by Roger Taylor
Hawklan held his torch high and Gavor landed silently on his shoulder. The sound hung urgently in the air like a guiding rope, but his torch showed tumbled, snow-covered boulders ahead. Carefully, but quickly, he began to scramble over them and soon found himself dropping down into a wide cleft, which so far seemed to have been sheltered from the snow.
Hastily he began to make his way along it, occasionally slipping and stumbling on damp, lichen-covered rocks, Gavor fluttering ahead of him. The sound became more urgent.
'It could be a trap.’ Dacu's voice returned to him, but he ignored it. The plea in the Alphraan's voice could not have been other than genuine. And even if it were false, he could do no other than follow such a call. People had already died simply because he existed. He could not risk more dying because of his actions.
That is a weakness, said the dark and cold part of his mind, but he thrust that aside too. As are you, in your blindness, he thought in rebuttal.
'I'm coming,’ he said, in answer to some new unspoken urging in the hovering thread of sound.
The floor of the cleft began to rise and the wind began to tug at his cloak, though it carried no snow. He glanced upward, but the torchlight revealed only a little of the ragged uneven rock walls rising above him. It must be narrow at the top, he thought, if no snow has ever fallen into it.
As he looked back down again, a shadow caught his attention. Moving towards it he found it was a cave entrance. And the sound was coming from it. He frowned a little. He was certain he had not noticed it before.
'Trap,’ came Dacu's voice again.
Muttering to himself, Gavor flapped up on to his shoulder. ‘Steady, dear boy,’ he said.
Hawklan nodded, then, drawing his sword, stepped inside.
* * *
Chapter 26
Loman and Jenna waited and watched, motionless, as the riders moved towards them, eerie in the moon's pale wash.
Loman grimaced as a catalogue of injuries manifested itself. But worse than the injuries was the awful, dispirited silence in which the column travelled.
'Athyr,’ he said, almost whispering.
The leader started, then halted and looked around. For a moment his face was blank then an uncertain recognition lit his face. ‘Loman? Jenna?’ he said, his voice full of doubt. His tone reflected his appearance and that of the column which had stopped when he did.
No uncontrolled frenzy here, Loman thought. This was the retreat of a shattered force, waiting with timeless patience in the moonlight; ghostly, like ancient warriors sentenced to an eternal penance for some long-forgotten defeat.
Loman rode forward. ‘We've come to help you, Athyr,’ he said simply. ‘Are you all right?'
Athyr still stared at him, understanding coming only slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Now.’ He lowered his head.
Loman's eyes narrowed in response to the pain in the gesture.
'They let us go, Loman,’ he said. ‘It was ... awful. We've got injured ... and dead.'
Loman heard Jenna's sharp intake of breath. She came alongside. ‘Who ... ?’ she began anxiously, but Loman lifted a hand to silence her.
Athyr's eyes suddenly blazed, ghastly in the moonlight. ‘We couldn't do anything, Loman. They used us like puppets. They...'
Loman reached forward and seized his arm in a powerful grip. ‘Later, Athyr,’ he said. ‘Whatever it was, it's over for now. We must look to our charges.’ He nodded towards the waiting riders.
The look in Athyr's eyes faded, but Loman saw a tiny flash of light in them that made him start. He looked again and then turned to confirm its source. In the distance, lights blinked from the three hitherto silent signal stations. They were moving very rapidly and their messages were barely coherent.
Once again, Loman rent the mountain silence with a piercing whistle to catch the attention of the nearby station. Then turning to Jenna he said, ‘Tell them to signal central camp to send healers and carriers to meet us, most urgent. And to get Tirilen and Gulda up from the Castle immediately.’ He glanced at the distant lights blinking desperately. ‘And reassure them as well as you can,’ he added. ‘Tell them what's happening and that we'll get them relieved as soon as possible.'
His voice was louder than necessary and, as Jenna jumped down from her horse and began scrambling up onto a nearby rock, his horse circled several times, in response to his agitation and his anxiety to bring some sense of normality to this unreal scene.
* * * *
'Two dead. Seven very seriously injured, at least two of whom will definitely be doing no more soldiering, if they live. A dozen or more others fairly seriously injured, and everyone else—everyone—with one form of injury or another.'
Tirilen's voice was neutral, though a deep anger showed clearly on her tired face.
'And Athyr's a mess,’ she added, the anger breaking through. ‘Gulda, I haven't had time to talk to him properly, but I think you'll have to help him; I suspect he's beyond me.'
Gulda nodded. ‘I've spoken to him a little already,’ she said. ‘He'll be joining us shortly. We'll wait for him.'
She looked down and idly poked her stick into the trampled turf that formed the floor of Athyr's command post. Loman, Jenna and Tybek sat opposite her, watching her silently, while Yrain, who had come with her and Tirilen in their hasty trip from the Castle, sat next to her, head bowed.
The command post was a Summer Festival tent seconded for this special duty, and was incongruously decorated with pictures of bright summer flowers, dancing figures, rolling green meadows and forests, and all the paraphernalia of happy sunlit times. Now, a fine drizzle quietly formed tiny streams of water which ran down the sloping roof to drip steadily onto the ground below as if trying to form an equally tiny moat.
Gulda looked up abruptly and, at the same time, the tent flap was turned back to reveal Athyr, silhouetted against the damp greenness of the valley.
Gulda motioned him in gently.
He was pale and obviously still shocked, but he nodded a tight-lipped acknowledgement to everyone, and sat down next to Jenna.
'Tirilen's just given us the casualty figures, Athyr,’ Gulda said. ‘They tally almost exactly with those you outlined last night. You did well.'
Athyr almost winced under this praise. ‘I'd have done well if I'd had no casualty list to prepare,’ he said, his voice hoarse.
Instinctively, Jenna's hand rose to comfort him, but a gesture from Gulda stopped her.
'I'm the judge of what's well done and what's not, Athyr,’ Gulda said, her voice stern. ‘According to those I've managed to speak to, it could have been much worse. Your tactics were good and you got your people out in good order when they could easily have panicked and spread themselves all over the mountains.'
'With a pinch of awareness I could have avoided it all,’ Athyr said.
'With a pinch of awareness, we'd none of us be here today,’ Gulda said, suddenly angry. ‘We'd have smelt the presence of Sumeral at His very wakening, and crushed Him and His creatures before He could leach so deep again into the world.'
Athyr began to protest. ‘Loman managed to...'
Gulda cut him short. ‘Loman was lucky,’ she said, still angry. ‘Perhaps because of his awareness, or perhaps because the Alphraan chose him to make a point. Or perhaps because the Alphraan attacking camp three were less absorbed by their own rightness.'
She leaned back in her chair and waved the end of her stick in a series of small circles.
'Round and round it goes, Athyr,’ she said. ‘We don't know what happened, do we? We're probing these ... people. Probing to learn about them. And any probe gets blunted in use. Correct, carver?'
Athyr rounded on her. ‘They're not tools out there,’ he said, pointing towards the door. ‘They're people. Some of them are my kin. A lot of them are my friends, and all of them are—were—my responsibility.'
Gulda leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands folded over the top of her stick. She spoke slowly, her voi
ce soft, but very powerful: ‘They're both people and tools, soldier. Don't think otherwise. You shape them, sharpen and hone them, care for them, and then when need arises, you use them. You use them as you've prepared them—as they've prepared themselves—to be used, and you use them thus before someone else smashes them.'
Athyr's eyes narrowed. ‘You blunt a tool when you use it,’ he said savagely.
'Then you re-sharpen it,’ Gulda snapped, reflecting his manner back at him.
'But it's changed, isn't it?’ Athyr said, barely holding his ground against Gulda's response, but before he could continue, she waved her hand around the small assembly. ‘We change all the time, Athyr,’ she said, less harshly. ‘And we've all been damaged, blunted, by what happened. You because you could do little or nothing to stop what was happening and realize now that your very arrival may have worsened matters. Loman and Jenna because they saw what you didn't see, but didn't tell you. Yrain, who conceived this idea. And me who agreed with it and underestimated the power, the control, and the will, of the Alphraan.'
She turned her head and looked at Tirilen. ‘And Tirilen. Who should be tending the routine mishaps of village life and sees clearer than she wants to what might soon be coming. Who can tell what pain she carries?'
Tirilen met her gaze steadfastly, and Gulda turned away.
'I can't stop you—any of you—reproaching yourselves,’ she continued. ‘But you must use your feelings of guilt as goads, not shackles. Any encounter that you survive has lessons in it that must be learned. And you start by being carvers. By looking at things as they are.'
No one spoke.
She continued. ‘Now you're all at least a little rested, I want to go through everything that happened, in as much detail as you can manage. When we've done that we'll talk to the signallers and everyone else from the two camps.'
'Everyone?’ Loman said.
'Everyone,’ Gulda confirmed. ‘We're not the only ones who've been damaged by yesterday's exploits, Loman, and we're not the only ones who have to learn from it. None of you were controlled by the Alphraan. We have to speak to those who were.’ Abruptly, she changed direction. ‘What's morale like now?’ she asked.
'I don't know,’ Loman said bluntly. ‘I've spent most of the night with Athyr and the others just organizing quarters for all these extra people.'
'It's uncertain,’ Tybek volunteered. ‘But those who aren't still shocked are angry, and seem to be getting angrier.'
Both Loman and Gulda looked at him sharply. ‘No,’ Tybek said, anticipating their question. ‘I don't think it's the Alphraan doing it. That was very sudden ... unreal somehow. This is colder, deeper. I have it myself. It's Orthlundyn, all right.'
Gulda frowned. ‘That's understandable,’ she said. ‘But it might prove to be just another problem.’ She shook her head to dismiss the concern and then pointed at Athyr. ‘The facts first,’ she said.
Athyr's tale proved to be short. Like Loman, he had sensed some wrongness as he rode with the reserve patrol towards camp six, but unlike Loman he had not identified it. When they neared the camp, they saw a large crowd milling around and fighting, but when Athyr called a halt so that he could decide what to do, some of the patrol continued galloping and rode at full speed towards the camp.
'Whatever fighting had been going on there before stopped almost immediately and the entire camp turned on the riders,’ Athyr said.
'And you?’ Gulda asked.
'For a moment I was just stunned at what had happened,’ Athyr admitted. ‘But I felt the rhythm of the riding trying to drive me forward too, and I understood what it was. Especially when it just faded away. I think they were showing us what they could do to all of us if they wished,’ he added bitterly.
Gulda nodded. ‘Go on,’ she said.
'I sent a signal back, straight away,’ Athyr said. ‘I didn't want anyone else charging along, making whatever mistake I'd made. I knew I'd have to deal with the problem on my own.'
A gust of wind shook the tent impatiently and a frayed fringe of raindrops splattered noisily on to the sodden grass outside.
Athyr's listeners sat silent.
'I had to stand off,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Even though we were out of range, some of them were slinging at us.’ He looked straight at Gulda. ‘You were right to forbid all weapons,’ he said.
Gulda did not reply.
'All I could think of was to try and exhaust them,’ Athyr continued. ‘We split into six groups, and took turns at riding within range to draw their fire.'
'Risky,’ said Loman.
Athyr shrugged. ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘We took some knocks.’ He rubbed his arm ruefully. ‘But there was no co-ordination in their fire, and we didn't stand still, I can assure you.'
'And it worked?’ Gulda asked.
'Eventually,’ Athyr said, though his voice held reservations. ‘After about an hour, they stopped bothering to attack us, and started wandering about, looking confused. I dismounted and walked towards them very slowly, but all of a sudden they were demented again and I'd to run for my life, rocks bouncing all around me.'
He leaned forward and held up his hand, fingers extended. It was shaking slightly. ‘Five times that happened,’ he said, his voice hoarse again. ‘Five times. I've never been so frightened in all my life as on that fifth walk. By then I'd three groups ready to move to divert any fire, and a fourth group ready to dash in to try and reach me, but as I got closer and closer...’ He shook his head and left the sentence unfinished. ‘Anyway, nothing happened. It was over, they'd had their fun ... made their point ... whatever. And we were free to pick up our dead and injured and leave.'
His mouth curled viciously.
Gulda looked puzzled. ‘Why didn't they mount up and attack you?’ she asked.
Athyr looked surprised. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘All the horses were badly frightened when we finally got in, but ... I don't know. It never occurred to me. They just formed up along some natural ... perimeter ... and stayed there.'
Gulda nodded. ‘It's interesting,’ she said. ‘I've spoken to some of the people from the camp. They said that some were affected and some weren't, just like at camp three. But when the riders appeared, everyone seemed to be affected. They've all got different memories of what they thought they were doing, but their antagonism towards the riders was less than it had been to each other.'
'Interesting's not a word I'd choose,’ Athyr said. ‘Murdering little devils.'
Gulda accepted the rebuke with a gesture. ‘But I think we're beginning to get some measure of them at last,’ she said. ‘I think...'
The tent flap was pulled back hastily and a large, burly figure strode in unannounced, his face riven with anxiety. Tirilen half stood. A brief spasm of pain on her face made Loman lower his eyes.
'Tirilen,’ the man said urgently, ignoring the others. ‘Come quick, he's bad again...'
Without speaking, but with a brief nod to Gulda, Tirilen walked straight towards the gaily painted entrance. The man turned aside and held it open for her as she passed through, then followed her. The flap, folded awkwardly, stood open for a moment until a light breeze touched it and it slowly dropped back to close out the damp coldness pervading the camp.
Gulda looked down at the ground and tapped her stick on it absently. There was a long uneasy silence.
'Three dead?’ Loman said softly.
'Soon, I fear,’ Gulda replied.
Barely had she spoken, than a loud cry of despair and anger reached them. Other cries formed around it. Gulda looked around the circle, her face pained. ‘I don't know exactly what we're going to do,’ she said. ‘But Loman's approach will be essential. We must redirect that.’ She lifted her hand towards the commotion outside. ‘Or they will use it.'
Before anyone could pursue this, Tirilen returned, her face pale. She walked a few paces into the tent and then paused to look at her hand. It was bloodstained.
Loman looked at the woman who was now more than ev
er his and not his.
'This obscenity must stop,’ Tirilen said, her voice shaking with emotion and her gaze fixing Gulda. ‘You and I will go and talk to these creatures, now.'
Gulda did not reply, but stood up and with a nod of her head, motioned Tirilen back to the entrance.
'Where do you want to go?’ she asked as they stepped outside, but Tirilen did not answer. She simply fastened her cloak more firmly round her shoulders and pulled the hood forward purposefully against the fine, penetrating drizzle. Then she turned and began walking through the camp. Such few people as were wandering about stepped aside silently to let her pass, forming a wide, sombre aisle for her. Gulda looked at the retreating, green-clad figure for a moment, then, pulling her own hood forward, followed her.
Athyr looked anxiously at Loman, but the smith shook his head. ‘Leave them,’ he said softly. ‘Both of them are beyond anything we can help with. We'd better tend the living and make arrangements for burying our dead.'
Tirilen walked for a long time, tall and straight, though with her head bowed. Gulda, black and stooped, followed silently behind, unflagging.
At the end of a long grassy slope, Tirilen stopped on a small rocky outcrop. She pushed her hood back and gazed out into the mist. Rain dampened her face and gradually started to run down it. She looked at Gulda. The old woman returned her gaze without speaking, then held out her hand. It was a gesture of encouragement—or one seeking help.
Tirilen took the hand and held it for a little while before releasing it and, pulling her hood forward again, she set off once more.
Eventually she stopped and the two women stood at the centre of a mist-enclosed circle. Everywhere was silent and muted except for the barely audible hiss of the fine rain.
She gazed around. ‘Why have you done this?’ she said quietly into the greyness. ‘Why have you killed and maimed our people. Tell me so that I can understand, here.’ She laid the palm of her hand on her chest.
Silence.
Tirilen inclined her head a little. ‘You hear me, I know,’ she said. ‘I hear your very listening. Your pain whispers where you'd have it silent. Answer me.'
