The Return of the Sword tcoh-5

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Maybe these people at Anderras Darion can get rid of whatever’s inside you,’ Marna offered.

  Farnor turned on her, but both guilt and despair flitted across his face when he saw her flinch away from him. ‘It’s not something that can be taken away, Marna. I know that much about it. There’s nothing I’d like more than for all this to go away and for everything to be as it was. But that’s not going to happen.’ He flicked an almost dismissive hand towards Olvric. ‘It’s like he says, we’re safer seeing things the way they are. Not that I didn’t know that already.’ He gave a cold laugh. ‘Another learning, eh? All lessons have to be learned and relearned over and over.’ Then he squeezed Marna’s hand affectionately, in a manner quite at odds with his demeanour. ‘And the way things are, someone or something deliberately tried to tear its way into this world; someone or something that doesn’t belong here and that can only bring harm, like Rannick.’ He paused and took a deep breath. His tone was bleak. ‘And for some reason, I can’t walk away, any more than I could from Rannick. Perhaps it’s because it’s the right thing to do. Perhaps it’s because I think they’ll follow me anyway. I think – I know – they’re frightened of me. I threaten them in some way. Given that, I don’t seem to have any choice but to understand what I really am.’

  He fell silent, and no one spoke for a long time.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said eventually. ‘I need to be alone for a while – to think.’ He smiled ruefully at Olvric. ‘I’ll wake you if anything happens this time.’

  The group was subdued after he had gone.

  ‘Too many questions and not a vestige of an answer to any of them,’ Yengar said.

  ‘Still, the lad has my sword,’ Olvric said. The others looked at him.

  ‘And mine,’ they each said in turn.

  ‘And mine, for what it’s worth,’ Marna said, struggling with tears.

  Jenna put an arm around her. ‘It’s worth a lot, Marna,’ she said. ‘You’re his friend more than we can ever be, and that’s important. He relies on you more than either of you know.’

  The night passed without further incident, although unbeknown to either Marna or Farnor, the Goraidin took turns at standing guard. The following morning their mood was lighter but, before leaving, they agreed to search the area where they thought the apparition had appeared. Determining this proved to be harder than they imagined and, by way of compromise, they searched an area that covered each of their estimates of the location. Their findings were no different from those of Olvric and Yengar the previous night. There was no indication anywhere that any riders had been near the camp. No one seemed surprised.

  ‘You’re Orthlundyn; is there anything unusual about this place?’ Yengar asked Yrain and Jenna, looking round at the mountains.

  The two women looked around indifferently. ‘We’re not carvers,’ Jenna replied. ‘You know that. That’s why we’re soldiers. We’re both of us the despair of our parents.’ Both she and Yrain mimicked a head-shaking parental tone. ‘Quite rock-blind.’

  ‘Even so, you’re more sensitive to these things than we are,’ Yengar pressed seriously.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but I can’t feel anything unusual,’ Jenna dismissed the subject as she mounted her horse.

  ‘Nor I,’ Yrain added.

  ‘Carvers?’ Marna queried.

  ‘Great stone carvers, the Orthlundyn,’ Yengar said. ‘They live by farming, but they livefor carving. They’ve an amazing instinct for working stone. And how to use light – shadow lore, they call it. You’ll see for yourself when we get there.’

  ‘Just don’t ask anyone about it if you don’t want to be kept there for a day and a half while they explain it to you,’ Olvric warned theatrically. He seemed set to expand on this but changed his mind after a purposeful nudge between the shoulder blades from Jenna’s boot.

  Later that day they reached the edge of the mountains.

  ‘Eirthlund,’ Yengar announced as they paused on a rocky prominence. ‘Not too far now and much easier going when we get down there.’

  Gently rolling countryside lay spread out below them, gradually disappearing into the distance as the cloudy sky seeped down to obscure the horizon in a light haze. Farnor and Marna looked at it in silence. Eventually Marna gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘Funny. It feels strange. I suppose it’s because I’m used to having mountains all around. It makes me feel… unprotected, somehow.’

  ‘How much longer before we reach Anderras Darion?’ Farnor asked impatiently.

  ‘It depends exactly where we are,’ Yengar replied. ‘And how near to any of the river bridges. But only a few days at most.’ He grinned. ‘A lot less than our supplies will last, for sure. We’ll probably be sharing Valderen food with the good souls of Pedhavin when we arrive. It seems you’re not destined to learn anything about hunting on this trip.’

  Unexpectedly, Farnor’s lip curled. ‘Then teach me how to fight – and how to ride quickly.’

  Yengar inclined his head in acknowledgement, though there was some sadness in the look he gave his friends as they set off again.

  Nevertheless, the four Goraidin did as Farnor requested and their first day’s journey through the Eirthlundyn countryside proved to be unexpectedly fast. It was thus a very stiff young man who levered himself out of his saddle when they finally stopped. No one remarked on it or offered to help him. He felt the need to spend some time leaning against his horse before Yengar’s instruction to ‘get the horses sorted out, they’ve worked hard today’ prodded him into action. As they went through the routines of establishing their camp, he moved slowly and with great concentration and when he finally sat down he advised his companions that he had pains in places he didn’t even know he had. This revelation was greeted with some cursory nodding, but no one seemed inclined to be overly sympathetic, though Yengar did tell him he was ‘doing well,’ and that he should just ‘try to relax a little more’. He complemented this advice with a brisk slap on the back which rendered Farnor wide-eyed and motionless for some time.

  Marna, being naturally more relaxed than Farnor, had fared a little better on the journey but in any case was sustained by a personal vow she had made before she had left her home and father, to learn whatever lessons these four people had to teach, without comment. Thus it was that she joined in the Goraidin’s unspoken plot and stood up with an affectation of enthusiasm when sword practice was mooted. Farnor hesitated for a moment but, caught between Yengar’s encouraging smile and Marna’s betrayal, contented himself with giving her a brief unforgiving look as he creaked to his feet.

  To Farnor’s considerable alarm, Olvric decided to join them. ‘Good idea,’ he said, cracking his entwined fingers. ‘It’ll help us wind down a little.’

  In common with the rest of the day, it proved to be an energetic interlude and following it both Marna and Farnor retired to their tents exhausted.

  The low rumble of conversation around the camp-fire filled the darkness around Farnor as he drifted through the twilight between waking and sleeping. Whirling images of Olvric’s instruction filled his mind. There was such an intensity in everything the man did, yet, paradoxically, a variation of Marken’s judgement came to Farnor: Olvric’s touch was the lightest of them all. Farnor’s last waking thoughts were full of puzzlement. Why was this man, with his frighteningly effective fighting skills, so much more gentle, so much less warlike in his teaching of them than the woman, Yrain? His final image was of Yrain casually watching as he and Marna were being shown something. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of her eyes. They were as intense as Olvric’s and full of realization. This capable and resolute woman was still learning…

  Still learning…

  And glad to be…

  * * * *

  Farnor slept well and the momentum of his long-established habits woke him easily the next morning. The same momentum also lifted him from his bed, though markedly less easily thanks to the stiffness that the previous day’s rigours had blessed him wi
th and that had diffused through his entire frame during the night.

  He emerged painfully from his tent to be greeted by a cool and damp dawn that was full of the promise of bright sunshine to come. Despite his discomfort, it felt good. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, then began flexing his reluctant limbs carefully. As usual he was awake before the others. For reasons he could not identify he suddenly felt a great goodwill towards them and by the time they stirred he had quietly tended the horses and was preparing breakfast.

  It brought him fulsome praise, though Marna could not forbear reverting to their old relationship and passing an acid comment about ‘teacher’s pet’; a jibe he endured by adopting a wilfully saintly demeanour.

  They travelled as they had the previous day, making good progress.

  ‘Does no one live in this land?’ Farnor asked, looking for topics of conversation to take his mind off his discomfort as they rode relentlessly on.

  ‘Not many,’ Yengar told him. ‘A few villages here and there. It makes Orthlund look positively crowded and there’s precious few live there.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Then again, I suppose even Pedhavin’s bigger than you’re used to. And I can’t imagine what you’ll make of Vakloss if you ever get there.’

  Scarcely had he made this observation than they came upon a road. It was unmetalled but ruts and hoofprints testified to its recent usage. After a brief debate they decided to follow it. ‘All roads lead to Anderras Darion,’ Yrain declared.

  It took them through an Eirthlundyn village where they became the object of much attention and where their steady progress ground to a halt as the curious but very amiable populace plied them with questions.

  ‘You’re very patient,’ one elderly man told them, just before signs of impatience were about to show. ‘We don’t see many travellers and we can be a bit overwhelming when we do. Not much happens around here.’

  That delayed them even longer.

  ‘Crafty old beggar,’ Yengar diagnosed as they finally made their escape. ‘He’s made me feel guilty for not taking the rest of the day to tell him about everything we’ve been doing. Still, at least we know where we are now.’

  ‘Their clothes are beautiful,’ Marna said. ‘Such colours. And the embroidery. So elaborate. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘They’re famous for their weaving and the like,’ Jenna said. ‘They sell it all over Orthlund, Fyorlund and Riddin. They’re considerable traders. That’s why the old man kept wringing tales out of Yengar. He’ll be drinking free on what he’s heard for days now.’

  As they rode on, the road widened and with every cross-roads they passed they began to meet more travellers, moving in both directions. Some were on foot, carrying large packs, a few were on horseback, but most were riding in steep-sided carts, ornately carved and painted in the same style as the highly embroidered Eirthlundyn clothes. Everyone they met offered a friendly greeting and more than a few tried to lure them into making a purchase of some kind. Farnor found their persistence a little daunting, for even the admission that they had no money provoked nothing more than a broad understanding shrug followed immediately by some form of bartering proposition. In the end the two Goraidin parted with some of the still extant Valderen supplies in exchange for three bags of radiant stones, two leather belts and two brightly coloured kerchiefs. Yengar tied his about his neck and preened himself before the others. Both the women shook their heads and Jenna addressed Farnor conspicuously. ‘Not bad when it comes to using a sword or bow, these two, but as for bartering, I’m afraid they’re a sorry pair. Little to be learned there except what not to do.’

  Shortly after that, however, following another encounter with an Eirthlundyn traveller she became the proud possessor of a beautiful scarf. Yengar said nothing, but whistled to himself irritatingly.

  ‘Maybe we should trot for a while,’ Farnor suggested.

  They would have trotted over the bridge when they came to it, but both Farnor and Marna dismounted and walked to the edge of the river to look at it in wonder. Stout stone arches reached out into the river from both banks, rising gently to a wide central span over which soared a single arch of elaborately woven and jointed iron and timber.

  ‘It rises up in the middle so that boats can pass underneath it,’ Yengar said, before Farnor asked. ‘That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. Though there’s precious little river traffic these days, and nothing that couldn’t easily slip under the shore arches, let alone the middle.’

  ‘It’s big,’ was all Farnor could manage to say. And big it was, being so much wider than the road that served it that, Farnor judged, it could accommodate at least six of the carts he had seen, side by side.

  ‘Who built it?’ he asked. ‘And why, with so few people living here?’

  Yengar shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. There are a lot of buildings and structures in this part of the world whose origins are long forgotten. It was probably built during the wars of the First Coming. There are features in its design we still use in temporary crossings and presumably it’s the size it is to take a great deal of heavy traffic very quickly – that usually means an army.’ He seemed anxious to leave the topic. ‘Come on, you can look at it as we cross. It’s even more impressive when you’re on it.’

  Since no one else was using the bridge, the six of them rode on to it side by side and widely spaced. They moved steadily up the gentle incline but as they neared the central span Farnor and Marna exchanged a quick glance and, without comment, dismounted again and ran to the nearest edge to peer down into the water. The four Goraidin stopped and watched them for a moment, then, exchanging a glance of their own, dismounted in their turn and joined them.

  ‘I think I should do this more often,’ Yengar said, picking up a stone and dropping it into the slowly swirling waters below.

  Olvric nodded and leaned forward over the stone parapet, his feet leaving the ground in imitation of Farnor and Marna. He threw a stone after Yengar’s.

  ‘Perhaps you two should bring your little wooden boats to play with,’ Yrain said, leaning with her back against the parapet and gazing with heavy indifference at the arch rising up ahead of them.

  ‘Good idea,’ Yengar replied. ‘We could put your little dollies in them. Or would they be seasick?’

  Before Yrain could offer any rejoinder to this challenge, both Farnor and Marna cried out.

  A large black bird had skimmed closely over their heads, startling them both. It dipped down, almost touching the waters below, then soared up in a high, sweeping arc. At the peak of its climb it seemed to hover. Then it was dropping towards them again. There was a faintly undignified hustle as Farnor and Marna debated whether they should stand or flee as the bird drew nearer. In the end they did a little of each, but Yengar and Olvric reached out to prevent their flight becoming a rout.

  As they did so, the bird halted its rapid descent and landed on the parapet.

  It was a large raven.

  It had a wooden leg.

  Chapter 15

  Vredech had been a Preaching Brother in the Church of Ishrythan. Now he was travelling northwards, away from his homeland of Canol Madreth, with his wife Nertha and two companions, Dacu and Tirke. On their journey they had passed through Arvenstaat where they had been joined by a young Caddoran, Thyrn, and his friend, Endryk.

  Like Antyr and Farnor, both Vredech and Thyrn were troubled men. Vredech had found himself transported into strange other worlds as he struggled to exorcize a force that had possessed his friend and fellow Preaching Brother, Cassraw, and that through him and his wife Dowinne had threatened to possess the whole of Canol Madreth and thence lands beyond. Thyrn, by contrast, had accidentally thwarted the vaulting ambitions of his powerful master Vashnar, the Chief Warden of Arvenstaat, and, with a few reluctant allies, had been driven into the Karpas Mountains to be hunted as an outlaw. City dwellers all, they had survived there only because of a chance meeting with Endryk.

  Like Antyr and Farnor also, both
men had faced malign powers beyond their understanding with skills that they were unaware they possessed and of whose use they knew nothing. Each at some point had feared for his sanity and both had nearly perished violently. Now, though they had prevailed, their old lives were gone for ever. They had placed their faith in the companions that chance had thrown their way and were looking to find answers to their many questions at Anderras Darion.

  Dacu and his younger companion, Tirke, were Goraidin. Together with Yrain, Jenna, Jaldaric and Yatsu they had been part of the force which had accompanied Hawklan and Andawyr into the heart of Narsindal to face the returned Sumeral. They had stood at the edge of Lake Kedrieth as Derras Ustramel had tumbled to its destruction following Hawklan’s fateful confrontation with its creator. At the same time, Yengar and Olvric had stood in the front ranks of the battle against Sumeral’s Uhriel and His grim army.

  Dacu and Tirke and many others had travelled abroad at the suggestion of the Cadwanol. Not, in their case, to bring fugitives to justice, but to learn more of the world that lay beyond Fyorlund, Orthlund and Riddin and to see how far Sumeral’s corrosive and silent influence had spread this time. Alarmed by what they had witnessed in Canol Madreth they had advised Vredech to return with them to Anderras Darion. Their subsequent meeting with Thyrn and the recounting of his story had served only to heighten their alarm.

  Endryk was a Fyordyn High Guard. He too had stood in the ranks that faced Sumeral’s army, but the horror of the day and all that had led to it had proved too much and, like many others, he had left the victorious battlefield not to return home but to wander aimless and lost. Eventually he had come to Arvenstaat and found some solace in a long, lonely vigil as a shoreman. There it was that he had encountered the fleeing Thyrn and his companions and in helping them had found the strength to return to his own country and perhaps some part of his old life.

  Nertha was a physician. Her trust and clear-eyed vision had anchored Vredech as his conflict with Cassraw had pushed him to the edge of insanity; her courage had saved his life in his final and tragic confrontation with the dark force that was seeking a way to this world.