by Roger Taylor
He had been plodding relentlessly uphill for some considerable time and had not once looked behind. The sudden sight overwhelmed him and the Great Song of Orthlund, rich in spring harmonies, flowed up the valleys and filled him with such joy that tears ran down his sweat-stained face. From somewhere deep inside came the thought that he would fight again to defend such a land, such a people, such a balance and harmony.
The thought was so alien to him, and such a paradox, that his head drooped and tilted to one side as if he were trying to hear from where it had come. Without realizing it he rested his left hand on the pommel of the black sword. His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement as he mouthed the words, ‘fight again?’
Then he shook himself and wiped his hands over his face, transforming tears and sweat into grimy streaks. He sat down on a rock to look again at the view. He saw from the line of the path ahead that it was unlikely he would see such a view again as he went deeper into the mountains. Idly he took out the black sword and examined it. He knew the sword must be his, and that it must have come from a time before he had wakened so abruptly to find himself walking in the mountains twenty years earlier. But no memory came to prompt him. Not the faintest flicker.
The black blade and hilt shone brilliantly in the bright sunlight, and when he held it up, the device in the hilt flickered and twinkled endlessly. It was so familiar and yet so strange. And what was in its making that rendered the bluff and hearty mason almost speechless and made his taciturn brother eloquent?
Somewhere deep inside he felt an unease – a distant roaring darkness – but it slipped from him as he searched for it. The loss seemed to numb him in some way and he sat unthinking for a long time in the quiet sunlight. Then, slowly, his mood lightened and he stood up and carefully sheathed the sword.
Swinging his pack onto his back he turned away from the view and strode out along the path, which, he noted thankfully, was relatively level for some way. Looking ahead, the snow-covered mountains dominated the scene and he was glad of the advice he had received from Isloman about the route he should take, and how to keep warm should he find himself having to travel at or near the snowline.
Village legend had it that the mountains had been formed when a great god of the earth had driven one country into another to trap a terrible and foul foe. The Orthlundyn took no great interest in old tales, but they had a fund of them to tell their children: tales of heroes and gods battling with great demons and powers of evil. And around their firesides, especially at festival times, for all they were a rational people, they would talk mysteriously about the strange creatures that still existed in the mountains; remnants of times long gone.
Certainly the mountains made at once a heroic and mysterious sight, solid and deep-rooted, and gleaming white in the spring light. Food enough for the dullest imagination, thought Hawklan. Then he remembered Gavor’s remarks about animals, and wondered what he would do if he met one to whom he could not in fact talk – or one that would not listen. His confidence was not now as great as it had been back at the Castle.
Suddenly there was a scuffle and a raucous cry from the rocks to his right. The noise startled him, coming as it did after such a thought and after several hours of almost complete silence.
A small brown bird flew rapidly out of a gap between two yellow-lichened rocks, and with whirring wings hurtled straight towards the mountains. Momentarily shaken, Hawklan watched it until it disappeared from sight and then turned to look again at the place from where it had come. A familiar, fruity voice intoned an oath, and Gavor stalked into view on top of the rock.
He looked down at Hawklan.
‘Dear boy,’ he said, in feigned surprise. ‘Do forgive the intrusion, but I was just passing. Got a friend in the area, you know.’
‘Gavor!’ exclaimed Hawklan with some menace in his voice.
Gavor ignored the tone and peered purposefully in the direction the brown bird had flown.
‘I say. Little beggar’s got a fair turn of speed, hasn’t he?’
‘Gavor, I told you to stay at the castle. I have to make this journey alone,’ said Hawklan, though not very convincingly. He had already begun to miss his old friend’s irreverent chatter.
‘Nonsense, dear boy, nonsense. You’re too innocent for the world yet. You need Gavor’s more experienced eye to guide you round its pitfalls.’
‘Jaundiced is the word I’d have used, rather than experienced,’ replied Hawklan.
Gavor snorted and, unfolding his great black wings, glided down to land on Hawklan’s shoulder. He winked at him as he landed. Then his tone became more serious.
‘I’ll watch your back for you, dear boy,’ he said.
Hawklan started to walk along the path again. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘What I say, dear boy, what I say. I’ll watch your back. In fact I’ve been watching it for some time already.’
Hawklan turned his head and looked at him.
Gavor continued. ‘Did you know that that little brown . . . bundle of feathers with the ghastly eyes has been following and watching you?’
Hawklan’s face showed disbelief, but he did not speak.
‘Well it has,’ said Gavor. ‘And I’ve never seen a bird like it until that tinker came.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ Hawklan said. ‘It looked like a perfectly ordinary little bird to me.’
The affectation left Gavor’s voice.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No normal bird can fly that fast, or has eyes like that. There were two or three of them nosing around the village while the tinker was there, but I didn’t think much about it. But when he went, they went. They’ve all gone. Not a trace. Until I saw you, and there was one of them skulking behind the rocks and watching you.’
Hawklan slowed his stride as the path rose up a small incline.
‘How can you be sure it was watching me?’ he asked. ‘There are all manner of birds and animals up here.’
‘No there aren’t,’ said Gavor categorically. ‘Not this high. I watched it for an hour. It kept pace with you all the time. And not once did it pause to eat or drink anything – not once. Distinctly unnatural.’
Hawklan did not speak, and for a while they moved on in silence. He was disconcerted by this strange revelation, if only because of the way it had affected Gavor.
‘What did you do to it?’ he asked eventually.
‘Nothing, regretfully,’ said Gavor irritably. ‘Little beggar heard me gliding in before I was anywhere near it. I don’t understand it. I’m known for my subtle approach.’
‘What would it want?’ asked Hawklan, ignoring the last remark. ‘Why should a bird follow me?’
‘I’ve no idea, dear boy, no idea. But I’d risk a guess that it’s a messenger. Someone wants to know where you are and what you’re doing. I’m glad I came now, in spite of your rather churlish greeting.’
Hawklan knew that, in spite of Gavor’s news, he could only go forward. His mind pushed Gavor’s strange reasoning to one side.
‘I’m glad you’ve come too, Gavor,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed your company. And I’ll feel much happier indeed with you at my back after what you’ve just said.’
‘Dear boy,’ came the reply. ‘You’re just too kind.’
High above, on a narrow pointed spur, two small brown birds sat and watched the two travellers through blank yellow eyes. Nearby, a succulent insect chewed its way luxuriously through a leaf, unhindered and unthreatened.
Chapter 9
The Lord Eldric sat square in his ornate chair at the head of the table. He was staring straight ahead and his hands were gripping the carved animal heads that decorated the ends of the chair’s arms. He was abnormally still. Only a pulse in his temple and his whitened knuckles gave any measure of his thoughts.
A fire was burning in the large hearth and its flickering lights offered the only movement in the room. Even the house dogs had stopped their ceaseless prowling up and down among the guests, and the guests themselves were sit
ting as still as their Lord, every eye, without exception, watching him. Apart from the crackling of the fire, the only sound in the hall was the breathing of the newly arrived messenger, standing stock-still by the Lord, but still breathless from his long and frantic journey.
One of the dogs whined a little. Eldric breathed out a sigh of resignation and turned to the messenger.
‘You are . . .?’ he asked quietly.
‘Hrostir, Lord. Second son of the Lord Arinndier. Serving with his High Guard.’
Eldric nodded in acknowledgement and turned his gaze forward again. The tension seemed to have gone from him a little, but the pulse still throbbed in his temple.
‘I recognize you now, Hrostir. You’ve grown a great deal since I last saw you. How is your father?’
‘Well when I left him, Lord, but that was some time ago. I’ve been on Palace duty.’
Eldric nodded, then his face twisted momentarily into a spasm of distress, and his hands tightened once more on the wooden heads of the chair arms. Leaning forward, he took up the document that Hrostir had given him, and looked at it for the second time.
‘You’ve done well, Hrostir,’ he said, his deep voice regaining its normal tone of command. ‘Very well. Your father can be proud of you.’ He raised his hand and indicated the table. ‘Join our meal. Take what you want, then rest yourself. I’ll need to talk to you very shortly.’
‘My horse, Lord,’ said Hrostir.
‘It’s being tended, Lord,’ volunteered the servant who had brought the insistent messenger into the hall. Eldric nodded to the servant and then again to Hrostir, to indicate that he could now eat with a clear conscience. Hrostir bowed and made his way to one of the empty seats that were always left at the Festival table.
Eldric rested his head on his hand thoughtfully for a moment and then beckoned the servant. The man bent forward to receive his instructions and then left the hall quickly. Eldric turned his attention to his guests, his bearded face a mixture of anger and sudden weariness.
‘My friends,’ he said. ‘It’s said to be a good omen when an unexpected guest arrives at the First Feast of the Grand Festival. And I consider it particularly auspicious that the guest is the son of my old friend. However, we’re in need of such an omen, for he’s brought . . . grim news. His disturbance of our feast is our pleasure, but I fear the paper he’s brought will disturb us less pleasantly.’
He paused as if reluctant to say the words out loud. Then, sensible of his duties, and like a man who must kill a wounded horse, swiftly and cleanly, leaving the mourning for another time, he spoke.
‘The King has suspended the Geadrol. The Great Council of Lords is to sit no more.’
His tone was a mixture of defiance and resignation, and its cutting edge severed the tension in the hall. A hubbub of disbelief, anger and shock rose up from his guests. Eldric sat back in his chair with his head bowed until the babble faded away as one persistent voice spoke all their questions.
‘What does it mean, Lord?’
The questioner was Tirke, a friend of Eldric’s son Jaldaric, currently seconded, like Hrostir, to the King’s service in the capital of Fyorlund, Vakloss. Eldric did not like Tirke. He considered him to be impatient, rash and arrogant, and his assessment was indeed accurate as far as it went. However, for his son’s sake he tolerated him, aware that if he forbade the friendship it might continue clandestinely and the guilt of this would probably bring Jaldaric further under Tirke’s influence.
He remembered a vulgar barrack-room epithet about it being better to have someone inside the tent ‘looking’ out rather than outside ‘looking’ in, and the thought made him smile unexpectedly. The smile coloured his view of Tirke. He was, after all, only a young lad, and we all do foolish things when we are young.
‘It means, Tirke, what it says. The Geadrol is suspended. The King will rule without the benefit of the advice of his Lords.’
‘And restraint,’ said a voice to his left. Eldric nodded a worried acknowledgement.
‘He can’t do that,’ burst out Tirke, banging his hand on the table. Several voices were raised in agreement. Eldric picked up the paper and brandished it.
‘He has done it,’ he said. ‘I’m no lawyer, but I imagine this edict is legal and within the Law. Rgoric has had many troubles in his reign and much personal sadness, and not all his actions have been of the wisest, but I’m sure he’d do nothing that wasn’t legal nor in the best interests of the country, however it might appear to us at the moment.’
Tirke made a contemptuous noise.
‘He’s been working for this for years. Chipping away at the rights and power of the Geadrol bit by bit, all with this in mind.’
Eldric opened his mouth to speak, but Tirke continued. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Eldric, but I must speak as I think. You know I’m right. He’s steadily reduced the effectiveness of the Geadrol over many years, and he picks now to do this. Not just the Festival of the Four Guardians, but the Grand Festival, when everyone’s away to their estates. Only once in six years does this happen.’
Eldric was beginning to become angry. Though whether it was Tirke’s unpleasant, hectoring manner, or because he felt inclined, against his Oath of Fealty, to agree with him, he could not have said.
‘Tirke, these are times of change. Troubled times. The King isn’t blessed with the good health that most of us are fortunate in . . .’ He lost his train of thought and shook his head irritably. In any event, he doubted he could plead too well on behalf of the King.
Somewhat at a loss he said. ‘Why would he want to rule without his Lords, Tirke? Why? It’s difficult enough even with advisers.’
Tirke looked at him impatiently and leaned forward on the table.
‘The King wants all authority in his hands.’
‘Authority?’ queried Eldric. ‘Authority. What is authority, Tirke? It’s not a thing that can be seized like a . . . goblet.’ He picked up a glass in demonstration. ‘Authority can only be given, and freely given at that. Given by the people to the Lords and the King. And it’s hedged about by our ancient Law, for the protection of all. You can’t seize a gift. And anyway, who’d want to seize such a burden as the rule of all Fyorlund?’
His age seemed to have fallen from him and his voice was strong and firm, but Tirke was not daunted.
‘Lord Eldric, with respect, you speak of things as they should be. I speak of them as they are. You speak from a good and just heart, a heart that can’t see evil in people.’
Eldric’s eyes narrowed.
‘Take care, Tirke. You abuse your friendship with my son, and the Festival hospitality. Your talk is nearly treasonable.’
But Tirke was not listening. His excitement and anger carried his thoughts beyond his discretion.
‘I mean no disrespect to the King, Lord, but he’s a sick man. Even with the Lords’ advice, it’s difficult for him to fulfil the duties of Kingship. We here all know that Dan-Tor is the real Kingly authority, and has been for years.’
He wrinkled his mouth in distaste at the name of the King’s chief adviser and physician.
‘Enough, Tirke,’ said Eldric loudly. The lad was telling the truth, but Eldric could not allow the King to be impugned. ‘Lord Dan-Tor, Tirke, is thought of most highly by the King. He’s brought him great comfort and solace in his many troubles.’
Then, to try to calm the young man, he continued, ‘Although I admit he’s not to everyone’s liking. We should be thankful for what he’s done for our King.’
The slight softening of his tone did not have the effect he sought. It released a monumental outburst from Tirke. He banged his fist on the table again and jumped to his feet.
‘Lord Eldric, are you blind? That . . . devil’s spawn out of Narsindal has our King strung like a puppet. It’s he who wants . . .’
‘Enough!’ Eldric’s voice thundered down the table and stopped Tirke in mid-sentence. The sudden impact made him step back and he reached down with one hand to hold his chair to prevent
himself from stumbling over it. Suddenly sobered, his face went white. Eldric too had stood up. He was quivering with rage and his normally ruddy face was livid. His grey beard and hair seemed almost to be bristling.
‘Enough. I told you before that you abused my son’s friendship and my hospitality. Now you impugn the King and his advisers and you mention the name of that land at my Festival Feast.’ He pushed his chair back angrily and strode around the table until he stood facing Tirke.
Tirke stood very still, looking at him, his mouth tight and his eyes fearful.
‘Go to your quarters, Tirke,’ said Eldric, unexpectedly quietly, but with a barely controlled rage. ‘Reflect on what you’ve said and allow calmer judgements to prevail. I’ll attribute your indiscretion to the fine wine we’ve had tonight.’
Tirke nodded an awkward bow and turned hesitantly as if to address the watching guests. Then he turned back to Eldric and a tremor passed over his face as he fought to control himself. He opened his mouth to speak, but Eldric’s eyes froze his words, and he turned away stiffly and marched to the doorway of the hall, his shoulders hunched high with tension and his fists clenching and unclenching.
Eldric watched the empty doorway for some time and then slowly returned to his seat. He slumped down on it despondently as the last of his anger suddenly left him. He felt slightly repentant. Tirke had been the recipient of the fears and shock that had arisen in him with the arrival of Hrostir and the Edict. He looked up at his guests sitting uncertainly about the table laden with the remains of the Festival Feast.
‘I’m sorry, my friends,’ he said, ‘but the lad went too far, Festival or no.’
There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘I think his heart’s in the right place, but his mouth’s another matter.’
The little jest eased the tension around the table and Eldric, sitting back in his chair, raised his hand to prevent anyone speaking.