The Waking of Orthlund [Book Three of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Dacu, occupied with the horses, grunted an offhand acknowledgement.

  Isloman looked at the cloak he was holding and rubbed the material inquisitively between his fingers. It seemed in no way exceptional, and he wondered briefly where Tirilen had found it when she had searched for suitable clothes for Hawklan's unexpected journey to the Gretmearc.

  Later, dried, rested and fed, the three men sat in companionable silence around the radiant stones. Arranged round a separate pile of stones some distance away were their drying clothes, and the characteristic smell of these mingled with the smell of the horses to permeate the cave.

  Gavor was perched on a rock near to Hawklan, and was sleeping soundly, emitting an occasional low whistle.

  After a while, Dacu's face became pensive.

  'Is anything the matter?’ Isloman asked.

  'No,’ Dacu replied doubtfully. ‘Just thinking that we've a long way to go, and there'll probably not be many billets like this on the way.'

  Isloman's eyes narrowed slightly. The comment was unlike Dacu. All in all they'd come through fairly well. The weather had been atrocious, but while the three of them had been soaked, their supplies had been unaffected, and Hawklan's remarkable clothes had kept him both dry and warm. There was enough sunlight locked in the radiant stones to see them some considerable way yet and this weather couldn't hold forever.

  Or could it?

  The thought came to him unexpectedly like a chill draught, and a small knot of black depression formed deep inside him.

  Serian whinnied noisily.

  'What!’ Gavor woke suddenly. Looking from side to side, he flapped his wings urgently. ‘Did somebody say something?’ he asked.

  The darkness in Isloman vanished as suddenly as it had come, and Dacu, too, smiled as if a burden had just been lifted from him. ‘Yes,’ Isloman replied. ‘But not to you.'

  Gavor floated down from his perch to land by the carver. ‘Are you sure, dear boy?’ he said. ‘I could've sworn I heard someone calling out. Several people, in fact.'

  Isloman was about to make a comment to the effect that it was probably Gavor's friends at Anderras Darion bewailing his protracted absence, but before he could speak the bird stumped off towards the rear of the cave.

  'How far does this go?’ Gavor asked, his neck craning forward as he peered into the darkness.

  Dacu shrugged. ‘I've no idea,’ he said. ‘Quite possibly for miles. There aren't many exposed entrances like this, but they say the mountains around here are riddled with tunnels, and the few I've ever found went further than I felt inclined to explore.'

  Tirke looked at Gavor prowling the outer edge of the torchlight. ‘Are you sure there's nothing living in here?’ he whispered to Dacu, only half-jokingly.

  The Goraidin's response was unexpectedly irritable. ‘What, for pity's sake, Tirke? Some sierwolf the Cadwanol forgot to lock up? Don't be so stupid. You're making me angry.’ There was a menace in the man's voice that made Isloman look up. Tirke edged away from him nervously.

  Serian whinnied again uncertainly, and Gavor cocked his head on one side. ‘There're some very strange echoes in this place,’ he muttered to himself, returning to his vigil by Hawklan. ‘Don't let me go to sleep again.'

  A few minutes later, Dacu stood up and went to the cave entrance. Isloman joined him, pausing only to lay a reassuring hand on Tirke's shoulder.

  'What's the matter, Dacu?’ he said. ‘The lad was only joking.'

  Dacu nodded. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said regretfully. ‘I'll apologize to him. I don't know why I did that.’ His face became anxious. ‘I'm beginning to wonder whether I'm up to this, Isloman, if I'm going to go over the edge like that at the first bit of bad weather we run into.'

  Isloman had little advice to offer. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said. ‘There's something odd about this place. Gavor doesn't normally hear things that aren't there, and Serian's uneasy.'

  'Dangerous?’ queried the Goraidin, old reflexes displacing his new doubts.

  Isloman looked out into the darkness. Even his shadow vision could not penetrate far into the damp starless night, but he could hear the rain still falling steadily. ‘Not that I can sense,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But...’ He shrugged.

  Dacu turned back to the heartening warmth of the radiant stones. Tirke eyed him unsurely as he approached.

  Dacu met his gaze. ‘I'm sorry, Tirke,’ he said without any preamble. ‘I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. It was wrong of me.’ Then, before Tirke could comment: ‘Isloman feels there's something strange about this place, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Nothing dangerous, I think, but odd. It could be no more than the echoes you get in a place like this after we've been so long outdoors, but I'd like you to split the horses. Serian and mine at the entrance, the others at the back. They'll serve us well enough as sentries. And we can keep the torches on low.'

  'I'll sleep with my sword out,’ Tirke said, clambering to his feet to execute Dacu's order. Once again, Dacu felt a bubble of irritation rising within him, but he caught it and crushed it.

  'If it'll make you feel better,’ he said, forcing a mildly concerned acquiescence into his voice. Then, smiling, ‘But make sure you don't roll over on it.'

  Later, Isloman found himself leaning back on the rock wall, looking at the others, now all sleeping. Tirke was a little restless, but Dacu was as motionless as Hawklan.

  He felt very relaxed and rested. Whatever tensions had mysteriously built up between Dacu and Tirke seemed to have evaporated and he was looking forward to the morning when they could all continue their long journey back to his home.

  The cave was now illuminated only gently by the reduced torches and, as he gazed around idly, he began to work out plans for a wall carving which would use the subtle shading that the torchlight produced on this long hidden rock. Then, realizing what he was doing, he smiled and looked down at his hands.

  The scar caused by his accident with Dan-Tor's chisel was clearly visible. Probably always will be, he thought. But it had a healthier appearance now, and the stiffness that the injury had caused was long passed. The sight of it reminded him of the many strange and tragic events that had brought him to this place, but he was too at ease for the memories to offer him any burden. On an impulse, he took out his knife and, twisting round, began scratching softly into the rock.

  When he lay down to sleep some while later, he was still smiling. As with the making of the gifts he had given to Sylvriss and Eldric, he had found the brief return to his craft profoundly satisfying. Drifting into sleep, his last thought was of Varak and the solace that he too said he had found in his wood carving. On the wall he had left a small intricate sketch showing Hawklan listening to the stooped and crooked form that Dan-Tor had adopted when he arrived at Pedhavin. Behind the figures was a hazy but powerful representation of Anderras Darion.

  * * * *

  Isloman was suddenly wide awake. Some caution closed his eyes to the narrowest slit almost immediately. Without moving, he could see the horses and the inert forms of Dacu and Tirke, and he could feel Hawklan by his right-hand side. But to his left, something moved.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  As Isloman had said, Yengar, Olvric and the four High Guards appointed by Eldric to escort the Queen to Riddin found themselves slipping further and further behind her as she galloped relentlessly away from Eldric's stronghold.

  The two Goraidin exchanged concerned looks, but the High Guards, more used to Sylvriss by dint of their occasional Palace duties, seemed highly amused.

  'You may as well slow down,’ said Kirran, the most senior of the four. ‘She'll stop when she's ready and if we keep on like this we're not going to last half a day.'

  Yengar scowled, then blew out his cheeks in resignation. ‘I suppose you're right,’ he said. ‘I'd forgotten how the Muster used to ride. Slow down. We'll trot, and hope she remembers us soon.'

  Some while later they caught up with the Queen, now walking. She smiled as they
fell in on either side of her. ‘Sorry,’ she said simply. ‘I forgot.'

  Yengar could do no other than respond to the smile with his own, but Eldric had given him charge of the group and the incident could not be allowed to pass unremarked.

  'Majesty,’ he said pleasantly. ‘If you could manage to stay with us, I'd appreciate it. Particularly as we move further into the mountains. We've some difficult terrain to pass through and we can't afford to have anyone hurt through travelling carelessly.'

  The Queen bridled a little. ‘I don't ride carelessly,’ she said, her smile fading.

  'No, Majesty,’ Yengar replied without a hint of apology. ‘But we would if we tried to ride like you do.'

  The Queen's smile returned. ‘I accept your rebuke, Goraidin,’ she said. ‘I was wrong to do what I did. It won't happen again.'

  Nor did it.

  The following day the group collected supplies and pack-horses that Eldric had arranged, and began their journey into the mountains proper.

  Eldric's stronghold being already in the mountains, there was, unlike Isloman's route, no leisurely overland approach. Indeed, the earlier part of the route was quite difficult, obliging the men to dismount and walk their horses quite frequently. Sylvriss however, on her Muster mount, was able to stay mounted for much longer, a fact which relieved both Olvric and Yengar who had had ‘the delicacy of the Queen's condition’ thoroughly impressed upon them by Eldric before they set off.

  Again, Kirran, a married man with children of his own, was more sanguine. ‘Don't fret,’ he said. ‘Babies are tougher than you think, and the Queen's a strong healthy woman with sound instincts. She'll not do anything foolish.’ He nodded in her direction. ‘Look at her. She's safer on horseback over these rocks than you or I'd be in a flat field.'

  That, the two Goraidin had to agree with, but Yengar in particular found his concern for the unborn child remarkably persistent. Despite his training, he found himself constantly looking towards the time when they would ride down out of the mountains on to the plains of Riddin, and, he hoped, into the care of the Muster.

  It was a dangerous way for a Goraidin to think, and he knew it. Quietly, he sought reassurance from Marek, the High Guard healer chosen by Hylland and Eldric to care for the Queen. Marek confirmed Kirran's comments and told Yengar what he already knew.

  'I understand your concern, Yengar,’ he said. ‘But you'll serve the Queen and her child best by helping her to feel secure. And that means doing your job, not constantly looking over your shoulder at her with a worried look on your face.'

  Yengar gave him a reproachful look at this mild caricature, and Marek laughed. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘If you go around looking like that, you'll have us all sick.’ Then, more seriously:

  'Listen, Yengar. For a man, I know a lot about pregnancy and childbirth, but it never fails to humble and amaze me. There's a tremendous...’—he searched for a word—‘momentum for life to continue and survive. Sometimes against the most incredible odds. Believe me, in her present condition, the Queen's personal resources are greater than they've ever been, and they were already considerable, as you know. The only thing that's going to upset her is doubt about you, and your ability to get us through these mountains.'

  He looked up at the peaks surrounding them, grim and harsh against a grey sky. Yengar nodded, but still seemed to be uncertain. Marek eyed him narrowly and then struck a blow he knew the Goraidin would appreciate. Leaning forward, he spoke slowly and with heavy emphasis.

  'If any problems arise with the Queen or the baby, I'm the only one who can deal with them, so you'd be better worrying about me, rather than her.'

  A look of alarm passed briefly across Yengar's face as this revelation unfolded in front of him. Marek contented himself with raising a knowing eyebrow.

  Gradually, Yengar found himself more able to set aside his excessive concerns for the Queen, partly because of Marek's comments, but mainly because of the conduct of the Queen herself. She continued to be able to ride over terrain that was forcing the men to walk, and when she did walk, it was generally because circumstances dictated a leisurely and cautious pace. In addition, she remained cheerful and helpful; a good travelling companion, he realized after a day or so.

  The route to Riddin was used more frequently than the one being taken by Isloman's party to Orthlund, but it was still little used and was ill-marked. Thus the two groups spent their evenings similarly: discussing the day's progress, planning the following day's, making notes on maps and, after some initial reluctance by the High Guards, writing daily journals.

  As the days passed, they settled into an easy routine. At night, the Queen would superintend the bedding down of the horses, then, until they began to retire, she would share the men's communal shelter. She talked freely about Dan-Tor and his years of scheming, and, to Marek's relief, she talked equally freely about her husband and their happy times together.

  Later, in the silence of her own shelter, as she drifted in and out of sleep, she would think also of Dilrap, alone and defenceless at the heart of Oklar's domain, except perhaps for Lorac and Tel-Odrel, sent back to Vakloss by Yatsu to continue the mission they had had to abandon to bring back the news of the King's murder. The memory of Tel-Odrel invariably made her clench and unclench her right hand as a small atonement for the blow she had struck him in her pain. Regret is a persistent thorn.

  The images of Isloman and Hawklan too would come and go. She missed the carver's reassuring bulk more than she would have imagined, but the absence of Hawklan's strange presence left some deeper gap that she could not begin to fathom. It had the character of that left by the death of Rgoric, but it both heartened and frightened her. She had some measure of the power that had come out of Narsindal, but what might yet come out of Orthlund? And what would be the fate of those caught up in the meeting of these powers? Memories of the distant image of Vakloss raked by two converging scars of destruction persisted, rendered more vivid by the descriptions she had heard subsequently from the Goraidin.

  Despite these many distractions however, her innermost quiet was preserved by the knowledge of Rgoric's child fluttering inside her. Other events would take their course independent of anything she did. Her concern now was to preserve her child. That, and to bring to the people of Riddin the news of Oklar's usurpation of the throne of Fyorlund and all that that might imply to them.

  * * * *

  Athyr reached the rocky outcrop that he had chosen as his observation post and, making himself as comfortable as he could, he leaned back to watch the performance of his students.

  Shouldn't be too long, he thought. It had taken him longer than he had anticipated to reach his vantage point and it had been a peculiarly draining trek, but at least the attacking group would be well under way by now and he would have less time to stand around waiting.

  Looking around, he soon found his fellow observers on nearby slopes. Yrain was looking at him, her hands raised high in what he judged to be mock applause at his slow progress up the hill. He waved a fist at her, then settled back against the hard rock to begin his vigil.

  The exercise they were supervising was routine enough. The small attacking group was to penetrate a larger enemy group, remove a flag to confirm their success, and escape, preferably unnoticed. The enemy group had, of course, been advised of their intention and the terrain had been chosen for its lack of cover.

  The only special features about the exercise were that it was being done in daylight and it was the first the Orthlundyn had undertaken in the mountains since the encounter with the Alphraan. Accordingly, many of Loman's Elite force were discreetly involved with it. Ostensibly they were there as observers, but Loman had instructed them secretly to be ready to evacuate the trainees quickly in the event of any action by the unseen mountain dwellers. Then, at Gulda's insistence, he told them to go unarmed.

  From where he stood, Athyr could see the enemy camp clearly. It was well placed and well guarded. He nodded approvingly. The two observers
who would subsequently report on the exercise as seen from ground level could be clearly distinguished by their bright yellow jackets.

  Methodically he began scanning the surrounding terrain for signs of the approaching attack group. After two thorough passes, he began to frown. He could see nothing.

  Somewhat reluctantly he reached into his pack and drew out the polished seeing-stone that would enable him to see distant images more clearly.

  But even with this, another pass over the area again yielded nothing. He looked down at Yrain. She too was using a seeing-stone, and her face was concerned. The attacking group were all good students, and if they acquitted themselves well enough in such a difficult daytime exercise they would be eligible to begin training for the Elite corps. But they weren't this good! It was unlikely that they could have escaped detection by both him and Yrain under normal circumstances, and it was impossible that they should have done so when being sought through seeing-stones!

  He glanced up at the sky. The attack group should be very near by now if the exercise was to be completed in time for them to return to their main camp before nightfall. He looked around at the other high observers. The result was the same. Most of them had resorted to using seeing-stones and were now searching randomly.

  This was unbelievable. The attack group must be lost. Some elite group they'd make!

  Athyr raised his fingers to his mouth to signal the others when a distant whistle reached him. It was Englar, newly appointed to the Elite corps and on his first exercise as an observer.

  'Due east,’ came his message. Turning his seeing-stone towards him, Athyr saw Englar confirming the direction with a pointing hand. He followed it to find himself examining the slopes of a mountain on the far side of the valley. Touching the edge of his seeing-stone he made the image larger.