by Roger Taylor
Although it was not late and he was not particularly comfortable, his hard pace through the day had left him pleasantly weary, and he found himself drifting into sleep, then jerking suddenly awake as his body slid into some improbable position. After the third such awakening he relinquished his viewing of the night sky and, wrapping his cloak around himself, lay down on the soft grass.
Whether it was a quality of the cloak, or whether it was some ancient instinct he was unaware of, he became just another shadow in the rising moonlight, indistinguishable from all the others, as he pulled his face under the hood.
He fell asleep almost immediately but, as the remains of the evening light faded away, he began to be plagued by restless, flitting dreams. Images of the recent past came and went arbitrarily with an insane logic all their own: a horse that could not speak to him; a squat creature that tore off his arm and turned into a group of his friends when he stabbed it; a rushing cheering crowd of horsemen galloping across the sky and a cloud that sang to him a song he understood but did not understand; Dar-volci’s stentorian voice roaring profanities in a dark place full of noise and gleaming blades . . . A terrible place. No! he cried out. No! But he could not awaken. He sat up, sweating, but he knew he was still asleep.
A strange expectant silence fell on his mind. Somewhere he sensed a faint, indistinct and shifting light, and a sibilant whisper reached him, like someone shouting very loudly at a great distance.
‘Sssss, awaken, awaken . . . ssss . . .’
He tried to find the image of the light. He must see it. But it eluded him.
‘Ssss, awaken . . .’
Then, abruptly, three figures were standing in front of him pleading, and a great chorus of sound roared in his ears.
‘Awaken!’
But before he could react, they were gone, vanished, and he was truly awake, eyes staring up into the moonlit sky and his heart racing.
A noise nearby blew away the remaining memory of the dream like smoke in the wind, and drew his eyes downwards. There, not three, but two hulking figures stood before him dark against the night sky, one with a strange, sinister helm on his head.
Chapter 3
On the morning following the dance, those villagers who had to be were up at dawn as usual and away to their fields; some light-hearted, others lead-footed with reluctance. The remainder, however, were more than content to lie luxuriously abed.
It was thus a quiet Pedhavin, tranquil in the spring sunshine, that Isloman eventually woke to. For a little while he prowled casually around the house in search of Tirilen to offer her good morning but, finding her room empty and her bed in its usual state of monumental disarray, he presumed she had left quietly to avoid waking him. He smiled at the sight, reflecting that Tirilen still had some of the attributes of her more boisterous youth. He left the room with a resigned shrug and set about his day’s tasks.
Some hours later, however, Loman called to see him to borrow a sharpening stone and, imperceptibly, Tirilen’s absence began to dominate their conversation, an uneasy shade crying distantly but persistently for attention.
Their concern aroused, it took but a few inquiries around the village for them to learn that no one had seen her all that day. The uneasy shade became a chilling spectre, cold in the heart of each man.
Years before, the two brothers had quarrelled over the favours of the woman who was to become Tirilen’s mother. When she had chosen Loman, Isloman had gone to fight against the Morlider in Riddin, taking wounds and pain with him, and leaving pain and wounds behind him. Later, at his pregnant wife’s behest, an unwilling Loman had sought Isloman out on the battlefield and the horror of their personal distress had dwindled into insignificance against the horrors of the latter stages of the war. Sharing discomforts, dangers and indignities, the two brothers were reconciled, the bond reformed between them, stronger even than it had been before their quarrel.
The joy of their return after a bitter winter journey was completed by the birth of Tirilen and, in this small creature, the two brothers buried the last remnants of their animosity. Now the bond between them encompassed her also and she held them like planets round a sun. Captured, too, like a quiet mysterious comet from the distant stars, was Hawklan. Hawklan, who, within a few weeks of Tirilen’s birth, had come out of the snow-clogged mountains with the raven Gavor sheltered under his cloak to open the Great Gate of Anderras Darion; the ancient Castle that had been sealed and inaccessible since times of legend. Hawklan, who asked for nothing and imposed on none but who drew all to him with his gentle presence. Hawklan, whose quality the Orthlundyn knew was beyond their fathoming and could only be accepted like the other mysterious forces of nature.
When, three years later, Loman’s wife slipped beyond even Hawklan’s aid and died, tragically young, Tirilen’s dominion over the three men became absolute.
Hesitantly, the two brothers pieced together the events of the day to form a picture from which Tirilen was beyond doubt missing. Becoming alternately frantic and practical, each supported the other in turn until both could look clearly, if not steadily, at the realities of what might have happened.
Tirilen was adventurous but not foolhardy and she knew the local hills and mountains well, having often walked them with both Isloman, in search of rocks, and Hawklan in search of herbs and flowers. It seemed unlikely, therefore, that she had had an accident, and the two men found their tense debate dominated by the unreasoned feeling that her disappearance was in some way associated with the visit of the tinker, though how or why was beyond them.
Under normal circumstances, in such pain, they would have turned instinctively to Hawklan for advice, but he was not there. So it came to Loman that they should go after the High Guards and seek their help. With their horses and their military discipline, they would be able to cover large areas more quickly than any party from the village, and they might even have had news of the tinker. Surely they would not refuse such a request?
Thus, leaving groups of villagers scouring the immediate vicinity of the village, the two men took horse and rode off in the direction the Fyordyn had taken.
Neither were good horsemen but they made adequate, if uncomfortable, progress and soon located the site of the camp that the Fyordyn had used on the previous night. From there a trail of lightly damaged grasses and undergrowth showed that the Fyordyn had ridden towards the Pedhavin Road, before heading north, confirming the High Guard’s statement that they were heading back to Fyorlund.
Relieved that the Fyordyn seemed to be making leisurely progress, the two brothers rode through the night as rapidly as they dared, pausing only occasionally to rest the horses and to stretch their own sore limbs.
Early in the morning, they saw the High Guards’ camp in the shelter of a small copse and, turning off the road, they trotted towards it, casting long shadows on the dew-chilled grass.
A number of the Guards came forward to greet them and, as the two men dismounted, their horses were courteously taken from them and led away. However, before either could speak they found themselves quietly surrounded and held at knife and sword point. When Loman tried to move, the unequivocal intention of their captors was made quite clear.
‘Please don’t attempt to escape. We’ve orders to hold you until Jaldaric can see you,’ said one, resting the point of his long sword on Loman’s throat.
Isloman reached out gently and rested a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. Casting his eyes about significantly into the surrounding trees and bushes and at the group of men holding them, Isloman sent the obvious message to his brother.
Although it was unlikely that any of these young men had been in actual combat, they were trained soldiers and as such were not going to commit themselves to violence, where random chance could play too high a part, unless it was absolutely necessary. They had, therefore, ensured the two brothers were totally overwhelmed. Each was restrained by four sharp points, at least two of which, at any one time, were out of sight and were signalled only
by the occasional gentle prod in the back. Then there were two bowmen some distance away, weapons at the ready, and clear sounds of movement in the nearby trees.
Isloman looked steadily down into the face of the man opposite him and took some satisfaction in the man’s inability to return his gaze. Loman fumed and roared, but did not move.
After a few minutes, Jaldaric came out of one of the tents. Loman smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but Jaldaric waved him to silence. When he spoke, both his manner and voice were formal. ‘I regret that it was necessary to abduct your daughter,’ he said bluntly to Loman. Both the captive brothers gaped, but found no words. Jaldaric looked down fleetingly then, recovering himself, continued. ‘It was done at the direct order of a superior and we had . . . no choice. She’s unharmed and is currently being taken to Fyorlund where she’ll be given every consideration. Now, unfortunately, you’ll have to come as well, but you too will be given every courtesy if you behave correctly.’
Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed the two men to the care of their guards and turning on his heel walked quickly back to the tent he had just come from, his shoulders hunched high, showing the inner tension that he had managed to keep from his voice.
Before either man could recover sufficiently to even shout questions after the retreating figure, the surrounding sword points began shepherding them towards another tent.
‘Just do as you’re told and no harm will come to anyone,’ said one of the High Guards. ‘This tent’s a bit rough, but we weren’t expecting you. We’ll find you something better tomorrow.’
Loman swore at him roundly, but moved as he was bidden.
Inside the bare tent, Loman spent some considerable time raging after Jaldaric and his companions, but eventually he fell silent and slumped on to the ground with his back against the tent’s central pole. As the day wore on, they were given food and drink, which Isloman was just able to prevent being hurled by Loman at the head of the man who brought it. But no one spoke to them, nor offered any answers to their questions, and the entrance to the tent was guarded all the time.
In between fits of rage and frustration, the two men tried to make some sense of their predicament, but their conjectures led them nowhere other than into more frustration. Tirilen’s abduction was almost unbelievable in itself, but to learn that it had been done by High Guards of Fyorlund left the two brothers floundering hopelessly. The High Guard were the epitome of Fyorlund chivalry; their action made no sense. Eventually, however, as night came, physical and emotional fatigue took its toll and the two men fell asleep.
Isloman woke up suddenly from a fitful, dream-racked slumber. He shook his brother and gestured silence. Something seemed to be out of place. Cautiously he crawled to the entrance of the tent and peered out. The guards were not there, and there were sounds of merriment coming from one of the other tents.
He found it hard to believe that the High Guards could be so neglectful of their duty but, realizing that a similar chance was unlikely to occur again, he gestured frantically to Loman. The full implications of this lapse by the High Guards passed between the two brothers with a mere glance and, after pausing only until a cloud slid in front of the moon, they ran crouching and silent to where their horses were tethered. Fighting down a powerful urge just to mount and flee they led the horses on foot quickly and quietly out of the camp.
After several minutes, Loman stopped. ‘What are we doing?’ he said. ‘We must go back for Tirilen.’ His shocked voice was loud in the still darkness.
Spinning round as if struck, Isloman seized him and clamped a huge hand violently over his mouth.
For a moment Loman struggled, but even in the moonlight he could see the desperate plea in Isloman’s eyes, and he became still.
‘I want to go back too,’ Isloman hissed, slowly removing his hand. ‘But we don’t even know if Tirilen’s there, do we? She’s being taken to Fyorlund, Jaldaric said. And, in any case, what can we do against so many trained soldiers, even if they’re a bit the worse for drink at the moment?’
Loman glowered furiously but did not speak. Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, we could do a great deal of damage. But that’s all. We’d still end up being killed, and then what would happen to Tirilen?’ Loman turned his face away as Isloman continued. ‘We need help. We’ll have to go back to the village.’
Breathing heavily, but still without speaking, Loman clambered on to his horse and started off at a canter. Isloman glanced back at the camp briefly and then mounted up and rode after his brother. Behind the two men, the sound of carousing and laughter faded into the distance.
They rode back to Pedhavin as they had never ridden before and reached it in the middle of the morning, stiff and weary, with horses steaming and foaming.
Their noisy arrival brought out many of the villagers and it was barely a matter of minutes before they were pouring out their tale to a gathering of the High Fellows of the Guild. The predominant reaction was one of shock and disbelief. The Orthlundyn regarded the Fyordyn as an honourable people, some of the older men referring to them as the Protectors of Orthlund. This act of treachery was beyond most of them to grasp immediately and Loman and Isloman had to repeat their tale several times before any semblance of a clear decision was reached.
Ireck summarized it. ‘Now you’ve escaped, they’ll assume you’ll return with help, so they’ll probably make haste northwards. We’ll gather such as can be spared and go after them, though I doubt we’ll be able to catch them. You two must wait here for Hawklan. He should be on his way back by now. We need his guidance.’
Both Isloman and Loman bridled at this suggestion, but Ireck used the authority of their long friendship and was unequivocal.
‘Every one of us around this table loves Tirilen. What’s happened defies belief, but we’re carvers, we must see things the way they are. You two are too heated and you’ve been warriors in your day. If you go, there’ll be fighting.’ He gave Loman a stern look. ‘Look at you, Loman. You’re clenching your fist even while I’m talking to you.’ Loman breathed out heavily and put his hands behind his back awkwardly. Ireck continued. ‘If there’s fighting, then others than yourselves may be hurt, or worse. Could either of you carry that burden? That Jaldaric struck me as a reasonable and honest young man. If enough of us go to him peacefully they’ll not be able to take us captive, and I doubt they’ll fight us if we don’t attack, so there’s a chance we might resolve the matter by talking. Don’t you agree?’
Isloman was about to argue, but surprisingly, Loman cut him short. ‘You’re right, Ireck, it’s a good idea. Besides, Tirilen wouldn’t want anyone hurt on her account. And we do need Hawklan’s advice.’
He looked round at the wooden beams overhead and at the sunlight washing across the floor, then at the ceremonial stone table they were all sitting around. Unlike the rest of the village, but like the remainder of this room, the table was completely undecorated in symbolic homage to the greater carvers yet to come.
‘It’s a sad tale to relate around our Meeting Table, friends,’ he went on. ‘But I’m indebted to you, Ireck, for your sound sense. Do what you can. Isloman and I will do our best to wait patiently for Hawklan.’
‘When he arrives, give him the horse I bought,’ said Jareg. ‘Whatever he did to it, he’s cured it, and it’s a fine animal.’
Loman bowed. ‘Thank you, Jareg, but I doubt that Hawklan will ride it. You know what he’s like.’
‘He’ll ride it for Tirilen, Loman,’ said Jareg. ‘Offer it to him. He’ll need it. Times are moving too quickly for walking.’
* * * *
Almost before his mind could register the fact, Hawklan rolled away from the menacing shadows and rose quickly to his feet. As he did so he drew his sword in one singing sweep, though it felt heavy and reluctant in his hand.
In spite of his terror, part of his mind seemed to be watching him: noting with approval his rapid glance around the whole area for other attackers and commending him for the speed with
which he recovered his balance when he caught his foot in his cloak as he stood up.
Taken aback by the quickness of this movement, the two figures seemed to be momentarily paralysed. Then, suddenly, to Hawklan’s horror, the strange helm on the taller of the two seemed to come to life. Hawklan crouched low and waited for whatever attack might come from this apparition.
‘Dear boy,’ said a familiar voice, laden with both alarm and reproach. The helm flapped its great black wings. ‘Fine way to greet friends.’
Hawklan straightened up and lowered his sword as the faces of Loman and Isloman became clearer in the moonlight. His immediate reaction of delight and relief was, however, stemmed by the appearance of his friends. They were grim-faced and armed.
Before Hawklan could speak, Loman stepped forward, his face fighting for control over some powerful emotion.
‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Help us. Tirilen has been taken by strangers.’
It took the two men but moments to tell the tale of Tirilen’s disappearance, their ill-fated encounter with the High Guards, and the decisions made by the Guild.
‘We couldn’t wait back in the village,’ said Loman, almost sheepishly. ‘You might have been gone for weeks. We had to try and find you.’
Hawklan nodded silently.
‘It’s a good job I heard them, dear boy,’ said Gavor. ‘You disappear without trace when you wear that cloak in the dark. They’d have walked straight past us.’
Even now, Hawklan was difficult to see, wrapped in his cloak and squatting on the shadow-dappled ground, as he listened to his friends’ tale. He kept his body very still in an attempt to keep his mind calm, but he felt it was beginning to race out of control. The blows recently struck against him were disturbing and mysterious enough, but this strange and sinister happening seemed to dwarf everything else.
Something within him told him that he was the cause of Tirilen’s abduction, and that he was being led towards some destiny beyond his seeing at the moment. Both logic and an inner resolve brought him to the same conclusion, namely that he must seek out the person, or thing, that was seeking him, and confront it, or he would be pursued endlessly and his friends would be crushed one by one in the wake of his flight.
