by Roger Taylor
Hawklan laughed at the Goraidin's blunt practicality. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘I can't answer any of your questions. They said they didn't need any help, so let's assume they don't, or at least that they'll have the wit to ask if they find they do.'
Dacu's mouth tightened abruptly and, taking Hawklan's elbow, he led him a little way from the others. ‘This is getting worse and worse, Hawklan,’ he said anxiously. ‘You and Isloman seem unconcerned, as if nothing untoward had happened this past hour or so, but frankly I'm struggling to keep my mind in balance.'
Hawklan reached out to him, but the Goraidin waved his hand aside almost irritably. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘I'll manage. I can't say I've ever seen anything as strange as all this. Or heard,’ he added ruefully. ‘But I've seen worse, and both experience and training have taught me to see what I can see, even if can't understand it.'
Hawklan nodded. ‘What's the matter then?’ he asked.
'You,’ Dacu replied brutally. ‘I can't tell you how good it is to see you standing here, seemingly fit and well, as if the past weeks, with Isloman carrying you around like a great doll, had never happened. But they did happen, Hawklan, and I have to ask myself, have they had no effect on you at all?'
Hawklan lowered his eyes. ‘They did have an effect,’ he said, his tone enigmatic. ‘A profound effect. But not in the way you imagine, and not in any way that will jeopardize our mission.'
Dacu lowered his voice. ‘But you have jeopardized it, Hawklan. Twice now.’ Hawklan looked up, his face uncertain. Dacu continued the theme he had begun in the cave. ‘You took an unnecessary risk in staying in that cave to contact those ... people. And you risked others with you. Others who are important to us. Now you've invited along a delegation to travel with us! With no thought for supplies, horses, anything. Who knows what their needs are? Or their intentions! We're days from both Fyorlund and Anderras Darion and any semblance of help. What if these people are already His? What if they're just coming with us to find out our strength before another attempt is made to capture you?'
Hawklan's eyes suddenly blazed angrily. Dacu stepped back a pace under the impact of the gaze, but gritting his teeth he stepped forward again almost immediately. ‘Damn you, Hawklan,’ he said fiercely. ‘Don't treat me like that. You know what we all feel for you, but I can't allow my affection for you to stop me speaking out. You know I'm right.'
The anger had slipped from Hawklan's eyes even while Dacu was speaking, to be replaced by a look of sadness and regret. He looked around again at the mountains and at the high circling Gavor. ‘It's so good to be back,’ he repeated, very quietly. Then, his voice sterner. ‘I'm sorry, Dacu. You're right. I apologize. The least I should have done was discuss the matter with you. I'm afraid I let my ... euphoria ... cloud my judgement. Don't worry. It won't happen again. Lord Eldric appointed you Commander, and I accept his decision totally.'
Dacu's shoulders slumped slightly and his face looked pained. ‘Enjoy the mountains, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We've all been badly unsettled by what's happened. I suppose time will quieten us down.’ He straightened up, ‘Especially if we use it to make some distance.'
He walked across to his horse and mounted it, signalling the others to do the same.
Before the group moved off, Dacu looked back up at the cave. ‘Keep your eyes open for our new ... companions,’ he said. ‘We'll give them the benefit of the doubt, but don't turn your backs.'
* * *
Chapter 22
Dacu's injunction, however, yielded no results. As the party wended its way through the increasingly harsh terrain, no sign was seen of anyone following them.
'They must have thought better of it,’ Dacu concluded, as they all settled down in their shelter for the night. ‘We've been through some exposed countryside today, I doubt they could have hidden from us.'
Hawklan agreed, but looked puzzled. ‘It's strange,’ he said. ‘They seemed quite determined to come with us once they'd made their minds up. Perhaps we moved too quickly for them.'
'No, dear boy,’ Gavor said. ‘No one's been following you that I could see. But they do live underground.'
Dacu was unconcerned. ‘They're no loss,’ he said dismissively. Then, repenting a little, he looked at Hawklan and held up the map he had just taken from his pack. ‘I've marked the position of that cave as well as I could, and I've got my notes. When we reach Anderras Darion, your people will be able to send out a patrol, or whatever, and try to contact them again.'
'That won't be necessary, Goraidin,’ said a voice, seemingly just outside the small shelter. ‘We are here, as we said we would be, and we shall remain with you for some time yet.'
Dacu tensed momentarily then relaxed very suddenly. Reading his intentions, Hawklan leaned forward quickly and laid a hand on his arm to prevent him diving headlong out of the shelter in search of the voice's owner.
'Do you have shelter and food?’ he said casually, still gently restraining Dacu.
'We have what we need,’ came the reply.
'As we're travelling together, won't you join us?’ Hawklan asked, sitting back. Dacu shot an agitated glance around the already crowded shelter, but his concern was unnecessary.
'No,’ said the voice in a refusal that was so total it seemed to hang almost tangibly in the air. ‘We must travel our own ways.'
Dacu looked inquiringly at Hawklan and then briefly at the entrance to the shelter again, but Hawklan shook his head.
'The Goraidin has doubts about you,’ he said. ‘Great doubts. He rebuked me for inviting you to come with us.'
'We heard.'
Dacu scowled and lowered his eyes to prevent them from reproaching Hawklan again.
Hawklan however, seemed unconcerned, even slightly amused, at the revelation. ‘If you heard, then you know his reasoning was sound, Alphraan,’ he said. ‘And you do little to lighten the burden of his responsibility by maintaining both a continual absence and a continual presence.'
The reply came in a strange combination of anger, resentment and genuine regret. ‘You own you know little of us, Hawklan. Do not judge us. Nor you, Goraidin. You above all should not so readily accuse us of being His agents. You, whose race proved such a rich vein for His mining.'
Dacu winced. ‘I don't judge,’ he said angrily, stung by this cruelly accurate comment. ‘I have my duty, both to myself and to others, and I must speak what my head and my heart tell me to speak. You know as little of us as we do of you, but strange to our ways or not, surely you must realize it's hard for us to be at ease with ... people ... who've tried once to kill us, who seemingly listen to our every word, and who constantly hide from us. They're not the actions of allies.'
'We are not your allies, Goraidin,’ said the voice immediately. ‘Except insofar as we are His enemies. The...’ Silence? Stillness that awoke? Still so many meanings clung around some of the sounds that the Alphraan used. ‘...reminded us that there are things beyond us all. That and other signs showed us that we must be prepared to learn.’ Images of Isloman's carving and Hawklan's sword formed in the words.
'And it is hard for us to follow the ways to Anderras Darion, human,’ the voice continued. ‘Soon we will have to travel through...’ The four men in the shelter all craned forward intently in an attempt to identify what followed. The ancient places? Barren? Dark? Lost? Silent?
The meaning eluded all of them, but there was such a growing and chilling awfulness in the sounds that Hawklan called out, ‘Stop. We can't understand you, your speech is far too subtle for us. But we feel your pain. What are you frightened of? We've only mountains ahead. Difficult and dangerous, but only if we're careless. Join us if travelling on the surface distresses you so much. We'll help you gladly.'
There was a long silence, then, ‘Our way to Anderras Darion is not your way.’ The voice faltered, as if struggling to find the correct words for a difficult explanation. ‘It is through ... bleakness and ... hardship...’ It gave up, and the shelter became silent again.
<
br /> Hawklan nodded even though his listener was not there to see. ‘We are indeed different, Alphraan,’ he said after a while. ‘We must learn about one another slowly. We mustn't allow our impatience and fear of each other to become His tools.'
There was another long silence, then the voice spoke again, hesitatingly, apologetically. ‘We do not eavesdrop on you, Hawklan, Goraidin,’ it said. ‘We hear you. It is difficult to do otherwise if we are to remain with you. And we have to learn to deal with the ... crudeness ... the inadequacies of your speech. That also is difficult.’ There was a hint of humour in the voice. ‘But patience at least is a word we both understand.'
Dacu looked across at Hawklan, his mind suddenly full of times in the past when he himself had wandered lost and frightened in strange places. ‘If our voices guide you,’ he said unexpectedly, ‘then listen by all means. And speak should you need help ... or whenever your heart or your head bids you.'
A strange, touching sigh filled the shelter. ‘Thank you, Goraidin,’ the voice said. ‘Thank you.’ And the sigh seemed to fade into the distance.
'Have they gone?’ said Tirke, awkwardly breaking the peaceful silence that followed.
Dacu chuckled. ‘Were they here?’ he said.
Tirke grimaced at the remark as if he had been struck. He put both hands to his head. ‘How do you all stay so calm?’ he said, his voice trembling.
The three men exchanged glances. ‘The same way you will if you get as far as we've got,’ Isloman said, smiling uncertainly.
Tirke waved a protective hand. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I can't joke about it. I'm doing my best, but my head's whirling with everything that happened last night and this morning. I don't seem to be able to take it all in. Voices from nowhere, those terrible noises, then that strange silence. And Lord Hawklan suddenly awake ... I...'
Dacu looked at him sympathetically. Tirke had been silent virtually all day, an uneasy and increasingly unhappy spectator at events beyond not only his control but his comprehension.
'Everyone's head is whirling, Tirke,’ he said gently. ‘Believe me—everyone's. You can't be witness to such as we've seen—and heard—and not be disturbed by it, perhaps to the point of doubting your sanity.’ He leaned forward to emphasize the point. ‘We're all shocked and disturbed in our different ways, and it'll be some time before we all get used to our new knowledge. All Isloman meant was that the only difference between you and us is age. Age and the changed perspectives that go with it. It's a big difference and one no one can do anything about it. But for what it's worth, you're sane all right, and you saw and heard what you saw and heard, as did we all.'
He took his journal out of his pack. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘if you want a small piece of advice, then just hold gently on to the simple things that you know are sound and real.’ He waved the document significantly. ‘Lord Eldric didn't send you with us as a stable-lad. He sent you because he values you and wants you to learn. Don't forget, you're a High Guard on special escort duty and under Goraidin command. Observation is the heart of our work. Armies may have to move across these mountains before this business is ended. Armies full of young men, like you, Tirke—uncertain, frightened. Think about them, and how you can help them with your eyes and ears now. Think about them whenever you get too fretful. Everything you've seen, heard and thought goes in here.’ He tapped the journal and opened it. ‘And you spend your days looking for things to put in it. For your own sake, for a time six months hence when you've forgotten everything that's so vivid now, and for their sake anytime, whoever they are.'
Hawklan watched the exchange in silence. Dacu was an astute and sensitive teacher. The combination of his reassuring manner and his few words had eased the young man's mind without in any way demeaning him. He remembered Lorac and Tel-Odrel consoling Ordan in the midst of the appalling wreck of Lord Evison's High Guard. He wrinkled his nose as the stench of that field returned with the memory. Realizing what he was doing he lifted his hand to disguise the movement as a yawn.
Were all the Goraidin like this? he thought. Certainly all those he had met showed that same astuteness and sensitivity, but these were attributes that could be put to many purposes. Attributes common to the teacher and the torturer.
So who guided these men, and how?
They guided themselves, came the answer, as far as they were able. Just as the Orthlundyn must now be doing under the tutelage of Gulda and Loman. They saw into themselves, and chose their path. They looked squarely at the desperate, dark parts of their nature and determined to forge them into a tool subservient to their will—the only tool that could stand against the desperate and dark natures of others less disciplined or more malevolent.
Ethriss's teaching. Ethriss guided them yet. Even after countless millennia the great momentum of his teaching carried it forward still.
He looked around the compact shelter. Dacu was writing diligently, occasionally making sketches, or referring to his map and adding notes to it in a small, very legible hand. Tirke seemed to have taken Dacu's advice and was also immersed in his writing. He was assisted by Gavor, who, stationed by his left arm, was peering intently at the journal and giving occasional, unsought advice about spelling, which the High Guard took with a remarkably good grace.
Isloman was fighting a losing battle against sleep. After two abrupt and mildly explosive awakenings, he gave up, and with a brief ‘good night,’ lay down.
Hawklan looked at the carver. How many would have borne me the way you did, old friend? he thought. Or sat and talked to me, and taken me riding into the mountains when for all you knew I was utterly oblivious to everything?
Guilt formed like a jagged, painful crystal in his mind. Isloman had even tried to carry for him his responsibility for the decisions that had led to the disastrous confrontation with Dan-Tor.
A final, monumental yawn from the carver, however, interrupted his mounting introspection. It spread relentlessly round the shelter. First to him, then to Tirke and finally Dacu. With an effort, Gavor fought off the infection, but abandoned his pupil and, with great dignity, moved over to Hawklan to take up his customary guard position.
Hawklan lay down and, staring at the torchlit roof of the shelter, briefly reviewed the new knowledge of himself that had gradually been revealed during his eerie disembodiment. It offered him more questions than it gave answers, but he refused the lure, knowing that inquiry could only lead him into futile, endless searching.
Dominating all his thoughts was the simple knowledge that he was whole again. Back in a real and solid world where he must help in the preparation of the awful battle lines that were being drawn. And his contribution was clear. He must search for his true self and all the other knowledge that lay somewhere hidden inside him. Sumeral could not be fought by men alone. Other, older, powers were needed, and in some way he was the key to their release.
Only one way seemed to be open to him. After they had reached Anderras Darion, then, circumstances allowing, he would go where perhaps he should have gone at first. He would go to the Caves of Cadwanen and seek out Andawyr. Andawyr, who, in some extremity of his own, had twice reached out and sought help from him, and then had reached out a third and final time to support him as he had quailed before the terrible vision of Oklar unleashed.
This decision stood out in his mind like a thread of light disappearing into a forbidding future, like a familiar road wending ahead into the winter mist. Gradually, however, his thoughts became scattered and incoherent and, to the occasional rustling of Dacu's map, he drifted into sleep.
He seemed to wake almost immediately, refreshed and relaxed, and vividly appreciative of his new condition. It's good to be back, he thought again, immediately his eyes opened. He smiled to himself. This simple paean of praise would fade in time, he knew, as the memory of his strange ... absence ... receded. But for now, let it sing!
A small cautionary grunt reached him.
'Uh, uh.'
It was Dacu. Hawklan looked at him
. The Goraidin, sleepy eyed, was running a hand through his tousled hair and gazing around the shelter, his face concerned. Hawklan followed his gaze and picked up his concern. The light was different.
He caught Hawklan's gaze and nodded. ‘Not good, I think,’ he said, and crawling to the entrance he opened it slightly and peered out.
A characteristic brightness shone in through the small opening. He opened it wider and thrust his head out.
'Not good, definitely,’ he said, as he withdrew his head and closed the entrance. He puffed his cheeks out and blew a long pensive breath, as if it were to be his last opportunity for relaxation before a long and arduous ordeal. Then, indicating the two sleepers, he said, ‘Wake the logs up, Hawklan. I'll go check on the horses and see how bad it is.'
A few minutes later he returned to find that Hawklan was having only limited success with his allotted task. He smiled maliciously, ‘Come on, you two,’ he said with blood-chilling cheeriness. ‘You're going to miss the Winter Festival at this rate.'
Before either of the wakening men could reply, Dacu bent down, and with the same practiced skill that he had shown on every other morning, he began dismantling the shelter. It was the work virtually of seconds, and when it was finished, Tirke and Isloman found themselves obliged to complete the rest of their journey into consciousness as uncertain smudges in a bright white snowscape.
Isloman levelled a finger at Dacu and then drew it across his throat. The Goraidin clapped his gloved hands together and laughed, his breath steaming in the cold air.
Within the hour, the group had breakfasted and broken camp and were preparing to set off across the transformed landscape.
Hawklan cast about for signs of the Alphraan but, as on the previous day, nothing was to be seen. He called out.
'We are here, Hawklan,’ came a reply, faint at first and then abruptly quite loud, as if the speaker were standing nearby.
