The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Several members of the group shifted uncomfortably at this suggestion. Gulda leaned forward and rested her head on her long hands, folded over the top of her stick. Then, in an echo of Loman’s earlier sentiments, Yrain finished. ‘The arrogant little devils have no conceivable right to do what they’re doing.’

  Several voices spoke up in agreement.

  ‘And if they try to prevent us?’ Gulda repeated, when the talking died down. ‘Start attacking our training parties?’

  Yrain frowned. ‘They haven’t done us any real harm so far,’ she said.

  ‘Except murder,’ someone said.

  ‘No,’ Yrain said, wincing slightly as she twisted round in her seat to look at the speaker. ‘When we first met . . . encountered them . . . with the children, they admitted two of the deaths and said they regretted them. We were helpless so they’d no need to make any such admission, and they sounded sincere enough to me.’ She turned back to Gulda as if for confirmation. ‘They said the deaths were the result of our own actions. I know it’s no justification if they were interfering in some way to disturb concentration, but all the . . . accidents . . . happened to our people when they were doing difficult, dangerous, climbs.’ She paused, hesitant to move too quickly past the shades of their dead friends. Then, almost apologetically, ‘But there’s no need for anything like that in what I’m suggesting. Really we’ll just be lumping everyone’s basic survival training together and bringing some of the ordinary training up into the mountains. If we keep away from too dangerous places, my feeling is that they won’t be able to harm us even if they wanted to.’

  Gulda lifted her head to speak, but Yrain, anxious to commit her every resource before execution, continued. ‘And if they do attack us in some way, then we’ll learn more about them, and what they do. And if we put a large number of groups in all at once, we’ll perhaps get some measure of their strength.’

  The room fell silent as Yrain finished. All eyes turned to Gulda. She looked around. ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  The debate was brief. Yrain’s sentiments chimed with most of those present. Despite a strong desire to ‘punch arrogant noses’, the dominant feeling was that far too little was known about this unexpected foe, and some form of peaceful probing was essential.

  ‘I agree,’ Gulda concluded. ‘We’ll get on with it straight away.’ She raised a warning finger. ‘But maximum safety though. Lots of good communication, observers, pre-arranged meeting places, etc, etc. I need hardly remind you that they succeeded in making a group of our better students miss an entire mountain. We must all be very alert. Whatever else they might be, they’re capable of some subtlety.’

  As the meeting broke up, Gulda signalled to Yrain. The girl, supporting herself on a stick, limped across to her, her thin face suddenly anxious.

  ‘Tirilen said it would be all right to come,’ she began, before Gulda could speak. ‘The stick takes the weight off my foot . . . and Athyr helped me,’ she added hastily.

  ‘Sit down,’ Gulda said.

  Without taking her eyes off her nemesis, Yrain nervously lowered herself onto a nearby chair. Gulda sat down opposite her and rested her head on the end of her stick again. Loman eyed her carefully, prepared to act as champion for the girl if need arose.

  ‘Well done, Ysain,’ Gulda said. ‘That was nicely reasoned and a step in the right direction.’ There was sufficient reservation in Gulda’s voice, however, to prevent Yrain’s relief overwhelming her concern, and she kept her eyes fixed on Gulda’s face.

  Gulda continued. ‘This is going to involve some drastic changes to our training schedules,’ she said. ‘And I want you to work with Loman here on the details. We must treat this affair as being most urgent. I want the new schedules ready by this time tomorrow, designed for immediate implementation.’

  Loman raised his eyebrows. ‘That’ll be difficult,’ he said. Gulda shrugged. ‘Just do it,’ she said simply. ‘You’ve defined the problem clearly enough yourselves. We’re in the dark, and we’re virtually defenceless. Yrain’s idea is sound and we’ve got no real alternatives.’ Her face became grim. ‘We don’t discuss it, but you know as well as I do that at any moment, a rider could come down from the north and tell us that the absence of so many weapons has changed from being an inconvenience to being a disaster. Just bear that in mind if you get the urge to go to sleep tonight.’

  Loman nodded. ‘What will you be doing?’ he risked.

  Gulda looked at him narrowly. ‘I’m going to prepare some touches of my own,’ she said. ‘To see if I can find a wedge for Yrain’s hammer to drive into the split in our neighbours’ opinions.’

  Chapter 21

  Clutching the black sword protectively to his chest, Isloman stared up blankly. Then he screwed up his eyes as if to penetrate some particularly obscure shadow. A torch moved, and Hawklan’s face came clearly into focus. He was flanked on the left by Dacu, tense and concerned, and on the right by Tirke, shocked and obviously struggling to keep control.

  Briefly it occurred to Isloman that they were all dead and in some mysterious afterworld, but before he could fully register the scene, a familiar voice sounded gleefully by his ear. ‘Get up, dear boy, get up. You’re not hurt. He’s back. He just woke up and chased them all away.’

  ‘Hawklan?’ Isloman whispered, his voice sounding odd in his own ears after the noise of the Alphraan and the deep silence he had woken to. ‘You’re awake. How do you feel?’ The remark seemed incongruous, but nothing else seemed to be able to get past the welter of emotions suddenly filling him.

  ‘Fine. And you?’ came an equally incongruous response. Without replying, Isloman took an offered hand and struggled shakily to his feet.

  For a moment he simply stared at Hawklan in the torchlight, then, with an action that had become almost a reflex over the past weeks, he reached out and placed his hand on Hawklan’s brow.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, still struggling to quieten his mind at this seemingly miraculous development.

  Hawklan smiled slightly at the gesture and then shrugged. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘All the time. But other places as well . . . I think . . . involved and not involved.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t really explain. It was like a strange fragmented dream. Not unpleasant . . . but not good.’

  Isloman nodded, in the absence of anything more significant to do. Each word that Hawklan spoke, and each movement he made, seemed to push the recent dark and fretful weeks further and further from Isloman’s mind. As he looked into Hawklan’s green eyes, however, he thought he saw a glimmer of great sadness, but it was gone so quickly that he could not be sure it was not some trick of the torchlight.

  Then Hawklan’s smile cut through all his uncertainties. ‘Still,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m here now, without a doubt, and very glad to be so. We’ll talk more later. Right now, we’ve other matters to attend to.’

  Gently, he took his sword from Isloman’s hand and fastened it deftly to his belt. Looking down at his hands he flexed his fingers, then his wrists and arms. ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘After all that stillness. No stiffness. No stiffness anywhere.’

  ‘Did the . . . noise wake you?’ Isloman said, still searching for some point of stability.

  Hawklan turned to look down the tunnels facing them.

  ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It was a silence, not a noise. Something . . . someone reached out, and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘. . . brought me together again, here, now.’

  ‘Silence?’ said Isloman disbelievingly, remembering vividly the crushing sounds that had borne him to the ground and sent him into oblivion. ‘Someone? I don’t understand. Who?’

  Dacu joined the conversation before Hawklan could answer. ‘It was very strange, Isloman,’ he said, an unfamiliar tension in his voice. ‘Tirke and I were struggling with the horses, when we saw both you and Gavor go down. We tried to get to you, but that appalling noise just got louder and louder . . .’ He grimaced at the memory. ‘It seemed to be almost solid
. I thought we were all going to die, then . . .’

  ‘Then?’ prompted Isloman impatiently.

  ‘Then it was gone,’ Dacu said. ‘In an instant.’

  ‘They stopped?’ Isloman said.

  Dacu shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Something stopped them. Swept their noise aside.’ He paused as if scarcely believing what he was remembering. ‘A great silence . . . no, more a silence and a stillness, seemed to well up suddenly from . . .’ He gestured vaguely around the cave, and his voice fell. ‘. . . from everywhere. It just rolled over that dreadful din, as if its sheer . . . intensity, power . . . rendered such a noise irrelevant.’

  Abruptly, the tension faded from both his face and his voice and he began to smile. ‘It was beautiful,’ he said. ‘I’ve sat in quiet stillness many times and found great solace, but this was far beyond anything I’ve ever known. And I didn’t have to struggle for it. It was given to me, Isloman. Just given. Unbelievable. A gift. A gift to guide me forever. Whoever sent it to us has knowledge and understanding far beyond ours.’

  He paused, obviously profoundly moved by the memory of the event. His manner was such that the peace of the stillness he had woken to returned vividly to Isloman. Who indeed could have created such a thing?

  With an effort he brought himself back to the present. ‘And Hawklan?’ he asked.

  But Dacu too seemed to be having some difficulty in abandoning his preoccupation. He looked at Isloman. ‘Hawklan?’ he echoed, then, nodding, ‘As the silence faded, he just opened his eyes and stood up. Stood up as if he’d only just sat down. Walked straight across to you and Gavor.’

  ‘And you didn’t make this . . . silence?’ Isloman asked Hawklan, knowing the answer.

  ‘No,’ Hawklan replied, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what it was, or where it came from. I felt it and . . . heard it, in a way. And when it was gone, I was back with you. Whole again. As Dacu said, as if I’d never been away.’

  He frowned slightly. ‘It had something vaguely familiar about it, but . . .?’ He shrugged.

  ‘Who cares? Who cares?’ Gavor boisterously interrupted the collective reverie of the group. ‘You’re back safe and well, and we can leave. Get back to Anderras Darion.’ He flapped past Dacu’s head, startling the Goraidin, and landed on Hawklan’s shoulder, where he jumped up and down excitedly.

  Hawklan reached up and touched the side of his beak with his forefinger. ‘Not yet, I think,’ he said. ‘Not yet. We have allies to win here. We have to talk to the Alphraan.’

  Isloman touched his arm nervously. ‘Allies?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘I don’t think so. I agree with Gavor. I think we should leave while we can. They nearly killed us just now, and even before that they didn’t seem too inclined towards tolerance.’

  ‘So I heard,’ Hawklan said. ‘But they’re also in some doubt, if I’m not mistaken. We have to try and talk to them.’

  ‘Why?’ said Isloman, almost rebelliously, the memory of his recent helplessness returning to him. ‘If you heard, you know what happened. There was nothing any of us could do when they attacked us. We didn’t even see them.’

  Dacu joined in. ‘Hawklan, you above all know how important it is that we get to Anderras Darion and tell your people what’s happening in Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘Isloman’s right. We’re defenceless against these . . . creatures . . . whatever they are, and there’s no reason to suppose they won’t come back and attack us again. We must leave.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘True,’ he said, looking at him. ‘But would you leave such an enemy on what might come to be your supply lines?’

  Dacu turned away and looked towards the cave entrance, now brightening with the morning light. Then he turned back and met Hawklan’s gaze squarely. ‘My duty – our duty,’ he indicated Tirke, ‘is to bring accurate information from our Lords to your people, Hawklan, so that those who have to make decisions about supply lines and such matters can do so with some confidence. I’ve also to ensure that you and Isloman arrive safely. Neither of these will be achieved if we wilfully seek out someone who’s already shown themselves unwilling to listen and quite willing to kill us.’

  Hawklan smiled slightly. ‘I accept your rebuke, Goraidin,’ he said. ‘You’re right. But if these people are uncertain . . . ill-informed. . . then they’re vulnerable also. Vulnerable to manipulation. Words from His agents to pander to their ignorance could turn them utterly against us, and who knows how far their domain extends under these mountains? Perhaps they’ve been watching us for days. Perhaps they could attack us at any point between here and Anderras Darion. I must try and speak with them while we’re here and while they’re prepared to come so near.’

  Then, before Dacu could protest, he continued forcefully. ‘You and Tirke take the horses outside and get them loaded and ready to start.’ He looked at Isloman enquiringly. Resignedly, the carver nodded his great head. ‘Isloman and I will stay here for a little while and see if any of the Alphraan return. Whatever’s happened, after that strange silence they’ll be in a different frame of mind, I’m sure. With luck, they’ll be considerably less belligerent.’

  Dacu was unrepentant. ‘I’d rather rely on solid information than luck, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘I think the risk is too great.’

  ‘So do I, so do I,’ Gavor echoed agitatedly.

  ‘A few minutes,’ Hawklan offered softly, but resolutely. Dacu looked from Hawklan to Isloman, and then nodded to Tirke to start preparing the horses.

  ‘A few minutes only, then,’ Dacu accepted, unhappily. ‘And take great care. We may not be able to come in and get you out if there’s trouble. And if we’re attacked outside we’ll have to abandon you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hawklan said. ‘I realize that. You must do whatever’s necessary to get to Loman and Gulda at Anderras Darion no matter what happens.’

  The two men stared at one another for a moment, then Dacu bowed slightly in acknowledgement and turned to help Tirke who was busying himself saddling the horses. Hawklan and Isloman joined them, and for a few minutes the cave was full of the reassuring sounds of preparation for travel.

  Serian walked over to Hawklan and pushed him gently. ‘I’ll stay with you,’ he said. ‘The noise didn’t trouble me badly as it did the others. I think they were actually trying not to hurt me.’ Hawklan reached up and embraced the horse’s neck.

  Then with a last cautionary look, Dacu and Tirke left, and the four companions walked slowly to the rear of the cave until they came to the tunnel entrances.

  They stood in silence.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hawklan said softly, after a while, looking at Isloman and Serian. ‘You saved my life, perhaps my soul, at the palace gate and afterwards. I’m sorry for what I led you to in my folly . . .’

  Isloman took his arm. ‘We all followed you willingly, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘And in ignorance, not folly. I’ve thought about it a lot while I’ve been looking after you. I don’t think we could have done anything else. Dan-Tor’s deeds drew us to him inexorably. The important thing is that somehow we survived. And we’re wiser now.’

  ‘Not much,’ Gavor said caustically, fidgeting on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘Otherwise we’d all be on Dobbin here and off over the horizon.’

  Serian pawed the ground and eyed Gavor menacingly, but before the conversation could continue, another voice was heard.

  ‘Who are you?’ it said flatly.

  ‘I really think we should go now, dear boy,’ Gavor whispered into Hawklan’s ear, tightening his claw around Hawklan’s shoulder anxiously.

  Hawklan gestured him silent and moved towards the waiting tunnels. He motioned Isloman to hold up his torch higher.

  ‘Stop this nonsense,’ he said powerfully.

  Isloman stared at him. Not only was Hawklan’s response unexpected, but his voice had a commanding tone that he had never heard before.

  ‘You know who we are,’ Hawklan continued. ‘You’ve been listening long enough.’

  There was a brief silence, then Hawklan continu
ed, his voice now almost angry, as if wearying of tiresome children. ‘This is Serian,’ he said. ‘A horse of the Muster, a horse of great and ancient lineage who honours me by allowing me to ride him. This is Isloman, the First Carver of the village of Pedhavin.’ He pointed back to Isloman’s carving. ‘A Master, as anyone with an ounce of wit can see.’ Then he reached up and Gavor jumped onto his hand. ‘This is Gavor, who came with me out of the mountains some twenty years ago and has been my companion and shield ever since.’ Gavor flapped his wings noisily for the benefit of his unseen audience. Hawklan pressed on, ‘And I am Hawklan, bearer of the key and the word to open Anderras Darion. A healer, and now, these past months, bearer of the sword of Ethriss.’

  Still there was silence, though Hawklan’s words could be heard echoing into the distance.

  ‘Are you not going to call us liars and thieves again?’ he said after a while, still stern.

  ‘We are sorry,’ said the voice after another long silence. ‘We were afraid.’

  Hawklan’s voice softened. ‘You murder those you fear?’ he said. ‘Even when they try to run away from you?’

  ‘We are sorry. We were afraid,’ the voice repeated. ‘And confused. We did not wish to harm you, but . . .’ Sounds filled the cave. Although he could hear no coherent language, it seemed to Isloman that the sounds were full of regret and explanation. The voice re-emerged imperceptibly from the confusion. ‘The one among us who disturbed your . . . companions . . . no longer . . .’ Guides? Rules? Teaches? Isloman found himself again struggling with a sound that seemed to contain every possible shade of meaning centred around the idea of leadership.