by Roger Taylor
Dacu's brow furrowed, ‘How do they do that?’ he said. ‘And where are they?'
'I told you, dear boy, they're probably underground somewhere,’ Gavor said. ‘That's were they live, according to the Gate at Anderras Darion. And for what it's worth, the Gate refers to them as Carvers of Sound.'
'Meaning what?’ Dacu asked.
'I haven't the faintest notion, dear boy,’ Gavor replied. ‘And I wouldn't bother asking them. I don't imagine we'd understand their explanation, even if they felt inclined to give us one.'
'You've studied the Great Gate?’ The Alphraan's voice cut across the conversation. It was excited, and sounded like several people speaking at once.
Before Gavor could reply however, Dacu gave the order to move out. ‘Talk while you're flying, Gavor,’ he said. ‘We have to make progress as quickly as we can now.'
As Gavor flapped off into the grey sky and the party started to move off, Tirke looked around at the nearby mountains. ‘It's not too bad,’ he said. ‘It's only a light fall, and fairly local. It'll probably thaw before the day's out.'
Dacu nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But it's not a good sign. It's early, and we've the highest part of the mountains to pass yet. If there's any chance of it setting in before we reach them, we're going to have severe problems.'
'Nothing we can't cope with,’ Tirke said, part question, part statement.
Dacu smiled. ‘Something I'd rather we didn't have to cope with if a little speed will see us clear,’ he said.
Tirke nodded, and dropped back a little way. The whiteness around him reminded him particularly of his family's winter home in the northern mountains. He looked at the three men ahead of him and felt his spirits suddenly lift. He would be here only once. He would perhaps have such remarkable company only once in all his life. This indeed was a learning time.
As the day proceeded, Tirke's observations about the snow proved to be correct and large untidy areas of brown and green began to show through the thin layer of snow that had fallen.
Dacu looked relieved, particularly when the sun began to shine in the late afternoon, but he kept the party moving forward as fast as the terrain would allow, until well past sunset. Periodically he looked back towards the north, where solid banks of cloud were gathering.
There was little conversation as they prepared their camp that night in the torchlight. All were tired, and anxious to eat and rest.
Over a frugal meal, Dacu outlined his intentions. ‘We've done well today, but from now on it's strict routine all the way. We rise before dawn—well before dawn—and we travel as fast as is safe until the darkness stops us. There's no chance of wearing the horses out over this kind of country.’ He looked significantly at Hawklan. ‘And if we meet any more strange happenings on the way, we note them and ride on.’ Hawklan inclined his head in agreement and Dacu continued. ‘This snow was too early and the sky to the north looks ominous to say the least. With hindsight, we may have dawdled too much, I don't know. But we certainly daren't risk any further delays. We'll probably be up above the snowline tomorrow and heading towards the highest part of our journey. That's going to be hard enough without having to deal with fresh snowfalls.'
He looked around at his weary listeners and invited alternatives to this strategy, but none were forthcoming.
'Good,’ he said, dousing his torch, and lying down. ‘First awake, wakes the others.'
The next day, after a dark and cold awakening, the party set off in the greying dawn to the accompaniment of a blustery wind and intermittent blasts of cold, driving rain.
Dacu glanced at Tirke and noted that despite the uncomfortable conditions, the young man seemed to be riding more easily. ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.
Tirke looked at him a little uncertainly. ‘Well, I'll have to admit that this wouldn't have been my choice of day for a canter,’ he said, pursing his lips. Then, acidly, ‘But if you old folks can manage it, I'll do my best.'
Dacu laughed explosively, causing the others to turn to see what could cause him so much amusement in such circumstances.
'Ah, you do speak a little of our language, Goraidin,’ said the Alphraan's voice unexpectedly.
Still buoyed up by Tirke's remark and the manner of its delivery, Dacu laughed again at this unexpected interruption. ‘Possibly, Alphraan,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day you'll tell me what I said.'
For an instant the air around them was alive with a sound like shimmering silver bells, and each of the men seemed to feel the seeping coldness of the day retreat a little.
'Perhaps we have more than patience in common,’ said the voice. There was humour in the voice, but also another note that caught Hawklan's attention.
'What's the matter, Alphraan?’ he asked.
There was a pause, then, ‘You cannot help us, Hawklan. And we do not wish to burden you.'
'Speak,’ said Hawklan abruptly, his voice an odd mixture of impatience and gentle encouragement. ‘Let us be the judge of what we can and cannot do.'
Briefly it seemed to the riders that the sound of the wind became a whispered and secret debate, until the voice formed itself again.
'In the highest part of the mountains lies our own greatest trial, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Just as does yours. Already we are travelling along strange ways, where the song has not been heard for generations. Soon we will be at...’ The speech faltered and sounds came that formed complex images of fear and destruction and bleakness interwoven with longing; longing for lost kin, longing for more hopeful times, for ... the felci? And ... the Song?
Gradually the sounds and the images faded, merging imperceptibly into the voice again.
'We are sorry,’ it said. ‘We forget that you do not speak properly.'
Despite the pain in what he had just heard, Hawklan smiled to himself at this comment.
'Our trial will be the weather and the mountains and the weakness of our spirits,’ he said. ‘Perhaps also ill-fortune, looking at the weather. Share your trial with us.'
There was a long silence. The four men moved steadily forward into the lee of a large outcrop and gained a little respite from the constant shaking of the wind.
The voice returned suddenly. ‘We are coming near to that which was the ... Heartplace ... of the southern Alphraan ... where the ways ran wide and long, and all could sing to all ... and the felci kept alive the lesser ways.'
The voice was faint and hesitant and many of the words were ringed about by elusive subtleties of meaning. There was also a sense of discomfort, distaste even. Isloman bent forward, listening intently, then he rode alongside Hawklan. ‘Help them if you can,’ he said anxiously. ‘They're struggling to tell us something precious to them that only their language can do justice to. It's distressing them. They're trying to carve in sand.'
'Thank you, carver,’ said the voice, before Hawklan could speak. ‘In this, quite definitely, you cannot help. But your awareness eases our telling.'
'What has happened to your Heartplace that you're so afraid?’ Hawklan asked.
The voice burst out. ‘His creatures, Hawklan, His creatures.’ Hawklan turned his face to one side as if to avoid the blast of the terrible bitterness and anger that filled the words.
The voice continued, quieter now, but still pained. ‘When we fulfilled our bargain and the last of the Mandrassni were slain, we were a destroyed people, scattered and maimed terribly. But Ethriss had not forgotten us, even though his every moment was given to fighting His dreadful power. He sent us the felci and they spread his blessing through the ways. And over many generations, scattered families slowly came together to start anew, building our second ... nation.'
The voice faltered. ‘All through these mountains it was, Hawklan. Great and splendid. Halls and ways such as had never been known before, even in the old days. Such a song...’ Again the voice faltered, and at the same time the riders found themselves moving from the lee of the rocks out once more into the full force of the wind.
When the v
oice spoke again, the bitter reverberations in each word were almost palpable. ‘But in our folly we ignored the world and the wars of man, thinking—knowing—that we had done all that could be asked of us to stem His corruption.'
Slowly and softly, as if to avoid disturbing this strange, disembodied telling, Dacu dismounted to begin leading his horse up a steep rocky slope. The others did the same.
'And when He was defeated, and His Uhriel fell before the Guardians, the many creatures that He had made dread and powerful in His skills, fled into the depths of the mountains from where they had been taken.’ The voice was Gavor's. All four of the men started in surprise.
'Ah.'
A great sigh of gratitude surrounded them.
'Thank you...’ Sky prince? ‘...For all our skills, we had not the words for that. You have indeed studied the Great Gate.'
Gavor preened himself nonchalantly. ‘I'm really getting to like these fine people', he said. ‘They have such appreciation. And such a natural sense of respect.'
'Gavor,’ Hawklan said warningly, concerned for the continuation of the tale.
The voice interceded. ‘No, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Offer your friend no reproach. He has spared us the pain of the worst part of our story, for it was from your great victory—the victory of men—that the second destruction of our people came. Sumeral's creatures were indeed dread and powerful, though they quailed before the wrath of men and they travelled far and deep to hide from it. Some came upon our Heartplace and, slaughtering all they found, made it their own, their ... nest.’ There was such loathing in the voice that for the second time, Hawklan had to turn his face away.
'And no one helped you?’ he said.
'Faint songs came from the north of great battles in the ways there, but most men were content to entomb what they could not find and destroy.’ The voice was quiet and resigned.
'Ethriss was gone, and none helped us because none knew of us,’ it said simply. ‘That was of our own doing and is our cruellest burden.'
The wind blew Hawklan's hood back. As he tugged at it, Dacu spoke. ‘Could your people not defend themselves against these creatures?'
'No, warrior.’ There was a bitter humour in the voice now. ‘Our wars against the Mandrassni had been so fearful, that we had turned utterly from violence, and such arts of war as we had were long forgotten.'
Isloman and Hawklan exchanged glances at this ominous parallel with the Orthlundyn.
Dacu's face wrinkled in pain and bewilderment. ‘But how could you ignore the lessons that you must have learned so bitterly?'
'You seek to judge us again, Goraidin,’ said the voice, though not unkindly. ‘You must wait until your own people have been utterly destroyed before you can begin to understand.'
'I'm sorry,’ Dacu responded. ‘You're right. I was judging you. I was wrong. But if my people were destroyed I think part of me would seek out vengeance.'
'Ah.’ This time, the Alphraan's sigh was full of realization and understanding. ‘Yes, Goraidin. Part of you would,’ the voice said, very gently. ‘Humanity was Ethriss's greatest creation and his most flawed. That is why in each of you there is the darkness that yearns towards His way. Your balance is subtle far beyond our understanding.'
Then, a strange stirring urgency filled the air.
'This has been a great learning for us,’ said the voice hurriedly. It was fading. ‘And a strengthening. But we must leave you now.'
'What's the matter—where are you going?’ Hawklan asked anxiously, leaning forward.
'To our trial, healer,’ said the voice. ‘If our courage ... and our fortune ... holds, we shall speak again ... on the other side of the mountain.'
'No!’ Hawklan shouted. ‘Wait. We must help you.'
'Gavor, if we do not speak again, tell our kin that we have gone into the ancient Heartplace. By your telling they will know the truth of our fate.'
'No!’ Hawklan shouted again. ‘Stay with us.'
The voice was very faint now, for the first time seeming to be carried away by the wind. ‘We cannot, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘We will need our every resource.’ Then, fading utterly, ‘...where we go ... Sumeral's creatures ... may ... yet ... live.'
As the voice disappeared into the increasing noise of the wind, Hawklan found himself gazing around, searching desperately for the unseen speaker, a sense of desolation pervading him.
The whole group had stopped, stunned by this sudden and unexpected departure.
Dacu was the first to speak, though not about the suddenly departed Alphraan. He pointed ahead. ‘We'll need our every resource as well,’ he said. ‘If we're to get past that.'
Hawklan looked up. Dominating the horizon was a mountain that overtopped all those around it. Its peak was hidden in mist but two broad, curving spurs ran down from its snow-covered shoulders to arc round like the arms of a great chair. Its grim presence however, offered no sense of comfort.
Instinctively, Hawklan turned away from it and looked to the north. There, another mountain dominated the scene. A growing mountain of heavy grey cloud, pregnant with the first of the real winter snows.
* * *
Chapter 23
For the first time since Hawklan had left there had been serious dissension among the Orthlundyn.
None could deny the vulnerability of their country as revealed by the visit of Dan-Tor and the subsequent slaughter of the High Guards by armed Mandrocs. And most agreed readily to the restraints placed on their ordinary lives by the need to build up sufficient skill at arms to mend this weakness. However, no small part in this agreement was played by Gulda's organizing skills, which ensured that these restraints were modest and reasonable and that, for the most part, few had had to leave their homes and farms for any length of time.
Now, however, with the proposal for wholesale movement of almost all training into the mountains, the disruption promised to be considerable and, unexpectedly, Loman and his colleagues found themselves spending long hours first persuading village elders of the real threat raised by the Alphraan's action, and then helping them in their turn persuade their villagers.
'The Riddinvolk don't have this much trouble, I'm sure,’ Loman said one evening, slumping into his chair and gazing up at the carved ceiling. By an irony, it showed a scene of an orator skilfully swaying a great throng. Pulling a rueful face, Loman closed his eyes. ‘I must have spent half the day up at Oglin just sorting out who should tend whose fields, who should feed whose stock, who should collect whose stones from the quarry, mend this, mend that’—he slapped the arms of his chair and uttered a strangled growl—‘who should scratch whose backside...'
Gulda looked up from the book she was reading and, surprisingly, laughed. ‘The Riddinvolk are different,’ she said. ‘They're born to it. Their whole society pivots around the Muster and has done for generations. They have their family homes and lands, but they're much more used to mobility and the kind of communal sharing that goes with it.'
Loman nodded. ‘I know, Memsa,’ he said more quietly. ‘I know. I'm sorry. I'm only venting my frustration through the rafters. I'm just worried. This is taking much longer than I thought. It was hard enough changing the training schedules, but this reluctance, by people...'
He sat up, leaving his comment unfinished.
Again surprisingly, Gulda did not seem to share his concern. ‘There's nothing else you can do, is there?’ she said, her voice still mildly amused. ‘You can't drag them up into the hills one at a time and make them train.’ She laid down her book and looked at him. ‘The Orthlundyn are every bit as mobile as the Riddinvolk, Loman, but in a different way.’ A long finger rose to tap her temple. ‘In here. In their minds.'
She turned her book over and gently ran her finger over its ornate binding. ‘I'll confess, this delay is unsettling me a little as well,’ she said. ‘But it'll be for the best in the end. Once people accept the changes freely, they'll commit themselves to them, you'll see. In the long run, we may thank the Alphraan for what t
hey've done. They've shown us again how vulnerable we are to the whims of outsiders, and also made us face the problem of the social upheaval that goes with self-defence.’ She looked at him significantly. ‘An item I fear we've shied away from previously if the truth be told.'
'That's what I keep telling people,’ Loman agreed. ‘And most of them agree eventually. But it's still heavy going.’ With a dismissive wave of his hand, he changed the subject. ‘Have you found your wedge yet?’ he asked, leaning forward and looking at her intently.
'Oh, yes,’ Gulda replied, returning to her book. ‘I always knew what that would be. I just wanted to have a long talk with Tirilen about it first. Now she's reasonably happy about it, I'm simply waiting for you to tell me everyone's ready for the change. Then we're off.'
'Off?’ Loman queried suspiciously.
* * * *
It was not a particularly warm day, but Loman and Athyr were perspiring freely as they trudged up the last and steepest part of the mountain where Gulda had first lured out the Alphraan with the singing of the three boys.
'At least you're not carrying the children today,’ Gulda said, leading the way.
Loman risked a sour look at her back and then adjusted his pack.
'We might as well be,’ he said. ‘I don't know how that damned tinker carried this lot on his own.'
'He had more than that with him when he came, father,’ Tirilen said, wilfully unhelpful. ‘And we are carrying some of it for you.'
Loman looked at the small neat pack on his daughter's shoulders. ‘I'm indebted to you, my dear,’ he said acidly. ‘There must be a good two to three bracelets in your pack.'
'Take no notice of him, Tirilen,’ Gulda said. ‘He's just getting old.'
With difficulty Loman remained silent. He judged he had little alternative if Gulda and Tirilen were going to conspire against him. Athyr grinned widely.
At the top, however, it was with some relish that Loman noted his daughter too was looking rather red-faced.
His glee, nevertheless, was tempered with deeper emotions. It seemed a long time since he had walked in the mountains with Tirilen, and while he, in many ways, had become younger over the past months, she had aged noticeably. Not in her appearance, but in her manner and demeanour. The quiet, slightly reserved young woman that had grown from the boisterous, almost raucous tomboy, now seemed to have developed into a much more solid, purposeful individual. He felt a strange twinge of regret.
