The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Tirke waved a protective hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t joke about it. I’m doing my best, but my head’s whirling with everything that happened last night and this morning. I don’t seem to be able to take it all in. Voices from nowhere, those terrible noises, then that strange silence. And Lord Hawklan suddenly awake . . . I . . .’

  Dacu looked at him sympathetically. Tirke had been silent virtually all day, an uneasy and increasingly unhappy spectator at events beyond not only his control but his comprehension.

  ‘Everyone’s head is whirling, Tirke,’ he said gently. ‘Believe me – everyone’s. You can’t be witness to such as we’ve seen – and heard – and not be disturbed by it, perhaps to the point of doubting your sanity.’ He leaned forward to emphasize the point. ‘We’re all shocked and disturbed in our different ways, and it’ll be some time before we all get used to our new knowledge. All Isloman meant was that the only difference between you and us is age. Age and the changed perspectives that go with it. It’s a big difference and one no one can do anything about it. But for what it’s worth, you’re sane all right, and you saw and heard what you saw and heard, as did we all.’

  He took his journal out of his pack. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘if you want a small piece of advice, then just hold gently on to the simple things that you know are sound and real.’ He waved the document significantly. ‘Lord Eldric didn’t send you with us as a stable-lad. He sent you because he values you and wants you to learn. Don’t forget, you’re a High Guard on special escort duty and under Goraidin command. Observation is the heart of our work. Armies may have to move across these mountains before this business is ended. Armies full of young men, like you, Tirke – uncertain, frightened. Think about them, and how you can help them with your eyes and ears now. Think about them whenever you get too fretful. Everything you’ve seen, heard and thought goes in here.’ He tapped the journal and opened it. ‘And you spend your days looking for things to put in it. For your own sake, for a time six months hence when you’ve forgotten everything that’s so vivid now, and for their sake anytime, whoever they are.’

  Hawklan watched the exchange in silence. Dacu was an astute and sensitive teacher. The combination of his reassuring manner and his few words had eased the young man’s mind without in any way demeaning him. He remembered Lorac and Tel-Odrel consoling Ordan in the midst of the appalling wreck of Lord Evison’s High Guard. He wrinkled his nose as the stench of that field returned with the memory. Realizing what he was doing he lifted his hand to disguise the movement as a yawn.

  Were all the Goraidin like this? he thought. Certainly all those he had met showed that same astuteness and sensitivity, but these were attributes that could be put to many purposes. Attributes common to the teacher and the torturer.

  So who guided these men, and how?

  They guided themselves, came the answer, as far as they were able. Just as the Orthlundyn must now be doing under the tutelage of Gulda and Loman. They saw into themselves, and chose their path. They looked squarely at the desperate, dark parts of their nature and determined to forge them into a tool subservient to their will – the only tool that could stand against the desperate and dark natures of others less disciplined or more malevolent.

  Ethriss’s teaching. Ethriss guided them yet. Even after countless millennia the great momentum of his teaching carried it forward still.

  He looked around the compact shelter. Dacu was writing diligently, occasionally making sketches, or referring to his map and adding notes to it in a small, very legible hand. Tirke seemed to have taken Dacu’s advice and was also immersed in his writing. He was assisted by Gavor, who, stationed by his left arm, was peering intently at the journal and giving occasional, unsought advice about spelling, which the High Guard took with a remarkably good grace.

  Isloman was fighting a losing battle against sleep. After two abrupt and mildly explosive awakenings, he gave up, and with a brief ‘good night,’ lay down.

  Hawklan looked at the carver. How many would have borne me the way you did, old friend? he thought. Or sat and talked to me, and taken me riding into the mountains when for all you knew I was utterly oblivious to everything?

  Guilt formed like a jagged, painful crystal in his mind. Isloman had even tried to carry for him his responsibility for the decisions that had led to the disastrous confrontation with Dan-Tor.

  A final, monumental yawn from the carver, however, interrupted his mounting introspection. It spread relentlessly round the shelter. First to him, then to Tirke and finally Dacu. With an effort, Gavor fought off the infection, but abandoned his pupil and, with great dignity, moved over to Hawklan to take up his customary guard position.

  Hawklan lay down and, staring at the torchlit roof of the shelter, briefly reviewed the new knowledge of himself that had gradually been revealed during his eerie disembodiment. It offered him more questions than it gave answers, but he refused the lure, knowing that inquiry could only lead him into futile, endless searching.

  Dominating all his thoughts was the simple knowledge that he was whole again. Back in a real and solid world where he must help in the preparation of the awful battle lines that were being drawn. And his contribution was clear. He must search for his true self and all the other knowledge that lay somewhere hidden inside him. Sumeral could not be fought by men alone. Other, older, powers were needed, and in some way he was the key to their release.

  Only one way seemed to be open to him. After they had reached Anderras Darion, then, circumstances allowing, he would go where perhaps he should have gone at first. He would go to the Caves of Cadwanen and seek out Andawyr. Andawyr, who, in some extremity of his own, had twice reached out and sought help from him, and then had reached out a third and final time to support him as he had quailed before the terrible vision of Oklar unleashed.

  This decision stood out in his mind like a thread of light disappearing into a forbidding future, like a familiar road wending ahead into the winter mist. Gradually, however, his thoughts became scattered and incoherent and, to the occasional rustling of Dacu’s map, he drifted into sleep.

  He seemed to wake almost immediately, refreshed and relaxed, and vividly appreciative of his new condition. It’s good to be back, he thought again, immediately his eyes opened. He smiled to himself. This simple paean of praise would fade in time, he knew, as the memory of his strange . . . absence . . . receded. But for now, let it sing!

  A small cautionary grunt reached him.

  ‘Uh, uh.’

  It was Dacu. Hawklan looked at him. The Goraidin, sleepy eyed, was running a hand through his tousled hair and gazing around the shelter, his face concerned. Hawklan followed his gaze and picked up his concern. The light was different.

  He caught Hawklan’s gaze and nodded. ‘Not good, I think,’ he said, and crawling to the entrance he opened it slightly and peered out.

  A characteristic brightness shone in through the small opening. He opened it wider and thrust his head out.

  ‘Not good, definitely,’ he said, as he withdrew his head and closed the entrance. He puffed his cheeks out and blew a long pensive breath, as if it were to be his last opportunity for relaxation before a long and arduous ordeal. Then, indicating the two sleepers, he said, ‘Wake the logs up, Hawklan. I’ll go check on the horses and see how bad it is.’

  A few minutes later he returned to find that Hawklan was having only limited success with his allotted task. He smiled maliciously, ‘Come on, you two,’ he said with blood-chilling cheeriness. ‘You’re going to miss the Winter Festival at this rate.’

  Before either of the wakening men could reply, Dacu bent down, and with the same practiced skill that he had shown on every other morning, he began dismantling the shelter. It was the work virtually of seconds, and when it was finished, Tirke and Isloman found themselves obliged to complete the rest of their journey into consciousness as uncertain smudges in a bright white snowscape.

  Isloman levelled a finger at Dacu and then drew i
t across his throat. The Goraidin clapped his gloved hands together and laughed, his breath steaming in the cold air.

  Within the hour, the group had breakfasted and broken camp and were preparing to set off across the transformed landscape.

  Hawklan cast about for signs of the Alphraan but, as on the previous day, nothing was to be seen. He called out.

  ‘We are here, Hawklan,’ came a reply, faint at first and then abruptly quite loud, as if the speaker were standing nearby.

  Dacu’s brow furrowed, ‘How do they do that?’ he said. ‘And where are they?’

  ‘I told you, dear boy, they’re probably underground somewhere,’ Gavor said. ‘That’s were they live, according to the Gate at Anderras Darion. And for what it’s worth, the Gate refers to them as Carvers of Sound.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Dacu asked.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest notion, dear boy,’ Gavor replied. ‘And I wouldn’t bother asking them. I don’t imagine we’d understand their explanation, even if they felt inclined to give us one.’

  ‘You’ve studied the Great Gate?’ The Alphraan’s voice cut across the conversation. It was excited, and sounded like several people speaking at once.

  Before Gavor could reply however, Dacu gave the order to move out. ‘Talk while you’re flying, Gavor,’ he said. ‘We have to make progress as quickly as we can now.’

  As Gavor flapped off into the grey sky and the party started to move off, Tirke looked around at the nearby mountains. ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘It’s only a light fall, and fairly local. It’ll probably thaw before the day’s out.’

  Dacu nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s not a good sign. It’s early, and we’ve the highest part of the mountains to pass yet. If there’s any chance of it setting in before we reach them, we’re going to have severe problems.’

  ‘Nothing we can’t cope with,’ Tirke said, part question, part statement.

  Dacu smiled. ‘Something I’d rather we didn’t have to cope with if a little speed will see us clear,’ he said.

  Tirke nodded, and dropped back a little way. The whiteness around him reminded him particularly of his family’s winter home in the northern mountains. He looked at the three men ahead of him and felt his spirits suddenly lift. He would be here only once. He would perhaps have such remarkable company only once in all his life. This indeed was a learning time.

  As the day proceeded, Tirke’s observations about the snow proved to be correct and large untidy areas of brown and green began to show through the thin layer of snow that had fallen.

  Dacu looked relieved, particularly when the sun began to shine in the late afternoon, but he kept the party moving forward as fast as the terrain would allow, until well past sunset. Periodically he looked back towards the north, where solid banks of cloud were gathering.

  There was little conversation as they prepared their camp that night in the torchlight. All were tired, and anxious to eat and rest.

  Over a frugal meal, Dacu outlined his intentions. ‘We’ve done well today, but from now on it’s strict routine all the way. We rise before dawn – well before dawn – and we travel as fast as is safe until the darkness stops us. There’s no chance of wearing the horses out over this kind of country.’ He looked significantly at Hawklan. ‘And if we meet any more strange happenings on the way, we note them and ride on.’ Hawklan inclined his head in agreement and Dacu continued. ‘This snow was too early and the sky to the north looks ominous to say the least. With hindsight, we may have dawdled too much, I don’t know. But we certainly daren’t risk any further delays. We’ll probably be up above the snowline tomorrow and heading towards the highest part of our journey. That’s going to be hard enough without having to deal with fresh snowfalls.’

  He looked around at his weary listeners and invited alternatives to this strategy, but none were forthcoming.

  ‘Good,’ he said, dousing his torch, and lying down. ‘First awake, wakes the others.’

  The next day, after a dark and cold awakening, the party set off in the greying dawn to the accompaniment of a blustery wind and intermittent blasts of cold, driving rain.

  Dacu glanced at Tirke and noted that despite the uncomfortable conditions, the young man seemed to be riding more easily. ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.

  Tirke looked at him a little uncertainly. ‘Well, I’ll have to admit that this wouldn’t have been my choice of day for a canter,’ he said, pursing his lips. Then, acidly, ‘But if you old folks can manage it, I’ll do my best.’

  Dacu laughed explosively, causing the others to turn to see what could cause him so much amusement in such circumstances.

  ‘Ah, you do speak a little of our language, Goraidin,’ said the Alphraan’s voice unexpectedly.

  Still buoyed up by Tirke’s remark and the manner of its delivery, Dacu laughed again at this unexpected interruption. ‘Possibly, Alphraan,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll tell me what I said.’

  For an instant the air around them was alive with a sound like shimmering silver bells, and each of the men seemed to feel the seeping coldness of the day retreat a little.

  ‘Perhaps we have more than patience in common,’ said the voice. There was humour in the voice, but also another note that caught Hawklan’s attention.

  ‘What’s the matter, Alphraan?’ he asked.

  There was a pause, then, ‘You cannot help us, Hawklan. And we do not wish to burden you.’

  ‘Speak,’ said Hawklan abruptly, his voice an odd mixture of impatience and gentle encouragement. ‘Let us be the judge of what we can and cannot do.’

  Briefly it seemed to the riders that the sound of the wind became a whispered and secret debate, until the voice formed itself again.

  ‘In the highest part of the mountains lies our own greatest trial, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Just as does yours. Already we are travelling along strange ways, where the song has not been heard for generations. Soon we will be at . . .’ The speech faltered and sounds came that formed complex images of fear and destruction and bleakness interwoven with longing; longing for lost kin, longing for more hopeful times, for . . . the felci? And . . . the Song?

  Gradually the sounds and the images faded, merging imperceptibly into the voice again.

  ‘We are sorry,’ it said. ‘We forget that you do not speak properly.’

  Despite the pain in what he had just heard, Hawklan smiled to himself at this comment.

  ‘Our trial will be the weather and the mountains and the weakness of our spirits,’ he said. ‘Perhaps also ill-fortune, looking at the weather. Share your trial with us.’

  There was a long silence. The four men moved steadily forward into the lee of a large outcrop and gained a little respite from the constant shaking of the wind.

  The voice returned suddenly. ‘We are coming near to that which was the . . . Heartplace . . . of the southern Alphraan . . . where the ways ran wide and long, and all could sing to all . . . and the felci kept alive the lesser ways.’

  The voice was faint and hesitant and many of the words were ringed about by elusive subtleties of meaning. There was also a sense of discomfort, distaste even. Isloman bent forward, listening intently, then he rode alongside Hawklan. ‘Help them if you can,’ he said anxiously. ‘They’re struggling to tell us something precious to them that only their language can do justice to. It’s distressing them. They’re trying to carve in sand.’

  ‘Thank you, carver,’ said the voice, before Hawklan could speak. ‘In this, quite definitely, you cannot help. But your awareness eases our telling.’

  ‘What has happened to your Heartplace that you’re so afraid?’ Hawklan asked.

  The voice burst out. ‘His creatures, Hawklan, His creatures.’ Hawklan turned his face to one side as if to avoid the blast of the terrible bitterness and anger that filled the words.

  The voice continued, quieter now, but still pained. ‘When we fulfilled our bargain and the last of the Mandrassni were slain, we were a destroyed pe
ople, scattered and maimed terribly. But Ethriss had not forgotten us, even though his every moment was given to fighting His dreadful power. He sent us the felci and they spread his blessing through the ways. And over many generations, scattered families slowly came together to start anew, building our second . . . nation.’

  The voice faltered. ‘All through these mountains it was, Hawklan. Great and splendid. Halls and ways such as had never been known before, even in the old days. Such a song . . .’ Again the voice faltered, and at the same time the riders found themselves moving from the lee of the rocks out once more into the full force of the wind.

  When the voice spoke again, the bitter reverberations in each word were almost palpable. ‘But in our folly we ignored the world and the wars of man, thinking – knowing – that we had done all that could be asked of us to stem His corruption.’

  Slowly and softly, as if to avoid disturbing this strange, disembodied telling, Dacu dismounted to begin leading his horse up a steep rocky slope. The others did the same.

  ‘And when He was defeated, and His Uhriel fell before the Guardians, the many creatures that He had made dread and powerful in His skills, fled into the depths of the mountains from where they had been taken.’ The voice was Gavor’s. All four of the men started in surprise.

  ‘Ah.’

  A great sigh of gratitude surrounded them.

  ‘Thank you . . .’ Sky prince? ‘. . . For all our skills, we had not the words for that. You have indeed studied the Great Gate.’

  Gavor preened himself nonchalantly. ‘I’m really getting to like these fine people’, he said. ‘They have such appreciation. And such a natural sense of respect.’

  ‘Gavor,’ Hawklan said warningly, concerned for the continuation of the tale.

  The voice interceded. ‘No, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Offer your friend no reproach. He has spared us the pain of the worst part of our story, for it was from your great victory – the victory of men – that the second destruction of our people came. Sumeral’s creatures were indeed dread and powerful, though they quailed before the wrath of men and they travelled far and deep to hide from it. Some came upon our Heartplace and, slaughtering all they found, made it their own, their . . . nest.’ There was such loathing in the voice that for the second time, Hawklan had to turn his face away.