by Roger Taylor
Hawklan looked up at him and noticed that though the place was well lit, he could see no lights of any kind.
‘Unsaddle your horses and rub them down,’ Andawyr said, taking a host’s command over the hesitating group. ‘There’s plenty fodder and water for them here and there’ll be plenty for us when we’ve finished.’
‘Are we going to walk to the caves?’ Isloman asked, gesturing vaguely towards the doors. ‘It looked to be quite a distance.’
Andawyr looked puzzled for a moment, then, realization dawning, he shook his head. ‘Ah, you mean the cave, just outside the village,’ he said, his two hands drawing out a great arch through the warm, comforting air. ‘No,’ he went on, disparagingly. ‘That’s just to impress visitors. The Caves proper are well hidden. Don’t worry, you won’t get wet reaching them.’ He chuckled to himself then set about unsaddling his horse. ‘Come on, I’m hungry,’ he said.
Though none the wiser, his guests followed his enthusiastic example. It took some time to dry off the horses, but no one seemed inclined to hurry. It was the first time that any of them had been in a building other than a tent or shelter since they had left Orthlund and, humdrum though the place was, its large, warm space gave it a distinctly luxurious aura.
The task eventually done, and the horses feeding contentedly, all eyes turned to Andawyr expectantly. He gestured to a small battered door at the rear of the barn. It looked as if it might be the entrance to a disused storeroom.
‘Don’t worry about the lights as you step through,’ he said, struggling with the latch. ‘They’re rather bright and you may have difficulty seeing clearly. They need adjusting. Just walk straight ahead to the far door and go through it, I’ll be with you in a moment.’ The door creaked open and a brilliant light flooded through the opening, causing some gasps of surprise from the watchers. The barn around them was plunged into gloomy unreality by contrast, and Gavor’s black shadow expanded across the roof space as he glided silently down to join the others.
‘They certainly do need some adjusting,’ said Isloman, laughing, as he lifted a hand to shield his eyes, but Andawyr made no acknowledgement other than to shepherd them all urgently through the doorway. As Hawklan passed behind the others, Andawyr stepped after him and pulled the door shut.
The barn became real again; rich with warm odours and silent except for the occasional clatter of a horse’s hoof on the stone floor.
After a few short paces through the dazzling brightness, the group passed through a second door and emerged into a long corridor, blinking and laughing like bewildered children. A soft echoing ring sounded as each came through the doorway.
Waiting to meet them were two old men, dressed in simple white robes such as Andawyr wore, but noticeably less untidy.
‘Philean, Hath,’ Andawyr said, smiling broadly as he stepped forward and took their extended hands. ‘It’s good to see you both manning the fort so well. And it’s good to be back. Have you water and soaps and warm towels for your beloved leader and his guests?’ He closed his eyes rapturously.
The larger of the two Cadwanwr looked at him sternly. ‘You were ever a hedonist, Andawyr,’ he said. ‘But in deference to the rigours your brave companions have been through, we’ve prepared a modest greeting for them which we hope will meet with their approval.’
‘Lead on, lead on,’ said Andawyr unrepentantly, waving his arms enthusiastically. ‘I’ll introduce everyone as we go.’
* * * *
Later, lounging back into a soft, supporting chair, Isloman stared up at the ceiling. It was undecorated, like the few other rooms and corridors he had seen, but it was delicately curved and lit by torches very similar to those that lit Anderras Darion. He smiled in appreciation of the subtle shadows that they threw, then he blew out a long, sated, breath. ‘I had no idea I’d become so disgusting after all those weeks marching and camping,’ he said. ‘And I’d forgotten completely what good food tasted like. Andawyr, you have a slave for life.’
A few grunts from his neighbours confirmed that this was the opinion of them all and that further discussion would be superfluous.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Andawyr said. ‘Thank Philean and Hath and the other brothers who prepared everything.’ He chuckled. ‘Mind you, I suspect the baths were as much for their benefit as ours. We’ve become used to one another, but I shouldn’t imagine any of us were too fragrant, and Philean was always very fastidious.’
‘Your wisdom remains undimmed, Andawyr,’ Philean said, bowing ironically.
The room fell silent again and apart from the soft undefined noise of occasional activity outside, the only sound that could be heard was that of Gavor’s wooden leg as he clumped about the table in search of uneaten morsels.
Slowly the euphoria passed and the needs of the times began to reassert themselves. Andawyr levered himself upright and stretched. Philean and Hath were seated on either side of him. He looked from one to the other.
‘Now we must talk,’ he said. ‘The essence of the battle I put in my message. Do you need to know anything further about it before we begin?’
Both shook their heads. ‘Your message told us everything,’ Philean said. ‘A terrible affair. It needs no immediate amplification. Only the future matters now.’
Andawyr nodded. ‘Creost and Dar Hastuin came north,’ he said. ‘Did you see them?’
‘They flew along the Pass,’ Hath replied, grimacing. ‘Our seeing stones brought the sight to us, and the sound of Usgreckan seems to echo yet around the peaks.’
Andawyr folded his hands in front of himself and shook his head pensively.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
Andawyr squeezed his nose between his fingers. ‘I’m finding it difficult to think that we’re succeeding,’ he said. ‘Sumeral’s Uhriel have all been returned to their Master, wounded and demeaned. Yet it has the feeling of having been too easy. Almost as if it were intended to be thus. It concerns me.’
‘Dismiss your concern,’ Hawklan said coldly. ‘Only a little while ago we were tired, hungry, and dirty; now the discomfort’s all forgotten. Days ago you and Atelon were faltering, facing death or worse, before Creost’s assault, yet your agony was forgotten almost as soon as Cadmoryth’s ship struck him. Months ago I floundered across Riddin, Orthlund and Fyorlund and was swept into who knows what world by Oklar’s anger; yet all that confusion and pain is forgotten now. It’s the nature of the creatures we are to forget the totality of the horror of such things. If we’re lucky, we remember enough to learn from. Think, Andawyr, think. You know that nothing so far has been easy. We’ve all been tried to new limits in our different ways and any of us could have fallen at any time. Suffice it that we’re all here now, as whole as we’ve ever been. Wiser by far, and set to continue on our journey.’
He leaned forward and stared into Andawyr’s face. ‘And remember this. We decided that we wouldn’t concern ourselves with Sumeral’s intentions. His mind is beyond us. We can’t use cunning and treachery as He does, we must use simplicity and directness.’ He waved a hand round his listeners, almost angrily. ‘Tell them why we’re here.’
Philean and Hath seemed disconcerted by this public rebuking of their leader, but Andawyr just nodded thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. The debating’s long ended.’
He looked round the room hesitantly, then cleared his throat.
‘When you were asked if you wished to accompany us on this journey, we told you what we told everyone else,’ he began. ‘Namely, that we were going to search for Ethriss and waken him. Our army – and the Muster, and the Fyordyn – go forth in the belief that they will face only soldiers – men, Mandrocs, whatever – but mortal creatures, capable of being brought down by the sword. They believe that my brothers will protect them from the dreadful Power of the Uhriel and that Ethriss will be brought forth somehow to oppose Sumeral Himself.’
Despite the warmth and comfort of the room, his tone seemed to bri
ng a chill to everyone.
‘But . . .?’ Tirke anticipated, seizing on the doubt in Andawyr’s voice.
‘But,’ Andawyr echoed, as though grateful for the prompting. ‘We do not know where Ethriss is.’
There was a long silence, and when he spoke again, it was slowly and apparently with great reluctance. ‘The Guardians themselves do not know where he is. We could wander for generations and not find him. And even if we found him, there’s no guarantee that we’d have the skill to waken him.’ He looked around at everyone again. ‘We cannot assume that Ethriss will aid us. We must be prepared to face Sumeral alone.’
Though no one moved, Hawklan felt the emotions whirling round through his companions; disbelief, doubt, fear, anger – mainly anger.
He spoke before it found voice.
‘You may ponder all these matters as I have done, endlessly, but you’ll find nothing that could have been done to keep us from the path which has led us here.’ The pending questions spent themselves unheard against the rock of his presence.
‘But this is not the time of the First Coming,’ he went on. ‘Things are not as they were. Now Sumeral is known for what He is before He has spread His corruption throughout the world. The Cadwanol is wiser and stronger by far than in those times, while the Uhriel are weaker. And some power has given us the great armoury of Anderras Darion to arm the awakened Orthlundyn, and the black bow and sword of Ethriss . . .’
‘And you, Hawklan,’ Andawyr said, before he could continue. ‘We have been given you, with your strange skills learned and honed in another age.’
Hawklan did not answer.
‘What are we here for, if not to find Ethriss?’ Yrain asked. Her voice was carefully controlled but her face was strained.
‘We’re here to go quietly into Derras Ustramel, and kill Sumeral.’
The voice was Dacu’s. All eyes turned to him and then scattered back to Andawyr and Hawklan.
Both nodded, unsurprised by the Goraidin’s correct deduction.
There was a sudden babbling upsurge of questions, but Hawklan spoke over and through it, his voice final. ‘This can be done,’ he said. ‘Andawyr, Isloman and I go because we cannot do otherwise. Yrain, Jenna, Tybek, you were chosen because you’re amongst our finest Helyadin. Athyr, you also, and because you’re a Morlider Veteran. Dacu, because you’re Goraidin and a Veteran. Jaldaric, Tirke, because you bring special qualities of your own; you, Jaldaric, from your imprisonment, you, Tirke, from your journey through the mountains.’
‘We haven’t the skills of Yrain and the others,’ Jaldaric said awkwardly.
Hawklan nodded. ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But you’re more than good enough to hold your own and you bring old Fyordyn skills with you, as does Dacu.’
There was a brief silence. Gavor’s head appeared from behind a bowl of fruit. ‘What about me, dear boy?’ he asked.
‘You’re coming to guard my back and to watch our way,’ Hawklan said, turning to look at him.
Green eyes and black met; old friends.
‘Ah,’ Gavor said, after a moment. ‘And as a conscript I see.’
‘Yes.’
Gavor gave a soft ‘Hrmph,’ of injured resignation and disappeared behind the fruit bowl again.
The brief exchange eased some of the confused tension that had filled the room.
‘This venture was kept from the people for fear of its inadvertently coming to the ears of the enemy,’ Hawklan said. ‘The journey will be hard enough without their being warned of our coming. However, I’ll admit that the deceit distresses me . . .’
He fell silent and stared absently at the table. A nearby torch was shining through a clear glass goblet and throwing a splash of multi-coloured light on to the heavily grained surface. He gave a slight sigh, and Gavor’s head came inquisitively over the fruit bowl again.
The brief introspection faded quickly, however, and he looked round again at his companions. ‘Our chances of success at the end are not calculable,’ he said. ‘They’re probably very small . . . I just don’t know. If any of you wish to leave, then do so without any reproach from me. Ride back and wait for the army and hold your peace.’ Then, in contrast to these words, his voice and manner became grimly purposeful. ‘However, if you wish to stay, understand this: I value Orthlund and my life there, and however small the odds, I intend to return to both in due course. I have no intention of winning this cause by dying for it. I have a memory of advice from someone, somewhere: “You win by making the other poor devil die for his cause.” It’s advice I intend to follow. Indeed, I commend it to you all.’
He sat back. ‘Now,’ he concluded. ‘Who rides with us?’
‘I do,’ said Dacu quietly. His reply was echoed unanimously round the table. The healer in Hawklan rose to reproach him at his success in engineering the loyalty of his chosen group, but the warrior rose too and laid the reproach aside. ‘They are as trapped as we are,’ he said, ‘and their vision is clear enough for them to see it.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan said simply.
‘Er . . .?’ said Gavor tentatively.
‘Silence in the ranks,’ someone said, and the last vestiges of tension disappeared in laughter.
‘When do we leave?’ Tirke asked.
‘Fairly soon,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Within the next few days. We need to study whatever maps and charts are to be had here, and plot out a route as well as we can. We need to learn what we can about the ways of the Mandrocs, and we have to replenish our supplies and also learn enough about Narsindal to be able to survive when they run out.’
There was much head nodding at these observations and Yrain started to ask a question.
Hawklan raised his hand. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said gently. ‘Tomorrow, we begin properly. But for the rest of this evening, let’s just talk and enjoy this peace.’
Yrain tried not to frown.
Hawklan smiled. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Just this one last thing. And let me anticipate your question. We have no specific plan of campaign. We are Helyadin and Goraidin, doing one of the things that such troops are intended to do; entering the enemy’s territory like shadows and doing as much harm as possible. In this instance, striking to its very heart. Our tactics will be to put one foot in front of the other . . . very carefully.’
* * * *
Over the following days, the group studied the documents that the Cadwanwr produced for them and, amongst other things, decided upon the route for the first part of their journey. It was not one they had anticipated and it left Hawklan with a sad task which he postponed until the end.
‘You cannot come with me,’ he said to Serian, laying his hand on the horse’s muscular flank. Serian shifted, his feet clattering on the stone floor, but he did not speak.
‘We have to go through the caves to reach Narsindal,’ Hawklan went on. ‘Andawyr fears that the Pass itself may be watched, and any news of our arrival could prove disastrous.’
Serian shifted again. ‘This is not the way it should be,’ he said eventually. ‘You and I should ride against Sumeral together.’
Hawklan pressed his forehead against the animal and closed his eyes. ‘So our hearts say, horse,’ he said. ‘But circumstances dictate otherwise.’
Serian’s hoof scratched at the floor fretfully.
‘I go where I must, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Set me free to find another destiny.’
‘You’ve always been free, my friend,’ Hawklan said. ‘I’ve already told the Cadwanwr that your door is to be open so that you may leave when you please.’
Serian bowed his head low. ‘Farewell then, prince,’ he said. ‘Until we meet again.’
Hawklan put his arms round the horse’s neck and embraced him, then he turned and left without speaking.
‘At Derras Ustramel,’ Serian said softly as the battered door closed and the sudden flaring light in the barn became dim again.
* * * *
Returning to his companions, Hawklan found them fully laden and anxious to st
art. Their enthusiasm drew him from his introspection and he smiled as Dacu helped him fasten his heavy pack.
‘Everything checked?’ he asked. The Goraidin grunted a terse confirmation.
‘Who’s carrying my food?’ Gavor asked suddenly, in great alarm.
Each looked at the other and shrugged a wide-eyed disclaimer.
‘Don’t worry, Gavor,’ Tirke said. ‘We’ll see you get well fed. You’re the emergency ration.’
There was some laughter at this, but a small circle cleared expectantly as Gavor walked slowly across to him.
‘Very droll, Tirke,’ the raven said darkly. ‘Very droll.’ Tirke cringed a little in anticipation of some form of retaliation, but Gavor turned as if to move away. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning back again casually. ‘I was sorry to hear about your sore leg.’
Tirke, mildly relieved at escaping so lightly after such an indiscretion, gazed at him in some surprise, and shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a sore leg,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Gavor said, then his black beak shot forward and struck Tirke’s shin with a resounding thud. ‘I could have sworn you had.’
While Tirke was executing a small hopping dance to renewed laughter from his friends, Gavor flapped up on to Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘And another thing, Tirke, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It’s not wise to talk about eating one’s companions when one’s made out of meat oneself, is it?’
‘Peace,’ said Hawklan, trying not to laugh. ‘There’ll be plenty to fight about before we’ve reached the end of this journey. Andawyr, lead on if you would, please.’
Andawyr did some final wriggling underneath his pack until it was comfortable then set off down the long stone corridor. Though it was deep below ground it was well lit by the window stones which brought bright, daylight scenes from the surface. Since Andawyr’s return, the seeing stones had been readjusted, and at least half of them gave a view of some part of the Pass. This had been done throughout the whole cave system thus ensuring that in addition to a formal watch being maintained, a substantial informal one was kept also.