by Roger Taylor
* * * *
‘Come in,’ Andawyr said.
The door to his room opened slowly and Hawklan peered in cautiously.
‘I’m here,’ Andawyr said, striking a small torch into life. ‘I was just relaxing.’
The torch gently illuminated the chaos of books and scrolls that filled the small room Andawyr had chosen for his study, but he himself was not to be seen. Hawklan gazed around uncertainly for a moment until, abruptly, a bushy-haired head appeared above a stack of books. A beckoning hand followed.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, Andawyr,’ Hawklan said, entering and treading warily around the books and scrolls that littered the floor.
Andawyr shook his head decidedly and beckoned again. Hawklan advanced further, eventually finding the Cadwanwr sitting cosily in the lee of a broken cliff-face of books and other documents illuminated warmly by the small torch and a fire of radiant stones.
Andawyr motioned him to sit down, carefully lifting a mound of papers from one chair to another. As he released them, they slithered gracefully to the floor.
With a small click of irritation, he bent down and gathered them together loosely then, after looking vainly for a blank space on a nearby table, he dropped them unceremoniously on top of another pile of papers. Hawklan watched the small drama with great interest, and could not forbear smiling.
‘You’re a profoundly untidy man, Andawyr, Leader of the Cadwanol,’ he said.
Andawyr shrugged a small concession. ‘But not here,’ he pleaded, tapping his head.
Hawklan eyed the shadowy crags and peaks of the impromptu mountain range of documents that Andawyr had built, and looked conspicuously doubtful.
His doubts however, rolled serenely off Andawyr’s beaming face. ‘You’re a fine and generous host, Hawklan,’ the little man said. ‘And you keep a fine inn here, with rare bedside reading.’
Hawklan nodded graciously. ‘Didn’t there used to be windows in here once?’ he asked.
Andawyr looked vaguely over his shoulder. ‘I’ll put all these back when I’ve finished,’ he said earnestly, like an ingenuous child.
Hawklan waved a dismissive hand. ‘I know,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Gulda looks after the library.’
Andawyr surrendered to this threat of vastly superior force with a chuckle and settled back in his chair.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ he asked.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘Nothing special,’ he replied. ‘I thought I’d let you know that a messenger just arrived from Fyorlund to say that Arinndier has been empowered unconditionally by the Geadrol to speak for them in whatever military arrangements we’re making.’
Andawyr looked surprised. ‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘I presume that this is the Lord Eldric stamping his will on the Geadrol, Ffyrst or no.’
‘Stamping reality on them more likely,’ Hawklan replied. ‘He and Darek and Hreldar.’
‘Does the message say anything about Oklar, or about what they’re going to do with their errant Lords?’ Andawyr went on.
‘The High Guards are patrolling the northern borders, but the Mathidrin have entrenched themselves along the approaches to Narsindalvak, so presumably Oklar is free to come and go about Narsindal as he wishes.’ Hawklan looked regretful and there was a note of irritation in his voice.
‘We’re lucky he’s not coming and going about Fyorlund, Hawklan, and don’t you forget it,’ Andawyr replied with some reproach, then, more anxiously, pressed his question, ‘And the Lords and everyone else who supported Dan-Tor?’
Hawklan smiled appreciatively. ‘I always knew Eldric was a considerable leader,’ he said. ‘But he’s proving to be quite a healer as well. As far as I can gather, there’s a great deal of accounting and breast beating going on, as you might expect. Individuals who were involved in acts of violence, other than in the battle itself, are being tried openly before the courts. But those who helped Dan-Tor in other ways are being given the choice of join us or join him – no punishment either way.’
Andawyr looked relieved.
‘I agree,’ said Hawklan speaking to the Cadwanwr’s unspoken approval. ‘Any acts of vengeance would have been very detrimental, however they were disguised in law. We need a united Fyorlund, not one riven with embittered factions, all piling up more and more scores to settle.’ His voice was hard.
Andawyr threw him a mocking salute. ‘Shrewdly said, Commander,’ he said.
Hawklan could do no other than laugh self-deprecatingly at the gesture.
‘Tell me about Dar-volci,’ he said unexpectedly.
Andawyr looked at him steadily for a moment, then said, ‘Dar’s an old friend and a typical felci pack leader,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
Hawklan gestured vaguely. ‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘I’m just idly curious. I’ve never seen anything like him before, that’s all. Why was he so excited by the Alphraan?’
Andawyr shrugged. ‘Dar’s Dar,’ he said, with a gesture which indicated that that was a complete explanation. ‘He comes and goes as he pleases – as I said, a typical felci pack leader.’
Hawklan shifted a little uneasily. ‘There’s something odd about him,’ he said.
‘Odd?’ Andawyr queried, watching Hawklan’s face intently.
‘I don’t know,’ Hawklan said uncertainly. ‘Nothing specific, just . . . unusual, strange.’
‘They’re unusual creatures for sure. They burrow through rock,’ volunteered Andawyr. ‘Hence the teeth. And they’ve got claws to match. And minds both as sharp and as strong as their teeth and claws, as I’ve no doubt you’ll find out when he condescends to come back.’
Hawklan shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to be vague,’ he said. ‘It’s not important. It’s just that there seems to be something profoundly different about him . . . something very deep. Alien almost.’
Andawyr smiled gently. ‘According to their own legends – which are very colourful, I might add – they were here before our time; even before Ethriss’s time.’ Then, intoning deeply in imitation of Dar-volci, ‘Creatures of the deep rock, brought unwilling to this new world when the deeplands were desecrated by the plundering mines of Sumeral . . .’ His mimicry broke down into a happy laugh.
Hawklan’s unease faded in this sudden sunshine and he responded to the little man’s merriment. ‘I gather you don’t feel anything strange about them?’ he said.
Andawyr’s laugh carried over. ‘I feel great affection for them,’ he said, reaching up to wipe his eye. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about Dar-volci, did you?’
Hawklan shifted in his chair awkwardly again. ‘No,’ he said after a pause. ‘I suppose not.’
Andawyr opened his hands as a signal for him to continue.
Hawklan hesitated, uncertain again. ‘We’ve all been working, studying, reorganizing. You’ve spent a great deal of time with Gulda and . . .’ He gestured around the stacks of documents. ‘I feel we’re nearing the time when we have to decide what we must do next. I thought we ought to start talking about it.’
Andawyr bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement then turned to stare pensively into the fire.
‘Gulda tells me you remember things,’ he said abruptly.
Hawklan started a little. ‘She’ll have told you what things, then, I presume,’ he replied, though not unkindly.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘More awareness of your skills. Hazy memories of your life’ – he looked up at Hawklan – ‘but no details of who, what, when; no faces, no names. Nothing to tell you who you were, or are.’ He leaned forward. ‘Would you like me to search your mind as I did at the Gretmearc? We’re both wiser than we were.’
Hawklan looked at him narrowly. ‘You still think I’m Ethriss, don’t you?’ he said.
Andawyr pulled a wry face. ‘I don’t know,’ he said hesitantly. ‘You’ve been given his Castle and his sword. And you wielded the sword to some effect against Oklar.’ Hawklan shook his head in denial, but Andawyr
ignored it. ‘It occurs to me that perhaps you wielded the sword too well. That in protecting yourself and your friends you did not receive the power that would almost certainly have awakened your true self . . .’
Hawklan’s face was suddenly angry. ‘It was a happy chance then,’ he said. ‘I might be incomplete, but this is my true self.’ He struck his chest forcefully. ‘If this . . . great Guardian . . . requires the sacrifice of a city for his rebirth, then better he stays asleep.’
Andawyr flinched away from Hawklan’s powerful denunciation but only briefly. ‘That confrontation was of your choosing,’ he said, struggling with his own anger, which had risen in response to Hawklan’s. ‘And don’t forget that the sword which you feel you used so inadequately may have halved the destruction of Vakloss, and that Sumeral Himself reached out from His fastness and bound His own servant rather than see you assailed further.’
‘Damn you,’ Hawklan said softly, his green eyes black and ominous in the red glow of the fire.
Andawyr met his grim gaze squarely. ‘Ethriss was cruel only in the clarity of his vision of the truth,’ he continued. ‘He bound nothing lightly; either by chains or deceitful words. He let things be free. He gave us the freedom that he himself cherished, to do with as we will. Sumeral is the one who binds; the manipulator, the deceiver, the twister of minds and realities.’ His finger jabbed out. ‘You yourself uttered what were virtually Ethriss’s own words when you said that to fight Sumeral with treachery and cunning would be to choose to fight Him only with the weapons He offers us; when you said that we should fight him with our greatest strengths – with simplicity and directness.’
He stopped speaking and slowly sat back in his chair.
Hawklan looked away from him and rested his head on his hand.
‘I’ll oppose Sumeral to the end, Andawyr,’ he said after a long silence. ‘I see no alternative. But understand, I faced Oklar’s power and felt no vestige of godhood in me. You must look elsewhere. Whatever I was, I was not Ethriss. I was as I am; mortal and frail. That I know.’
Silence seeped down from the waiting books to surround the two men like a mountain mist.
‘And ponder this,’ Hawklan said quietly. ‘Why did Sumeral reach out to save me? Is it not possible that He, the deceiver, the manipulator, might seem to protect me, perhaps even conspicuously bind one of His Uhriel, with the intention of leading astray those who were searching for His most feared enemy?’
Andawyr stared at him, unmoving. ‘Damn you,’ he said viciously.
Hawklan lowered his eyes and, after a moment, gave a single ironic grunt. ‘Now I’ve given us no choice,’ he said, ‘with my own inept manipulating. Now we’ll have to find out who I am if Ethriss is ever to be found.’
Andawyr pursed his lips and nodded.
‘Sit back and relax,’ he said, standing up. ‘Just remember that whatever you see and hear, you’ll be here all the time. You’ll hear me; feel my presence. Nothing can harm you except yourself.’
Hawklan closed his eyes. Andawyr reached out and placed the palms of his hands on Hawklan’s temples.
Hawklan felt their gentle warmth, and then, as he had at the Gretmearc, he found himself floating free in a strange world of shimmering, fragmented sounds and images.
‘Open your eyes,’ came Andawyr’s voice.
Hawklan did as he was bidden, but no barren empty plane appeared this time. Instead, he was still floating, drifting amidst elusive, disjointed images, and vaguely significant whisperings.
A woman on his arm, laughing . . .?
An aching memory of a swirl of auburn hair and the soft irresistible curve of a cheekbone. Hawklan reached out to touch it again . . .
Warm and comforting sunlight, and the scent of fresh grass and yellow flowers . . .
Children, running, playing . . .
More laughter . . .
Fond, stern voices commanding and teaching . . .
Music and beauty in a shining singing castle . . .
Darkness at the edges . . . nearing.
Darkness on the horizon. Smoke . . . Burning . . .
Fear . . .
Then he was there. Simple, but radiant and powerful. Yet pained and guilt-ridden. His presence standing against the darkness. But he could not stand alone . . .
Choices . . .
‘Men must fight men.’ A chilling knell . . .
The fearful stirring clarion call of battle trumpets . . .
Turmoil . . . Flickering flames and choking smoke . . . Destruction, terror . . .
‘You’re here, Hawklan,’ came Andawyr’s voice gently. ‘Still safe, in Anderras Darion.’
Hatred . . .
But still hope shone, like a silver twisting thread glittering through the gloom.
‘Stand your ground,’ was the command and the intention.
Then, like black vomit, memories that could not be faced. Failure. Defeat. Broken ranks. Rout. The finest destroyed under the endless waves of . . .
‘You’re here, Hawklan,’ Andawyr’s presence was beginning to waver.
And then there came the memory that Hawklan knew too well. His body and heart wracked beyond all pain and weariness. Endless, endless hacking and killing, and all to no avail; a mere sideshow as His army swept past unhindered. On and on they came . . . unending . . . chanting, screaming . . . eyes and swords glinting red in the blazing fires . . . the sky black with acrid smoke and the great birds, also fighting their last . . .
And the ground under his feet, uneven, treacherous – a ghastly mound of the broken bodies of his men.
And this was his doing! This was the fruit of his arrogance and folly.
A distant cry of horror and guilt began to form inside him.
‘Hawklan, you are here,’ said Andawyr’s voice, anxious and more distant. ‘You are safe. Nothing can harm you.’
But the cry grew, long and agonized.
He felt his last friend die at his back, gasping out, ‘I’m sorry,’ even as he fell.
Hawklan’s terrible cry grew until it seemed to fill the sky, mingling and overtopping the final triumphant roar of his enemy as blades and malevolence closed around him.
‘Hawklan!’ Andawyr’s voice was faint and desperate. ‘Hawklan. You are here . . .’
But Hawklan could not hear it. He was plunging headlong into the dreadful, bloody darkness.
Then, abruptly, a hand was laid on his shoulder.
Eyes wide in horror, mouth gaping, he lurched forward, but the hand sustained him, and others reached out to support him.
He sank into their strength.
Slowly, the darkness of the battlefield faded to become the gentle light of the small torch and the radiant stones that lit Andawyr’s room. His scream dwindled to become his own gasping breath.
Andawyr’s arms were wrapped about him as if he were a hurt child and the little man’s face was both pale and covered with perspiration. It was suffused with a mixture of concern and distress.
A hand still rested on his shoulder, sustaining him until he was truly back in Anderras Darion.
He turned his head and looked up. The hand was Gulda’s. She seemed to tower over him though her face was full of compassion, and tears shone in her eyes. Gavor sat on her shoulder, head bent forward, eyes intense.
‘You are with us,’ Gulda said, part statement, part question. Hawklan nodded and Gulda slowly released his shoulder. Andawyr too gradually let him go, helping him back into his chair. Then he sat down heavily on his own and, producing a large kerchief, began to mop his face in undisguised relief.
‘Thank you, Memsa,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect such . . . power.’ He looked uncertain.
Gavor hopped on to Hawklan’s shoulder and closed his one claw about it reassuringly, though he did not speak. Hawklan reached up and touched his beak.
Gulda liberated a chair from its burden of documents and sat down between the two men. ‘You’d have got him back,’ she replied to Andawyr simply. ‘I shouldn’t have interfered
, but . . . I couldn’t bear his pain, I had to . . .’ Uncharacteristically, she left the sentence unfinished.
Andawyr looked at her then laid his hand on hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said again.
Hawklan watched vacantly as the memory of the turmoil that had so nearly overwhelmed him washed back and forth like a frustrated ebb tide.
‘What . . .?’ he began, but Gulda held out her hand gently to quieten him.
‘Rest a little while longer,’ she said. ‘We can talk in a moment, when the Castle’s seeped back into your bones completely.’ She smiled.
You were very beautiful once, Hawklan thought, though even as the thought formed itself, it became you are beautiful, and his head began to swim as his eyes tried to focus on the confusion of images that was Gulda’s face.
She reached out and put her hand on his forehead. Its coolness cleared his vision. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Rest.’
The four sat in silence for some time and gradually the intensity of the eerie happening began to dwindle. As a sense of normality returned, Hawklan’s breathing quietened and Andawyr finished wiping his face, though even in the red glow of the fire he was still pale.
‘Not as . . . easy . . . as last time,’ Hawklan said eventually, his voice unsteady and hoarse.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘All things happen in their time, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t the knowledge to take you further then though I didn’t realize it.’ He smiled reflectively. ‘I thought at the time that your early life had been sealed away by some other hand. Now, I think perhaps it might have been a deeper, wiser part of either you or I who created that strange barrier we found, for our own protection.’ His smile became a chuckle. ‘It’s very difficult to be simple and straightforward when we have such a capacity for deceiving ourselves.’
Hawklan tried to smile but his face did not respond. ‘And what else have you learned?’ he asked. ‘Those memories were mine, I know, but I’m no wiser.’ He spread his arms out, hands palm upwards in a gesture of helplessness. ‘And where was Ethriss in all that whirling confusion except as someone other than myself? He it was I followed and failed.’