The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Tirilen’s mouth suddenly pinched tight and her face twisted. She was on the verge of tears. Loman put his arm around her and gently led her back to the couch.

  ‘Come on, healer,’ he said. ‘Sit down and talk.’

  Loman had noticed Tirilen’s manner growing quieter over the weeks but had been uncertain how to deal with it. In any event, like everyone else, he had had precious little time to look to anything other than the myriad new tasks that circumstances had brought down on him. Awkwardly he had watched his daughter quell her mounting unease with her own tasks of the moment, promising himself that he would speak to her soon.

  Now, however, a natural lull had entered into both the training programmes and the farming that sustained the Orthlundyn, and Loman saw in Tirilen’s impending tears, a release for both of them. He pulled her head down on to his shoulder and handed her a rather soiled kerchief.

  She wiped her moistening eyes and then looked at the kerchief with amused resignation. ‘Well,’ he conceded, ‘I suppose some things never change.’

  Somewhat to Loman’s surprise however, Tirilen’s tears never came, and her solemn mood passed almost immediately, as if the small letting of moisture had released all the pressure that was there. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, unnecessarily. ‘It was just the long shadows made me think of uncle Isloman . . . and then Hawklan . . . and then . . .’

  ‘Everything?’ said Loman, finishing her sentence.

  She nodded and smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Everything.’

  A silence fell between the two for a moment, then Loman said, ‘I think I’ll tell Gulda to incorporate a little reflection time into our training schemes. We’re all so busy we’re forgetting why we’re doing all this.’

  Tirilen nodded. ‘I sewed up a gash in Englar’s arm today,’ she said, seemingly irrelevantly. Loman frowned uncertainly at the name. ‘You know,’ Tirilen said, impatiently. ‘Ireck’s grandson.’ Loman’s frown deepened briefly for a moment and then vanished as the young man’s face came to him. Tirilen returned to her tale. She held out her open hand, fingers spread wide. ‘It was a span and a half long, father, a span and a half. He’s lucky it didn’t happen out in the mountains, he’d have bled to death. As it is it’s damaged some muscles that I can’t repair, and I doubt even Hawklan could.’

  Loman frowned again, and involuntarily rubbed his arm.

  ‘He’ll not be able to use the arm at all for some time,’ Tirilen continued. ‘And he’ll probably lose some use of it permanently.’

  She looked straight at Loman.

  ‘What are we doing, father?’ she asked. ‘The lad’s been permanently damaged. Permanently damaged in a training exercise! And he doesn’t seem to mind. When I’d finished and told him what it meant, he just grinned. As if we were children again and he’d grazed himself falling over. What are we turning into?’

  Her questions were made the more penetrating by the fact that her voice was calm and steady. Loman turned away from her and, standing up, moved over to a nearby table.

  For a little while, he tapped his hand gently on the polished grain while his mind blundered around, looking for easy phrases that would protect them both from the grim reality of events. Phrases that would enable him to hold his daughter tight and soothe away childish hurts in a warm closeness. But Tirilen was no child. And she had the clear sight of the Orthlundyn, perhaps even clearer, thanks to the influence of Hawklan on her healing skills. She would accept her father’s love, and gain solace from it from time to time in their normal daily intercourse, but for her inner peace she would accept only that which could withstand the scrutiny of this sight.

  ‘You know what we’re doing, Tirilen,’ he said, eventually, almost offhandedly. ‘We’re training to defend our land . . . Preparing to defend ourselves from attacks from the outside. We’re learning to be warriors as well as farmers and carvers. All of us. Even you.’

  Tirilen wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold, and bowed her head, but she did not speak.

  Loman went on.

  ‘Hawklan told us the obvious. Told us to look at what we knew and act accordingly; to be Orthlundyn.’ Still Tirilen did not respond. Loman enumerated the points on his fingers.

  ‘That creature Dan-Tor brought corruption here. Hawklan was lured to the Gretmearc and attacked. Fyordyn High Guards, of all people, kidnapped you, and then Mandrocs slaughtered them on our land. And we could do nothing about any of it except stand by like helpless spectators.’

  Abruptly, he stood up and walked back to the window. Hitching himself up on to the sill he looked at his daughter. ‘Helpless, Tirilen. Without Hawklan and Gavor we’d never have taken those High Guards by surprise. You’d have been with them when they met those Mandrocs.’

  Tirilen nodded slowly. Her hand moved absently to the small blemish on her throat that marked where Dan-Tor’s pendant had rested. ‘Without Hawklan, Dan-Tor and the High Guards might never have come,’ she said quietly.

  Loman started as if he had been struck. Tirilen looked up and met his gaze steadily. There was no reproach in either her look or her tone. She saw what she saw and could not deny it to herself or anyone.

  Looking into her sloe eyes, Loman found himself floating on a stream of memories. How much darker would life have been these last twenty years, without Hawklan? Could he have found the peace he needed to free his mind of the screaming nightmare of the Morlider War? Would Isloman’s poisoned wound have healed itself, or would it have continued draining him day by relentless day? And the village and its people? How would they have fared, nestling under an Anderras Darion, silent and enigmatic?

  Happily enough, presumably, he concluded, unchanged and unchanging. But the word ‘stagnation’ hovered in his mind, and then Aynthinn’s reproach. ‘Our work has deteriorated through the years. We live in the shadow of those who went before, when we should have learnt their lessons and moved forward.’ That would have been their fate. They would simply have been mourners on the death cortege of the Great Harmony of Orthlund. And what would grow where that had once flourished?

  Hawklan had opened the Great Gate of Anderras Darion and shone a warm guiding light through far more than that bitter winter night twenty years ago. True, through no apparent act of his own he had become the focus of harmful forces, but perhaps only because it was he who had inadvertently begun to awaken the Orthlundyn from what might have proved to be a fatal torpor.

  Loman saw in his daughter’s eyes that she understood this, for all the pain that such understanding brought. He nodded. ‘Hawklan merely told us what we already knew in our hearts. No one can answer the final “why?”, but we know that evil’s abroad, and not to oppose it is to aid it.’

  Tirilen stood up and straightened her green robe. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘But I find no joy in what we’re doing, and I’m frightened by what might happen if we have to use all our new-found “skills”.’

  Loman nodded again. ‘You’re right to be,’ he said gently. ‘But we still have no choice. To remain wilfully weak and defenceless in the face of a known evil when we have the means to protect ourselves would be . . .’ He searched for a word. ‘. . . a betrayal. A betrayal of past and future generations. A betrayal of ourselves . . . of those here and now who can’t defend themselves: the old, the young, the sick.’

  He found his gaze locked with his daughter’s again: that clear-eyed healer’s vision that allowed no escape. There was pain, open on her face now. ‘I know, father,’ she said. ‘And I know we’ll threaten no one who doesn’t threaten us. But how clear is our vision going to be?’ She pointed to the scar on her throat. ‘We didn’t see Dan-Tor’s corruption when it was waved in our faces.’

  Loman scowled and turned away to look out at the village below. Hidden from his sight at the far edge of the village was the leaving stone and the still mouldering pile of Dan-Tor’s wares left there as a constant reminder to them all that not all evils come armed and armoured; that the worst might come with a smile and a jest, an
d a secret promise to the darker shadows in each of them.

  ‘I can’t answer you, Tirilen,’ he said almost angrily, looking at her. This time it was she who turned from his pain. ‘When all talk with a foe has failed, you find yourself trapped on the finest edge.’ His voice rose as if he were justifying some old mistake. ‘If you wait until you’re attacked, how do you answer to your own people, dead and maimed through your inaction? Yet how can you justify attacking first? That’s why violence is a bad thing, Tirilen. It has no point of true balance. It’s a demented flux in the order of things, the antithesis of harmony. It destroys in moments things that have taken years to build. People, buildings, things . . . trust, faith . . . everything.’

  As suddenly as it had come, his brief passion waned, but a remnant of it swirled around inside him irritably as if waiting an opportunity to burst into life again. ‘All I know, Tirilen, is that the finer a tool is honed, the more precisely it can be used. I just hope that in the honing comes the wisdom to see when to use it. You can accept that, can’t you? It’s all I know.’

  A silence fell between the two and there was no movement in the room for a long time except the creeping progress of the yellow light from the setting sun. Their talk could go no further.

  Eventually Tirilen raised her eyes and looked at her father.

  ‘We’ll need more people trained in healing,’ she said, simply.

  Loman closed his eyes and nodded. Into his mind came a memory of the aftermath of the last battle of the Morlider War. Sights and sounds were there in nightmarish clarity, in a picture that he could neither watch nor ignore.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  * * * *

  The following day found Loman busying himself in the Armoury. His conversation with Tirilen had lingered persistently in his mind and, combined with the old memories it had stirred, it had given him a restless night. Furthermore, he felt that something was eluding him, something that could be important. Something in his anger.

  On waking, the unease persisted and he reorganized his – Gulda’s – routine so that he could decamp to the Armoury. There he could find the peace that he needed on the rare occasions that the Morlider War returned to trouble him.

  That the Armoury was a profound paradox in itself, eased rather than worsened his concerns. It lay at the very heart of the Castle, deep below ground. It housed rack upon rack of terrible weapons. It was guarded by a labyrinth of columns whose gloomy murmuring stillness would swell to a screaming tumult to destroy anyone who stepped from the safe path. And yet, mirror stones carried daylight into its every corner; no darkness lurked there. Openings in the walls of the antechamber were like windows placed high in the castle, overlooking more of the countryside than could be seen from on top of the main wall. And each of the countless weapons was crafted with a deep wisdom and skill that awed and inspired the smith. Here was a place where finer than he had made their answer to the same dilemmas that troubled him. Their honest acknowledgement of their pain and their struggles would always quieten him.

  Only the labyrinth seemed to be unrelenting and certain in its purpose, a terrible darkness whose price must be paid before even the uncertain solace represented by the Armoury could be achieved.

  Stepping out of the Armoury, Loman closed the wicket door behind him, and looked around the antechamber. Bright sunlight shone through the window openings and he could see clouds scudding overhead. Adjusting the makeshift bundle of weapons he was carrying he walked to one of the openings and paused to look out over the rolling fields and woods. Slowly he realized that his spirits were lighter. The knowledge of the makers of Anderras Darion had eased his undefined distress yet again. When he had finished here, he would go out on to an open balcony on one of the high towers and feel the wind that was buffeting the countryside, cool and summer-scented on his face.

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, turning grey and ominous as it did, and the room became darker. Ah, you reproach me for blurring the present with the unknowable future, Loman thought, smiling, and, adjusting his bundle again, he turned towards the labyrinth.

  Its dusty gloom contrasted starkly with the sunlit antechamber and Loman’s face became pensive. He had little fear of missing his way for although he had passed through it many times, he had never done so carelessly or even casually; here indeed the present must be sharp and clear. But of late the labyrinth had revealed other strange attributes that made him uneasy.

  Gulda’s curt instruction to him to ‘Tidy that lot up, they’re no good in here,’ had presented Loman with no small problem. The mound of weapons that filled the far end of the Armoury, and to which she was referring, was massive, and he would obviously need a great deal of help. He did not relish the task of teaching anyone the pathway. His own learning had been hard enough, and that had been with the guiding hand of Hawklan to calm the terrifying consequences of error. The path would thus have to be marked in some way.

  Then the labyrinth had shown him its subtler defences. No guiding signs could be cut into its columns or floor. Of those few carvers who managed for a little while to withstand the mocking and growing echoes of their chiselling that piled up around them like a pending avalanche, all found that the stone turned their finest edges. Worse, they found their sleep haunted for many nights afterwards, and their creative inspiration stunted and grim.

  Paints and stains too would not adhere to the stone; but most eerily of all, any ropes and marking blocks he laid moved once out of sight. In the end, he had had to lead small groups through personally. It had been tiring and tedious work, and none had tackled it with a good heart, so intimidating was the watching presence of the labyrinth.

  Now, although the mound seemed barely changed, the bulk of the weapons they needed immediately had been removed, but Loman would bring out a few more each time he entered the Armoury for any reason.

  He began his familiar journey. Around him rose the mounting hiss of anticipation, as if some strange slithering presence was spilling onto the path to entangle his feet and make him stumble. That too was recent, as though the labyrinth were aware that its charge was being assailed. Loman paused; there was another feeling around him, one he had never felt before. Had his concentration lapsed? Dwelling on the summer sun outside? No, without a doubt, no. As always, he could remember his every step. Uneasily he looked around, but there was no visible sign of any change.

  Then, through his feet, he felt a slight tremor. The columns around him seemed to draw breath. It was almost a human noise – shock, surprise, fear, and then anger.

  Loman’s legs started to run before the thought came into his mind, his bundle of weapons clanking and clattering. He felt the will of the labyrinth turning towards him, drawn by the noise like a predatory animal. Now his mind raced ahead of his too-slow legs as he sensed the malign purpose of the labyrinth racing through the gloom behind him.

  Then at last there was the end of the path, only a few paces away. Only! The tumult broke over him like a roaring flood, a nail-tearing screeching rending him raw, an earth-shaking rumbling pounding him to his very heart, thunder so intense that it must soon crush him into tortured dust. Somewhere he heard his own voice feeding the turmoil with its screaming.

  He was falling, falling, falling into a terrible pit of his own creating. Here was death, sudden and unexpected, with no time to quieten the mind or ease the soul . . .

  Then everything was solid again and he was rolling over and over on the stone floor until he came to a thudding stop and the wind was knocked out of him. Rolling painfully on to his side, he realized that the dominant sound in his ears now was his own gasping breath. Underneath it he could hear the sound of the labyrinth’s screaming and bellowing fading slowly in the distance.

  As his head cleared, the entrance columns of the labyrinth came into focus. He was outside it! Sitting up unsteadily, he found he was leaning against the wall. It must have been that that he struck with such force. But how did he come to be here? Apart from his heart racing and his b
ody trembling, he noted that his legs were aching. Was that the sudden strain of his desperate flight? Or had he leapt reflexively those last few paces that remained when the noise overwhelmed him?

  His ear caught the dying strains of the tumult inside the labyrinth. Was it his imagination or was there a note of regret in the sound? Apology, even?

  Shakily, he stood up and walked over to the columns that marked its entrance, peering into the gloom ahead, his face furrowed. He had made no error, he was certain of that. The labyrinth had responded to something other than him. But what?

  Impulsively, defiantly almost, he stepped inside. A low rumbling rose up to meet him, like the warning growl of a large animal. In the distance, he heard the rest of the pack stir and the rumbling grew. A wave of fear swept over him. He was on the correct path, but he could go no further. The labyrinth was closed to him.

  * * * *

  Gulda raised her hand for silence as an agitated and alarmed Loman burst into her study unannounced. She was seated at a small table with an open book in front of her and her head was inclined slightly as if she had just heard some familiar but far distant noise. Her face was stern and ominous.

  For an instant, Loman had the impression that he was looking at a tall and strikingly handsome woman, haughty and powerful. Despite his agitation, he felt long-forgotten reflexes tightening his chest and unmanning his legs at the sight. Then, just as suddenly, he was looking at old Memsa Gulda again and feeling slightly embarrassed at his body’s unexpected reaction. Slowly Gulda lowered her hand, then she looked at him sharply, and, almost wilfully, Loman thought, her stern face became irritable. ‘What’s the matter, young Loman?’ she said crossly, returning to her book. ‘Bursting in here like some spotty apprentice.’