by Roger Taylor
'I don't know what to say, gentlemen,’ he began. ‘What we've learned today together with what we've been told by Isloman and the Queen gives us an appalling picture. One that confirms the very worst of the conjectures and suspicions we've been debating for so long. One that...'
'One that demands immediate action,’ Arinndier interrupted again. Eldric raised a hand to stop him, but this time he would not be silenced. ‘We must stop debating and act.’ Again, other voices were raised in support.
'We're far short of our full strength,’ Eldric said hastily, though as soon as he uttered the words he cringed inwardly as he realized he had allowed himself to be drawn into this irrelevant debate.
'There's more than enough,’ Arinndier said. ‘Dan-Tor's hurt. The Mathidrin have been drawn in from miles around and by all accounts they're billeted everywhere, totally unprepared for a major attack. We mightn't even face effective opposition in Vakloss itself if we move quickly.'
Eldric grimaced. ‘My every instinct is to agree with you, Arin,’ he said. ‘There's nothing I'd rather do now than arm and ride to face Dan-Tor, battle horns blaring, and hack the man and his black-liveried creatures down.’ He slapped the table and closed his eyes in frustration. ‘But these aren't the thoughts of rational men, are they?’ he continued more quietly. ‘We're all shocked. Look at the way we're conducting ourselves. We all need time to take in this dreadful news.'
But Arinndier pressed on. ‘We've taken too much time already, Eldric,’ he said. ‘We can't debate this endlessly.'
Eldric put his hands to his head in an attempt to bring his own thoughts under control before the meeting deteriorated into a noisy brawl. ‘For mercy's sake, Arin. Think,’ he said. ‘In the short time I've been here, even I can see we haven't enough men or supplies for a full assault on the City. Hreldar and Darek's men are presumably still far from fighting standard. We don't even yet know the sympathies of all our neighbours. What price our flanks and supply lines, Arin? It's a long way to Vakloss.'
Arinndier turned away as if not to hear such arguments. Eldric continued.
'And if we arrive unscathed at the City, what then? Street fighting. Man to man. Probably something these creatures are good at. And all done in the midst of frightened citizens milling everywhere. It would be like a battle of rats. Who knows how many would die?'
'It doesn't have to be that way...’ Arinndier began, turning back.
Yatsu interrupted. ‘Lord Eldric's correct,’ he said. ‘We must allow time for the shock of this news to pass. With the possible exception of Tel-Odrel and Lorac, none of us here are in a fit state to discuss tactics and strategy. We must collect ourselves and honour the death of our King fittingly.'
Arinndier turned on him angrily. ‘By doing nothing?’ he said.
Yatsu held his gaze. ‘By behaving like Fyordyn, Lord,’ he said, scarcely containing his own anger. ‘Have you forgotten so soon what we've just been told? Men and supplies are irrelevant. Dan-Tor isn't a man, he's a ... demon ... a natural force—or an unnatural one ... what you will, it doesn't matter. The point is that he obliterated half a city with a mere gesture. Would you move close-ranked infantry or cavalry against such a force, Lord?'
Yatsu's words hung cold and unrelenting in the sunlit air of the meeting hall, their implications brutal in their simplicity. For a moment Arinndier searched for a rebuttal but, finding none, his truer self asserted itself and his rage evaporated. He bowed his head. ‘I'm sorry Goraidin, Eldric. You're right. Grief unmans us all. I apologize. I'll leave you until...'
He stood up.
'Stay, Arin,’ Eldric said gently. ‘We'd be poor souls indeed if we didn't rage at such events. You spoke no more than the rest of us thought.'
Arinndier remained standing and looked at Eldric. Despondency had filled the void that his anger had left. ‘But what could we do against such a power?’ he said quietly.
Eldric shook his head. ‘What Yatsu said is correct. The prospect of ranks of men walking against such a force is unthinkable. And yet one man did, and survived.’ He looked at the inert form of Hawklan, sitting next to Isloman, seemingly asleep but eerily present. ‘We're a long way from the Geadrol in every sense now, Arin,’ he went on. ‘All we have is more and more questions, and fewer and fewer answers.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘It's all well beyond Gathering, I'm afraid. So I suppose that logic dictates we must leap beyond logic for our guidance.'
He fell silent and stared down at the table pensively for a while. ‘For what it's worth, gentlemen, my feeling is that we must prepare our men to fight his men, and that opposition to his power, and the power of his Master, will come from some other source. Though Ethriss knows where.’ He looked again at Hawklan for a moment, then turned back to Yatsu, practical now. ‘Failing that, we'll have to approach him by stealth and assassinate him.'
Before anyone could respond, he became brisk and matter of fact. ‘In any event, those are ideas for another time. Another time quite soon,’ he added reassuringly. ‘Now I must see the Queen, and express our sorrow and horror at what's happened and assure her of our continuing loyalty. By the Law, she's our ruler now. Yatsu, Varak, gather everyone into the main courtyard. I don't relish it, but it's my duty to tell them about this and the sooner it's done the better. Tomorrow I declare to be Dith-Galar, a day of mourning for our King, when we can each ponder and remember in stillness and quiet, and remind ourselves of the great gift of life. After that we can indeed begin to talk about the future.'
He stood up quickly and with a curt nod dismissed the meeting. As chairs scraped back and low conversations began, a thought struck him and he raised his hand for attention. ‘A small point, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘No. Not a small one,’ he added reflectively. ‘A most important one. And though he's not here, I ask the pardon of the man concerned for not mentioning it before.’ He looked at the circle of men. ‘The part of Secretary Dilrap in this matter is to be mentioned to no one. That man alone is worthy of our best efforts. The King is dead, but a brave man lives, and we must honour and protect him by our silence. Absolute silence, for his sake and for our own. One whiff of gossip and he could be extinguished like a candle.’ He raised a cautionary finger. ‘Remember.'
Outside the meeting hall, Isloman's helpers came to take Hawklan from him, but he waved them away with a friendly gesture. Now he would have to ponder his own future plans. He could sit Hawklan on the balcony to his room and talk to him about them.
As he walked through the castle, he realized he had few alternatives. Without Hawklan, he was little use to the Fyordyn, except as an extra sword hand, or perhaps a training officer. And if he stayed, what of Hawklan? He was beyond Hylland's help. He would be a burden. And what of Loman and Tirilen? What of all Orthlund?
In his mind he saw the future rough-formed by broad cleaving strokes such as he might use at the beginning of a large carving. The Fyordyn would have to fight just to regain their own country but, that done, they were worldly-wise enough to know that they would then have to look north to Narsindal and move against the cause of their plight if they were to be safe in the future.
As the Riddinvolk had turned to their neighbours for help against the suddenly dangerous Morlider, so the Fyordyn would need help for such a venture. But what kind of help? Men and materials of course. But to counter the likes of Dan-Tor? The Uhriel? This was beyond the province of ordinary men.
He looked down at Hawklan.
A group of High Guard cadets ran past him, laughing, the sound forming golden chains which offered to bind him to the solid reality of Eldric and the Goraidin.
They would guide the Fyordyn as well as any men might. But, he realized quite suddenly, they could not guide him. He had to bear a different burden and travel a different path.
He must return to Anderras Darion. There might be the knowledge to waken Hawklan. There might be the knowledge of where to find aid to oppose the power of the Uhriel.
More people passed by, as the many inhabitants of the castle began to
converge on the courtyard. One of them was the Goraidin Olvric who, with Yengar, had observed Eldric's confrontation with Dan-Tor and his subsequent treacherous arrest. Isloman acknowledged the man's passing salute with a smile, but it faded quickly as he continued on his way.
Olvric made him uneasy. In some subtle way he radiated a darkness that Isloman did not find in the other Goraidin. He had met similar men during the Morlider War. Trustworthy and loyal, men to be turned to in extremity, but different. Either lacking or possessing a quality that demanded they seek out just such extremities. Demanded that they pit themselves against other men.
'We'll have to approach him by stealth and assassinate him.’ Eldric's words returned to him abruptly. Already the grim logic of war was working. Silent, personal, murder. To kill the one to save the many. Necessary, but ...
He reached Hawklan's room and, briefly, the thoughts left him as he struggled awkwardly with the handle. But as it clicked open, the dark images returned; murdered guards, soft footfalls whispering along still passageways, blackened faces and black-bladed knives; Olvric's work. He shook his head irritably at the injustice of this last thought as he shouldered the door open.
A hooded figure rose up suddenly from the bed, and moved towards him.
* * *
Chapter 10
The name of Elewart is written deep into many of the legends of the First Coming, though perhaps in none so deeply as those of the Riddinvolk, who claim him for their first true king and the creator of the Muster.
It is said that he was a great and beloved ruler of the people who were to become the Riddinvolk, at a time in the earliest days of the rise of Sumeral when the Guardians slept but were still remembered, and His beauty and will could be seen truly by only a few: a few who dared not raise their voices against the clamorous worship that He drew to Himself.
Elewart, among many, fell to His will, but alone among many, rose high in His favour, leading his people to His service so that they too were bound by Him and, unknowing, spread His subtle corruptions far and wide in the guise of light and hope. But there came a time, when, in the anguish of his love for the foully betrayed Gwelayne, the darkness fell from Elewart's eyes, and he too understood the truth of his Master, and sought to lead his people away.
And, say the Riddinvolk, Sumeral in His rage and shame at His own treachery, cursed Elewart with a great deformity and banished him for his temerity. But such was the spirit that fired Elewart that he raised an army of horse warriors so great and powerful that Sumeral fled before him in great fear, taking refuge deep in the mountains to the north.
There, fate decreed that He should come upon Elewart alone, rapt in thought and sad memories in a soft and fertile valley where he and his Gwelayne had first sworn their love. And there in His terror and anger Sumeral unleashed such power that Elewart was destroyed utterly, and the entire valley with him, from end to end.
Others tell a different tale, saying that Elewart was treacherously slain while Sumeral spoke words of forgiveness and friendship under a flag of peace; while others again say that Sumeral had not then given man the gift of war, and that He destroyed Elewart not in fear but in hatred and envy of the love that Elewart and Gwelayne had had and that He must ever be denied.
But all agree that He used the Old Power from the Great Searing and that the valley became a dead and barren place, beyond all hope of redemption, to be ever haunted by the voices of Elewart and Sumeral as they discoursed before His treacherous blow, and the tragic sighs of the beautiful Gwelayne.
* * * *
The wind sang its perpetual, low, echoing song along the Pass of Elewart. Bleak and weather-blasted peaks stood dark and brooding under a sullen, slow-moving, grey sky, but nothing stirred except the occasional flurry of dust along the wide pathway that wound its uneven way along the valley floor. No trees or grasses bent gracefully before the wind, for no vegetation grew there except tight-clinging lichen, patching the rocks yellow and brown. And other than the sound of the wind, nothing could be heard except the occasional distant clatter of some rocky fragment loosing its ancient grip on a high crag and tumbling down to join its countless fellows below.
Slowly into the moaning stillness, from a dark cleft in the rock, the figure of a man emerged hesitantly, eyes screwed tight against the sudden daylight, gloomy though it was. Then, hurriedly, he stepped back a pace into the shade and, for a long time, stood there motionless, searching painstakingly into the sky and over the watching peaks and along the crumpled valley floor.
Seemingly satisfied, he emerged once again and began moving slowly over the shattered rocks that lay between him and the path some way below. His appearance was that of a wretched old man, with bushy grey hair and beard and a tattered filthy gown held together by a length of equally tattered cord. His gait, however, belied his appearance, and while he was patently exhausted, he would occasionally leap almost nimbly from rock to rock as if he were nearing a long-sought destination.
Once on the path, he strode out boldly for a little way, until the bleak immensity of his surroundings gave him a measure of his dwindling strength and reduced him to a slow, meandering shuffle.
Frequently he paused and turned, and his worn but oddly youthful face peered intently into the distance to the north, then up into the sky and over the nearby peaks.
Eventually he staggered to his knees and with an effort managed to crawl over to the side of the path and prop himself against a rock. Taking out a small flask from a pocket hidden somewhere in the folds of his robe, he shook it. There was the gurgling swish of a small amount of water and he let the flask fall into his lap.
'Not now, body,’ he said to himself desperately. ‘Not now. You can have that later. Keep moving. Just put one foot in front of the other.’ The wind gave a strange gasping sigh like someone making a great discovery, and he wrapped his arms about himself fearfully. ‘Each step takes us further away from Him, and nearer to home,’ he said slowly as if explaining to a stupid child. ‘Keep moving.’ Then, angrily. ‘Move, damn you.'
Still muttering to himself he struggled to his feet and set off again, an insignificant speck amongst a myriad such, distinguishable only by its almost imperceptible movement along the valley.
At one point he clutched at the cord securing his dirty, tattered robe, but even as he did so, his eyes opened in horror. ‘No,’ he said, releasing it fearfully. ‘What are you doing, you old fool, Andawyr. Fine Leader of the Cadwanol you are. Would you send Him a beacon? Bring Him down on us after all this time? Let all that terror and suffering be for naught?’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Just put one foot in front of the other,’ he repeated. ‘Forever. Until you arrive ... or die. This body will do it. It needs no aid from...’ He looked down again at the cord, his face tormented. Then closing his eyes, he shook his head. ‘It needs no aid.'
Gradually the day darkened, but Andawyr maintained his painfully slow progress, head down, almost too exhausted to watch where he was going. Without looking up, he knew the grey opaque sky would blot out the moon and the stars when night arrived. No shred of light would illumine his way then and he would have to stop and rest where he could until dawn. But dare he stop and rest out in the open? Strange predatory creatures inhabited the Pass of Elewart; but worse than they, dare he risk falling asleep and have his weaker nature unleash the Power for its momentary comfort? Maybe just a little light, a little respite, a little easing of the pain and fatigue that wracked him. Increasingly the thoughts rose to tempt him, and increasingly it was becoming difficult to set them aside.
No, he dare not sleep. When the night came he would have to follow the path as well as he could, crawling if need arose. But he must not rest.
Slowly the darkness deepened around him and the wind became colder and louder. The Discourse of Elewart and Sumeral, he thought, wryly. Talk for ever and ever, you demon. We know You now. We have no words to measure You, but no words You can speak will ever again hide Your true self and Your treachery. I will die before You bind me
again. I will walk until I die. My very death will announce Your presence to my kin. Knowledge of Your Coming will be abroad soon, whatever my fate.
The thoughts heartened him a little, grim though they were, but his more pragmatic nature sensed the onset of hallucination and his ultimate decline. He stopped. ‘In pity's name, does this awful place have no end?’ he said hoarsely. The wind mocked him in reply, and without knowing how he came there, he found himself on his knees, his hands pressing into the dry dusty rock.
'Stay here, my love,’ whispered Gwelayne softly. ‘Stay with me. Let us be forever in this place.'
Such sadness. Who could not resist such a plea?
'Leave me,’ said Andawyr feebly.
Gwelayne brushed against him. ‘Come, my joy, my love, my light. Stay. We shall know such...'
Andawyr bowed his head, opening and closing his hands to feel the real presence of the solid rock beneath his fingers. The words were gone, but how long ago? How did he come here? When he looked up he found that all was blackness now. His eyes opened wide, searching for the faintest glimmer that might tell him he was not utterly alone and lost, bound again in darkness by His will.
'No,’ he cried out in fear and rage. ‘No.’ The wind took his voice and broke it against countless rock faces before returning it to him mockingly.
'This is the Pass of Elewart,’ he intoned to himself. ‘I am Andawyr, Leader of the Cadwanol, the wind is howling through the rocks, and the rocks are echoing my voice. I am tired and frightened but I am on the path. Safety lies ahead of me. I mustn't rest.'
But his words offered him little comfort, ringing oddly, meaninglessly, in his own head, and flickering like tiny lights in the distant blackness of his mind. Flickering ...
He strained his eyes. Flickering. There were lights! But were they inside or outside his head? They blurred and danced, moving hither and thither. They were there! Outside. Not some creation of his fevered brain.
