The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  As they rode down into it, Dacu reined his horse to a halt. ‘This is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Last time I was here, it was winter and almost impassable. I never dreamt it would look like this in summer.’ He swung down from his horse. ‘We’ll walk,’ he announced. ‘Let the horses roam free. To burden another creature on a day like this would be an affront.’

  Isloman laughed outright. ‘I don’t know about me being too close to Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But you sound exactly like him. I think you’ve been smitten with an attack of poetry. I hope it’s not contagious – Tirke might catch it.’

  Tirke looked at the two laughing men, uncertain whether to be indignant or not, but their good nature and the quiet calm of the valley forbade any such rancour and he too dismounted.

  Gavor said nothing, but took wing and soared up towards the protecting peaks. As the party wended its way along the valley, he flew high above them in wide graceful circles, resting on the warm flower-scented breezes that rose up to him. Occasionally, he tumbled over and over, falling precipitately out of the sky and laughing to himself.

  The valley, however, was a brief interlude in what was proving, as expected, to be a relentless and hard journey. Tentatively, Tirke began to grumble. He wished it weren’t so hot – or so cold. He fidgeted with his various jackets and tunics – took his gloves off – put them back on – wished the wind wouldn’t blow in his face – or down his ear – wished there weren’t so many flies – wished they were back in the valley – or in Orthlund – wished . . .

  Dacu had learnt early in their journey that this weed was well-rooted in Tirke’s personality, and he took the opportunity to grind a ruthless heel into it before it could blossom fully.

  ‘I’ve told you once, Tirke,’ he said, quietly, but very resolutely. ‘Don’t speak if you’ve nothing to contribute. The rule is, if you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it then try and get used to it. Above all, don’t fret about those things you can’t change, they’ll cloud your mind and get you killed one day. Just concentrate on being here, and on what’s going on around you.’

  Stung, despite Dacu’s quiet manner, Tirke’s lip curled up and he opened his mouth to speak, but a brief conspiratorial shake of the head from Isloman changed his reply to a simple, if resentful, ‘Sorry, Dacu.’

  Then the clouds closed in, obscuring the distant mountains and truncating those nearby. Occasionally it sank down into the valleys to transform great open vistas into grey, silent and damp caves.

  And the rain began.

  As he fastened his cloak about him and pulled up his hood, Dacu looked significantly at Tirke. The young man affected a calmness he did not feel and copied the Goraidin’s demeanour. Dacu winked at Isloman.

  It rained intermittently for several days. Sometimes the rain would come down vertically through a thick obscuring mist, sometimes it would swirl and lash about as if it were trying to escape some driving demon. Small streams became fulsome and noisy, rushing underfoot or tumbling down from the heights above. The turf they walked on became sodden and clinging, and the rocks became blatantly treacherous.

  Each night, after they had camped, they managed to cheer and warm themselves around the radiant stones that they had brought, and Dacu quietly instructed Tirke in the subtler arts of moving through the mountains in such conditions. Again, the man’s patience impressed Isloman as he watched him reaching through Tirke’s brittle façade to the truer man beneath. Each night also, Dacu made amendments to his map, which was becoming increasingly more inaccurate as they moved away from Fyorlund, and the three men wrote their journals of the day’s travelling. Hawklan sat as silent witness to these proceedings.

  As the days passed, the small caravan moved steadily through the grey dampness, but it became increasingly difficult for them to keep dry and warm. Tirke descended into a surly, repressed silence, and Isloman became more anxious about Hawklan. Dacu too became concerned. The weather was worse than might have been expected but the effect on the morale of his charges seemed disproportionate. And these were early days yet. There was worse terrain to come and, almost certainly, worse weather.

  ‘We must try and find some proper shelter for a while,’ he said eventually. ‘Somewhere where we can dry off thoroughly and check the supplies. Keep your eyes open for any caves.’

  The remark was addressed to both Isloman and Tirke, but it was directed primarily at Isloman, whose shadow vision was most likely to penetrate the shifting greyness that came and went around them.

  Ironically, however, it was Tirke who spotted a shadow at the head of a scree slope towards the evening of the next day. Following his pointing finger, Isloman confirmed his discovery and the three men headed towards it as enthusiastically as the loose scree would allow. As they approached it, however, their euphoria faded. Apparently recently exposed by a rock fall, the cave seemed to be little more than a rather shallow alcove.

  ‘Still, it’s better than nothing,’ said Dacu, lighting a torch. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’

  As he stepped inside he found that the shallow appearance of the cave was caused by a large boulder near the entrance. Stepping around it he held out the torch to reveal a spacious chamber with a dusty floor and walls which, apart from a few damp cracks, were quite dry. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘In fact, excellent. Well done, young man. Come on in. And bring the horses.’

  Isloman carried Hawklan in as bidden, but Tirke hesitated just inside the entrance, pretending to adjust his horse’s bridle. He peered into the darkness where the chamber narrowed into a tunnel at its far end. ‘Are you sure nothing lives in there?’ he asked, as casually as he could manage.

  Dacu chuckled to himself and increased the light of his torch. The darkness receded along the tunnel a little. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The horses wouldn’t have come anywhere near it if there’s been anything wild here. Besides, look.’ He pointed to the dusty floor. ‘No signs of tracks, or of bedding or nesting materials. Nothing lives here.’ A small beetle scuttled away from the torchlight. ‘Nothing big anyway. Come on in.’

  Still uncertain, Tirke led the horses into the cave and began unharnessing them. Dacu joined him, while Isloman began removing Hawklan’s wet cloak and checking to see how much water had soaked through to him. After a moment he pulled a face of appreciative surprise. ‘I wish my cloak was this good,’ he said. ‘He’s bone dry. Not even clammy.’

  Dacu, occupied with the horses, grunted an offhand acknowledgement.

  Isloman looked at the cloak he was holding and rubbed the material inquisitively between his fingers. It seemed in no way exceptional, and he wondered briefly where Tirilen had found it when she had searched for suitable clothes for Hawklan’s unexpected journey to the Gretmearc.

  Later, dried, rested and fed, the three men sat in companionable silence around the radiant stones. Arranged round a separate pile of stones some distance away were their drying clothes, and the characteristic smell of these mingled with the smell of the horses to permeate the cave.

  Gavor was perched on a rock near to Hawklan, and was sleeping soundly, emitting an occasional low whistle.

  After a while, Dacu’s face became pensive.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ Isloman asked.

  ‘No,’ Dacu replied doubtfully. ‘Just thinking that we’ve a long way to go, and there’ll probably not be many billets like this on the way.’

  Isloman’s eyes narrowed slightly. The comment was unlike Dacu. All in all they’d come through fairly well. The weather had been atrocious, but while the three of them had been soaked, their supplies had been unaffected, and Hawklan’s remarkable clothes had kept him both dry and warm. There was enough sunlight locked in the radiant stones to see them some considerable way yet and this weather couldn’t hold forever.

  Or could it?

  The thought came to him unexpectedly like a chill draught, and a small knot of black depression formed deep inside him.

  Serian whinnied noisily.

  ‘W
hat!’ Gavor woke suddenly. Looking from side to side, he flapped his wings urgently. ‘Did somebody say something?’ he asked.

  The darkness in Isloman vanished as suddenly as it had come, and Dacu, too, smiled as if a burden had just been lifted from him. ‘Yes,’ Isloman replied. ‘But not to you.’

  Gavor floated down from his perch to land by the carver. ‘Are you sure, dear boy?’ he said. ‘I could’ve sworn I heard someone calling out. Several people, in fact.’

  Isloman was about to make a comment to the effect that it was probably Gavor’s friends at Anderras Darion bewailing his protracted absence, but before he could speak the bird stumped off towards the rear of the cave.

  ‘How far does this go?’ Gavor asked, his neck craning forward as he peered into the darkness.

  Dacu shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Quite possibly for miles. There aren’t many exposed entrances like this, but they say the mountains around here are riddled with tunnels, and the few I’ve ever found went further than I felt inclined to explore.’

  Tirke looked at Gavor prowling the outer edge of the torchlight. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing living in here?’ he whispered to Dacu, only half-jokingly.

  The Goraidin’s response was unexpectedly irritable. ‘What, for pity’s sake, Tirke? Some sierwolf the Cadwanol forgot to lock up? Don’t be so stupid. You’re making me angry.’ There was a menace in the man’s voice that made Isloman look up. Tirke edged away from him nervously.

  Serian whinnied again uncertainly, and Gavor cocked his head on one side. ‘There’re some very strange echoes in this place,’ he muttered to himself, returning to his vigil by Hawklan. ‘Don’t let me go to sleep again.’

  A few minutes later, Dacu stood up and went to the cave entrance. Isloman joined him, pausing only to lay a reassuring hand on Tirke’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter, Dacu?’ he said. ‘The lad was only joking.’

  Dacu nodded. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’ll apologize to him. I don’t know why I did that.’ His face became anxious. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m up to this, Isloman, if I’m going to go over the edge like that at the first bit of bad weather we run into.’

  Isloman had little advice to offer. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said. ‘There’s something odd about this place. Gavor doesn’t normally hear things that aren’t there, and Serian’s uneasy.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ queried the Goraidin, old reflexes displacing his new doubts.

  Isloman looked out into the darkness. Even his shadow vision could not penetrate far into the damp starless night, but he could hear the rain still falling steadily. ‘Not that I can sense,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But . . .’ He shrugged.

  Dacu turned back to the heartening warmth of the radiant stones. Tirke eyed him unsurely as he approached.

  Dacu met his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, Tirke,’ he said without any preamble. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was wrong of me.’ Then, before Tirke could comment: ‘Isloman feels there’s something strange about this place, and I’m inclined to agree with him. Nothing dangerous, I think, but odd. It could be no more than the echoes you get in a place like this after we’ve been so long outdoors, but I’d like you to split the horses. Serian and mine at the entrance, the others at the back. They’ll serve us well enough as sentries. And we can keep the torches on low.’

  ‘I’ll sleep with my sword out,’ Tirke said, clambering to his feet to execute Dacu’s order. Once again, Dacu felt a bubble of irritation rising within him, but he caught it and crushed it.

  ‘If it’ll make you feel better,’ he said, forcing a mildly concerned acquiescence into his voice. Then, smiling, ‘But make sure you don’t roll over on it.’

  Later, Isloman found himself leaning back on the rock wall, looking at the others, now all sleeping. Tirke was a little restless, but Dacu was as motionless as Hawklan.

  He felt very relaxed and rested. Whatever tensions had mysteriously built up between Dacu and Tirke seemed to have evaporated and he was looking forward to the morning when they could all continue their long journey back to his home.

  The cave was now illuminated only gently by the reduced torches and, as he gazed around idly, he began to work out plans for a wall carving which would use the subtle shading that the torchlight produced on this long hidden rock. Then, realizing what he was doing, he smiled and looked down at his hands.

  The scar caused by his accident with Dan-Tor’s chisel was clearly visible. Probably always will be, he thought. But it had a healthier appearance now, and the stiffness that the injury had caused was long passed. The sight of it reminded him of the many strange and tragic events that had brought him to this place, but he was too at ease for the memories to offer him any burden. On an impulse, he took out his knife and, twisting round, began scratching softly into the rock.

  When he lay down to sleep some while later, he was still smiling. As with the making of the gifts he had given to Sylvriss and Eldric, he had found the brief return to his craft profoundly satisfying. Drifting into sleep, his last thought was of Varak and the solace that he too said he had found in his wood carving. On the wall he had left a small intricate sketch showing Hawklan listening to the stooped and crooked form that Dan-Tor had adopted when he arrived at Pedhavin. Behind the figures was a hazy but powerful representation of Anderras Darion.

  * * * *

  Isloman was suddenly wide awake. Some caution closed his eyes to the narrowest slit almost immediately. Without moving, he could see the horses and the inert forms of Dacu and Tirke, and he could feel Hawklan by his right-hand side. But to his left, something moved.

  Chapter 18

  As Isloman had said, Yengar, Olvric and the four High Guards appointed by Eldric to escort the Queen to Riddin found themselves slipping further and further behind her as she galloped relentlessly away from Eldric’s stronghold.

  The two Goraidin exchanged concerned looks, but the High Guards, more used to Sylvriss by dint of their occasional Palace duties, seemed highly amused.

  ‘You may as well slow down,’ said Kirran, the most senior of the four. ‘She’ll stop when she’s ready and if we keep on like this we’re not going to last half a day.’

  Yengar scowled, then blew out his cheeks in resignation. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten how the Muster used to ride. Slow down. We’ll trot, and hope she remembers us soon.’

  Some while later they caught up with the Queen, now walking. She smiled as they fell in on either side of her. ‘Sorry,’ she said simply. ‘I forgot.’

  Yengar could do no other than respond to the smile with his own, but Eldric had given him charge of the group and the incident could not be allowed to pass unremarked.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said pleasantly. ‘If you could manage to stay with us, I’d appreciate it. Particularly as we move further into the mountains. We’ve some difficult terrain to pass through and we can’t afford to have anyone hurt through travelling carelessly.’

  The Queen bridled a little. ‘I don’t ride carelessly,’ she said, her smile fading.

  ‘No, Majesty,’ Yengar replied without a hint of apology. ‘But we would if we tried to ride like you do.’

  The Queen’s smile returned. ‘I accept your rebuke, Goraidin,’ she said. ‘I was wrong to do what I did. It won’t happen again.’

  Nor did it.

  The following day the group collected supplies and pack-horses that Eldric had arranged, and began their journey into the mountains proper.

  Eldric’s stronghold being already in the mountains, there was, unlike Isloman’s route, no leisurely overland approach. Indeed, the earlier part of the route was quite difficult, obliging the men to dismount and walk their horses quite frequently. Sylvriss however, on her Muster mount, was able to stay mounted for much longer, a fact which relieved both Olvric and Yengar who had had ‘the delicacy of the Queen’s condition’ thoroughly impressed upon them by Eldric before they set off.

  A
gain, Kirran, a married man with children of his own, was more sanguine. ‘Don’t fret,’ he said. ‘Babies are tougher than you think, and the Queen’s a strong healthy woman with sound instincts. She’ll not do anything foolish.’ He nodded in her direction. ‘Look at her. She’s safer on horseback over these rocks than you or I’d be in a flat field.’

  That, the two Goraidin had to agree with, but Yengar in particular found his concern for the unborn child remarkably persistent. Despite his training, he found himself constantly looking towards the time when they would ride down out of the mountains on to the plains of Riddin, and, he hoped, into the care of the Muster.

  It was a dangerous way for a Goraidin to think, and he knew it. Quietly, he sought reassurance from Marek, the High Guard healer chosen by Hylland and Eldric to care for the Queen. Marek confirmed Kirran’s comments and told Yengar what he already knew.

  ‘I understand your concern, Yengar,’ he said. ‘But you’ll serve the Queen and her child best by helping her to feel secure. And that means doing your job, not constantly looking over your shoulder at her with a worried look on your face.’

  Yengar gave him a reproachful look at this mild caricature, and Marek laughed. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘If you go around looking like that, you’ll have us all sick.’ Then, more seriously:

  ‘Listen, Yengar. For a man, I know a lot about pregnancy and childbirth, but it never fails to humble and amaze me. There’s a tremendous . . .’ – he searched for a word – ‘momentum for life to continue and survive. Sometimes against the most incredible odds. Believe me, in her present condition, the Queen’s personal resources are greater than they’ve ever been, and they were already considerable, as you know. The only thing that’s going to upset her is doubt about you, and your ability to get us through these mountains.’

  He looked up at the peaks surrounding them, grim and harsh against a grey sky. Yengar nodded, but still seemed to be uncertain. Marek eyed him narrowly and then struck a blow he knew the Goraidin would appreciate. Leaning forward, he spoke slowly and with heavy emphasis.