by Roger Taylor
Then he was with Isloman, sharing equally the centre of attention, and it was agreed that one of the elders should accompany them to Anderras Darion to discuss the matter thoroughly with elders from other villages.
So it was as they passed through each village on their southward journey – Greater Hapter (the smaller of the two villages), Astli, Perato, Oglin, Halyt Green, Wosod Heath, Lamely Bend and others – the response was always the same. The people knew that something horrific had happened. They knew. And always their darkness eased a little when they learned the truth.
Hawklan had never known the Orthlundyn to be a simple folk. Each year he had lived with them he had learned to respect more and more the sophistication and deep wisdom that lay in their apparently simple life; their natural awareness of balance and order, of freedom within discipline, their respect for each other’s freedom. A respect that had made him welcome and left him unquestioned in all his years with them, despite the mystery of his sudden appearance and his acceptance by Anderras Darion. Now, however, a force was at work deep within them that he had never known before, never even suspected.
Abruptly he felt lonely and lost, and woefully inadequate to serve these people who seemed now, in some way, to be looking to him for guidance.
With the passing of each village their little party grew and, as most of the newcomers were old, their progress necessarily became slower. Gavor chuckled to himself from time to time as he looked down on the raggle-taggle parade wending its painstaking way along the old road, through the Orthlund countryside, boisterous with new growth and life.
‘A fine strapping army you have there, O mighty Prince,’ he gloated, landing with wilful awkwardness on Hawklan’s shoulder and steadying himself by sticking his wooden leg in Hawklan’s ear. Hawklan glowered at him and Isloman shook with silent laughter.
It was Gavor’s irreverent clowning that had prevented the little cavalcade dropping into corrosive introspection and fretfulness, but Isloman found it difficult to equate this Gavor with the one who had filled the sky with an ancient death song and then slit the throats of Mandrocs with his murderous black spurs. Spurs of the same metal as Hawklan’s strange sword. Spurs found by his brother near where the sword had fallen. Spurs that fitted his ridiculous wooden leg.
Isloman stared thoughtfully at the pair riding just ahead and to one side of him. Occasionally Gavor would hop on to Hawklan’s head and extend his great shining wings in a luxuriant gesture and, to Isloman, the image of his old friend changed briefly from travel-stained and weary healer to a haunted, haggard leader, battle-wearied and a long way from what he loved, a terrible helm on his head and a black slaying sword by his side.
Eventually the distant towers of Anderras Darion came into view and, in spite of himself, Hawklan began to find it increasingly difficult to maintain the leisurely pace that the older people needed.
Gavor found it quite impossible and, as the party prepared to leave Tulhavin, the last village before Pedhavin, he appeared, meticulously groomed and carrying a particularly obnoxious morsel in his beak.
‘I’ll tell them you’re coming,’ he spluttered out of the side of his beak, then, as if an afterthought, ‘Then I’d better see my friends. They’ll be missing me.’
Shaking his head as he watched the black shape dwindle urgently into the distance, Hawklan turned to Isloman. ‘I’ll be glad to see familiar faces around me again,’ he said. ‘And familiar things.’
Isloman nodded and looked at his hands. ‘Yes. I’ve been too long away from my rock. All this has awakened too many old memories.’
Hawklan looked at him seriously. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going to happen, Isloman, but I’m certain that we’ll only get a brief respite at the Castle. I fear there’s more than old memories being awakened and my heart tells me we’re on the verge of journeyings and events that’ll offer us no rest in the future.’
Isloman leaned forward and patted his horse’s head with his great gentle hand. ‘I know,’ he said. Then, enigmatically, ‘Everyone knows.’
Hawklan did not reply.
‘We still have to seek out this Dan-Tor,’ continued Isloman. ‘And I can’t avoid the feeling that when we do it’ll only be the beginning of more trouble.’
‘Rrisss awake.’
The voice sounded distant in Hawklan’s head, whispering with an unrelenting urgency. He turned sharply to Isloman.
‘What did you say?’
Isloman shrugged. ‘I said it’ll probably be the beginning of more trouble.’
Hawklan shook his head irritably. ‘No, no. After that.’
‘Nothing,’ said Isloman.
‘Thriss . . .’came the voice again – or voices. There was a quality in the sound that could brook no delay. It was the same sound he had heard in his dream in the mountains and it drew him irresistibly. He stood in his stirrups and looked around desperately.
‘There it is again,’ he said, steadying Serian, who had become restless under him.
‘I heard nothing,’ said Isloman. ‘It’s the wind in the trees.’
‘Sssss . . .’ again, but fainter, as if carried away by the wind, or as if the caller were tiring.
‘There,’ cried Hawklan excitedly. ‘Right there.’ He pointed. ‘Right ahead of us. Over the hill.’
Isloman watched his friend’s agitation in amazement. He was about to say that he could hear nothing when Hawklan bent down over his horse’s head.
‘Now, Muster horse, let me see you gallop,’ he said, and with a shake of his proud head, Serian leapt forward.
Momentarily dumbfounded, Isloman stared after the thundering horse now rapidly receding into the distance with its rider’s cloak flying wildly behind him. Then, coming suddenly to his senses, he shouted to the group to wait until he returned, and urging his horse forward, he set off at full gallop after his friend.
Chapter 14
Serian carried Hawklan to the top of the hill effortlessly. There, Hawklan reined him to a halt and looked along the road ahead. In the distance the towers of Anderras Darion shone in the morning light like great jewels crystallized in the ancient mountains, but the road in front of him dipped down into a wooded hollow untouched by the sun, and isolated tree tops protruded through a thick mist like saplings and shrubs in the snow.
Hawklan felt a surging excitement.
‘Ethriss. Awaken,’ came the voice, or was it voices? Strong at first, seeming almost to echo from the distant towers, but fading rapidly.
‘No!’ roared Hawklan at the top of his voice. ‘No!’ And driving his knees into the horse he urged him forward at full gallop down into the mist.
As soon as they entered, however, the horse slowed to a cautious walking pace and the dripping silence of the woodland mist folded round them. As the cold dampness struck through him, some impulse made Hawklan draw his sword.
It felt strange in his hand – powerful and alive – as if leading him. He looked at the hilt. The two intertwined strands at its heart seemed to be catching a light from somewhere and were glinting brilliantly, threading an infinite way through the myriad stars that surrounded them.
‘Ethriss, awaken.’ The voice was faint and weak, but a flicker of light seemed to run along the strands in response.
A soft movement in the air thinned the mist briefly and, shimmering in the distance, Hawklan saw four indistinct figures. He leapt down from his horse and ran forward along the road, the sound of his footsteps dying flatly in the greyness. The mist sighed silently back again and the figures were obscured, but Hawklan ran on.
‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘Wait!’ Then he halted suddenly as a dark hooded figure emerged through the mist a little way head.
‘Wait for what?’ it asked in a sharp, cross voice. A woman’s voice.
Hawklan ignored the question and ran up to her. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked.
‘Others? What others, young man?’
‘They were with you. Three of them. They were calling out to me.’
&nbs
p; The woman’s head tilted to one side quizzically. Hawklan ran a few steps forward into the mist, looking desperately from side to side in a vain attempt to see through it and swinging his sword wildly as if to cut a pathway. A sense of loss was rising in him. He ran in another direction.
‘There’s no one here, young man, as you can see. I’m on my own.’ The woman’s voice showed marked impatience. Hawklan stopped his pacing, his face pained.
‘But I saw them,’ he said quietly. ‘And I heard them. They were here with you. Standing behind you.’
The woman flicked her hood back revealing a face as cross as her voice. It was an oddly striking face; one that drew the eye, though not beautiful. Its predominant feature was a long pointed nose overhanging a tight-lipped mouth and buttressing a determined forehead. From under the shade of this, two piercing blue eyes peered out. Judging from her stooped posture and the support she took from a stick, she was old, but Hawklan could not have guessed her age. Her gaze was remarkable.
‘Three you say?’ she asked. Hawklan nodded. She gave a non-committal grunt and stared at him relentlessly.
‘You a bandit?’ she demanded after a moment. The suddenness of this eccentric question nonplussed Hawklan and his mouth opened and closed vaguely.
‘No,’ he managed eventually and rather weakly.
‘What’s that then?’ she asked, bringing her stick up and pointing to his sword.
‘A sword,’ he replied helplessly.
She took a purposeful step towards him. ‘Do you always address a lady with a sword in your hand?’
Hawklan felt his face redden, and clumsily he put the sword back into its scabbard with a mumbled apology.
‘Should think so too,’ snorted the woman. ‘Charging out of the mist shouting and yelling and waving your sword – looking for people who aren’t there. Frighten a defenceless old woman to death you could.’
Hawklan was beginning to think this was most unlikely, but he kept his own counsel. He gazed round again, but he knew that the three other figures would not be there. They had been round this woman whether she knew it or not, but they were gone now, that was beyond doubt. A vision of a great glowing answer to the questions that plagued him had opened before him, he knew, but it had slipped away as easily as the mist through the leaves of the trees. Now in place of this vision, he was standing in a dank, foggy dell, talking to a cantankerous old woman he had never seen before and who could quite legitimately reproach him for his conduct.
‘May I escort you through the rest of the wood?’ he offered tentatively.
Up came the stick again. ‘Don’t you soft soap me, young man. What would I want with an escort who sees things, hey? Be on your way, or I’ll give you a taste of my stick.’
Hawklan was not a man to hold on to an indefensible position indefinitely and he was about to go back for his horse when a great shape loomed up out of the mist.
‘I don’t believe it,’ came Isloman’s voice. ‘I thought I recognized those dulcet tones.’ He jumped down from his horse. ‘Old Memsa Gulda, as I live and breathe. And not changed a jot.’
The woman looked at him ferociously.
‘Don’t you recognize me, Gulda?’
The woman stepped forward and peered intently up at him. ‘I used to know an impudent young whelp called Isloman who had the look of you – snotty-nosed little imp. Quarrelled with his brother over some girl and then went off to the wars as I recall.’
‘Not so snotty-nosed by then, Gulda,’ said Isloman, slightly subdued.
She was contemptuous. ‘You’re all snotty-nosed. Men. Eternally in need of some attention or other or you’ll be off creating trouble.’ She stepped back a little and looked him up and down as if she were contemplating a purchase. ‘You’ve aged, lad.’ Her voice was quieter.
The mist brightened a little as the morning sun skimmed over the hollow.
Isloman stroked his horse. ‘Of course I’ve aged. It’s been a long time since you left, Gulda,’ he said. ‘Probably twenty years or so. Where did you go? Why did you leave so suddenly?’
The stick came up and prodded him in the stomach. ‘Cheeky as ever, I see, young Isloman. I go where I go, and for my own reasons.’ Then, with a prod for each word, ‘Just like you did.’ The stick relented. ‘A woman needs a little peace now and then, a little time away from people and their noise.’
Isloman was about to speak when the woman released another barrage. ‘And it’s Memsa to you, my lad,’ she added indignantly. ‘Gulda indeed. I’ll give you Gulda. And a little less of the old if you please. I’d say I’ve weathered the years better than you have, wouldn’t you?’
Isloman seemed uncertain about how to react to this fierce reminder of his youth. He found boyhood fears surprisingly near the surface under the threat of her gaze and her stick.
She spared him further reflection. ‘What are you doing here then? Looking after this lunatic?’ She continued looking at Isloman, but the stick pointed to Hawklan, standing listening to this exchange with some amusement.
‘Gul . . .’ Isloman faltered. ‘Memsa, this is Hawklan,’ he finished formally.
Slowly she turned her head and looked at Hawklan severely. The she grunted thoughtfully. ‘Hawklan. The healer. The Key Bearer. I’ve heard a lot about him round and about.’
She walked round him, looking him up and down as she had Isloman.
‘Who is she?’ Hawklan mouthed silently to Isloman over her head.
Isloman made a tiny movement with his hand to indicate explanations later.
‘Stop that,’ snapped Gulda without altering her pace. Then suddenly, to Hawklan, ‘Perhaps you’d tell me, young man, why the Key Bearer of Anderras Darion should charge about in the mist, sword in hand, chasing shadows?’
Hawklan spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you. I heard someone calling and I saw the figures by you.’
‘You’ve said that once,’ said Gulda impatiently. ‘And I’ve told you I’m alone.’
Hawklan shrugged. ‘They were there. I saw them. Just behind you.’
‘She wrinkled her nose suspiciously. ‘What were they calling?’
Hawklan told her.
‘Ethriss, eh?’ she muttered, again to herself. Then, to Hawklan, sharply, ‘Is your name Ethriss?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Then why did you gallop into the mist like a madman at the sound of his name?’ she pressed.
Hawklan shrugged uncertainly. ‘It was me they were calling out to,’ he said quietly. Gulda looked at him darkly for a long moment and then pulled up her hood so that her face disappeared into its shade except for the end of her nose which floated white in the darkness.
Abruptly she turned round and headed off down the road. After a few paces she turned. ‘Come on,’ she said crossly.
Hawklan waved vaguely in both directions. ‘I thought you were going . . . that way.’
‘Bah,’ she snorted and, turning again, stalked off into the mist. Her voice floated back through the greyness. ‘I’ll see you two at the Castle.’
Isloman swung up on to his horse, a wide grin on his face. ‘Loman’ll be pleased, I don’t think. Get your horse and catch her up. I’ll fetch the others.’ Then a deep chuckle bubbled out of him. ‘But keep out of the way of that stick. And watch your lip, young fella.’
Before Hawklan could speak, Isloman had trotted off into the lightening mist and Hawklan could hear him laughing to himself.
Mounting, he urged Serian gently forward after the woman. As he reached the top of a small rise and emerged into the sunlight, he was surprised to see how far the woman had travelled. For all her appearance of age, and her stick and stoop, she had a long purposeful stride and he had to trot Serian forward briskly to catch up with her.
He debated offering her the saddle, but was dubious about the reception of such a suggestion, so he dismounted a little way behind her.
‘Come along, young man, don’t dawdle,’ she said without turning round. ‘I’ve got que
stions to ask you. Quickly, quickly!’
Hawklan found himself running forward like a schoolboy in response to these instructions. When he reached her he found he needed his long legs to match her unrelenting pace. He cast a sideways look at her, but the hood covered her face and he could see nothing but the end of her nose ploughing steadily forward like the prow of a ship.
A combination of courtesy and amused alarm stopped him asking any questions as they strode on in silence along the old stone road. Occasionally she would mutter to herself as if participating in some internal debate, then, ‘Give me your sword, young man,’ she said sharply.
Hawklan hesitated. Her right hand stretched out impatiently and the morning bird-song was silenced momentarily by two resounding cracks as she snapped her fingers to indicate that hesitation was not what she had asked for. Hawklan drew the sword and handed it to her gingerly.
‘Take care,’ he said. ‘It’s very sharp.’
Gulda grunted and her long fingers closed around the hilt. Hawklan noted the grip. It was not that of a woman examining a dangerous curiosity. It was a swordsman’s grip.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you were used to weapons.’
Briefly her pace slowed and there was a slight inclination of the head. Then there was another grunt and she strode out again. The sword hilt went to the end of the long nose and was turned round and round, then each part of the sword in turn was similarly scrutinized. Abruptly she stopped walking.
‘Well, well, well. Ethriss’s sword. His black sword.’ Her voice had lost its cantankerous quality and was quiet and full of many emotions. ‘I thought it might be, but I couldn’t be sure in that mist. Then, who’d have expected to see it ever again? How did you come by it, healer?’
‘I found it in the Castle Armoury,’ Hawklan said. The hooded head turned towards him. With the sun in his eyes he could see nothing of her face, but he could sense those piercing blue eyes, sharp in the blackness of the hood, missing nothing. Then she turned away, and striding out again gave an enigmatic laugh.
