Into Narsindal

by Roger Taylor

  He gasped and turned to Andawyr. ‘This is man-made!’ he said.

  ‘As was part of the pathway we trod,’ Isloman added, his voice almost shaking.

  Andawyr looked at them. Though his manner was easier, his face was still agitated and Hawklan could sense that he was wilfully crushing some inner turmoil of his own.

  ‘Another time,’ he said eventually, his face becoming impassive. ‘Another time.’

  Hawklan noted the phrase’s ambiguity.

  Then, before anyone could speak, Andawyr began walking into the cavern, turning up his torch a little.

  ‘There’s no danger from the sphrite, now, is there Dar?’ he said.

  The felci seemed preoccupied and Andawyr repeated the question.

  ‘No, no,’ said Dar-volci, starting a little. ‘No danger to you now from . . . sphrite.’

  He hesitated over the last word and then began chattering excitedly again.

  ‘When can we stop and get some proper light on Yrain’s hand?’ Hawklan asked, sensing that Andawyr’s own crisis had passed.

  ‘Very soon,’ Andawyr replied, and within a few hundred paces he stopped and turned up his torch.

  ‘Sit down, all of you,’ he said. ‘Just relax for a moment.’

  Hawklan crouched down by Yrain and gently took her injured band.

  ‘Tell us what happened,’ he said to Dar-volci as he studied it.

  Andawyr nudged the felci, who jumped again, and Hawklan repeated the request.

  ‘They were sphrite, Hawklan, sphrite.’ Dar-volci’s answer babbled out, almost uncontrollably. ‘They still exist. After all this time . . .’

  ‘Slowly!’ Hawklan said sternly, without looking up. ‘Tell us what happened. What were those things?’ He glanced at the felci. ‘And don’t say “sphrite” again.’

  Dar-volci trotted over to him and stood up to look at the damage he had wrought on the woman’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, both to Yrain and to Hawklan. Yrain reached out and stroked his head. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I drew my knife on you, but . . .’

  Dar-volci whistled softly and flopped down gently on to her lap. Yrain left her plea unfinished.

  ‘They were sphrite,’ Dar-volci said to Hawklan, his voice much calmer though it was obviously with some effort. ‘They’re part of our . . . most ancient lore. In our games we tell of times when great swirling clouds of them swept down to the lure lights, and the deeplands would fill with leaping kin, feeding . . . gorging.’

  Hawklan became aware that the rise and fall of the felci’s words were echoing strangely around the cavern. ‘Alphraan?’ he said, on an impulse. ‘What’s your part in this?’

  There was no answer, but the air was alive with some inaudible dancing.

  Dar-volci looked around and tilted his head on one side as if he were listening. ‘Yes,’ he replied to some unheard question. ‘The ways will be as never before. Can you carry back the news?’

  The atmosphere changed. ‘No,’ said the voice sadly. ‘We are bound to the humans and we are too far beyond.’ Then, more optimistically, ‘But the ways are known. We shall return.’

  ‘Dar! Alphraan!’ Hawklan said as he began bandaging Yrain’s hand. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about but you’ll soon be too far beyond my patience.’

  Dar-volci shook his head vigorously, as if to clear it. ‘The sphrite used to be our . . . food,’ he said. ‘Long, long ago. Before the Alphraan, before Him, before even . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘. . . Before . . .’ he said softly, almost to himself. An ancient silence hung in the cave. Dar-volci returned to his listeners. ‘Then, later, He came. With His digging and delving, and his foul poisons, first seeping through the rocks, then reaching down to corrode the ways. Reaching even the deeplands and destroying the sphrite’s great breeding colonies.’

  There was such venom in the deep, powerful voice, that Hawklan stopped his careful bandaging and stared at him wide-eyed. Andawyr too seemed taken aback by the felci’s passion.

  ‘And destroying us,’ Dar-volci went on. ‘Or those that didn’t flee and learn about the lesser ways.’

  ‘But I thought it was His creatures that drove you from your homes after the First Coming,’ Andawyr blurted out, unable to contain himself.

  Dar-volci clicked his teeth and shook his head. ‘You know what we tell you,’ he said. ‘His creatures were the last straw. Drove us into the society of humans for our protection.’

  There was a bitterness in his voice that made Andawyr wince. ‘Has that been so unpleasant for you?’ he asked, his tone genuinely injured.

  Dar-volci did not answer at first, but seemed to be occupied again with troubling memories.

  ‘We lived in the deeplands for a reason,’ he said almost off-handedly. ‘And it served us.’ Then, apologetically, ‘But we’re all of us different now. And none of us would have chosen finer companions than your many brothers through the ages.’

  He wriggled off Yrain’s lap and began trotting off into the darkness.

  ‘Dar,’ Hawklan cried. ‘Where are you going? Finish your tale. Why did you do this?’ He held out Yrain’s bandaged hand.

  The felci turned and stood on his hind legs, extending his tail as a counter-balance. ‘She knows,’ he said nodding to Yrain, and idly scratching his stomach. ‘The pain alone was reason enough.’

  Hawklan looked at Yrain, who nodded. ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts, Hawklan,’ said Dar-volci dropping back on to all-fours and walking off into the darkness. ‘Be content that I recognized them and that you escaped them with so little hurt. Trust me. You don’t want to know anything else about what the sphrite do to your kind.’

  Hawklan made to stand up, but Andawyr laid a hand on his arm. ‘Leave him,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen him like this. He’s had some massive shock; something we can’t begin to understand. Let’s take his advice and be glad he was with us, whatever it is those things do.’

  Hawklan stared into the darkness after the felci, then, reluctantly, nodded.

  Andawyr took Yrain’s bandaged hand from him and examined it professionally. ‘Neatly done, healer,’ he pronounced eventually, his tone bringing some normality back to the scene. ‘But you’re no great weaver yet.’

  ‘Let’s move,’ Hawklan said tersely.

  * * * *

  For the rest of that day, they walked through tunnels and caverns such as they had encountered previously, Andawyr again leading them with at least a superficial confidence.

  Dar-volci returned to them after a while, seemingly his old self, though he would occasionally pick up a pebble or a small rock and crunch it in his jaws with a sound that soon began to draw groans of agonized protest from everyone.

  Nevertheless, for all that their progress seemed to be good, Hawklan still sensed a strangeness about the place that he could not define; and distant sounds still came to them through the echoing tunnels.

  Towards what they felt to be evening, they came to a small chamber with a single exit, which a brief exploration by Dar-volci confirmed was going upwards quite steeply for some considerable distance.

  The prospect of moving upwards again brought the first smiles to the group for some time.

  ‘We’ll make camp here,’ Hawklan said. ‘It’s been a strange day amongst strange days and Yrain needs to rest. She’s in pain, and still shocked.’

  He waved aside Yrain’s protests before they formed. ‘That’s an order, Helyadin,’ he said. ‘We can use the extra rest to check all our supplies and make sure that your journal accounts are made up correctly.’

  As the others erected the shelter, Isloman wandered around the chamber pensively, touching the walls.

  Hawklan joined him. ‘This is natural, surely?’ he said softly, looking around at the uneven walls and roof.

  Isloman nodded hesitantly and took Hawklan over to the entrance to the tunnel they were intending to use the following day.

  ‘There are some st
range marks here,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  He bent down and brought his torch close to the floor. Its light revealed a mass of scratches scarring the floor. Some were quite deep and long, but the majority were shallow and short. All of them were running roughly parallel with the direction of the tunnel.

  ‘There are some on the walls and ceiling too, but not as many,’ Isloman said.

  Hawklan ran his finger along one of the scratches and shrugged. ‘They mean nothing to me,’ he said. ‘What do you think they are?’

  Isloman shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them,’ he said. ‘They’re not chisel marks for sure, and some of them are quite new.’

  Hawklan stood up and peered into the gloom of the tunnel. ‘I think we’ll post a watch tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ve been far from alone for a large part of this journey and after those sphrite, I don’t think we should risk being caught unawares again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Isloman said.

  No one disputed Hawklan’s decision, but it was not received with any great enthusiasm. The caves were still very cold, and while this was tolerable when walking, it was not conducive to standing about idly for any length of time.

  Tybek won the first watch as a result of a highly suspect drawing of lots that Tirke organized. Jenna drew the second.

  Eventually, all tasks completed, Tybek, with a menacing gesture towards an innocent-looking Tirke, left the shelter, and one by one the others fell asleep.

  Hawklan, however, found some difficulty in catching his sleep. After a little tossing and turning, he lay back and, relaxing, stared up at the roof of the shelter, dimly lit by the radiant stones. Yrain too, was a little restless, turning over frequently, and muttering in her sleep, and Hawklan knew that his own wakefulness was in response to her continuing distress at her sudden, explosive, mutilation – and whatever unknown torment her brief contact with the sphrite had brought her.

  He dozed fitfully, waking occasionally for no apparent reason, sometimes drowsily, sometimes with a start.

  He was vaguely aware of Tybek rousing Jenna, and the change in the weight of the measured tread outside the shelter as the young woman took over.

  Then he was lying somewhere in Orthlund, breathing in the cool air and looking into the soft light of a burgeoning summer dawn. Outside, the wind was rustling through the trees, and someone was knocking at his door, and calling his name.

  Urgently!

  He was not in Orthlund! He was . . .

  The knocking was coming from outside.

  It was Jenna. She was banging frantically on the shelter and shouting, ‘Hawklan, Hawklan!’

  Suddenly wide awake, Hawklan seized his sword and a torch and stepping nimbly over his wakening companions, moved to the entrance.

  Outside the shelter, Jenna was standing with her sword drawn, peering into the darkness. Echoing round the cave was the strange hissing that had intruded into Hawklan’s dream. It was growing steadily louder.

  ‘It started a few minutes ago,’ Jenna said. ‘It’s coming from the tunnel.’

  Hawklan strode forward to the mouth of the tunnel. The noise was indeed markedly louder there. He pointed the torch into the darkness.

  At first, it showed him only the upward sloping floor, but then, somewhere beyond its apparent reach, a jostling mass of red, glinting eyes blinked into life.

  Chapter 24

  The galloping hooves threw up great showers of melting snow as the horsemen rode down the hill. At the bottom, they slowed as the road turned sharply to lead them into the village.

  The single street that wound through it was deserted, the drizzling rain keeping everyone indoors who had matters to attend to that could safely be left for a day or so.

  The riders halted and held a brief, arm-waving, discussion. Then, with a snort of annoyance, the leader swung down from his horse, strode up the short path of a nearby house, and banged urgently on the door. A small patch of snow on the roof gave up the uneven struggle against winter’s demise and slid down suddenly to land noisily on the wet ground a pace or so away from the man.

  He turned to look at it, then stepped into the shelter of the doorway. As he did so, the door opened suddenly to reveal a large man. He was leaning with his left hand on the door frame and his right behind the half-opened door.

  He peered intently into the hood of his visitor then seemed to become more relaxed in his manner. The rider spoke and the man nodded and then, ushering the rider forward, he stepped out with him into the rain.

  In his right hand was a large axe.

  Holding it close to the head he extended it towards the far end of the village and then tilted it first to the right and then the left, at the same time talking earnestly to the rider.

  The rider waved out the same instructions with his right hand, then, thanking his guide, he returned to his horse. As the group prepared to ride off, he gave the man a further brief salute and received an acknowledging wave of the axe in return.

  One of the riders glanced back as they gathered speed down the empty street. Shoulders hunched, the man was scuttling back into the warmth of his home.

  ‘Is that a tradition in these parts, Lord?’ he asked. ‘Greeting strangers at your door with the threshold sword in your hand?’

  ‘After Ledvrin, I’m afraid it is, Sirshiant,’ replied the leader.

  The Sirshiant grimaced.

  The Lord caught the expression. ‘You’re from the west,’ he said. ‘You had burdens of your own, I appreciate, but they weren’t those of the people around here. Take no offence at such actions. It grieves me to know why they happen, but it causes me no distress to see people willing to guard their own. Besides, you know well enough that an object’s a weapon only when it’s used as such.’ He laughed, unexpectedly. ‘In this case, that axe wasn’t an axe, it was a signpost.’

  The group splashed out of the village and followed the road through the sodden countryside for some way until they came to a crossroads. Turning right they rode a little way and then hesitated at a narrow gateway. Beyond it was a rough-surfaced cart track leading to an isolated farmhouse.

  The Lord nodded and one of the riders dismounted and opened the gate. The others passed through and galloped on towards the farmhouse as he closed the gate and remounted.

  As they clattered into the farmyard, the door of the house opened and a woman appeared with a cloak cast hastily over her head.

  ‘This way, Lord,’ she said. ‘Your men can go into the barn over there. I’ll send someone over to help them straight away.’

  The Lord and one of the other men dismounted and followed the woman into the house.

  They found themselves in a broad hallway, its ceiling supported by heavily carved wooden beams and its walls bearing a homely mixture of pictures, outdoor clothes, and various bits of harness and tackle. Behind the door hung a short sword, its blade dark and pitted with age, though its edge was recently sharpened.

  The woman threw her cloak on to a peg and with a brief ‘excuse me,’ trotted along the hall to a room at the back where she could be heard giving instructions to someone.

  As the two men waited, the steady drips from their clothes formed large spreading pools on the tiled floor. The Lord fidgeted impatiently as he waited.

  A door opened and a young girl came out. As she saw the two men, she stopped in the doorway and smiled pleasantly. The Lord, however, was looking over her head into the room. Gently, but hastily, he eased her to one side and stepped inside. The other man held out a tentative hand as if to restrain him, but did nothing.

  ‘Lord Eldric,’ said Sylvriss, looking up at the mud-stained and soaking figure who had just entered.

  ‘Majesty . . .’ he began.

  ‘Lord!’ came a stern voice from behind him. Eldric started. It was the woman of the house. ‘You can’t go in there in that state,’ she said witheringly. ‘You must get out of those wet clothes and muddy boots immediately.’

  Sylvriss lowered her gaze and smiled as the disc
omfited Senior Lord of the Geadrol retreated in disorder.

  ‘I’m sorry, your Majesty,’ said the woman leaning in and closing the door. ‘You know what men are like.’

  Within a few minutes the woman returned, leading a marginally drier and more presentable pair of visitors.

  ‘Lord Eldric, Hylland,’ Sylvriss said, smiling broadly and holding out a hand to the two men.

  ‘Majesty, are you all right?’ said Eldric, kneeling down by the side of the bed and taking the offered hand.

  ‘Yes, Lord Eldric, we’re both of us well,’ she replied, inclining her head to the other side of the bed.

  Eldric looked across. Hylland was bending down and reaching a playful finger into a simple crib. The tiny sleeping figure lying there moved its head from side to side, frowned, and smacked its lips contentedly.

  Eldric stood up and moved round to the crib. Looking down at the heir to Fyorlund’s throne, he smiled with grandfatherly wonder and fatherly memory.

  ‘How did you come to be here, Majesty?’ he asked after a moment. ‘We came as soon as we heard, but . . .’

  ‘Lord,’ Hylland interrupted. ‘Will you excuse us? These questions will wait awhile. Now, her Majesty and I must talk alone for a moment.

  Eldric looked at him impatiently then nodded with awkward understanding and once again retreated.

  He was pacing the hallway and affecting to look at the pictures when Hylland emerged some time later.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You were a long time.’

  The healer smiled. ‘Healer’s privilege, Lord, to play with the baby first,’ he said, then he laid a reassuring hand on the Lord’s arm. ‘They’re both fine. Mother and son. She’s a little tired and he’s a bit small, but that’s only to be expected. He’ll soon catch up. The birth caught everyone by surprise but went well enough seemingly, and I couldn’t have tended them better at the Palace than these people have here. Our concerns were needless.’

  Eldric let out a long breath. ‘Can I go in?’ he asked, unconsciously casting a glance towards the rear room that housed the Queen’s new protector.