The Call of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  ‘The Gretmearc, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s where it was. The Gretmearc at Altfarran. They have many such toys there. Many.’

  Chapter 4

  Something had changed. The image of the tiny marching doll wavered in Hawklan’s mind and troubled him greatly, as did the fleeting glimpse he had had of the tinker, tall and menacing. Something seemed to be shifting deep inside him, like moving pebbles presaging a landslide. And like those pebbles, it seemed to be beyond control. He felt a need to do something, but nothing had happened that warranted any action. And yet, things were different. The dark clouds on his horizon were unequivocal.

  He left Tirilen at the green and wandered slowly back through the village. Behind him he could hear friendly cries of dismay as the tinker started to load his wares into his pack, and the tinker’s protestations as he reluctantly made yet another last sale.

  The sun was now quite low in the sky and beginning to cast long shadows, etching out the patterns of the spring evening on walls and quiet streets. Hawklan nodded acknowledgements to the few people he met who had come out to look at the shadows. There was always someone, somewhere in Pedhavin, looking at the shadows, for the carvers worked their stone not only to represent animals and people and ideas, but so that they could tell other tales when the light of the sun, or the moon, or the stars, fell on them and painted strangely solid shapes in their tenuous wake.

  Some shadows would be large and grandiose, spilling out over the streets and houses, while others were changes within the carvings themselves. Hawklan found himself looking at a small frieze on which was carved a group of people gathered at the green he had just left. He knew the figures were arranged in such a way that at a certain time of day they would apparently turn to look at the sun, while at another they seemed to be looking at one another and to be engaged in deep conversation.

  ‘Not a bad piece of rock spoiling,’ came a deep voice from behind him. He recognized it and turned with a smile. Isloman was Loman’s elder brother and he was standing in the middle of the street looking critically at the frieze. In his arms he cradled a huge rock effortlessly. Although Hawklan was as tall as Isloman, he always felt dwarfed by the man’s massive frame and enormous strength.

  ‘Do you want any help with that?’ Hawklan asked, knowing the answer. The grime on Isloman’s face cracked as he grinned.

  ‘No thank you, Hawklan. It’s only a pebble for a lady’s bracelet,’ he said, swinging the rock up onto his shoulder, and supporting it lightly with one hand.

  ‘Then I should prefer not to meet her,’ retorted Hawklan. Isloman bellowed his great laugh.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t a woman who lured you out of your castle today?’

  Hawklan nodded an acknowledgement. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Much more of a woman than she was but twelve months ago, and even more of a match for both of us than she used to be.’

  Isloman was the third member of the triumvirate that looked after and doted on Tirilen. The women of the village had little doubt why she used to behave the way she did, with no mother and three fathers.

  The two men walked slowly up the street together, Isloman pausing every now and then to examine some grotesque shadow he was making with the huge rock on his shoulder.

  Hawklan liked the bluff openness of Isloman. He had a presence like the mountains themselves, honest and direct; and as they walked, Hawklan welcomed his company, the companionable silence dispelling a little the effects of the strange tinker and his tiny, sinister doll.

  By common consent, Isloman had been for a long time the Guild’s First Carver and, as such, he was the only villager who earned his bread by carving alone. No stranger, however, would have associated the delicate and sensitive work he did with the rocklike figure he himself presented.

  Reaching his workshop, Isloman dropped the rock back into his two hands and, with a grunt, bent his knees to lower it to the ground. He gave it an affectionate pat as he stood up.

  ‘It’s taken me weeks to find that. I could hear it calling, but could I find it?’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Just look at it. Isn’t it magnificent?’

  Hawklan looked blankly from him to the rock and back again, and Isloman growled and clapped a huge hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Ah. I forgot. You’re rock-blind aren’t you? Not being a local.’ Then, with a great wink, ‘Still, you’re useful enough when someone needs to be put together.’

  ‘That’s a great relief,’ said Hawklan, rubbing his shoulder. It was an exchange they had had many times before.

  Isloman stripped off his leather apron and stained shirt, and then plunged his great torso into a nearby water butt. When he emerged he was blowing like a granite leviathan and he completed his toilet by rubbing himself with a handful of small sharp pebbles from a box next to the butt. It was the dexterity with which his huge hands manipulated these pebbles that offset for Hawklan the physical distress he felt whenever he watched this ritual. Even so, he usually had the feeling he was being skinned. He knew too that Isloman enjoyed his discomfiture and would very soon start to laugh. And he did. He leaned back, boomed his hands on his great chest and roared with laughter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hawklan. I can’t help it. I’d be the greatest carver in the history of all Orthlund if I could capture the look on your face when I dry off.’ He raised a finger significantly. ‘In fact, I may well make it my life’s work.’

  ‘Not if I have to keep watching you do that, you won’t,’ said Hawklan in mock alarm.

  ‘Ah. It’s only a knack,’ said Isloman with a chuckle as he rolled the pebbles in his hand. He looked wistful for a moment as he stared down at them. ‘I’ve used pebbles like these on a baby before now. Many a time, when Tirilen was little.’

  Hawklan nodded and smiled.

  ‘Come on,’ said Isloman, pulling on a clean shirt. ‘I’ll show you what I’m going to coax out of that piece we just brought up.’

  Inside the workshop there was the chaos that only an artist could create. Isloman shuffled through sketches and sheets of writing and figures, talking earnestly and enthusiastically as he did. Hawklan however, was lost, as usual. The sketches were inordinately complicated and were works of art in themselves. The scripts were in the ancient carver’s tongue, and Isloman’s explanation was full of technical nuances which were utterly beyond him. Still, he enjoyed Isloman’s enthusiasm. It was like being bathed in sunlight.

  He found himself absently handling a chisel while Isloman was talking.

  ‘I see you made a purchase from our visitor,’ he said during a lull.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isloman, with a slight frown, gently taking the chisel from Hawklan’s hand.

  ‘Hm,’ he muttered doubtfully.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ Hawklan asked. Isloman shrugged slightly.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘There’s something peculiar about it that I didn’t notice when I bought it, but I don’t know what it is.’ He shrugged again and laid the chisel back on the table. ‘I think that tinker could sell anything. I’ve never seen the like of him before, have you? And we’ve had some characters come through here on their way to the market from time to time.’

  ‘The Gretmearc?’ said Hawklan.

  ‘Yes.’

  A tiny doll walked jerkily through Hawklan’s memory and made an invitation.

  ‘I’ve never been to the Gretmearc,’ said Hawklan, pushing the chisel with the end of his finger.

  ‘I’ve only been a couple of times,’ said Isloman. He smiled at the recollection.

  ‘It’s a long way and not too easy through the mountains. But . . .’ He sat up and smacked his hands on his knees. ‘Everyone should go to the Gretmearc at least once in his life. Tirilen’s always pestering to go. I suppose Loman or I will have to take her one day.’

  Then he looked at Hawklan in some surprise. ‘It’s a strange place for you to mention, Hawklan. You, who’ve never been more than two days’ walk from the village. Are you getting itchy feet?’

  A small b
lack certainty floated into Hawklan’s mind. He returned Isloman’s gaze.

  ‘It seems I have to go, Isloman. I don’t know why, and I’ve only just realized it; but yes, I have to go.’ Hawklan’s tone was suddenly serious. Isloman’s great square head tilted a little to one side, his brown eyes full of concern and puzzlement. The sun shone in through the window and lit up grey flecks, like stone, in his short-cropped hair. He could see into the heart of any rock, and into the hearts of many men, but that of Hawklan was ever closed. And yet he trusted him completely. Rockblind the man might be, but his inner sight was beyond that of any other Isloman had ever known. Without hesitation or further questions he said, ‘Shall I go with you?’

  Hawklan smiled and patted his friend on the arm. ‘No, Isloman,’ he said. ‘It’s just a whim. You follow the songs of the rocks. I must follow this song.’ Isloman nodded in reluctant acceptance.

  ‘You can tell me how to get there and give me the benefit of your great experience in travelling far and wide,’ said Hawklan, to ease his friend’s concern.

  * * * *

  Derimot Findeel Dan-Tor pleasantly declined the hospitality offered by the villagers as he filled his enormous pack and fastened it in a great flurry of knots and tapes and splendid shining buckles.

  ‘You’ve already been generosity itself to an impoverished wanderer, and I’ve a friend I hope to meet in the next village tonight.’

  So he was escorted to the leaving stone by an entourage of laughing children.

  Some way outside the village he stopped, lowered his pack to the ground and straightened up. His crooked form seemed to unfold for ever, until eventually he stood very tall and very straight, and quite free of the twitchings and twistings that had characterized him in the village. He looked up at Anderras Darion, still visible over the hillock that separated him from the village, and reddening now in the setting sun. The red glow from the Castle reflected in his eyes, and he averted his gaze as if in some pain.

  Raising his left hand he snapped his long, bony fingers with a crack like a snapping twig. Out of the deepening gloaming a small brown bird with blank yellow eyes appeared and perched on the still upraised hand. He lowered it until it was opposite his mouth. The bird tilted its head and the tinker spoke to it long and earnestly. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the bird was gone, flying in a straight line towards the mountains, its wings whirring purposefully in the evening quiet.

  Watching it, the tinker tapped his foot unthinkingly. The ground around it rippled like water and churned up tiny dust devils which danced around him, as if in homage.

  Chapter 5

  Loman ran his finger along a small ledge as he walked down the winding corridor. He examined the slight skim of dust on the end of it carefully, then brushed it idly with his other hand.

  ‘Scallywags,’ he muttered.

  The scallywags in question were the apprentices of the Carvers’ Guild who, amongst other things, were charged with the cleaning of the Castle and who were allowed special days away from the fields to do so. It had been Isloman’s idea. He believed, in fact he knew, that the apprentices could gain nothing but good from the close proximity to the countless carvings that were to be found throughout the Castle, covering almost every wall and ceiling as fully as they covered the Great Gate. And it would be a small repayment to Hawklan from the village for his many services.

  Loman however, had earthier reservations, as the organizing of these ‘scallywags’ fell on his shoulders, and, as he had said at the very beginning, some of them were far from being as diligent as they might be. He went through the duty list for the day in his mind, and narrowing his eyes, fixed the apple-shaped face of the negligent culprit for later attention.

  He grunted to himself as he went down a short flight of stairs.

  ‘Worse than being a nursemaid sometimes. I could do the jobs myself by the time I’ve sorted those imps out.’

  He was a little out of sorts today because of the disruption of his routine. It was a good routine and he did not like to change it. In fact he did not like change at all very much, and today seemed to be full of it, with Hawklan suddenly wanting to go to the Gretmearc. ‘On a whim,’ no less! And Isloman more than half encouraging him. Then Tirilen almost throwing a tantrum like the old days because Hawklan refused to take her. Now, thanks to his own zeal, he had to find him a sword. A sword – for Hawklan! He grunted again.

  And that damned tinker with his fancy tools. Loman was not only the castellan of Anderras Darion; he was, unusually for one of the Orthlundyn, a consummate smith. As his brother saw into the heart of the rock, so he saw into the heart of metals, and as his brother heard the song of the rock and drew a greater beauty from it, so he did with metals.

  The tools he made were part of a greater harmony, rarely spoken of but always understood by the Orthlundyn. They did not tear shape from the rock; that would be destruction. They discovered it and drew it out gently, parting it from its parent when the time was right, like the natural and painless dropping of fruit from a tree for the benefit of both. That was creation.

  He stopped for a moment and raised a pensive hand to his mouth. He had not seen the tinker nor any of his wares and he wondered why Isloman had bothered to purchase anything from him. And the other people as well. Why had they bought tools and implements they did not really need, nor knew the origins of? They, above all, knew that ill-conceived implements could rend and destroy. What blindness had come over them? More change. And not for the better, he was sure.

  Shaking his head, he strode out again, dismissing his reveries in favour of the business in hand. He moved for some time along corridors and down stairways until, turning a final corner, he paused and clenched his fists nervously. This was never easy and always he had to pause and take his fear in hand despite the familiarity of the route ahead.

  Always too, as he stood here, as if as an antidote to the grimness ahead, he recalled the events of some twenty years before. Events presaged by his brother bursting noisily into his workshop on the coldest night of that long bitter winter.

  Only recently returned from the horror of the Morlider War with its terrible winter night-fighting, Loman was brought to his feet by cruelly learned reflexes and, seizing a nearby hammer, he found himself facing his brother wild-eyed and savage, hand poised for a fearful blow, and mind uncertain for the moment where he was.

  Isloman screwed up his face in self-reproach, seeing immediately the folly of his hasty intrusion. Briefly be cast his eyes downwards.

  ‘I’m sorry, Loman,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  But then his urgency overrode his regret. ‘Come quickly. Quickly. The castle.’ And seizing his brother’s arm, he dragged him out into the deep snow.

  Loman swore robustly and stepped sharply back into the warmth to gather up his cloak. Fastening it about himself with a scowl, he prepared to take his brother severely to task for his conduct, but Isloman merely pointed up into the blackness that shrouded the mountains. Loman followed his gaze.

  Where all should have been darkness, a single light shone out, soft and warm. For a moment he was again disorientated, then . . .

  ‘It’s the Gate,’ he whispered in disbelief, his breath cloudy in the light from his own door. ‘The Gate’s open.’

  He could never remember clearly what must have been a leg-wrenching walk up the steep, snow-clogged road to the castle, but he remembered standing awe-stricken with several other villagers in front of the long sealed Gate, its two great leaves now swung wide like a welcoming embrace.

  He remembered too, following the line of footprints that led him across the snow-covered courtyard lit gently by lights whose source he could not see. Footprints that brought him to an open door and whose melting remains took him down a long passageway and into a low-ceilinged hall illuminated by a flickering fire.

  The cowled figure sitting in front of it with a great black bird perched on its shoulder, might have been an image of terror, but Loman’s heart told him t
here was no terror there. Only a great peace. It told him he had not known such peace for many a year, if ever.

  The figure rose as he entered and turned to face him. Before he could speak however, it turned to Isloman and held out its hands.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ it said.

  Isloman’s left hand went involuntarily to his right arm. It had been gashed by some poisoned Morlider weapon and the wound had resisted all attempts to heal it and was daily draining the big man’s strength. As if surprised at his own actions, he stepped forward, rolling up his sleeve carefully as he did so, and offered the wounded arm to the figure.

  The figure’s long hands, at once powerful and delicate, took hold of the bandaged wound and held it silently for some time. Then the cowled head looked up and Loman could feel its eyes searching into his brother.

  ‘You’re sorely hurt,’ it said. ‘But you have a great harmony within you. I can help make your arm sound again, but it will be a long time before your heart is quiet again.’

  Isloman withdrew his arm and nursed it gently against himself. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly.

  The figure then turned to Loman and looked at him quietly. ‘Your heart also will need time to find peace. Will you tend my castle for me?’ Such was the presence of the figure that Loman felt his eyes water and an ache tighten his throat.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered, the cry of his heart deafening his mind’s questions.

  But one of the villagers asked them in his stead.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Where have you come from in this weather? How . . .’

  The figure turned towards him. ‘I know nothing,’ it said, in a tone that was gentle but irrevocably final. The bird on his shoulder made what sounded like a dismissive grunt and flapped its wings impatiently. Then with a flick of its head it threw back the figure’s cowl to reveal the wearer’s lean face, with its green eyes and prominent nose.