The Call of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  ‘I call him Hawklan,’ said the bird, to everyone’s considerable surprise. ‘He calls me Gavor. We met in the mountains. He’s done wonders for my leg already – look.’ And it proffered a makeshift wooden leg to its startled audience.

  There was a long silence and it cocked its head on one side. ‘He really is quite bright,’ it added reassuringly. ‘Just a bit shy. And we’re both hungry.’

  The memory of that night alone always served as a reaffirmation for Loman. I forget too easily, he thought as he looked at the waiting columns. Forget too easily the darkness his presence alone lifted from me. Then he strode forward determinedly.

  As he walked into the sinister gloaming between the columns, the sound of his soft footsteps and the creak of his clothes started to rise up ahead of him loudly and unmistakably, to warn all around of his presence. He knew from bitter experience that if he stepped from the correct path, those noises would rebound on him a thousandfold, as would then the increasing sounds of his desperate struggles to escape. The noise would multiply and grow until, staggering blindly, he would crash into column after column, heedless of pain and injury, pursued by his own terror until eventually he would perish, crushed by the sound of his own screaming.

  The labyrinth carried memories far less welcome than those of the arrival of Hawklan, for even with Hawklan’s patient help it had taken him a long time to learn the correct path, and twice in the early days he had missed the way while unaccompanied. On both occasions some destiny had brought Hawklan along, to quiet the mounting tumult with a soft word, but still it had taken many days of Hawklan’s care to restore Loman’s mind and soothe the wild-eyed terror from his face. Even after all this time the noises from the labyrinth echoed distantly in his darker dreams.

  He paused. Around him he could hear faint whispers hissing and murmuring to and fro, their source unknown and unimaginable. Whispers that were waiting expectantly for his tread to falter and lead him astray and into their maw. Waiting. Waiting and watching. He shuddered involuntarily, and the sound rumbled into the dark distance before rolling back towards him like grotesque gloating laughter. It was a terrible place. Unlike anywhere else in the castle.

  ‘There is some darkness in the heart of all things, however fair,’ Hawklan had said.

  As with so many other things, Hawklan himself had known his way through the maze, and whence it led, but not from whence his knowledge came. ‘I know nothing,’ he replied gently to all his questioners until they stopped asking. Stopped not out of frustration, but out of the realization that he told only the truth. Whatever mystery surrounded Hawklan, it was not his for the telling and he must be accepted for what he was – a great healer and a strange bearer of light into the hearts of those who came near him.

  Loman glanced around at the waiting columns again. This was the dark heart of the labyrinth itself, where all avenues faded into the ominous gloom and all were identical. Only faith could guide his feet for the remainder of the journey and he placed his trust in it until finally he emerged from the whispering horror into a hall bright with spring sunlight.

  This was carried along a maze of its own by the mirror-bright stones of the creators of Anderras Darion. Window-like openings set in the walls showed the village and the countryside below as clearly as if he were standing on top of the main wall. But he knew he was far, far below that. Here, he was deep in the heart of the castle, for this hall was the antechamber to the Armoury of Anderras Darion.

  Taking a large key from his pouch, Loman moved over to a small wicket set in one leaf of a pair of massive doors, not dissimilar to the Great Gate in appearance. It opened smoothly and he stepped inside.

  Outside, the sun shone on forests and fields, rivers and mountains. In here it shone on row upon glittering row of weapons. Swords and clubs, axes and spears, lances, bows, arrows, shields and armour of every description, all arranged as if for battle, and all immaculate. And in numbers far too great to count.

  Loman stood and stared and reminded himself that it was his idea that Hawklan should have a sword. ‘There are bad people in this world, Hawklan,’ he had said. ‘And for all your knowledge and healing skills, you’re not well travelled. If you’re armed and carry yourself well, that’s some protection in itself. But there are some funny animals in the mountains as well.’

  Hawklan was unconcerned. ‘Loman,’ he said, ‘I’ve no fear of animals. I mightn’t be able to hear the rocks singing, but at least I can talk to any animals I might meet.’

  ‘Dear boy,’ Gavor had interrupted. ‘Your talking, and their listening are two different things – take it from a carnivore. Listen to Loman’s advice. We’d hate to think of you being eaten by a deaf bear.’

  Gavor’s logic won the day.

  Now however, this exchange was lost under the tide of ambivalence that always overtook Loman when he looked around this huge chamber. Fighting alongside his brother in the Morlider War had soon dispelled any idea that war was a glorious and ennobling thing. It was fear and horror and destruction, and while it had been necessary, and some good had come from it, this was only a reflection of the spirit of the people rising above the degradation, not a measure of the value of war itself.

  And yet he had enjoyed the companionship and even some of the fighting, although the Morlider were not like those who had come in the past. They were vicious and cruel, imbued with an evil spirit hitherto unknown. While their forebears had plundered and looted the coastal regions of Riddin, the newcomers moved much further inland, and added the crimes of murder, rapine and senseless destruction to their record of infamy. So much so that the Muster of Riddin set aside their staves and cudgels and the near-carnival atmosphere of earlier conflicts, sent messengers to Orthlund and Fyorlund to ask for help, and took to sword and axe and grim determination.

  Loman nodded reflectively. He could hear again the deafening sound of the last battle, when the Morlider had been swept back onto their remaining boats and had fled out to their floating islands. Men roaring and screaming. Animals bellowing. Steel hacking steel and flesh. Arrows hissing overhead. Flames crackling. The excitement and the horror of it was still vivid in his mind, and he could never reconcile the two. He took solace from the fact that, though tempted, he personally had done little evil, and had even prevented some by staying the hands of his battle-fevered comrades against excess over a defeated foe. Even so, he hoped that the lore of the Riddinvolk was true and that it would be many years before the Ocean currents brought the Morliders’ islands so near to the shores of Riddin again.

  Leaning forward, he picked up a double headed axe from a rack, and spun it in his hand, flickering sunlight from the blade all around. Here was the paradox enshrined in metal for him as he closed his eyes and listened to its song. That it had killed was all too clear from its mournful tone, but it had been made by craftsmen whose understanding and skill exceeded his by far. Its balance was perfect, its edge unassailable and the inner harmony of the metal spoke not only of great skill, but of a love even greater than his own, though he found that hard to imagine.

  Loman, probably the finest smith in Orthlund, felt like a gauche apprentice when he handled any of these weapons. He felt humility and awe, just as his brother did when he studied the castle’s many carvings.

  He turned round sharply as he heard the door of the Armoury close gently.

  * * * *

  Physically, Loman was in many ways like his elder brother. He had the same brown eyes and craggy square head, and he maintained the short cropped hair, though his was almost black and free from any grey. He was, however, not as tall. In fact he was a little shorter even than Tirilen, but he was stronger than his brother by far, with his massive shoulders and arms, and his great barrel of a chest.

  Stepping into the Armoury, Hawklan looked at him holding the axe and standing in the sunlight against the rows of shining weapons, like a reaper in a cornfield. When he thought of the two brothers, the images in his mind were coloured by their respective callings. Isl
oman reminded him of a tower of rock – tall, open and clearly visible – while Loman reminded him of a huge anvil – squat and solid. A darker and more introverted personality, he was more apt to take hurt to himself without comment than was his brother.

  ‘I’m sorry, Loman,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb your contemplation.’

  Loman grunted. ‘Only daydreaming,’ he replied, turning the axe one more time and then placing it gently into its place in the rack.

  Hawklan nodded. He could not hear the song of the metal, but he knew Loman could, and he knew what this place meant to him for all its tormented implications.

  To ease the smith away from his darker emotions, he adopted an ironic tone. ‘Well, have you found a suitable sword for me yet?’

  Loman caught the intonation and eyed him narrowly, then sweeping his arms expansively around the tiers of weapons he replied with equal irony. ‘They’re all suitable, my lord.’

  Hawklan chuckled but continued in the same vein.

  ‘Master smith,’ he said. ‘My needing a sword is your idea. You’re the metal-seer. The ex-soldier. Just find me something that’ll set your mind at ease and that won’t weigh me down! I have to carry the thing, don’t forget.’

  Loman’s intended reply was halted by a metallic clatter ringing through the stillness of the great room. Both men started, and then Hawklan craned forward as if he had suddenly heard a distant but familiar sound.

  Without speaking, the two men ran quickly along the wide, straight aisles in the direction of the sound. At the end of the Armoury, several minutes walk away, was a great mound reaching up to and touching the high ceiling. It consisted of weapons and armour, but of such different styles and designs that it was apparent they had come from many diverse and distant lands.

  As with everything else in the castle, there was no clue as to the history of the mound, or why such precious items had been stored so carelessly. To Loman, though the styles might have differed, all possessed the same inner harmony as the castle’s own weapons – as he so classified those that were racked – albeit in varying degrees. From this he concluded that they belonged to allies rather than enemies, but he could not imagine why they had been left there, heaped so randomly.

  As they stood gazing at the mound, looking for the cause of the sound, it occurred again.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Loman, pointing earnestly and turning Hawklan around to face the mound directly with a powerful grip on his arm. ‘Look!’

  Gazing upwards in the direction indicated by Loman, Hawklan saw something sliding purposefully down the mound towards him. He watched transfixed as the object clattered to the ground at his feet. It was a sword. A black handled sword in a plain black scabbard. He looked at it for some moments and then slowly bent down and picked it up.

  The atmosphere around the two men seemed to be charged, as if a storm were brewing in spite of the spring sunshine flooding all around them. Both knew that speech was inappropriate. Hawklan stood up and wrapped his right hand firmly around the hilt of the sword. As he did so, he heard a sound like a distant trumpet. A faint, infinitely distant clarion call from another age. For an instant he felt a surge of recognition, also from times past, but it slipped away like a dream at dawn.

  ‘My sword,’ he heard himself say softly.

  ‘Hawklan?’ said Loman, almost fearfully. Hawklan breathed out – half gasp, half sigh – and shook his head to assuage Loman’s concern. He turned and offered him the sword.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked.

  Loman took the sword reverently, his eyes still wide in amazement at what he had seen and felt. Carefully he drew the sword from its scabbard. It too was black. For a moment he seemed to go rigid, as if every fibre in him had been assailed in some way. Hawklan watched him, concerned, but did not speak.

  For several minutes Loman scrutinized the sword intently, tested its weight and balance, held it up into the sunlight where it shone brilliantly, and looked along it, turning it over and over. Very delicately he touched his calloused finger on its edge. Then he too breathed out; a long whistling breath which seemed to carry away some appalling tension.

  ‘Well?’ asked Hawklan.

  Loman looked at him strangely.

  ‘This is craftsmanship like none I’ve ever imagined. I sit at the feet of those who made these.’ He waved his arm across the waiting rows of points and edges. ‘But they are not fit to sit at the feet of the one who made this.’

  His voice was strained and hoarse, and his breathing was shallow and nervous. His hands trembled slightly.

  ‘When you said “my sword”, did you mean it was or it will be’?’

  Hawklan shrugged slightly and made a vague gesture with his hands, but did not reply. Loman did not press the question. Slowly regaining his composure he became businesslike.

  ‘The hilt is some kind of stone, and it has a device embedded in it though I don’t know what it means. We’ll have to ask Isloman about that. The workmanship . . .’ His craggy face became almost rapturous. ‘The workmanship needs a poet not a smith to describe it. And look at this edge.’

  He lifted a loose hair from Hawklan’s shoulder and dropped it on the upturned edge of the blade. It parted without faltering in its slow fall to the floor.

  ‘And the black metal?’ asked Hawklan. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

  Loman’s composure wavered again. He seemed to be struggling with some powerful emotion. Eventually he shook his head and without looking at Hawklan, said softly, ‘It’s beyond words. Even the finest poet couldn’t describe it. It has a harmony in it that nothing could sully. And it’s killed many evil things. Many.’ A silence fell between the two men.

  ‘A happy chance find then?’ said Hawklan. Loman looked at him and shook his head.

  ‘I’m no sage, Hawklan, and I always take travellers’ tales with a mighty pinch of iron. But there’s no denying there are strange forces in this world. Some good, some bad, and most of them beyond the understanding of ordinary men. Over the years I’ve spent many hours in here studying these weapons and nothing’s ever tumbled down of its own accord like that before – nothing. Nor have I felt the presence of such a creation as this, as surely I must have done had . . . something not been hiding it. Chance never laid this at your feet.’ He swayed a little. ‘This is something from your past. Take an old soldier’s tip . . . watch your back.’

  ‘How strange,’ said Hawklan. ‘That’s what Gavor said the other day. But no one would want to attack me. I’m only a healer.’

  Loman replaced the sword in its scabbard gently and handed it to Hawklan. His hands were shaking.

  ‘If this sword sought you out then you have some great need and the enemies you could face will be worse by far than any an unlucky traveller might stumble across in the mountains.’

  Hawklan looked at Loman in silence, his dour, down-to-earth castellan, whose only concerns seemed to be his smithing and the day-to-day running of the Castle. He had never heard him speak in such a way before, and the seriousness of the man chilled him. He shuddered in the spring sunshine.

  Without realizing what he was doing, Hawklan swung the belt of the sword around his waist and fastened it. Loman watched him silently. The movement was practiced and familiar, and the belt fitted perfectly.

  Chapter 6

  The ease with which Hawklan had donned the strange sword did not move Loman as it might have done but minutes earlier. The onset of impending change crystallized in Loman’s heart as soon as he saw the black sword sliding down the great mound of weapons to land at Hawklan’s feet. The very movement in that huge, familiar and infinitely still room had unnerved him more than he cared to admit, but the brief touch of the black metal had dwarfed his first reaction by plunging him into another world: a world of perfection and singing voices, of wisdom that spread through every particle of his smith’s soul and told him tales and epic sagas of times and worlds long gone. Of evil victorious, of evil conquered, of terrib
le prices paid and great rewards reaped, of courage and cowardice, fidelity and treachery.

  He could scarcely bear to touch it again. It made everything around him insubstantial and inadequate. Even the mountains became dreamlike. Only Hawklan still seemed solid. More solid indeed than the sword itself.

  It was the same too for Isloman when he first held the sword. Loman took it to his workshop to seek his opinion on the strange black stone hilt. He handed it to him with a brief warning.

  ‘Take care, brother,’ he said, looking into Isloman’s eyes. Isloman returned the gaze, and felt the word “brother” reaching through the encrusted layers of affectionate chafing that separated them in their daily lives like a shield protecting a vulnerable breast.

  He took the sword gingerly and, holding the scabbard in his left hand, gently laid the hilt in the open palm of his right. As soon as the black stone touched his hand, his eyes widened and he drew a breath that seemed to last forever.

  Concerned, Loman took his arm and whispered his name urgently.

  Eventually, Isloman lifted the hilt from his hand and stared at it intently. Then he looked at Loman, his eyes almost closed as if he were having difficulty in seeing him. Laying the sword on a table, he put both his hands to his temples.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked.

  Loman told him.

  Isloman sat down on his favourite stool and stared out into the spring sunshine.

  ‘What did you . . . learn, from the hilt?’ Loman asked after a long silence.

  Isloman opened his mouth but made no sound, then he shook his head.

  ‘So it is with the blade,’ said Loman hoarsely. ‘Where has it come from, Isloman? Who could have made such a thing? How could it have lain so close to us for so many years and we not feel it?’