by Roger Taylor
Isloman, knowing what Dacu intended, put a hand on Tirke’s arm to forestall his next concern. ‘Don’t worry, Tirke,’ he said. ‘You’ll enjoy this. It’ll be a chance for you to build snowmen again.’
‘Here’s a present for you, Tirke,’ Dacu said.
Tirke looked at the proffered object suspiciously. It was a spade.
‘You do the digging and I’ll do the hard work – the thinking.’ Dacu smiled broadly and pulled a small book and pen from his pocket. ‘Later on, we’ll change round and . . . Isloman and Hawklan can do the digging.’ He laughed. ‘We’ll take here as base – build a big one.’
For the rest of the day, the group wandered methodically to and fro through the silence of the steadily falling snow, building cairns of snow under Dacu’s instruction to mark their passage. Dacu compacted a portion on each cairn and made a mark on it which he duly recorded in his book.
‘It’s just a simple grid,’ he explained to Tirke. ‘It’ll suffice in this light, and these cairns should survive a day or so, with luck. At least we won’t wander too aimlessly. The rest depends on good luck.’
Good luck, however, seemed to desert them, and although they came upon several rock faces and clefts through the day, none seemed to lead anywhere. As the light began to fade, the search became one for shelter.
‘This’ll have to do,’ Dacu said wearily, lifting up his torch and peering around a cluster of large boulders lying at the foot of a rock face. ‘It should be out of the wind if it picks up, and there’ll be space enough for the horses behind the shelter.’
When the shelter was erected, Dacu permitted the issue of extra rations. ‘It’s been a hard day,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think they’ll be getting any easier. Time for a little self indulgence, I think.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Gavor.
But it was difficult for the group to maintain any feeling of light-heartedness. All were tired and dispirited from the rigours of the day and the gentle tapping of the still falling snow did little to reassure them about the morrow.
‘What are we going to do?’ Tirke asked drowsily when they had all doused their torches and were drifting into sleep.
‘Search, or wait and search,’ Dacu said simply. ‘It depends on the weather.’
‘But if . . .’ Tirke began.
‘No ifs, it’s too long a word,’ Dacu interrupted. ‘Tomorrow we search, or we wait and search,’ he repeated. ‘Now, we’re well fed, and we’re warm. All we can do is rest. We know the decisions we’ll face in the morning and there’ll be time enough to debate them then. For now, go to sleep.’
Tirke muttered some vague protest, but his body had anticipated Dacu’s command, and the muffled comment was only in response to some random shape floating in the pattern of his dreams.
Despite his tiredness however, Hawklan lay awake in the darkness, listening to the breathing of his friends and the occasional whistle or snort from Gavor. How long had he lain, and in what unknown darkness? he thought. How long before he had found himself wandering in the snow-filled mountains on his way to Anderras Darion?
But as ever, no answers came. Why should they? He would wake here in the morning and have no memory of either going to sleep or being asleep. For all the awareness he would have of the passage of time, it could have been a single night or ten thousand years. At least here I’ll remember the previous day, he thought. The deep silence within him did not stir.
Knowledge had come to him while he lay immobile in Isloman’s care after Oklar’s assault, though he had no recollection of its coming. He found he had knowledge of the ruling and commanding of people, and of the many arts of war. And there was a knowledge that he had striven through his life to acquire these arts. Yet the knowledge was like a dying echo. The true sound was denied him still, and the names and the faces, the deeds, all the memories that should have been central to this life, were missing.
His mind told him that this new knowledge was perhaps no more than a coming together of all his recent experiences and the studying he had done before he left Anderras Darion, but his heart and his body showed him it was too deeply rooted for that. He refused to search for the missing memories, however, sensing that such a search could lead him nowhere but into fruitless winding spirals.
But a darker image did concern him. An image of betrayal? Guilt? His betrayal. His guilt. Somewhere in his long and hidden journey to this time, he had shed a great and terrible burden. Or had it been taken from him? A burden of appalling suffering and thousands of lives lost through his folly.
Yet he was at ease here. How could such a burden have been shed? How could it not be carried forever, just as its consequences would spread ever outwards? Why was it lying somewhere, mouldering by the wayside of his life just as Dan-Tor’s wares rotted outside Pedhavin? But above all, what was it?
What had he done? Who had he betrayed, or failed?
He seemed to hear faint clarion calls. The haunting vision of swirling blackness returned to him. Battling against endless undefeatable waves of unseen foes, under a dark flickering sky, with the air pulsating to sinister chanting and the ground moving unsteadily under his feet. He shuddered. Despair and guilt sapped him as much as they fired him. Then as he sank, something touched . . .
Hawklan opened his eyes, solidly in the present again, if present it was. Noises! Faint noises. Just outside the shelter? Familiar yet strange. He held his breath and listened intently. He could hear the snow still falling, though it had changed in tone indicating that the wind was beginning to rise. And one of the horses was a little uneasy, but not as though some prowler were in their midst. Yet the sounds seemed to be quite close – or were they? Hawklan became aware of another presence, listening.
‘What’s happening?’ Dacu’s whisper in the darkness startled Hawklan by its apparent nearness.
‘I don’t know,’ Hawklan whispered back. ‘Listen.’
The noises rose and fell, coherent yet unintelligible, and still both familiar and unfamiliar.
‘It’s the Alphraan,’ Hawklan said, suddenly identifying the strange unfocussed quality in the sound.
‘I can’t understand what they’re saying,’ Dacu said.
Hawklan frowned slightly as the sound drifted into some echoing distance and almost vanished under the hissing snow.
‘I don’t think they’re talking to us,’ Hawklan said. ‘I think we’re eavesdropping.’
A great yawn filled the shelter. ‘Dacu, dear boy,’ came a reluctant voice. ‘It’s surely not time to get up yet.’
The two men shushed the bird, only to waken Isloman. Then there was a brief confusion of incoherent but very recognizable sounds which drowned out the faint noise of the Alphraan until eventually all four men were lying awake and silent in the darkness.
Slowly the sounds emerged again.
‘What do they want?’ Isloman whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ Hawklan said. ‘Just listen. There are images in the sounds.’
And images there were. Images of great determination. But also, images of defeat? And fear? Terror, even?
Hawklan’s eyes opened wide in horror. Had another people followed him, only to be led to their doom?
The shelter felt suddenly suffocating. Without speaking, Hawklan struck his torch and, seizing his sword, threw himself headlong out through the entrance.
Blinking in the sudden light, Gavor flapped after him. As he stood up, Hawklan found himself calf-deep in fresh snow, surrounded by whirling eddies of snowflakes, twisting and spiralling around the little torch-lit enclave. A strong wind shaped their dance and Hawklan felt the cold strike through to him immediately. Chilled air rushed into his anxious lungs and woke him utterly. Fumbling with the torch, he fastened his sword belt awkwardly.
Gavor flapped up on to the top of the shelter, but before he could speak, Dacu crawled out of the entrance, followed immediately by Isloman and Tirke. Their torches brightened and broadened the small snow-laced sphere that they centred.
Dacu threw Hawklan’s cloak about his shoulders.
‘Be calmer, Hawklan,’ he said quietly, though his voice and eyes were as chill as his steaming breath. ‘Six paces here might mean your death.’
Hawklan made no response but offered him no resistance. The cloak was warm, and Dacu was only speaking the truth. But all around now were the sounds of the Alphraan and their fear was almost tangible.
‘Alphraan,’ Hawklan shouted suddenly. ‘Where are you? I hear you. I’ll help you.’
The sounds shifted. Hawklan called again.
‘Yes. Help us, Hawklan,’ said a voice around them hesitantly. It was set in a jabbering mosaic of anxieties and terrors. ‘Our means fail our will. We will be destroyed.’
‘What do you mean? Where are you?’ Hawklan asked.
‘Follow. Please, quickly. We will guide you.’ The voice dwindled suddenly into a single faltering tone. It led into the blackness beyond the shelter.
Hawklan moved forward but Dacu stepped in front of him. ‘What are you doing?’ he said in alarm. ‘Didn’t you hear me before? You can’t go wandering off in these conditions. Look around you, man.’ He brushed the already thickening snow off the front of his cloak.
‘They followed me,’ Hawklan said. ‘Now they’re dying. I must go to them.’
Dacu placed a restraining hand on his chest. He was about to tell Hawklan that he had a duty to his own kind first, but it died on his lips. ‘It could be a trap,’ he said desperately, turning to Isloman for support. As he did so however, Hawklan quietly side-stepped him and strode off towards the darkness.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said, without turning. So imperious was his voice, that for a moment Dacu faltered. Then he swore. ‘Get your swords,’ he said grimly to Isloman and Tirke, striking the beacon torch that topped the shelter. ‘Gavor . . .’ He was about to tell Gavor to follow Hawklan, but the instruction was unnecessary, Gavor was gone. He turned to Isloman. The carver looked at him. ‘Be ready to hit your friend,’ he said. ‘Hard.’
Hawklan held his torch high and Gavor landed silently on his shoulder. The sound hung urgently in the air like a guiding rope, but his torch showed tumbled, snow-covered boulders ahead. Carefully, but quickly, he began to scramble over them and soon found himself dropping down into a wide cleft, which so far seemed to have been sheltered from the snow.
Hastily he began to make his way along it, occasionally slipping and stumbling on damp, lichen-covered rocks, Gavor fluttering ahead of him. The sound became more urgent.
‘It could be a trap.’ Dacu’s voice returned to him, but he ignored it. The plea in the Alphraan’s voice could not have been other than genuine. And even if it were false, he could do no other than follow such a call. People had already died simply because he existed. He could not risk more dying because of his actions.
That is a weakness, said the dark and cold part of his mind, but he thrust that aside too. As are you, in your blindness, he thought in rebuttal.
‘I’m coming,’ he said, in answer to some new unspoken urging in the hovering thread of sound.
The floor of the cleft began to rise and the wind began to tug at his cloak, though it carried no snow. He glanced upward, but the torchlight revealed only a little of the ragged uneven rock walls rising above him. It must be narrow at the top, he thought, if no snow has ever fallen into it.
As he looked back down again, a shadow caught his attention. Moving towards it he found it was a cave entrance. And the sound was coming from it. He frowned a little. He was certain he had not noticed it before.
‘Trap,’ came Dacu’s voice again.
Muttering to himself, Gavor flapped up on to his shoulder. ‘Steady, dear boy,’ he said.
Hawklan nodded, then, drawing his sword, stepped inside.
Chapter 26
Loman and Jenna waited and watched, motionless, as the riders moved towards them, eerie in the moon’s pale wash.
Loman grimaced as a catalogue of injuries manifested itself. But worse than the injuries was the awful, dispirited silence in which the column travelled.
‘Athyr,’ he said, almost whispering.
The leader started, then halted and looked around. For a moment his face was blank then an uncertain recognition lit his face. ‘Loman? Jenna?’ he said, his voice full of doubt. His tone reflected his appearance and that of the column which had stopped when he did.
No uncontrolled frenzy here, Loman thought. This was the retreat of a shattered force, waiting with timeless patience in the moonlight; ghostly, like ancient warriors sentenced to an eternal penance for some long-forgotten defeat.
Loman rode forward. ‘We’ve come to help you, Athyr,’ he said simply. ‘Are you all right?’
Athyr still stared at him, understanding coming only slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Now.’ He lowered his head.
Loman’s eyes narrowed in response to the pain in the gesture.
‘They let us go, Loman,’ he said. ‘It was . . . awful. We’ve got injured . . . and dead.’
Loman heard Jenna’s sharp intake of breath. She came alongside. ‘Who . . .?’ she began anxiously, but Loman lifted a hand to silence her.
Athyr’s eyes suddenly blazed, ghastly in the moonlight. ‘We couldn’t do anything, Loman. They used us like puppets. They . . .’
Loman reached forward and seized his arm in a powerful grip. ‘Later, Athyr,’ he said. ‘Whatever it was, it’s over for now. We must look to our charges.’ He nodded towards the waiting riders.
The look in Athyr’s eyes faded, but Loman saw a tiny flash of light in them that made him start. He looked again and then turned to confirm its source. In the distance, lights blinked from the three hitherto silent signal stations. They were moving very rapidly and their messages were barely coherent.
Once again, Loman rent the mountain silence with a piercing whistle to catch the attention of the nearby station. Then turning to Jenna he said, ‘Tell them to signal central camp to send healers and carriers to meet us, most urgent. And to get Tirilen and Gulda up from the Castle immediately.’ He glanced at the distant lights blinking desperately. ‘And reassure them as well as you can,’ he added. ‘Tell them what’s happening and that we’ll get them relieved as soon as possible.’
His voice was louder than necessary and, as Jenna jumped down from her horse and began scrambling up onto a nearby rock, his horse circled several times, in response to his agitation and his anxiety to bring some sense of normality to this unreal scene.
* * * *
‘Two dead. Seven very seriously injured, at least two of whom will definitely be doing no more soldiering, if they live. A dozen or more others fairly seriously injured, and everyone else – everyone – with one form of injury or another.’
Tirilen’s voice was neutral, though a deep anger showed clearly on her tired face.
‘And Athyr’s a mess,’ she added, the anger breaking through. ‘Gulda, I haven’t had time to talk to him properly, but I think you’ll have to help him; I suspect he’s beyond me.’
Gulda nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to him a little already,’ she said. ‘He’ll be joining us shortly. We’ll wait for him.’
She looked down and idly poked her stick into the trampled turf that formed the floor of Athyr’s command post. Loman, Jenna and Tybek sat opposite her, watching her silently, while Yrain, who had come with her and Tirilen in their hasty trip from the Castle, sat next to her, head bowed.
The command post was a Summer Festival tent seconded for this special duty, and was incongruously decorated with pictures of bright summer flowers, dancing figures, rolling green meadows and forests, and all the paraphernalia of happy sunlit times. Now, a fine drizzle quietly formed tiny streams of water which ran down the sloping roof to drip steadily onto the ground below as if trying to form an equally tiny moat.
Gulda looked up abruptly and, at the same time, the tent flap was turned back to reveal Athyr, silhouetted against the damp greenness of the valley.
; Gulda motioned him in gently.
He was pale and obviously still shocked, but he nodded a tight-lipped acknowledgement to everyone, and sat down next to Jenna.
‘Tirilen’s just given us the casualty figures, Athyr,’ Gulda said. ‘They tally almost exactly with those you outlined last night. You did well.’
Athyr almost winced under this praise. ‘I’d have done well if I’d had no casualty list to prepare,’ he said, his voice hoarse.
Instinctively, Jenna’s hand rose to comfort him, but a gesture from Gulda stopped her.
‘I’m the judge of what’s well done and what’s not, Athyr,’ Gulda said, her voice stern. ‘According to those I’ve managed to speak to, it could have been much worse. Your tactics were good and you got your people out in good order when they could easily have panicked and spread themselves all over the mountains.’
‘With a pinch of awareness I could have avoided it all,’ Athyr said.
‘With a pinch of awareness, we’d none of us be here today,’ Gulda said, suddenly angry. ‘We’d have smelt the presence of Sumeral at His very wakening, and crushed Him and His creatures before He could leach so deep again into the world.’
Athyr began to protest. ‘Loman managed to . . .’
Gulda cut him short. ‘Loman was lucky,’ she said, still angry. ‘Perhaps because of his awareness, or perhaps because the Alphraan chose him to make a point. Or perhaps because the Alphraan attacking camp three were less absorbed by their own rightness.’
She leaned back in her chair and waved the end of her stick in a series of small circles.
‘Round and round it goes, Athyr,’ she said. ‘We don’t know what happened, do we? We’re probing these . . . people. Probing to learn about them. And any probe gets blunted in use. Correct, carver?’
Athyr rounded on her. ‘They’re not tools out there,’ he said, pointing towards the door. ‘They’re people. Some of them are my kin. A lot of them are my friends, and all of them are – were – my responsibility.’