Isloman stirred. He opened his mouth as if to speak but no sound came. Then his great hands tightened around the arms of his chair and he swayed back and forth, racked by some inner conflict.

  Hawklan leaned forward intently. Faintly he heard, ‘The words don't exist, Hawklan...’ He caught the phrase and held it; a precious jewel glinting in the barren earth. It was a phrase common among the Orthlundyn whenever he asked about their crafts, and he himself used it when asked about his healing. ‘The words don't exist.’ He repeated them to himself.

  Around their sharp focus formed the realization that Isloman's illness was associated with his craft. It was obvious, he saw now, and he should have seen it from the start. But he refused to be lured astray by self-reproach. Isloman was still struggling. Hawklan knelt down in front of him and, taking his hands, looked into his eyes. The blankness had gone, but it had been replaced by pain.

  'I understand,’ he said. ‘I understand. It's the song, isn't it? The rock song.'

  A low distant note sounded in Isloman's throat and swelled rapidly into an almost inhuman roar. ‘There was no song,’ he cried. ‘No song. Only a great cry of horror and pain.’ He clasped his arms about himself and rocked to and fro again, as if nursing some terrible internal wound.

  'Why?’ persisted Hawklan. ‘What's happened?'

  'No words, no words,’ muttered Isloman. Then his powerful hands broke free from Hawklan's grip and shot out to seize his arms. ‘Worse than all those bodies, Hawklan. Far worse,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘So deep. Deep beyond any reaching. It's infected me, Hawklan, I can't hold on. Even to think about an obscenity like that would ... But to feel it...’ His voice tailed away and, releasing Hawklan, he rapped his hands around his bowed head and curled up like an unborn child.

  Hawklan reeled back under the impact of his friend's distress. He had hoped that the trickle of words might presage a deluge and with its passing so would pass Isloman's pain. But it had not. Instead, his friend was slipping further away as if his brief contact with the present had loosed his weakened grip.

  Guilt and doubt swept into Hawklan's mind and his head jerked desperately from side to side as if looking for help from the pictures and statues that decorated the room. A jabbering crowd of voices seemed to fill his head, raucous and clamouring.

  'Let go, Hawklan,’ said one. It was Gavor. Hawklan looked at him, perched on the mantelshelf. ‘I felt the taint, but I haven't Isloman's vision and I can fly high above and soar in the clear air which knows the truth and can purify all. Let go. Have no fear. Your mind can go no further. Your healing draws from deeper wells than any evil can know.'

  Hawklan met the enigmatic black eyes for a long moment. Gavor nodded slowly. Then, closing his eyes and turning away from the voices, Hawklan felt them vanish like smoke in the wind. He reached out and laid his hand on Isloman's head. For an instant he heard the rock song and felt its appalling defilement. ‘I'm here, Isloman,’ he said quietly. ‘I hear your song, rock-blind though I am. Listen to me. Can any defilement be beyond the aid of the maker of this, old friend?’ And, unclipping the scabbard of the Black Sword, he lifted it in his left hand and held the hilt out towards Isloman.

  As he did so, a nearby torch flared gently and its light caught the hilt's inner pattern making the stars there shimmer and dance like a myriad tiny universes.

  Isloman stared at the hilt distantly for what seemed an interminable time then, as if returning from a long journey, recognition came into his eyes, and his right hand slowly reached out and took hold of it. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as if moving some massive weight, then his left hand joined his right in clutching the black stone hilt. Tears began to run down his face, but he was not sobbing. ‘How could I have forgotten?’ he said, very softly. ‘How could I?’ His eyes opened.

  Hawklan reached back unsteadily and regained his chair. Holding out his hands he found they were trembling. Isloman's recovery
had been as sudden and startling as his deterioration had been slow.

  A faint smile appeared on Isloman's face. He shifted in the chair, then, looking at the worn carving under his hands, nodded admiringly. ‘These Fyordyn have a way with wood,’ he said irrelevantly. Then he looked at the sword intently and, apparently satisfied, held it out to Hawklan. Hawklan laid it on a nearby table. The cold thought returned to him—this recovery is fortuitous, Isloman's too good a fighter to lose—but he pushed it lightly to one side, realizing that his own violent reaction to it before was because Isloman's pain had become his own as the healer in him had reached out to help. Such thoughts had their place, he knew, for all their harshness. Only when they dominated did they destroy.

  'I feel as if I've been dropped over a cliff,’ Isloman said.

  Gavor floated down and landed on his shoulder.

  'Can you tell me what happened?’ Hawklan asked.

  'There are no words, Hawklan. You understand that.’ Isloman said. ‘Those valleys ring with a great groaning scream that pervades the whole area. The rocks are being tortured, defiled. Deep, deep down. It's unbelievable. There's no way I can describe it. I've never heard the like before and I didn't even believe it at first. Then, when I did, I was trapped. I couldn't ignore its plea and I couldn't do anything about it. Nothing. Except stand there and listen. I've no control over my rock knowledge, Hawklan. I can't shut it out. The sound tore into me and clung like a terrified animal. Imagine you'd been at that castle and seen those men being killed infinitely slowly, and known you could do nothing about it—nothing.'

  He looked at Hawklan who lowered his eyes at the thought of this comparison. Then Isloman held out his huge hand and slowly curled the fingers round into a powerful fist.

  'I've seen stone damaged by nature, Hawklan. Just as you've seen people laid low by accidents. It's not pleasant, but it has its own strange harmony, its own rightness. But this had no rightness. This was wilful desecration, torture, blasphemy. It was the work of a consciously malevolent force. I learned that in the darkness. A force that feeds on such horror and will grow stronger and faster, the more it defiles.'

  Momentarily he looked a little sheepish. ‘To be honest, I've taken all this talk about Sumeral and the Guardians with a large pinch of rock dust, for all Gulda and Eldric and the like have to say about it. It seemed too ... unlikely.’ He fixed Hawklan with a grim stare. ‘But I know now, Hawklan. Whatever name you want to give it, there's a monumental evil abroad. It's powerful and it's growing. A corruption beyond our imagining. I doubt there's any place we could hide from it, and I know there's no place I could hide from myself if I let it destroy the things I love unhindered. It may well destroy us if we turn to face it, but it will certainly destroy us if we don't.'

  A silence fell between the two men. Isloman nodded his craggy head towards the Black Sword. ‘Maybe one day, you'll understand that sword of yours, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But its perfection shone through to me like a beacon. It reminded me in my torment that harmony still existed and told me why it had to be.'

  Hawklan nodded, but found no words to answer this affirmation except, ‘You'll not be alone. There'll always be two of us.'

  'Three, dear boy,’ came Gavor's voice. ‘Three. The two of you on your own show a great propensity for solemnity. What you really need at a time like this are my bird impressions. They'll chirp you up.'

  Hawklan eyed his friend narrowly. ‘No, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Not now. Isloman needs rest, as do I. We have Yatsu's Council tomorrow. It wouldn't do for us to retire in too excited a state, would it?’ He smiled hypocritically.

  Gavor hissed at him.

  * * *

  Chapter 47

  As a deliberate act of policy on arriving at Eldric's stronghold, Yatsu asked Commander Varak to restrain all questions until Hawklan and his party returned. ‘It's an imposition, I know, Commander. But much has to be said and, as some of it will take a great deal of accepting, I'd prefer it to be said in one place at one time. I want no half truths and gossip cluttering up the proceedings. Besides, we're all very tired and in need of some rest, if you could oblige us.'

  Faced with this elite corps and the three Lords, Varak had little choice, but he chewed on his curiosity with a restless grace. When a distressed Ordan appeared carrying a strange armour he managed to confine himself to merely giving Yatsu a significant look.

  Thus the atmosphere in the Council of Officers was alive with inquiry. It was not lessened by the entrance of Hawklan with Gavor sitting on his shoulder and the powerful figure of Isloman walking beside him. Both Lorac and Tel-Odrel rose in surprise to see Isloman so suddenly recovered and they greeted him warmly.

  The Council was held in a hall with large rectangular windows through which the summer sun flooded. It was obviously a hall designed for meetings, as the light was dispersed evenly all round the large circular wooden table that formed its centrepiece.

  Apart from the Lords and the Goraidin, the senior officers of Eldric's High Guard were present, together with Hrostir, Arinndier's son, and various officers from the High Guards of the Lords Darek and Hreldar who had remained at Eldric's castle after the quartet had set off on their ill-fated journey to Vakloss.

  Darek spoke first, telling of the Lords’ trip to Vakloss and their subsequent arrest and escape. Then Yatsu told of his plan to rescue the Lords with his erstwhile companions from the Goraidin, and of the dreadful use that had been made of the diversionary riots and fire they had started. He told also of the decision by Lord Eldric to return to the Palace to demand an Accounting of Dan-Tor in the hope of saving his son's life, and of his orders that the High Guards be levied to oppose Dan-Tor.

  The tension in the room grew markedly as these tellings proceeded but, true to the Fyordyn tradition, no one interrupted.

  Next, Tel-Odrel told of the massacre of Lord Evison and his men, and of the journey into the mountains and the discovery of the mines and quarries there. At Yatsu's prior request, he made no mention of the ominous character of Evison's message, nor of the nature of the enemy that had so ruthlessly pursued and destroyed him.

  Despite their discipline, the shock of this news showed itself all too clearly on the assembled officers, though Hawklan noted that among the older men, there was almost as much reaction to the mention of the mines as to that of the massacre. Unhindered by Fyordyn tradition, he spoke. ‘Tell me about the mines,’ he said.

  There was an awkward silence, then Arinndier answered. ‘The mines are a rather ... difficult matter for us, Hawklan,’ he began. ‘They're old workings that were reopened three or four generations ago, but had to be sealed again within a few years.'

  He hesitated and Hreldar cut through his patent embarrassment. ‘They were sealed because they were dangerous, Hawklan. The topic's a sensitive one for us because the last use of the mines was as a prison colony.'

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said.

  'No, you don't,’ said Hreldar. ‘The dangers were not just the normal dangers of mining—rock falls, dust, gas and the like. There was something in ... the air ... or the rock. Over the years it affected both prisoners and guards. Men just began to ... waste away. And even when they were taken away from the mines, the wasting continued until...'

  'They died.’ It was Isloman. ‘Some rocks sing a dire song,’ he said, his face lined with distress. ‘A song of warning. I understand your pain, Lords, albeit the blame was not yours.'

  His face became thoughtful and anxious as the memory of his recent darkness returned briefly. ‘They're so vast. And so deep,’ he said, half to himself. ‘And so old. Almost as old as the rock itself.'

  Arinndier looked at him sharply.

  'Still,’ Isloman said. ‘That's a deed and a tragedy of the past. We must look to the problems of the present. What does it mean now that the mines have been reopened, and their bounty goes north?'

  'North,’ said Arinndier softly. ‘Into Narsindal.’ He looked uncertainly at Darek and Hreldar, then turned to Ha
wklan. ‘There's a legend that during the First Coming, Sumeral opened great mine workings to provide materials for His war machines. They were worked by slaves who are said to have died in their tens of thousands. They say the shafts ran so deep that they released things that were older and more evil than Sumeral Himself. Things that the Cadwanol spent generations hunting down and sealing back in the mountains after the Last Battle.'

  Irritated by this seeming digression, some of the High Guards were becoming restless. One or two exchanged glances and discreetly pulled wry faces at one another at this example of whimsy by a Lord of the Geadrol.

  Hawklan rounded on them. ‘Save your irony for another time, gentlemen,’ he said ferociously. ‘For a time when your own sanity has been well tested. Mock when you have your heel on your enemy's throat, not while your companions are rotting in the mud but a few days’ ride away.'

  No one spoke and the offending guards sat very still under the force of Hawklan's onslaught. He looked at Yatsu, who nodded to him to continue.

  Easing his chair back, he stood up and looked round at the faces of the High Guards. The power of his presence, together with the news they had received, precluded indifference, though their expressions were, for the most part, uncertain.

  'Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘as you've been told, when we met Commander Ordan he was carrying a message from the Lord Evison. A simple and brief message given by a Lord whose High Guard had just been routed and who was preparing to face what he must have known might be his last battle. The message was a small carved figure taken from one of your Festival Shrines. The fourth figure. The figure of Ethriss.'

  Involuntarily, some of the men made a brief circular movement with their hands over their hearts.

  Hawklan continued. ‘That message confirmed what I already knew and what your Lords here were coming to know. We have been born into the age of the Second Coming. Sumeral is risen again in Narsindal and you will be among the first to feel the strength He is putting forth.'