by Roger Taylor
Gavor thrust his head out from Hawklan's cloak, muttered, ‘Good grief!’ and withdrew quickly.
Feeling cautiously for each foothold, the group slowly struggled down the slope.
When they were all safely down, Dacu peered into the snow-streaked gloom beyond the torchlight.
'Douse your torches,’ he said after a moment. ‘And don't move, whatever you do.'
The blackness closed around them, leaving each alone and isolated in the screaming wind, clinging to Dacu's last command and trying to set aside the memory of the creature that had surged out of the darkness to be slain by Hawklan scarcely an hour past.
Gradually a faint unfocussed glow began to form, at some indeterminate, swirling distance. It was the beacon torch on their shelter.
As soon as they were back inside, Isloman struck the radiant stones and the four men sat in a strange unreal silence until the warmth and the familiarity of their surroundings seeped into their unease.
'There's precious little left of the night,’ Dacu said eventually. ‘But I suggest we get what sleep we can. We've still got to get over this mountain.'
Tirke pulled a sour face. ‘Why can't we go through the tunnels like the Alphraan suggested?’ he asked.
Dacu was conspicuously patient with him. ‘You heard, Tirke,’ he said. ‘We need a surface route that anyone can travel. Not one that needs others to guide them through underground chambers and passageways.'
Tirke looked unconvinced.
'We may have to bring an army into Fyorlund this way,’ Dacu went on, irritated slightly. ‘Can you see thousands of men, women, horses, tramping along those tunnels? Over those bridges, walkways ... whatever they were? Not to mention pack animals, supply wagons, all the equipment that's needed. I doubt the Alphraan would be our friends for long then.'
Tirke ran his hand down his face wearily and lay down. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't think.'
'Go to sleep,’ Dacu said, repenting his hasty tone. ‘You're entitled not to think after a night like tonight.'
Tirke stared up at the roof of the shelter, moving as the wind shook it.
'I don't think I can go to sleep,’ he said. ‘And to be honest, I'm not sure I want to.'
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Talk about it, then,’ he said encouragingly.
'There's nothing to talk about,’ Tirke said. ‘Every time I shut my eyes, I see that—thing—roaring and screaming out of the blackness. I see myself paralysed—with surprise as much as fear. And you—twisting, turning—no effort, no hesitation, as if it were all just part of ... of ... a Festival dance...'
He lifted himself up and rested on one elbow. His eyes opened wide, surprised, and his words seemed to force themselves out as if against his will. ‘I don't know which was the most frightening. It, or you,’ he said.
Dacu and Isloman turned abruptly to look at the young man and then at Hawklan. Dacu caught Hawklan's eye and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. Hawklan nodded.
Tirke suddenly looked stricken, realizing what he had said. He began to stammer out an apology. Hawklan raised his hand to stop him. ‘No, Tirke,’ he said. ‘I understand. It was a perceptive remark. Trust me, you've no need to fear your dreams while you see that clearly.'
He lay back, nursing his still painful arm, and Gavor took up sentry duty by his head. ‘I did what I did because I'd no alternative,’ Hawklan said. ‘And I did what I did in great terror, but nevertheless wilfully and thoughtfully, to halt its attack as quickly as possible. It was old and demented, but even a passing blow from one of those hands would have killed. I had no alternative,’ he repeated. ‘However, for what it's worth, Tirke, it was no effortless ballet.’ He sat up slowly. ‘I remember years and years of relentless training to attain the understanding that would enable me—my body—to face such a foe and to move thus.'
Isloman looked at Hawklan intently, and Gavor inclined his head.
'You remember?’ Isloman said softly, his voice almost awed.
Hawklan turned to him. ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, with a slight shrug, ‘No faces, names, places—but the toil? Yes, I remember that.'
Isloman was tempted to press the matter, but realized it would avail him nothing. Hawklan had told him all he could.
Dacu, on the other hand, seemed relieved that such a skill could be acquired by effort rather than the mysterious intervention of some ancient force. ‘I was going to ask you where you learned to use a sword like that,’ he said. ‘I've seen some fine swordsmanship but never the like of that. Perhaps when we reach Anderras Darion you'll instruct me?'
Hawklan laughed a little at Dacu's straightforward bluntness then bowed an acknowledgement. ‘I'd be honoured, Goraidin.’ He turned back to Tirke and said, ‘I'll instruct you, too.'
Gavor chuckled ominously.
The following day Dacu, as usual, awoke first. There was an odd quality about the light, and the shelter was very warm even though Isloman had extinguished the radiant stones before they had all finally retired.
He muttered softly to himself then opened the entrance a little to confirm his diagnosis. Then he started to wake the others. He had intended to do this gently, but each in turn sat up rapidly at his touch, familiar by now with his normal method of rousing the camp.
'It sounds as though the wind has dropped,’ he said. ‘But we're buried—at least in part.'
Isloman's eyes narrowed with a brief spasm of anxiety while Tirke's widened in frank alarm. Dacu was reassuring. ‘It shouldn't be too bad,’ he said. ‘We were well sheltered. It's probably just some eddying, but we'll have to dig our way out slowly and cautiously.'
He looked at each of the others in turn. ‘Everything is slow and cautious in these conditions,’ he emphasized. ‘Not only will the terrain be disguised completely, but if you go rushing around you'll sweat, your sweat will freeze on you and we'll be heading for some real problems then. Just remember we've still a long way to go.'
It took them only a little time to dig their way out of the shelter and they emerged to be greeted by a soft misty snowscape. Everywhere was silent and still and large parts of the stern mountain scenery had been transformed by a swaddling whiteness. The sky to the east was a dull red, but to the north and west dark heavy clouds hung expectantly, and the peak of the mountain they stood on was still lost in the mist.
'It's beautiful,’ said Tirke, his breath steaming.
'It is,’ Dacu agreed. Without speaking, Gavor flapped off into the cold silence, black and clear against the misty haziness.
Hawklan took Tirke's arm. ‘Come and help me feed the horses,’ he said. ‘Then we can eat.'
The horses had fared better than the shelter, Dacu having taken greater pains to place them well in the lee of the rocks. They were standing quietly together, scarcely touched by the snow that had eddied round and buried the shelter.
Hawklan examined each of them briefly and then consulted Serian.
'They're all right,’ the horse said. ‘But we should move soon. The weather's liable to change again quickly and this is not good country for us.'
Hawklan smiled when Dacu subsequently offered him the same opinion.
'This weather's unseasonable,’ Dacu said. ‘It seems to be confined to the high peaks, but I wouldn't like to say it was temporary. It could be the beginning of a very bad winter.'
He shrugged and set the grim thought aside. ‘Anyway, it shouldn't be too difficult to find the gully in these conditions, but we must use every moment to look for it. I don't want to spend another night here if it can be avoided. Amongst other things, we haven't enough supplies for the horses to be away from grazing for too long.'
Thus, after a brief meal, the party struck out again.
Dacu was pleased as he looked at the small hummocks in the snow which marked the positions of the cairns they had made the previous day. It had been a useful day's work after all, even though it now seemed a very long time ago.
He did not spend much time in reflection, however. The he
avy clouds that dominated the horizon, dominated his thoughts also. Today was a day for being completely in the present. Each step must be taken with the right balance of speed and caution if progress was to be made. Both too slow and too fast would present equally serious problems.
'This way,’ he said, pointing up and across the slope in the opposite direction to the previous day's search. ‘We'll make for that skyline there. We should be able to get a better view of the area than here.'
Dwarfed by the massive bulk of the mountain, the four tiny figures and their tiny horses began their painstaking way up its broad flank. High above, soaring in the cold winter air, Gavor watched their slow but relentless progress. The sun was beginning to appear, red over the eastern peaks, but to the north, great snow clouds still lowered and he could see swirling squalls in some of the distant valleys.
* * * *
With typical thoroughness, Gulda had divided the region around the central camp into sectors and sub-sectors. Now, with equal thoroughness, the Orthlundyn were surveying them; painstakingly—ruthlessly, even—in an atmosphere that could only be described as alarmingly disorienting: a bizarre mixture of battle frenzy and children's game.
Loman was in charge of the most northerly of the three groups.
The strange warning note that had greeted their departure from the camp had stayed with them for some time, rising and falling monotonously, then it had stopped abruptly, only to be followed by some form of attack, as various riders suddenly began to suffer headaches, others began to hallucinate, and, inevitably, tempers began to fray for no apparent reason.
Gulda's words to the departing force, however, had been unequivocal.
'If anything untoward happens, it is their doing, and theirs alone. Remember that it is an influence from outside, just like the sun and the wind, and just knowing that will help you find a way to protect yourself from it. And remember above all that the Orthlundyn do not fight one another, nor ever have.’ She spelled out her last words very slowly and with great emphasis as if dinning it into her audience in such a manner that it could do no other than remain in the forefront of their minds.
Thus Loman had ridden straight to the group first affected and repeated Gulda's words. ‘It's them,’ he said earnestly. ‘You have no headache except what they've given you...'
’ ... If you use your carver's vision you'll see the truth of what you think you're seeing...'
’ ... They're frightened of us. We must show them our friendship even though they've hurt us. Our real enemy lies elsewhere...'
It had not been easy, but as others joined in with Loman's gentle chiding, the unseen assault had gradually abated, and the predominant atmosphere slowly became one of laughter and pleasantness.
Similar attacks had, however, continued intermittently throughout that day, passing in waves through the ranks of the riders. But they were mercilessly chivvied by Loman and everyone else who was unaffected, until Loman allowed himself a brief note of triumph. ‘They can't cope with the numbers, after all,’ he said. ‘We have them.'
'No,’ said a voice very close to him. ‘We are withholding our power because of our concern for your people.'
Loman looked at Jenna, but she appeared not to have heard anything.
The voice spoke again: ‘We will do this if we have to,’ and an ear-splitting shriek filled Loman's mind. He jerked backward, his face grimacing with pain and his hands clamped to his ears.
Jenna started at this violent and unexpected movement. ‘What's the matter?’ she cried out in alarm.
The noise left Loman as suddenly as it had come and, white-faced, he lurched forward in reaction to his previous movement. Jenna reached out and took his arm to steady him. ‘What's the matter?’ she repeated urgently.
Loman did not reply immediately. Instead he fumbled inside a pouch on his belt and eventually retrieved a metal bracelet. For a little while he looked at it intently. It was a delicate, intricately woven piece of work that he had made many years ago for his wife and which he had subsequently given to Tirilen. He had done far better work since, but it contained such youthful intensity and so many memories that it never failed to move him.
'They're learning,’ he replied eventually, carefully replacing the bracelet. ‘Using one of the Goraidin's tactics—attacking the enemy's leaders.’ He described what had happened.
Jenna frowned. ‘I heard nothing,’ she said.
Loman nodded. ‘It doesn't matter,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I think they made a mistake. There was a sense of great effort in the sound—desperation, almost. I've a feeling that it hurt the sender as much as it hurt me. I don't think it's something they do either lightly or easily.'
And so it had proved. While the disturbances continued to come and go, neither Loman nor anyone else again experienced such a violent, direct attack.
Despite this, however, the search for the Alphraan themselves, or the entrances to their caves, seemed to be proving fruitless. Various caves were discovered, but they were all shallow and empty.
Loman was openly puzzled. ‘We have our shadow vision and we have seeing stones. We've been methodical and thorough. How can we have missed anything?'
He could almost hear Gulda's voice ringing in his ears. ‘You haven't been thorough enough,’ she would say.
He reined his horse to a halt and, dismounting, called the various section leaders to him.
'Perhaps they don't come out above ground after all...'
'Perhaps they're smaller than we thought, and need only tiny openings...'
'We can't be fast and thorough...'
'Perhaps there just aren't any entrances around here...'
Loman nodded as suggestions were put to him, but he could not avoid the feeling that he was missing something.
'Pass me the map,’ he said eventually.
Jenna retrieved the document from his horse and spread it out on a nearby rock. Loman stared at it pensively, running his finger slowly along the route they had taken. It stopped a little way from the bright red dot that marked the location of the central camp.
'This is where we had our first ... difficulty, isn't it?’ he said. There was general agreement. He continued. ‘Let's mark on here where each of the others occurred.'
This took some time and considerable debate but eventually Loman found himself looking at four distinct and separate clusters of dots. He smiled. ‘I think we'll go back a little way,’ he said, resting his finger on the nearest of the clusters to their present position. ‘We'll go back, and we'll search this area very thoroughly.'
No sooner had he spoken than angry voices rang out from somewhere within the ranks of the waiting crowd. One of the section leaders jumped up on to a rock to locate the source of the problem, then, scowling angrily, jumped down and made to run towards it.
Loman caught his arm in a powerful grip. ‘Gently,’ he said. ‘Very gently. If you go rushing in you know what might happen.'
The man stared at him angrily for a moment, then lowered his eyes. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I just forgot.'
Loman indicated two of the others. ‘Go with him,’ he said. ‘The rest of you, get back to your people and tell them what we've found and what we're going to do. And tell them to be particularly alert. I think we might have trodden on some toes at last and things might start getting very peevish. Jenna, send a signal to the other two groups telling them to do the same as we've done.'
Loman was correct about the response of the Alphraan. The return journey proved to be eventful, with spasms of anger and disorder rippling through the riders far more frequently and severely than before.
Loman smiled, however, as he struggled on his rolling mount to mark these incidents on the map. They were completely random now.
Too late, little people, he thought, too late. You've given yourselves away.
He passed his new information to the section leaders immediately, together with his interpretation. The more everyone knew about what was happening, the better able th
ey would be to withstand what must surely become increasingly virulent and desperate attacks.
Finally, though not without some minor injuries, they came to the point which lay at the centre of the small cluster of dots on Loman's map. He looked up at the peak that dominated the scene, then dismounted and climbed up onto a jutting rock.
The Orthlundyn gathered round him, drawn to this powerful solid figure like a myriad planets around a small but massive sun. Loman pointed up to the mountain.
'Our friends are up there,’ he shouted, his voice echoing. Some jeers and cheers rose up from the crowd. Loman focused on it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wasn't being ironic. These people have lived peacefully as our neighbours for generations. For all they've troubled us lately—imposed on us, in fact, and worse—they're our friends. Friends we're having a disagreement with at the moment, to be sure, but friends nonetheless.'
Some of the jeering turned to outrage. ‘They've killed our people, Loman. What kind of friends do that?’ someone shouted. There was a considerable chorus of agreement.
Loman gestured an acknowledgement of this, then strode forward to the very edge of the rock and looked straight at his inquisitor.
'Friends who're frightened, confused and can't understand what's going on,’ he said.
'It's not through want of telling,’ someone else said angrily. ‘They just don't want to listen.'
Loman turned to him. ‘I can't excuse what they've done, you know that,’ he replied. ‘But do all your friends at your Guild meetings listen when you try to tell them something? Are there none who take a deal of persuading on certain matters?’ It was an apt and homely point and took the edge off the crowd's response to the man's angry denunciation.
Loman spoke again before anyone else could interrupt. ‘And take care with your anger, all of you,’ he said. ‘It has no part to play in today's proceedings, you know that too. Our anger is their most potent and dangerous weapon. Be what you are, Orthlundyn—carvers, craftsmen and artists, who see truth. Ask yourselves what anger can possibly achieve here?’ He allowed a brief pause, then continued almost savagely. ‘What do you want to do? Drag them from their holes and kill them? One for one?'
