by Roger Taylor
He nodded to himself. ‘They flew with us ever after, the ravens,’ he went on. ‘But Sumeral’s carrion never returned. Not until . . . the end.’
Then, as suddenly as it had come, Hawklan’s brief exhilaration passed and he sank back into his chair, silent again.
‘And the end?’ Andawyr said softly.
Hawklan turned his gaze back to the fire. ‘We moved ever northwards into . . . Fyorlund,’ he said, frowning uncertainly. ‘Though it wasn’t called Fyorlund then I’m sure. I doubt it had a name. It was an empty, fertile land occupied by deer, horses . . .’ He shrugged. ‘All manner of harmless things living their peaceful lives. Until we arrived and brought them after us.
‘We were exhausted in both spirit and body. We’d left our precious land to its most terrible enemy. The people had looked to our great army for protection with the same certainty that they looked to the sun for warmth and we’d had to tell them to flee like frightened animals before this predator. The darkness that was pursuing us still must surely envelop us and everything that we held dear.’
‘You turned and stood,’ Gulda said flatly.
Hawklan nodded. ‘We’d no choice,’ he said. ‘They would have pursued us if we’d run forever, such was Sumeral’s hatred of us. Our supplies were long gone. We were in little shape to forage. We had scores of wounded with us by then who we may as well have dispatched as left behind. So we chose a site – a low hill in the middle of a plain – polished our weapons and shields, formed our battle array, and waited.
‘It was a splendid, foolish sight. Weapons glinting in the sun, pale-faced men and women fearful yet resolute, flags flapping in the breeze.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a lonely sound,’ he said sadly. ‘We knew our cavalry would be wasted against so vast an army so we’d released the horses to roam free, and formed ourselves into a single square. No one spoke. Each communed with his own heart and made whatever peace he could with his conscience. Whatever had happened to the Alliance, it would have been no betrayal. We knew that.’ There was doubt in his voice. ‘Just as our defence line had been breached, so some setback must have struck them also. All we could do now was what we had set out to do from the beginning: hold as long as we could and inflict as much harm as possible on our foe.’
Hawklan looked down at his hands. ‘But I found no peace,’ he said. ‘I had sought the command, and it was mine. I had had the finest advisers and friends to guide me, and my own knowledge, which was considerable, but some vanity on my part had caused me to underestimate the power of our enemy, and all was lost as a consequence.’ Abruptly, tears welled into his eyes, but he did not weep. ‘Yet no one offered me any reproach.’ For a moment, he could not speak. ‘Ethriss, I knew too, would forgive me, but I would not forgive myself. I would die unshriven, by choice.’
Andawyr slowly wrapped his arms about himself, chilled by the pain and self-reproach in Hawklan’s tone.
Hawklan looked up. ‘When they came, they were vast even then. And He was still with them, but always keeping His distance from us. They paused awhile and made camp; to taunt us, I think. The birds were there again, but so also were the ravens, and their dark gleaming spirits were higher than ours by far. I doubt they lost their day.
‘Then, after many hours watching, they attacked. Wave upon wave of them. The din was appalling. The screeching of the fighting birds, the rumbling chanting, the thunder of stamping feet, our own battle song and war cries. We slaughtered them in their thousands again; our archers and slingers were formidable. And those who reached us perished on swords and spears. But relentlessly, their endless, mindless sacrifice wore us down. Eventually all our arrows were spent and we’d sent back to them all their own. Our slingers were out of shot and there was little natural ammunition on that grassy hill. So we faced them with swords and locked shields.
‘And then they fired the hill, and where their storming missiles and charges had failed, smoke and flame succeeded and our dwindling square was broken. Many of us reformed, but many fell alone, cut down as they staggered away from the fire, blinded by the smoke . . .’ Hawklan wrinkled his nose. ‘Whatever they used to fire the hill, the smoke was black and foul like nothing I’d ever smelt or seen before, it blotted out the sun and it burned and burned.
‘And it was over. A handful of us were left, standing, slithering on the heaps of our own dead. One by one we fell, until there were just three.’
Hawklan’s face was desolate.
‘I remember the enemy falling back and standing silently watching us. I remember the sky, black with smoke, and flickering with fighting birds. There was a raucous command from somewhere, and the enemy lowered their long pikes – they were not going to close with us again. Then the figure next to me shouted defiance at them, hurled its shield into their midst and reached up to tear away its helm.’ Hawklan paused and his eyes glistened as he relived the moment. ‘Long blonde hair tumbled out like a sudden ray of sunlight in that terrible gloom.’ He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t realized who it was. A great roar went up from the circling army. I called out her name . . .’ He opened his mouth to call again. Both Gulda and Andawyr watched, lips parted, as if willing him this release, but no sound came from any of them.
‘Without taking her eyes from the approaching enemy, she reached back and her hand touched my face briefly. “I am here,” its touch said. “I am with you to the end.” I threw away my own helm and shield and took my sword two-handed as she had. Then the figure at my back cried out in recognition. He too I had not recognized in the press. Thus by some strange chance, we three childhood friends formed the last remnant of our great army.’
He paused again and clenched his fist, as if around his sword hilt. ‘A group of the enemy threw down their pikes and rushed forward to take the girl. She killed three of them with terrible skull-splitting blows, but . . .
‘So I slew her. I slew my friend. With a single stroke. I saw her head tumbling red and gold down the slope and into the darkness under those countless trampling feet.’ He shook his head. ‘Better that than that she be taken alive . . .
‘The rest of her attackers fled back to their pikes and the enemy began its final slow advance. Back to back the two of us held. Pushed aside and broke their long spears. Killed several. Then my last friend and ally fell and I . . .’ he faltered.
‘He said, “I’m sorry,” even as he fell.
‘That last burden was my end and I too sank to my knees . . .’
He drew in a long breath.
‘Then a hand took my shoulder.’
Hawklan looked up at Gulda. ‘A hand took my shoulder,’ he repeated. ‘Then . . . darkness.’
He fell silent again and, for a long time, all in the room sat motionless as if not daring to move for fear that this might bring Sumeral’s terrible army crashing down on them over the top of their protected, book-lined redoubt, so vivid was Hawklan’s dreadful telling.
Gulda pulled her hood forward and her face was hidden in deep shadow. Andawyr’s eyes were glassy with shock as he struggled to accept the reality of what he had heard and the true nature of the teller.
It was Hawklan who eventually spoke.
‘Is this the tale you’d have told me?’ he asked, his face still drawn, but seemingly composed.
Gulda drew back her hood. Her face was unreadable.
‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d have told you about the destruction of the Orthlundyn army and much of its people, but no, I could not know what you’ve just told us.’ She reached out and took Hawklan’s hand in an uncharacteristically feminine gesture. ‘My poor prince,’ she said softly.
Hawklan gripped her hand. ‘My poor people,’ he replied.
There was another long silence, then Andawyr said, ‘Finish his tale, Memsa, unburden him.’
Hawklan looked at her. ‘Do you know my name?’ he asked.
Gulda shook her head. ‘We know who you are,’ she replied. ‘But not your name, nor even the names of those who rode with you.’
Hawklan frowned. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Do you know how I came here?’
Gulda shook her head again. ‘That’s an even greater mystery,’ she said. ‘But at least I can tell you that the Orthlundyn’s sacrifice was not in vain.’
Hawklan leaned back in his chair, his face questioning.
‘Then, as now, to presume to match Sumeral in cunning was an act fraught with hazard,’ Gulda said. ‘We don’t know whether Ethriss’s plan was betrayed or whether it was just seen for what it was, but Sumeral saw the trap and laid His own, secretly moving an army into Riddin before he launched His direct attack on Orthlund’s southern border. It was this army that fell on your flank.’
Hawklan looked at her intently. Riddin had been like Fyorlund then; empty save for some fishing villages on the coast and a few wandering shepherds. An army could have been moved in with ease.
‘But it would be almost impossible to bring an army through the mountains. Anderras Darion guarded the easiest route . . .’ He stopped.
Gulda shook her head. ‘It took great leadership,’ she said. ‘But Sumeral had many fine Commanders, and it was a deed you yourself would have honoured.’
Hawklan looked down, remembering Dacu’s patient observations on their journey from Fyorlund. Even Ethriss had presumed the mountains and Anderras Darion would protect Orthlund’s eastern flank. ‘Go on,’ he said softly.
‘When the Alliance army entered Orthlund as planned, they found the enemy occupying your entrenchments,’ Gulda continued. ‘As you retreated northwards, the Alliance army was held fast for many days. I’ll spare you the details, though they’re heroic, but eventually the new defenders were overrun and they retreated to form a rearguard to the army that was pursuing you.
‘So the hammer did strike,’ Hawklan said.
Gulda nodded. ‘Ferociously,’ she said. ‘But, as you said, the anvil was broken, though it was no man’s fault.’ Her voice fell. ‘The Alliance army pursued with all speed, driven on relentlessly at first by Ethriss’s will and then by their own desperation as they realized what had happened. They passed gutted villages and scorched farmlands, groups of straggling, bewildered survivors, and the unburied bodies of countless less fortunate until they too passed into the empty northern land we now call Fyorlund.’
She paused and looked at Hawklan reflectively. ‘However, such had been the fury of your defence, first in Orthlund and then, finally, on that lonely hill, that Sumeral’s army was but a shadow of what it had been, and He Himself was much weakened. When news came to Him that the great host of the Alliance was approaching, it’s said that He formed up His army to meet them, but seeing them so reduced, and fearing that Ethriss himself might in his rage be at the forefront of his army, He turned and fled. Fled up into Narsindal where once He had dwelt, with the victorious ravens taunting and harrying Him all the way.’
Gulda shrugged. ‘Whatever the truth, He and His army were gone from the field when the army arrived. Only Ethriss stood amidst that carnage; come by some means beyond us. He held the black sword and the bow of the Prince, and he wept as he wandered the battlefield. But he did not speak, except to name each of the dead as he came to them. Even those that no one could recognize.’ Gulda turned away and pursed her lips to stop them from trembling. ‘He knew them all,’ she whispered.
‘He sent the army in pursuit of Sumeral,’ she went on. ‘And while they were gone, with Theowart’s help, he threw up a great burial mound for all the dead.’
‘Vakloss,’ Hawklan said, recalling suddenly the strange unease he had felt when first he had seen the City.
Gulda nodded. ‘The army followed Sumeral as far as the borders of Narsindal and then returned, concerned about their extended supply line and the possibility that the enemy might turn and counter attack in the mountains.
“‘We have Him caged then,” Ethriss said. “He must never come forth again.” And he gave charge of the land to the Fyordyn, his second most favoured people, whose own land had been despoiled beyond recovery by Oklar. Their task was to watch Narsindal and protect what was left of Orthlund and the Orthlundyn. And he gave the inner lands of Riddin to a great horse-riding nation who too had been cruelly dispossessed by the war. Their task was to aid the Cadwanol in guarding the Pass of Elewart, the only other route out of Narsindal. Then he returned to Anderras Darion.
‘There, however, surrounded by so many beautiful memories of his finest friends, his grief and remorse were appalling and it was a dark place for a long time. The people of the Alliance wandered Orthlund, seeking out survivors and helping them to rebuild their homes and restore their lands. But it was a cruel task, so broken were the Orthlundyn, so cast down.
‘Then one day, Ethriss came out of his inner chamber and, wandering the Castle, subtly touched all the likenesses of his friends, so that they were different. And he removed all mention of their names also. “As you love me, I beg you, speak none of these again, lest you disturb the true obeisance I must do them in my heart,” he said. “Those who remain I shall repay as well as I am able.”’
Hawklan grimaced at Gulda’s obvious pain. ‘What of their prince?’ he asked.
Gulda looked at him. ‘Ethriss said no more. He remade the prince’s black sword and bow to be his own, and the legend grew that, horror-stricken at fate of his beloved Orthlundyn, he had risked all by venturing into the heart of the battle and snatching away the prince at the very point of death, laying him to sleep in a secret place against some future need.’
‘And nothing more?’ Hawklan asked.
Gulda shook her head. ‘Nothing more,’ she said. ‘But from our knowledge and yours, can you doubt who you are?’
Hawklan did not answer, but rested his head on his hand and lowered his eyes pensively.
Tentatively, Gulda went on. ‘Then there was a period of great peace for many years. Sumeral and His Uhriel were weakened in every way, but so were Ethriss and the Guardians and neither could assail the other with any hope of victory. So Ethriss and the Guardians moved back out into the world, mending what could be mended, and slowly easing the rifts that Sumeral’s words had torn between its many peoples. But always Ethriss returned to Orthlund to add some further wonder to the countryside and to Anderras Darion so that perhaps subtler forces than man might protect it should Sumeral venture forth again.’ She raised a warning finger. ‘And venture forth He did, many times. Unhindered in Narsindal, He grew in knowledge and His armies grew in strength, particularly the Mandrocs. Gradually His Uhriel and many other agents seeped out into the world to undo the work of Ethriss and cause yet more havoc and chaos. Then He too led His armies out of Narsindal, and though the horse people of Riddin always held Him at the Pass of Elewart, and the Alliance kept Him from Orthlund, He dragged war to and fro across Fyorlund times beyond number for generation after generation, until that last terrible battle, when both He and Ethriss fell.’
Gulda fell silent and no one spoke for a long time. Eventually, Hawklan looked up. ‘I feel no different,’ he said. ‘I am as I was when I found myself in the mountains – no prince, no great leader – though events have reminded me I am a warrior as well as a healer. I hear and feel the truth of your words, and the truth of my few memories, but in some way they bind me to here and now.’ His face was concerned. ‘I am of this time utterly, not some time long gone. Why does the absence of the names and faces of my friends . . . my kin . . . and their terrible fate pain me so little? How can I have lost so much and known such horrors and yet still be so at peace with myself?’
Andawyr reached forward and took his hand. ‘Ethriss’s ways are beyond us, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Grief reforges us, you know that, whether we will or no. Perhaps there lies your answer. Perhaps in the aeons you must have lain in silent darkness, the ties that bound you withered, while those which held and supported you grew strong.’ He released Hawklan’s hand and made a small gesture of helplessness.
Hawklan looked at Gulda. Still her face was unreadable, but when she spoke,
her tone was certain.
‘You’re at peace now because you were at peace then,’ she said. ‘For all the pain, you accepted what was, and your actions and thoughts were true to what you saw, or as true as any man’s can be. That’s why you sense no silent horde waiting vengefully for you in the darkness of your mind.’
‘And I’m wakened now to do as I did then?’ Hawklan asked, almost angrily.
A brief spasm of irritation passed across Gulda’s face. ‘You’re wakened now to be yourself and to act as you see fit,’ she said.
‘And if the end is the same?’ Hawklan said, open horror on his face.
‘What end?’ Gulda replied coldly. ‘There was no end, there is no end. There are only steps along a journey. The step the Orthlundyn took was not the one they had anticipated, but none can see the future, and though they were destroyed, in their destruction they ensured the removal of Sumeral from this world for countless generations.’
‘You understand what I mean,’ Hawklan said.
‘And you understand what I say,’ Gulda replied sharply. ‘You know you must choose right thoughts, and perform right acts – but the choice is wholly yours.’ She leaned forward, her face suddenly passionate. ‘If you would look for guilt at the heart of all this, don’t look to your own puny failings or waste your energies reproaching the Guardian who created you and then slept. Look to Sumeral and only to Sumeral. He had the choices that you have, that we all have, and he chose to destroy what others had created to replace it with some vision of his own. He brought this on us, wilfully and willingly, and what we do now with His choices is up to us.’
Hawklan made no reply. Instead, he said, ‘I’d expected something different. A sudden surge of old memories probably; faces, places, happenings. Certainly not this . . . handful of recollections that I seem to have stumbled on by accident. The only emotion I seem to have is surprise – surprise that I feel so unchanged.’
‘You are of this time,’ Andawyr said. ‘Perhaps Ethriss intended you to remember nothing, but to just . . . be here . . . ready armed with the blessings of your great understanding and experience. Perhaps the few memories you have, he left you as a token so that you might know your worth.’