Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  Gulda gazed around at the flickering sagas being silently enacted in the depths of the strange walls. Slowly she moved around the hall, her stooped form carving its own deep and subtle darkness through the shadows. Occasionally she reached out and touched the translucent, gold-threaded wall, and the scene behind it would shift and flurry in surprised agitation, sometimes seeming to flow out along her arm to hover briefly in the warm darkness.

  She smiled and the whole wall rippled with celebration.

  As she stopped before the great tree, its stark, wintry branches seemed to reach out to greet her, becoming alive with the eyes of countless glittering insects.

  She chuckled in response, then she paused. There was another presence in the hall.

  ‘Honoured Secretary,’ she said, without turning.

  ‘Memsa,’ came the acknowledging reply.

  Gulda turned round and looked at the figure of Dilrap, sitting motionless in the shade. ‘Forgive me, I’m intruding on you,’ she said, her hand extended to stop him rising,

  Dilrap shook his head. ‘No, Memsa,’ he replied. ‘There’s few who appreciate the splendour of this place in its quieter moods and such as there are could not, by their nature, intrude.’

  Gulda bowed.

  ‘Rather, I suspect it’s I who intrude on you,’ Dilrap went on. ‘The Hall pays homage to you. I’ve never seen it so . . . alive . . . not even in bright sunshine.’

  Gulda smiled and sat down beside Dilrap. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It pays me no homage, nor anyone. I understand it, that’s all. I used to play . . .’ Her voice tailed off and Dilrap’s eyes narrowed as a terrible loneliness washed over him. Impulsively he reached out and took her hand. It closed around his, strong and powerful, yet almost unbearably plaintive.

  ‘They’re all here still, for those with the eye to see them,’ she said, after a long silence. Her voice was a throaty whisper. ‘Sunlit, glowing times, full of laughter and joy. Captured by hands and skills long, long, gone. Times before . . . before He came. Before His taint sought out the weaknesses . . . seeped into them . . .’

  She fell silent again and Dilrap folded his other hand around hers; no words, he knew, could reach into such darkness.

  Neither moved nor spoke for some time, and the redness around them slowly deepened and faded, to be replaced by the paler, quieter, stillness that came from the night-covered winter landscape outside.

  Slowly Gulda withdrew her hand from Dilrap’s gentle clasp.

  ‘You have strangely powerful hands, Memsa,’ he said. ‘Like the Queen’s.’

  ‘Ah, your Queen – Sylvriss – the horsewoman,’ Gulda said, looking down at her hands, her voice still uncertain. ‘Another mote in Dan-Tor’s eye.’ She paused briefly. ‘I went to the Throne Room,’ she went on. ‘Her love sustained Rgoric to the very end.’

  ‘I know,’ Dilrap said simply.

  Gulda nodded. ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘I forgot who I was talking to.’

  She turned to him. Dilrap met her gaze, but as he looked at her his eyes filled with bewilderment and uncertainty.

  ‘You are not what you seem, are you, Gulda?’ he said simply. ‘Why do you choose to be thus?’

  Gulda started momentarily then lowered her eyes. ‘You have great silence around you, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘You stood at the right hand of Oklar and deceived him. Looked into his dark blazing soul and hid your deceit behind the truth. And you lived. And remained a whole man. It has given you a sight rarer than you can know . . .’ She hesitated. ‘But where you cannot aid, perhaps you should not look too closely. Thank you for your sharing, though. You are rich and blessed, Honoured Secretary.’

  Dilrap made no response, but Gulda’s mood seemed to lighten markedly. She looked around the Hall, and gave a short ironic chuckle. ‘This place could have destroyed Dan-Tor, you know. He never came here, did he?’

  Dilrap shook his head. ‘Never,’ he confirmed. ‘It would have shown his dark, tormented soul to whatever was still human within him.’

  Gulda drew in a long hissing breath. ‘Rich and blessed indeed,’ she said. ‘Such strength we find, in such unexpected places.’

  * * * *

  Urssain shivered despite the layers of clothing he was wearing. He pulled the heavy muffling cloak tight about himself and began walking up and down again, over the well-trodden snow, stamping his feet occasionally in a vain attempt to repel the relentless penetration of the damp coldness that pervaded everywhere.

  Nearby stood the heavily armed Mandroc patrol that had escorted Dan-Tor across Narsindal to this awful place. They were motionless, as was their leader, though he was standing easy, with his muscular, hairy arms folded across his chest. A large powerful-looking creature, markedly less heavily clad than Urssain, he seemed oblivious to the temperature. His upper lip had snagged on a lower canine tooth, giving him a scornful sneer, and his unreadable, grey-irised eyes were following the fretful Commander relentlessly.

  No breeze stirred the scene and the steaming breaths of the group gathered around them, thickening the pale mist that rolled over them from the still, grey waters of Lake Kedrieth.

  ‘Wait,’ Dan-Tor had said as they had reached one of the approaches to the great causeway that swept out across the lake and disappeared into the mist.

  That had been hours ago. Urssain cursed inwardly. To have been chosen as escort to the Ffyrst across Narsindal was an honour he had both sought and feared. On the one hand it confirmed him indisputably, together with Aelang, as Dan-Tor’s closest adviser; a vital step along his chosen path. But on the other, Narsindal was a soul-draining place; a place from which his chosen path was intended to lead him. Its decaying desolation seemed to seep into his body, but worse than that was the pervasive sensation of watching malice; a feeling that had worsened since he had last been there and one which he found now almost tangible in its oppressiveness.

  His gaze moved upwards involuntarily as if to confirm the awesome presence of Derras Ustramel: His great fortress. Torn from the living rock by some unknowable Power, its towering, ramping heights were said to see all that moved in Narsindal, even through the mists; while its roots, spread wide and deep far below the icy lake, were said to house dungeons enough to hold all His enemies for all eternity.

  But there was nothing to be seen. Only the perpetual mist. Though for a chilling moment, Urssain felt his prying gaze held as if by some unseen power, and it was only with a massive effort of will that he tore his eyes away.

  Shaken, he looked along the causeway. It was crowded with groups of slaves wearily hauling wagons and sleds under the supervision of Mandroc guards. As he watched, a Mandroc patrol marched on to the causeway along one of the other approaches and he stared at it until it too disappeared into the mist.

  Save for the slaves, no humans walked that road, though it was said that He was surrounded by men of His own choosing; men whose cruelty would . . .

  No! Urssain dashed the thought aside. Rumours, rumours, rumours. That was all that ever came out of the mist. To question either Mandroc or slave who had been there would be to meet only wide-eyed terror. If any chose to serve Him, let them serve Him; he was content to pay the price of serving Dan-Tor.

  Every part of him cried out, let me be away from this place.

  Then, as if echoing this silent plea, a piercing, inhuman, scream rang out over the lake. It cut through the mist like a glittering spear thrust, and Urssain’s eyes widened in horror as the sound unmanned him. His motionless, ordered, Mandrocs and their leader, however, reacted more violently, throwing themselves on the ground in seemingly blind terror.

  ‘Amrahl protect us. His will be done,’ came the gabbling chant of their guttural voices. ‘Great is His name.’

  Somewhere in the mist a bird called out in alarm and the sound of its desperate, unseen, flight chimed with Urssain’s racing heart.

  The scream faded, but so slowly that, in Urssain’s mind, it seemed to become a bright teeth-grating whine that might dwindle for ever, but n
either die, nor leave him. Die it did, however, and in its wake came a deep and ominous rumbling. Lapping waves rose in alarm on the surface of the grim lake and the ground under Urssain’s feet shook.

  The Mandroc chanting redoubled in intensity.

  ‘Black Lord, intercede for us,’ said the leader, clutching at Urssain’s feet.

  Urssain did not reply – could not reply – his throat was too tight with terror. He stood motionless.

  Then all became silent save for the fearful babbling of the Mandrocs and the slap of the wakened waves on the lake. From somewhere, Urssain recovered his voice.

  ‘Be silent, and stand up,’ he said to the still prone Mandroc leader, pushing him none too gently with his foot. ‘Do you think that such grovelling would hide you from the will of Amrahl?’ His tone was contemptuous. ‘Re-form your escort. The Groundshaker is His greatest servant and he will return soon. Would you greet him with this childish folly?’

  At the reminder of this more imminent threat, the Mandroc hastily scrambled to his feet and began shouting orders to his quaking patrol. Most of them stood up and took their positions again, but a few responded neither to their leader’s words nor his subsequent brutality.

  Urssain released a sigh of relief, disguising it as one of loud irritation. It was some time since he had dealt with Mandrocs but a little straightforward disciplinary action would vent his own fears admirably.

  Drawing his sword he walked over to the nearest Mandroc still on the ground, bent down and yanked the creature’s head back.

  ‘Why do you disobey your leader, hadyn?’ he said, staring into the whitened eyes and using the Mandrocs’ own expression of contempt. ‘Do you forget the punishment for such actions?’

  The Mandroc’s trembling increased. ‘Amrahl, Amrahl,’ he stammered.

  Urssain placed the edge of his sword against the Mandroc’s throat. ‘Listen to me, worthless one,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘That you’re not skewered to the ground is a measure of my mercy. But it’s ended. Get up, now, or I’ll send your spirit on the Dark Journey to face Amrahl’s true Greatness with your cowardice about your neck and the curse of your tribe and your lodge bellowing at your heels for bringing such dishonour on them.’

  The threat galvanized the terrified Mandroc and in a trembling flurry he struggled to his feet, as did the few others still cowering on the ground.

  ‘Black Lord.’ It was the Mandroc leader. Urssain turned to find him pointing out over the lake.

  Moving on a scarcely felt breeze, the mist was thickening rapidly. Very soon it was possible to see only a few paces along the causeway and the world for the waiting group became a small grey enclave of damp silence.

  Urssain sheathed his sword. He tried not to speculate on the scream and the shaking of the ground. Both had emanated from Dan-Tor, he knew; he had heard their like before, many times worse, when Hawklan had treacherously struck down the Ffyrst. But what had caused them now? Had Dan-Tor, like Faron and Groniev, attempted some coup against his Master and failed? The thought shrivelled almost before it formed; it was ludicrous. Whatever strange world Dan-Tor dwelt in, it was far beyond such squeaking ambitions. And whatever had happened, Urssain could do no other than wait to find out. If someone had ended Dan-Tor, then he would serve them just as willingly. He pulled his cloak about himself again.

  For a long time there was no sound other than the lapping water, then came angry Mandroc voices, muffled by the mist, and the sound of the shuffling slaves and the creak of their carts began again.

  It had scarcely begun however, when it stopped suddenly.

  ‘He comes,’ whispered the Mandroc leader.

  Urssain peered vainly into the mist. He could neither see nor hear anything but he too knew that Dan-Tor was returning. Unconsciously, he straightened up.

  Then a vague shape appeared in the greyness. Urssain’s eyes narrowed, but the mist, swirling now, disorientated him and he could not focus clearly. Indeed, he found he could not even discern whether he was looking straight ahead or up in the air, and the shape seemed to become many different things as it came forward; tall and straight at one moment, then swaying and hovering like some strange bird, then, impossibly, far below him, large and bulky.

  Gradually it resolved itself into a horse and rider. Urssain identified the rider as Dan-Tor by his hazy silhouette. But he had had no horse. All the horses had been left behind at the Mandroc camp half a day’s march south; no horse would come near Derras Ustramel, not even those that would bear Dan-Tor.

  Yet, now, Dan-Tor was riding, without a doubt.

  Urssain moved forward to greet his Lord.

  As the figures neared, so the mist’s deceit fell away and horse and rider stood clearly exposed.

  Urssain took in a deep breath. It was a horse that Dan-Tor was riding, but one such as Urssain had never seen before. Its shape was oddly angular and almost obscenely muscular, and at the back of each leg rose a curving bony spur. But it was the head and, above all, the eyes that made him shiver. Narrow and serpentine, the eyes glistened green through the mist, radiating a malevolence that seemed to confirm the impression of malign intelligence which was given by a bulging forehead.

  Held low below the great hunched shoulders, the head swayed slowly from side to side as if searching. As Urssain took in the vision, it turned towards him and slowly opened its mouth to reveal the tearing teeth of a predator. Then came a rasping and unmistakable noise of challenge which froze Urssain to the spot. It stopped only at a cold word from its rider.

  Urssain tore his gaze away from the creature and looked up at Dan-Tor. He too was different, though in what way Urssain could not tell.

  ‘Ffyrst,’ he said, saluting. The head of the horse creature swayed towards him again as if attracted by the movement of prey.

  ‘Commander,’ Dan-Tor acknowledged. His voice was both pained and triumphant and he was clutching his side.

  Urssain searched for something to say into the misty silence.

  ‘Are you hurt, Ffyrst?’ he ventured.

  Dan-Tor turned to him slowly and shook his head. ‘All hurts are as nothing now, Commander,’ he said, his white smile chilling in the gloom. ‘See. I am whole again.’

  As he spoke he removed his hand from his side.

  Urssain leaned forward.

  Hawklan’s arrow was gone.

  Chapter 20

  Cadmoryth stirred uneasily. Hawklan leaned forward and took his hand. Urthryn and Girvan watched the healer anxiously, but looking at each in turn he gave a slight shake of his head.

  It was a confirmation of what he had said earlier when, found on the beach as the Muster rounded up those Morlider abandoned by their fleeing compatriots, Cadmoryth had been brought to the hospital tent, unconscious and broken.

  Girvan turned away briefly in distress, but Urthryn bared his teeth in angry frustration. He turned to leave.

  ‘Ffyrst.’ Cadmoryth’s voice was weak, but lucid and audible even above the commotion filling the hospital tent.

  Urthryn turned and looked down at the fisherman. The man’s eyes were open and clear.

  ‘I’m here,’ Urthryn said.

  ‘Ffyrst,’ Cadmoryth said again. ‘Forgive me. So many good men dead . . . I . . .’ His voice faded.

  ‘Hush, rest, fisherman,’ Urthryn said, but Cadmoryth shook his head and beckoned him closer.

  Urthryn knelt down beside the bed and bent forward to catch the failing words; his travel-stained tunic soiled the white sheets that covered Cadmoryth’s broken frame.

  ‘I saw the evil, Ffyrst,’ the fisherman whispered. ‘I could do no other than . . . hurl myself at it. I forgot my duty as captain of my vessel, forgot my crew. Now . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ Urthryn said again, looking helplessly at Hawklan. ‘You forgot nothing, fisherman. Sometimes a leader leads, sometimes he is simply a tool of the will of his people. Your whole crew saw the evil. You held the helm, but they rowed their hearts out to crush that abomination. The Orthlundyn saw th
e truth of it all.’ He indicated Hawklan.

  Cadmoryth’s eyes followed his movement. Hawklan nodded. ‘It was the will of your crew,’ he said. ‘Your boat leapt at Creost like a hunting animal.’

  A brief smile lit the fisherman’s face as he remembered that last surging charge to avenge the treacherous deaths of so many on that southern beach. ‘It did, it did,’ he said triumphantly. ‘The Morlider know how to make a fine ship. But so many dead . . . it burdens me.’

  ‘Many survived Creost’s wrath, Cadmoryth,’ Hawklan said. ‘And you brought him down with your deed. Gave us the day. Broke the Morlider utterly. Who knows how many lives you’ve saved? A good day’s haul, fisherman, a good day’s haul.’

  But Cadmoryth was not listening; he was clutching Hawklan’s hand urgently. ‘Who lived, healer, who lived?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know their names,’ Hawklan replied. ‘But they’ve been fretting about outside all the time you’ve been unconscious. They . . .’

  ‘Bring them here,’ Cadmoryth interrupted urgently, trying to rise. The effort however was too much, and he slumped back, gasping. ‘No, wait,’ he said. ‘Wait a moment.’ He lay still for a little while then, momentarily, he grimaced in distress.

  ‘There’s no landfall from this journey, is there, healer?’

  Hawklan bent forward and spoke to him softly, placing a hand on his forehead. Slowly the fisherman’s breathing became quieter.

  ‘Girvan,’ he said after a moment. The Line Leader crouched down by him. ‘Girvan . . . Tell my wife . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to leave her. Tell her . . . thank you . . . for the light she’s given me . . .’ His face became pained again. ‘You’ll find the words, Girvan. She liked you.’

  Girvan nodded, but could not speak. Cadmoryth patted his hand reassuringly. ‘Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘You’ll look to the needs of my wife?’ His tone was anxious.