by Roger Taylor
Through his flickering eyelashes, in the subdued light of the lowered torches, he could see a pair of booted feet. While his mind registered this observation, his eyes squinted momentarily to accommodate some visual oddity. They were near, yet they seemed to be some distance away. They're small! he realized. Like a child's.
Oddly reassured, Isloman opened his eyes and, not wishing to startle the visitor, said softly, ‘Hello.'
Abruptly, the word seemed to swell inside his head until it became a bellowing roar that made him screw up his eyes and clamp his hands to his ears. But this merely seemed to trap the sound inside him. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the noise was gone, and the cave was silent again.
Opening his eyes cautiously he found himself being scrutinized by Dacu. The Goraidin was not moving, but his eyes were wide open and watchful, and Isloman knew his body would be relaxed and alert.
'What's the matter, Isloman?’ he whispered.
Isloman sat up slowly. ‘That noise,’ he said, surprised at the question.
Dacu's brow furrowed. ‘Noise?’ he said. ‘What noise?'
Isloman's brow mimicked Dacu's. ‘The noise that just woke you up, presumably,’ he said.
'You woke me up,’ Dacu retorted, defensively. ‘Thrashing about.’ He glanced around the cave. Then, satisfied, ‘You must've been dreaming.'
Isloman followed his gaze. Everything did indeed seem to be normal. Tirke was still sound asleep. Hawklan was silent and motionless though, at his head, Gavor was striving to open a bleary eye, and the horses were beginning to take an interest in the whispered conversation.
Gavor cleared his throat. ‘What's the matter, dear boys?’ he managed.
Dacu rolled over and settled himself down again. ‘Nothing,’ he said, his voice sleepy. ‘Isloman was dreaming.’ Gavor grunted understandingly; his struggling eye gave up and fell shut again.
'No,’ Isloman protested softly. ‘There was a child here, then a noise...'
'Go to sleep,’ said Gavor and Dacu simultaneously. Isloman shook his head. He was certain he had not been dreaming, though the disorienting memory of the tiny feet immediately in front of his face, and the deafening sound that had rung in his head, were beginning to assume an unreal quality.
Reluctantly, he accepted the verdict of his companions and prepared to lie down again. As he did so, however, he looked once more at the place where he had seen the feet standing. It was immediately in front of the small carving sketch he had done before going to sleep. He himself had disturbed the dust that covered almost all of the cave floor, but running from the disturbed patch was a line of small footprints.
'Dacu,’ he whispered urgently.
The Goraidin was awake immediately. Isloman pointed to the footprints. Dacu sat up and looked at them narrowly, without speaking. They were not particularly easy to see, but they were sufficient to confirm Isloman's observation. They formed a clear path to the rear of the cave where they disappeared past the horses and into the blackness beyond.
Dacu pushed back his blanket and moved forward to examine the footprints more carefully.
'Coming and going,’ he said. Lighting a torch, he moved carefully along the little pathway. Isloman joined him. ‘There are more here,’ Dacu said as the torch illuminated the darkness at the rear of the cave. ‘Three or four,’ he concluded.
Crouching down, the two men looked at one another. The footprints, though faint, were quite distinct, and in places passed over the disturbance that had been caused by the horses. There was no disputing either their existence or their recent origin.
'But there can't be any children around here,’ Dacu said, answering the unspoken question. ‘We're well past the last of the hill farms.'
'Hawklan said Yatsu told him about Morlider War veterans who went to live in the mountains,’ Isloman said tentatively. Dacu grimaced as if in pain.
'Men, Isloman,’ he said briefly and dismissively. ‘Men our age. And men alone. Above all, alone.'
Isloman felt the need to apologize for some awkwardness on his part but could not find the words. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Neither men nor children could have made the sound I heard.’ Abruptly, Gavor's head came between the two men. He peered curiously at the little cluster of footprints. ‘A sound, you say?’ he asked Isloman. The carver nodded and Gavor returned to his scrutiny of the footprints.
Then, excitedly, ‘Alphraan, dear boys,’ he said. ‘I knew I'd seen them when they brought down that feathered brown lump on our way to the Gretmearc, but Hawklan would have none of it.'
The two men stared at him. ‘What are you talking about, Gavor?’ Isloman asked.
Gavor ignored the question. His excitement had been replaced almost immediately by an air of concern. He looked across at Hawklan's silent form.
'I think we'd better leave,’ he said anxiously. ‘I don't know much about the Alphraan, but I know they're not keen on humans—and they can be very dangerous.'
Isloman looked sceptical. ‘I still don't know what you're talking about, Gavor, but from what I could see of whatever stood next to me, it was only the size of a child. How could that be dangerous?'
But Gavor was half-flying, half-stumping back to Hawklan. Unceremoniously he bounced heavily on Tirke's chest on the way, pausing only to bellow, ‘Get up, Tirke, you lazy sod,’ in the young man's face, before passing on.
Tirke woke in a flurry of flailing arms and legs.
'What about the noise you heard, dear boy?’ Gavor continued, ignoring the small eruption he had just caused.
'What about it?’ Isloman replied, trying not to laugh at Tirke's bewildered awakening.
Gavor began tugging the blankets that were covering Hawklan. ‘Well, what could you do except cover your ears?’ he said. ‘Could you fight? And how long could you have withstood such a noise?'
Isloman looked at him vacantly.
'Will you please help me?’ Gavor asked in some exasperation, still struggling with the blankets.
Isloman stepped forward. ‘But...’ he began.
'But nothing,’ Gavor said, his voice suddenly very serious. He thrust his head towards the rear of the cave. ‘Those things killed that ... bird ... creature when we were on our way to the Gretmearc. Or nearly killed it anyway. They did it with a noise. A noise, Isloman. And it was no hatchling, believe me. I was on just the edge of their song and it was frightful.’ He flapped his wings anxiously. ‘And I've read enough about them to know they don't like people. Let's go. Now. While we can. It's not safe for Hawklan.'
Isloman looked at Dacu. The Goraidin glanced at the cave entrance. A greying light there showed it would soon be dawn. He nodded. Gavor's concern was almost palpable and even in their limited acquaintance he had found the bird to be a consistently reliable, if irreverent, witness. Whatever had visited them that night had been decidedly odd, and there would be ample time to discuss it later. Certainly, nothing was to be gained by plunging off into the darkness searching for strange, possibly dangerous visitors, who, finding them asleep, had at least left them unmolested.
'What's happening?’ Tirke said, staring at Gavor and then at the two men in turn.
'We'll tell you later,’ Isloman said. ‘When we're away from here.'
Tirke looked at Dacu, who nodded his confirmation. For a moment, he considered inquiring about breakfast, but the urgency in the two men's calm but swift actions swept the idea aside. Whatever was making them break camp so urgently was not something he had any desire to stay and face.
Within minutes, the group were ready to move out. Isloman bent down to pick up Hawklan.
'Stay ... carver.'
The voice was soft and slightly hesitant, but quite clear. Despite its softness, however, there was an almost physical quality in it that made the simple request more compelling than any roared command. For a moment, Isloman felt unable to move, as though the voice had entered and spoken directly to his very limbs.
'What?’ he said with a struggle, turning round and looking at the others
. Both returned his look blankly.
'What what?’ Dacu said incongruously.
'What did you say?’ Isloman amplified.
'Nothing,’ Dacu said, shaking his head. ‘Neither of us spoke.'
Isloman gazed around the cave, puzzled. ‘Someone did,’ he said.
Gavor flapped his wings noisily. ‘Let's go, dear boy,’ he said anxiously.
Isloman stood up and looked again around the cave. Somewhere, something was calling, like a myriad unheard whisperings. He looked down at Gavor, who was becoming increasingly restless. Impulsively he walked towards the darkness at the rear of the cave, and spoke into it.
'I'm sorry I frightened you,’ he said. ‘But you frightened me too. We didn't mean to disturb you and we mean no harm. We're going now.'
His voice seemed to echo strangely into some far distance, and then return to swirl agitatedly around him until it reshaped itself into, ‘Stay, carver.'
He turned and looked at his companions. They were looking slightly surprised, but this was obviously at his conduct rather than at anything untoward they had just heard. He turned again to the darkness.
'You must speak so that my friends can hear you also,’ he said.
This time there was no echo. Just silence. He stood for some time watching and listening, but there was no response. Turning, he walked back to the others, feeling rather foolish.
'Come on,’ he said. ‘Something odd's going on here, but I don't think it's going to serve any useful purpose to inquire into it.’ He bent down and picked up Hawklan. Gavor flew up onto his shoulder.
'Please stay, carver.'
This time the voice was clearly audible to everyone. Tirke gasped, and Dacu turned quickly, his eyes scanning the whole cave in one sweep and then peering intently into the far darkness; deeper now that the torches had been withdrawn.
He glanced at Isloman and with a flick of his head, indicated the entrance. Then he started, his face pained and his hands reaching up involuntarily towards his head.
'Stop it,’ roared Isloman furiously. ‘Whoever you are and whatever you want from me, you'll gain nothing by assailing my friends.'
Dacu straightened up and shook his head. His face was pale. ‘Isloman, let's get out of here while we can,’ he said urgently.
'No. Please stay,’ came the voice again. ‘We're sorry. It won't happen again.'
Isloman hesitated; there was doubt in the voice. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?'
'The bird knows us,’ the voice said. Or was it voices? Isloman thought. ‘We wish ... to talk.'
Isloman lowered Hawklan to the ground gently and rested him against the cave wall.
'About what?’ he demanded.
There was silence for a moment then from the distance came a sound like the passage of a long shallow wave over a pebbled beach. As it reached him, Isloman felt his mind awash with sounds full of complex images of Hawklan and Oklar and Anderras Darion. There were subtleties and nuances in the sounds that were like those that could be found in the finest carvings. He recognized the signs; there were no words for what they wanted to say.
Looking round, he could see that Dacu and Tirke were similarly affected. Gavor was shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible but obviously derogatory. The horses too were suddenly restless. The Alphraan were keeping their word. Everyone else in the cave could hear what he was hearing.
He waved his arms. ‘We don't understand,’ he said. ‘We haven't your skills. You must find the words, however crude, if you wish to speak with us about...’ He bent forward and laid his hand on Hawklan's shoulder.
The sounds and the images faded into silence, leaving the three men looking at one another, bewildered. ‘It's difficult,’ said the voice plaintively, after a long pause.
Despite himself, Isloman laughed at the tone. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But you can come down to our level; we can't rise to yours.'
There was another silence, then, ‘Who is he?'
'Who is who?’ Isloman replied.
'The one you carry. The one with Ethriss's sword that you've shown with Oklar outside Anderras Darion.'
In each of the words, Ethriss, Oklar, and Anderras Darion, came the crowding subtleties and complexities that had swept over the listeners before. To Isloman it seemed that each individual word was merely the glowing centre of a great sphere of shifting lights and shades of meaning. One day I shall carve such meaning, he thought.
'This is Hawklan,’ he said simply, laying his hand on Hawklan's shoulder again. ‘But how did you know of Anderras Darion and Oklar?'
Immediately his head was full of the sounds of amusement which seemed to focus on his surprise that they should be acquainted with Anderras Darion. Laced through it, however, were threads of distaste at the gaucherie of his own knowledge of the Castle as enshrined in his speech.
'We know of Anderras Darion,’ said the voice, openly amused, but without amplification, then, almost grimly, ‘We know of Oklar also. But why should you cut his image thus?’ Isloman felt his eyes drawn to his carving. ‘And who is ... Hawklan?’ The voice tested the sound, Hawklan, and found it wanting. ‘And why does he carry Ethriss's sword?'
'Hawklan's a healer,’ Isloman said. ‘Perhaps much more, we don't know. He came with Gavor out of the mountains some twenty years ago. I cut what I cut on a whim, following the song of the rock. Dan-Tor ... Oklar ... came thus to us at Anderras Darion, bringing a corruption with him. When we sought him out in Fyorlund, he ... hurt my friend, as you see. And many others far more cruelly. We're going back now to Anderras Darion to find help to oppose him.'
His last remarks, however, were swept away on a great, confining roar. It did not, however, overwhelm him as the previous noises had. Rather it seemed that many voices were quarrelling amongst themselves and that he and the others were merely inadvertent eavesdroppers.
He looked at Dacu and Tirke. The latter seemed nervous and uncertain, but Dacu just pulled a wry face at him and shrugged his shoulders. Then he craned forward as if listening intently to the cacophony: Isloman half-closed his eyes and did the same.
Though most of the noise was unintelligible to him, he began to catch some semblance of meaning in it. It centred around what he took to be Oklar, and the images that swarmed around that name made him shudder. So vivid and accurate were they that he found himself again cowering behind the failing Hawklan at the palace gate as such of Oklar's power as was not being reflected back upon him by Hawklan's sword tore around them to rend its terrible pathways across the city. His mind was filled again with the roaring and screaming that dominated that memory, and his whole soul was filled again with the same terror.
But there was doubt and dissension in the noise of the Alphraan. It was a debate. An argument, in fact. Its content ebbed and flowed. The sound ‘Oklar’ was denied. It could not be, Oklar was destroyed, millennia ago, as were Dar Hastuin and Creost and Him. Terrible, hate-laden resonances in this last sound chilled Isloman even further. Then, images of human treachery and deceit were formed, and Isloman felt himself and his companions becoming the focus of the debate.
He began to feel alarmed. There were strange whispering elements threading through the debate. Elements that formed into a vision of him fighting with Dacu, fighting with such ferocity that both would probably die. Elements that showed Gavor and Hawklan crushed underfoot and the horses scattered, foaming and terrified, across the mountains.
Dacu, too, seemed to sense these sinister undercurrents and, catching Isloman's eye, nodded towards the entrance of the cave again. Isloman bent down to pick up Hawklan again.
'Stay,’ said a voice abruptly, cutting with stark clarity through the whirling mosaic of sound. The debate faded as suddenly as it had arisen, but Isloman could not determine whether it had been concluded. The voice was not the one that had spoken previously. It was grim and serious, and though Isloman felt no restraint upon him, he waited silently. Gavor stood protectively in front of Hawklan.
&n
bsp; 'Oklar is dead,’ said the voice, its tone unequivocal. ‘He was destroyed utterly. Why do you profane our...’ The word eluded Isloman. House? Life? ‘...with his image? And from where did you steal the blessed Ethriss's sword?'
The judgement in the voice angered Isloman, and despite a feeling of vulnerability in facing this voluble darkness, he strode forward into it, holding his torch high and increasing its brightness.
'Oklar lives,’ he said defiantly. ‘I have seen him. Hawklan has faced him. The truth is in my work there’—he pointed to the carving, now clear and vivid in the bright torchlight—‘though it may be as far beyond you to see it as it is beyond us to understand your ways with sound.'
A murmuring began, as if to speak in rebuttal, but Isloman cut across it harshly. ‘And how can truth be a profanity?’ He brought the torch nearer to the carving, and moved it slightly from side to side. The images of Hawklan and Dan-Tor seemed to move, Hawklan with doubting uncertainty, Dan-Tor with cunning sleight.
'I've done better work, admittedly,’ Isloman said critically. ‘But it has its own song, for all it's only a sketch.’ Then, turning back to the darkness he spoke angrily. ‘Look at it. Look at it. Look as you'd listen. The profanity is yours, if you would turn away from such truth.'
The debate broke out again, though this time it was like a malevolent whispering. Gavor flicked the sheaths from his spurs, and almost involuntarily Dacu laid his hand on his sword hilt. Serian's eyes whitened, and his forelegs flicked out as if in preparation for further movement.
'Would you threaten us ... humans?'
There was a taunt in the voice, but also doubt, bewilderment even, in the word ‘humans'. Isloman sensed that the actions of the animals had surprised the invisible speakers.
'We would leave you, Alphraan,’ he said. ‘We would go in peace back to Anderras Darion. I have to seek help for my friend, and we have to take the truth to those who will see its worth, and act accordingly.'
He turned away and started walking towards the entrance, signalling Dacu and Tirke to do the same.
'You're lying.’ A voice hissed out of the darkness behind him like an arrow from an ambush. Isloman found himself unable to move.
