The Call of the Sword [Book One of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  * * * *

  The Lord Eldric's castle was not Anderras Darion. It was a fine building raised with great skill and understanding, but though much younger than Anderras Darion, it looked older despite the Festival decorations currently adorning it. Its crenellations and corners had been smoothed and rounded by countless years in the cold, harsh winter winds that blew across Fyorlund, and its stone walls were pitted and blotched with lichen. Thick ivy clambered relentlessly up most of the towers, actually reaching the roofs of some of the smaller ones.

  A lesser building would have seemed to be decaying but, like its Lord, the castle had a quiet, solid dignity, showing only slightly the impairments of old age, and demonstrating a robust grip on life and a capacity for continuing for some time to come.

  Commander Varak stood on one of the lower levels of the castle watching the four Lords and their party dwindle into the distance as the dawn sun broke through a streaky troubled sky and filled the scene with long obscuring shadows. Idly he loosened a piece of damp moss from a joint in the top of the wall he was leaning on and flicked it over the edge to fall erratically through the early morning air into the dried moat below. Screwing up his eyes he peered into the distance, but the new light, with its harsh contrasts, had swallowed his last view of the pennants of the entourage.

  He stood up and cleared his throat as if about to speak. It was a characteristic sound, much imitated by the cadets—when he was well out of hearing. Like the Lord Darek he was thin and wiry, but his movements were brisker and more precise than the Lord's.

  Varak was a classical example of a High Guard Commander. His subordinates both feared and loved him and the loyalty he received from them he passed unstintingly to his Lord. He lived a hard, spartan life and expected the same from his men, though it was a point of honour with him that he would never ask of them what he would not do himself.

  If he had a weakness it was that he could be too rigid and narrow in his thinking and reluctant to change his ideas once they had been established. It was this rigidity that was making itself felt at the moment, as the conflicting loyalties of his Lord affected him.

  The King's action in suspending the Geadrol was without precedent, and presented problems that even he, a simple soldier, as he liked to think of himself, could see. The Lords swore their Oath of Fealty to the People and to the King as their Protector, ruling through his Lords in Geadrol. Now the King had suspended the Geadrol, by what right did he rule? Where then should the Lords place their loyalty?

  He was not however disposed to dwell on these problems. They were beyond any action he could take. If he'd been asked, he'd have told the Lords that they'd only find out what was happening by asking the King to his face; but he hadn't been asked, and it had taken them half a day to see the obvious as a result. He cleared his throat and frowned a little at his own insubordination.

  Turning away from the battlements, he pulled his tunic straight and brushed from his arms the grit that his leaning had lifted from the wall. Thus did Eldric's castle shrink.

  Walking through the castle he reviewed the task ahead of him. It might have taken Eldric some time to see the obvious, but he had shown his old military instinct at the very outset.

  Following Hrostir's news at the First Feast, he had told Varak to find the old plans for removing the entire household to the mountain stronghold. Varak's surprise had shown.

  'Have a quick look at them, Varak. Just refresh your memory. See if there are any obvious improvements needed.'

  His manner had been apparently offhand, but he had spoken in the Battle Language, something he had not done since the Morlider War, except on formal occasions. It was an involuntary action and Varak had been both moved and disconcerted.

  He paused as he walked along a balcony overlooking the hall where most of the Festival Feasts had been held. The dawn light was growing stronger and seeping into the room, illuminating the servants who were just starting to clear the remains of the Final Feast.

  Watching them he saw that one or two were still a little the worse for drink, and quite a lot of whispering and giggling rose up to greet him. Most of it seemed to come from the direction of the north wall where two men were staging a mock sword fight with some bedraggled boughs of blossom. Inevitably one of them lost his balance and, as he sought to recover it, he bumped into the Shrine. The impact was slight but an abrupt and unexpected silence fell over the room and the man, suddenly sobered, hastily inspected the Shrine for damage. His friends gathered round, anxious at this inadvertent assault on one of their Lord's treasured personal artefacts.

  Varak shook his head knowingly, and allowed himself a brief smile. He was about to turn away when the little cluster broke up suddenly, leaving the original culprit isolated and reaching awkwardly inside the Shrine to adjust something. As they stepped back, several of the servants scribed a circle over their hearts with extended forefingers. The ancient Sign of the Ring. Voices reached up to Varak in muffled alarm.

  'The fourth figure...'

  Varak started. The hidden figure of Ethriss must have been jolted loose and fallen into view. He found his own right hand reaching up to echo the responses he had just seen and he restrained it only with an effort. Stepping back from the balcony rail, he cleared his throat in some embarrassment at having fallen victim to such a superstition. Then, sternly, he brought his mind back to the more urgent matters left to him by his Lord.

  The casual instruction of a few days ago had just been made chillingly purposeful. Prior to leaving, Lord Eldric had given him quite specific orders.

  'Commander, while I'm away at Vakloss I want you to move the entire household to the mountain stronghold. It's just an exercise of course, but everyone will need shaking up a little after the Festival; there's far too much inclination to turn a seven day celebration into a fourteen day one. My fellow Lords will be doing the same, and we'll see who's managed the most effectively when we return. Probably in a couple of weeks.'

  Varak had saluted.

  'No questions, Commander?’ Eldric asked.

  'None, Lord,’ Varak replied, his eyes exposing the lie.

  'Good.’ Eldric nodded gratefully. Then again, in the Battle Language. ‘I rely on you absolutely in this matter.'

  Into our mountain strongholds like rebels, was Varak's first thought, but it passed almost immediately, to be replaced with a genuine regret.

  Eldric's an old man, he thought reproachfully. He shouldn't have to deal with things like this. And those other three aren't much use. Well, Arinndier's all right, but the other two ... He made a contemptuous gesture with his right hand. Thank the Guardians this house kept the old values alive. Kept a proper High Guard, well trained and disciplined. True, Arinndier kept his up to scratch, but he could not understand how someone like Lord Darek, with his quiet shrewdness, could join in the current trend to turn High Guards into ceremonial rather than combat troops.

  No one threatens us, went the specious wisdom. A bit of discipline's good for the lads, but no need to risk them in mountain training, patrolling in Narsindal, doing endless tedious duties at the bleak fortress of Narsindalvak ...

  The arguments rattled irritably in his head. It was all wrong; he felt it in his bones. Darek's High Guards in their yellow liveries looked like a bunch of spring flowers, and Hreldar's beggared description with their multi-coloured liveries and braids and laces. A good breath of mountain air would blow them on their backs, let alone a real training exercise.

  Then, the unusual introspection and his consideration of the inadequacy of the High Guards of two such important lords, seemed to shake loose many old thoughts, and stray pieces fell into place to give him a sudden fearful insight.

  The King had long since stopped The Watch—the rotation of the various High Guards as duty garrison at the great tower fortress of Narsindalvak. For generations they had maintained a continuous watch over Narsindal, both from the tower itself and through their regular patrols. Now that was no more! True, the conditions in Nar
sindal were invariably appalling, and no patrols in Varak's memory had ever seen Lake Kedrieth because of the mists that surrounded it and the ever-changing shape of the marshes that marked its edges. However, the patrols had kept the men in good fettle and, although they had grumbled, it had given them a feeling of continuity with the great traditions of the past, and a certain dignity.

  But Varak suddenly saw the end of The Watch and the deterioration of the High Guard as part of a corruption. No one these days could believe in Sumeral and his defeat by the four Guardians and the Great Alliance, or that he might one day rise again from the depths of Lake Kedrieth. That was foolish superstition. But Narsindal was indisputably a bad place. Men had been lost there regularly. Its predominant inhabitants, the Mandrocs, were bad enough: man-like, dog-snouted savages, but there were worse things lurking in those perpetual mists.

  Varak shivered slightly. He had taken many patrols into Narsindal in the past and felt in his bones that myths or no, it was wrong not to keep watch on it. Somewhere in those old stories was a hard kernel of truth that was not wisely ignored.

  The word corruption lingered in his mind, and Tirke's outburst at the First Feast rose before him—Dan-Tor, that devil's spawn out of Narsindal, has our King strung like a puppet.

  Then old habits reasserted themselves. These were not problems he could do anything about other than speak his piece when the time came. He pushed them aside vigorously, straightened up, and strode off down the sun dappled corridor, the echoes of his clicking heels hanging in the air like dust motes.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Hawklan enjoyed the remainder of his long journey through the mountains, despite some of the leg-wrenching slopes he had to contend with. On more than one occasion he chose to leave the path to climb some nearby peak, just for the sake of sitting quietly in the rich stillness and calm that the ancient rocks exuded. Gavor too seemed to be in his natural habitat, spending most of his time gliding in wide circles high overhead.

  They met no other travellers, but Hawklan gradually learned of the many plants and creatures that discreetly thrived there. Only the little brown birds occasionally disturbed their peace. Hawklan would see Gavor spiralling silently downwards towards some rocky slope or cluster of vegetation, then one of the birds would burst alarmingly from cover and fly rapidly into the distance, its wings whirring peculiarly.

  'I don't know how they can fly so fast,’ was Gavor's predominant comment. ‘Or how they know I'm coming.'

  At such times, Hawklan felt impelled to look again at the small burden he was carrying. It was unchanged; no sign of either stiffness or decay. Dead and yet not dead. It felt almost as though the tiny body had been temporarily vacated—left empty for some reason. He shared Gavor's puzzlement.

  Before he left the mountains, they offered him one last gift, just as they had done at the beginning of his journey.

  He was nearing the top of a long steep slope which led towards a high ridge. Perspiring freely in the warm spring sunshine, he sat down on a rock and looked back at the green valley he had spent the morning clambering out of.

  I can see why so few Orthlundyn actually get round to making this trip, he thought ruefully, massaging his legs. But he still felt no urge to return, only the urge to continue moving forward.

  Gavor's fruity chuckle interrupted his reverie.

  Turning, he saw that his friend was sitting on a small outcrop of rock at the top of the ridge. ‘Come on, dear boy, do hurry up,’ came the provocative cry. ‘My legs are getting tired standing waiting for you.’ He danced up and down waving his wooden leg as if to ease a cramp. Hawklan looked at him malevolently, but did not answer. Then, levering himself to his feet, he started up the last part of the slope. Gavor chuckled again.

  When at last he reached the top of the ridge, Hawklan found it was broad and grassy, and he paused to revel for a moment in the cool breeze that was rising up from the other side. Gavor glided down to greet him.

  'Come along, dear boy, come along. Don't dawdle. Come and see your first view of the Decmilloith of Riddin.'

  Hawklan followed Gavor across the springy turf.

  Just as, days ago, he had suddenly seen a great swathe of Orthlund spread out before him, now he saw Riddin. The view burst on him after he had walked a little way past the top of the grassy knoll. He continued forward until he came to the edge of a cliff which fell away suddenly in a sheer drop.

  Riddin looked very different from Orthlund. It had forests and farmlands like Orthlund and it had a harmony of its own, but it was not the Great Harmony of Orthlund: it looked busier, more hectic. It was criss-crossed by hedges and ditches, and roads—so many roads and pathways that Hawklan could hardly believe his eyes. Then there were countless isolated houses and little villages, far more than in Orthlund. He felt vigour and excitement in the harmony of Riddin and wondered what its people would be like. He stood motionless for several minutes, then he opened his arms wide as if to embrace the whole country. Gavor spread his great shining wings in a similar gesture and, laughing out loud, launched himself into the void.

  For the remainder of that day, the track they had been following led them down through softer, rolling countryside, becoming wider as they passed farms and the occasional small cluster of houses. Such few people as they saw looked at them uncertainly, but responded pleasantly to Hawklan's smile and greetings.

  Finally, rounding a bend at the top of a small slope, they found themselves looking down on the road that would lead them north to Altfarran and the Gretmearc. Hawklan hesitated.

  'What's the matter, dear boy?’ said Gavor, sensing his uncertainty. Hawklan did not reply.

  Gavor followed his gaze down to the road. ‘Ah,’ he said after a moment. ‘Too many people, eh?'

  Used to the scarcely frequented roads of Orthlund, and following his long journey in pleasant isolation, Hawklan felt a momentary reluctance to join the people he could see on the road below. Gavor flapped his wings, ruffling Hawklan's hair and ending his brief reverie. ‘Wait until it gets busy, dear boy,’ he said brusquely. ‘You'll soon find out what a crowd is.'

  'Thank you, Gavor,’ Hawklan replied, with heavy irony, as he started forward. ‘I really don't know where I'd be without your support and encouragement.’ Gavor laughed gleefully.

  After a little while however, Hawklan began to find the presence of so many other people as interesting, if not as restful, as the quiet of the mountains. People were riding and walking, some alone, some in groups, some empty-handed, some carrying packs on their backs or on their heads or in panniers. There was an indescribable variety of carts—handcarts, carts pulled by horses and other creatures, even ornate wheeled houses, something that Hawklan had never even heard of. At each junction in the road, people joined and people left, but on the whole the road became busier.

  'It's not Orthlund is it, Gavor?’ concluded Hawklan after a while.

  'Ah, dear boy,’ said Gavor wistfully. ‘There's nothing like Orthlund in the entire world. It's a special place. Very special. But the odd trip away will make you appreciate it a little more.'

  Generally the many travellers on the road were friendly and courteous, although occasionally the air would be rent by abuse and vilification as the sheer press of numbers, where the road took them through a village or past some small roadside market, resulted inevitably in friction between some of the many disparate travellers.

  'You great donkey!'

  Hawklan started at the sound of an impact and the none-too-dulcet cry that immediately followed it; the proximity of both leading him to imagine he was in some way responsible for the former and the intended recipient of the latter.

  Turning, he saw that the owner of the voice was a small, stout old woman. She was brandishing an angry fist at a youth who, despite the fact that he towered head and shoulders over her, was retreating and raising his hands defensively. Incautiously, Hawklan smiled at the sight, just as the old lady caught his eye.

  'You,’ she sh
outed, making a commanding gesture, ‘you with the crow on your shoulder. Stop grinning and give a hand with this.'

  Gavor's head shot round as if he had been stung, and looking over the top of Hawklan's head he glowered at the old woman.

  'What did she call me?’ he muttered disbelievingly under his breath.

  'Shush,’ said Hawklan urgently, as his legs involuntarily marched him towards the beckoning woman.

  The cause of the disturbance was a slight collision between the woman's cart and the youth's, which had left them with their wheels locked together. Looking at the two protagonists, Hawklan had reservations about the old woman's immediate declamation of the youth's guilt but, exchanging a quick look of understanding with him, he decided not to pursue the matter.

  It took only a few minutes to separate the carts, after which the youth was summarily dismissed and Hawklan conscripted to hold the horse's head while the woman checked her load.

  'You on your way to the Gretmearc?’ she cried, from the far side of the cart.

  'Yes,’ replied Hawklan, stroking the horse's head. It was a fine, strong-spirited animal that radiated well-being.

  'I'm going part of the way myself,’ said the woman, bustling back purposefully to take the horse from Hawklan. ‘The horse is rested now so you can ride with me. It'll save your legs. And you won't mind, will you, horse?’ She patted the horse's cheek solidly and Hawklan felt the warmth of the animal's response. ‘Besides,’ she continued, glancing up at Gavor. ‘It'll be someone for you to talk to. You must get lonely with only your pet for company.'

  'Hawklan...’ began Gavor menacingly.

  'Oh,’ cried the woman. ‘It talks.'

  'It!' hissed Gavor under his breath. Hawklan threw him a pleading glance and with wilful awkwardness Gavor hopped over his head and on to the shoulder farthest away from the woman. ‘In deference to our position as visitors here, Hawklan,’ he whispered, ‘I shall refrain from entering into any badinage with this old ... horse-person, but do at least advise her that this it is a he. I can assure you I am anything but neuter.'