The Return of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  ‘You are the Great Forest,’ Hawklan said, grasping at an inspiration.

  ‘We are.’ It was a statement, not a reply.

  ‘How can you be here?’

  ‘Here? We do not know “here”, healer. We are.’

  ‘How do you know me?’

  ‘You are. You are Mover and Hearer. You are rare. Few are with us so in this place.’ The fear returned, and urgency. ‘The Great Evil comes again. For Farnor we will shelter that which is your essence, until He passes once more.’

  A feeling of warmth and rest enfolded Hawklan.

  ‘Oi!’

  Dar-volci was shaking his leg violently. ‘This is no time to be nodding off.’ His voice was loud and brutal after the subtlety of the Forest’s language, but it jolted Hawklan free. There was no malice in what he had been offered, he knew, but there was error. He remembered Farnor telling him of a glimpse he had once had of the Forest’s knowledge of times long gone, of what had probably been the Great Searing, and the fears that lay deep-rooted in them about that terrible change.

  The Forest should know the truth. Who could say what part its ancient will might play in the unfolding events?

  As he looked up, the wavering columns seemed to be both cold stone and gnarled trunks. He had a momentary vision of Ethriss binding a wounded place with a strange knowledge that he had found and that he himself did not understand, a knowledge that he suspected perhaps was older than his own.

  Was this where his own doubts began? In the Great Forest?

  Hawklan let the thought pass and extended a placating hand to Dar-volci.

  ‘Far worse than the Great Evil returns,’ he said inwardly, to the Forest.

  A deep silence filled him, listening.

  ‘Your judgement – the judgement you most feared and that you revealed to Farnor – has been sound. That which ended the time before and remade all things was indeed deeply flawed. Now a wind is coming that may uproot and scatter us all beyond any knowing. All your wisdom and knowledge, all that you are, is needed to oppose it. And that of Farnor and Thyrn.’

  The silence lingered for a moment. Then, timelessly, Hawklan felt a myriad sky-turning seasons pass through him as, with a fleeting hint of both gratitude and terror, the Forest went from him.

  He did not move for some time.

  ‘Are you all right, dear boy?’

  Gavor’s anxious tones brought him to himself again. ‘It was the Forest,’ he said, attempting no explanation. ‘The Forest and the Labyrinth are joined. They’ve taken Farnor and Thyrn to shelter them. I told them the truth.’

  Dar-volci and Gavor looked at him steadily, then both said, ‘Funny things, trees.’

  ‘Still, better they know than they don’t,’ Dar-volci added. ‘You did right.’

  Hawklan was less convinced. Andawyr had judged him to be somehow pivotal in the pending events but he had only a growing sense of inadequacy and ignorance. He looked around. As before, the columns seemed to be both stone shafts and tree trunks.

  But now, in one direction, it was lighter. He pointed.

  ‘That way.’

  * * * *

  Pinnatte’s eyes were full of pain and desperation. Within the wavering lights he had created could be seen two worlds. One, alive with mingling rivers of molten rock, its wound-red sky black-streaked with choking smoke and lit by a rain of blazing stones. The other, stark and dead – a bitter landscape, so cold that the wind itself was frozen and ancient mountains had been crushed and remade into buttressing heights and frozen cascades of glittering ice.

  The two Uhriel, held by the lights in the space which was of no world, struggled frantically to escape, their steeds rearing and screaming.

  The Goraidin moved forward hesitantly.

  ‘Keep away from me,’ Pinnatte gasped. ‘Keep away from the Gateways. I thought I could send them through, but . . . I can’t . . . I’m not strong enough, I . . .’ Sweat was running down his face and he was swaying. He was obviously weakening.

  ‘What can we do?’ Yatsu shouted.

  ‘Whatever you have to if they break free,’ Pinnatte managed. ‘You’ll have little time. I can . . .’

  Then he was sinking to his knees and the Uhriel were redoubling their efforts.

  The Gateways closed.

  Pinnatte slumped forward.

  The Goraidin needed no discussion to determine their actions and only a brief flurry of hand signals presaged their plunging forward towards the suddenly released Uhriel.

  Swift and cruel sword strokes cut the throats of the two foul mounts before their riders could fully control them, while others hacked and thrust at the two Uhriel as they fell amid a confusion of flailing legs and writhing bodies. Though it was not in the nature of any of the Goraidin to murder, the ability to kill quickly and efficiently was something they took a dark pride in – it was a necessary part of their profession. They brought it to bear now, four of them setting on each of the fallen Uhriel while Marna and Gentren stood back, looking to reach Pinnatte through the fray.

  But it was to no avail.

  Whatever armour it was that the Uhriel wore, it withstood such blows as struck it. But, more frightening by far, though many well-placed points struck through open joints and at exposed flesh, and though wounds gaped and what might have been blood poured out, the Uhriel did not fall.

  Marna felt her mouth parch and the blood drain from her face as she watched both of them rising to their feet despite a hail of attacks that would have killed a score of men. A seemingly deliberate slowness of their movements added a further horror to the sight. Her stomach was hard with a cold terror as she saw them look around at their futile attackers. Attackers on the faces of whom Marna saw open fear.

  Yet they pressed their savage attacks relentlessly.

  Until the Uhriel drew their own swords.

  Devices of strange vanity for such powerful creatures, they were long and bright, and they shimmered and sang like the Uhriel themselves as they cut through the blue light. Then the roles of the fighters were reversed as the two moved against the many. The swords, moving from hand to hand and swinging in wide and unexpectedly swift arcs, forced the Goraidin out into a defensive circle. Injured though they had been by the Goraidin’s assault, any hurt done to the Uhriel had not been sufficient to still their intent. Bleeding and ghastly, they moved towards Pinnatte whom Marna and Gentren had finally managed to drag to comparative safety.

  Marna looked at Pinnatte, now barely conscious, and understood.

  ‘He’s still binding them somehow!’ she shouted. ‘That’s why they can’t use the Power. Kill them! Kill them now, while you can! Quickly!’

  She drew her own sword and stood in front of Pinnatte, as did Gentren. The air was ringing with the high screeching of the Uhriel and the dreadful sound of their whirling swords. Yrain attempted to parry a scything blow from Dowinne but the impact tore her blade from her grasp and sent it spinning high into the blue air. Only long-sharpened reflexes took her backwards quickly enough to avoid Dowinne’s shrilling point. As it was, it slashed through the slack of her tunic. The gash became blue and crystalline. Yengar and Jaldaric lost their swords similarly whilst Tirke’s was shattered and his arm numbed into uselessness. There was a momentary lull, then knives were drawn and the Goraidin were rushing into the backwash of the swinging swords to attack their foes. But, stripped though they might have been of the Power, the Uhriel were still oblivious of the wounds they were receiving and were also possessed of great physical strength. One by one, the Goraidin were hurled back across the rock terrain.

  Then the Uhriel were at Pinnatte, the Goraidin, exhausted and broken, scattered about them. Dowinne’s sword swung in a broad, singing arc over them, while Rannick faced Gentren and Marna, his whitened eyes and blasted face alive with hatred.

  Marna stared back at him with an expression that was little better, though she tried to look through what he had become to what he had been before they had both been drawn into this nightmare – vicio
us and cruel, but still human, still vulnerable. But there was nothing there, no weakness in him to wring out pity in her. Teeth bared like a cornered animal, she tightened her grip on her sword and held it high.

  Rannick paused momentarily, his head inclined as though he were listening to something. Then, as she struck at him, his arm swung up dismissively and knocked her off her feet. She landed several paces away. Gentren replaced her, crouching low and as determined as he was terrified. He met the same fate.

  Rannick looked down at Pinnatte for a moment, a dreadful smile lighting his dead face. He raised his sword.

  ‘No!’

  It was Olvric. The Goraidin, grim-faced and bloodstained and with a bone protruding from a useless arm, was levering himself up on his sword. Dowinne could have struck him, but she hesitated, as did Rannick. For a frozen moment, it seemed as if the ground beneath their feet was coming alive, as those Goraidin who were still conscious struggled to follow Olvric’s lead.

  Doomed they might be, but not defeated.

  And in that moment none saw a brightness on the horizon.

  A brightness that was not the sign of a coming dawn.

  They saw it only as it swept over them.

  Chapter 36

  Desperately, Nertha bent close to Antyr, first listening for his breathing, then offering her cheek. But she could feel nothing. She checked his pulse. It was still there, more distant than weak. She had never felt anything like it before.

  A bizarre mixture of fear and professional pride wrapped about one another and became a deep anger.

  She swore. ‘I will not lose you to this – whatever it is. I will not lose you!’

  Her face grim with determination, she quickly checked the others. Lying on their sides like sleeping children, as she had placed them, they were unchanged. She lingered briefly, running a loving hand down her husband’s cheek, then she rolled Antyr on to his back and, holding his nose and arching his neck, placed her mouth over his.

  His chest rose as she blew, then sank as she stopped. Still she counted as she worked, periodically checking his pulse and the condition of the others. After a while, she began to intersperse her counting with profanity and an aching inner cry for help.

  ‘Tarrian, Grayle! Tarrian, Grayle!’

  * * * *

  ‘Tarrian, Grayle!’ Antyr cried out. ‘To me!’

  But no sound came, other than the dreamsong of the dead in the living.

  Vredech’s voice reached through it, like a distant sound carried on the wind.

  ‘No one can help us here, Antyr. This is our burden.’

  Anger from the song leaked into Antyr.

  ‘Your faith tells you this, Priest?’ he cried.

  The reply was unexpected.

  ‘Yes. Faith in you, Dream Finder. That and the hold I have both on Nertha and on you . . . just.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘This is what I do here, Antyr, and what I will do, while I can.’

  Antyr felt the song drifting over him again.

  ‘But why am I here?’ he managed.

  ‘What are you?’

  What am I?

  Dream Finder. Adept. Warrior of the White Way. Words. Only words. To hide as much as to reveal. He was Antyr, son of Petran, flawed and frightened, blundering and ignorant in a place where no one should be. He was no different from the endless rows of figures stretching away from him in every direction, their faces lit by the unseen light that had unmade them and that had bound them to this time.

  He did not know what to do.

  But flawed and frightened as he was, blundering and ignorant as he was, he was also the Antyr who had faced Ivaroth in mortal combat and the terrible power of the blind man.

  He could not do nothing.

  He looked into the unseeing eyes of the nearest figure. ‘Turn away from this fearful glare,’ he said. ‘You hold the living to your time. Your pain is the source of Sumeral’s strength here. Release them, and be free. Turn to the light that reveals, turn to the truth.’

  He placed his hand over the figure’s face and, for a timeless moment, as with his Earth Holder, he was it and it was he, knowing all that he knew and was.

  The figure closed its eyes.

  He passed to the next.

  And the next.

  Faintly he could hear Vredech calling.

  ‘I can’t hold you, Antyr, I can’t hold you . . .’

  He moved on.

  * * * *

  Antyr’s heart stopped.

  Nertha searched for its beat frantically. Her profanity worsened. She tore open the neck of her tunic so that she could breathe more easily. Both sweat and tears ran down her face.

  Fingers entwined, she began pressing Antyr’s chest rhythmically. Counting, swearing, and calling openly now on Tarrian and Grayle.

  Then they were there. Eyes like wild suns. Deep-throated growling like the sound of tumbling rocks and pitiless killing teeth bared white in the greyness.

  Her every instinct told her to flee, but her will denied them. She met Tarrian’s awful gaze with one of her own and bared her teeth into his slavering maw.

  ‘This is my domain,’ she snarled. ‘Find them in yours. Find them both. Bring them back.’

  * * * *

  Gavor flapped his wings.

  The Labyrinth, its columns becoming ever more like roots and trunks, twisting and tangling up into unseen heights, was becoming steadily brighter. With the increasing light came also sound, and a breeze.

  It was no pleasant zephyr, however. There was a harshness in it that made Hawklan turn his face away. Nor was the sound kinder. Shattering glass, wind-torn roots and yielding timbers, the screams of midnight prey and battle-wounded, all were there, and more.

  Hawklan looked up.

  Above him was a foaming vortex, dark and ominous, like the mingling of countless broken worlds. As he stared at it, he could not tell whether the columns of the Labyrinth reached up to it, or hung down from it like searching, twisting tentacles.

  Then they were out of the Labyrinth. In front of them, the ground ended abruptly. Hawklan stepped forward carefully, to find himself at the edge of a plunging height. It dropped sheer, into a depth he dared not see. He took in a throat-closing breath and stepped back unsteadily.

  Normally Dar-volci and Gavor relished taunting him for his fear of heights, but they were silent.

  Looking about him, Hawklan saw that he was at the edge of a great pit.

  At its centre was a vast tapering column and, to his right, was a slender bridge spanning across to it. At the end of the bridge stood a familiar figure.

  He ran towards it.

  Gulda pushed her hood back when he reached her. She held up a finger before he could speak.

  ‘I’ve no answers, Hawklan,’ she said, her bright eyes pained and her hand opening and closing about her stick. ‘Many threads are coming together and I am drawn here by one of His weaving.’ She looked at him significantly. ‘As you know. I dare not trust myself to act, but you must. Trust yourself.’

  ‘But . . .’

  She stepped to one side and pointed her stick along what Hawklan had taken for a bridge. It was scarcely a pace wide. The breeze had become a wind and it was growing stronger.

  * * * *

  ‘You have done well. Your transformation of the world where the Sword fell, imperfect though it was, has opened the Great Way and brought you to Me.’

  ‘Our hurts are made whole by Your Praise, Great Lord. With our Power and Your wisdom we will release You and sweep Ethriss’s folly away.’

  Gory heads bowed and gashes leaking, the Uhriel were kneeling. Without looking up, the blind man held out his hands. Resting on them was the black sword.

  A hand closed about its hilt.

  ‘Your Power will indeed cleanse this place. I accept it. Accept now My wisdom.’

  A single stroke severed all three heads.

  * * * *

  ‘I can’t walk along that,’ Hawklan said, his eyes wide wi
th fear.

  Gulda did not answer but lowered her stick and resumed her silent vigil. There was neither reproach nor encouragement in her manner.

  ‘Out of words, dear boy,’ Gavor said. ‘But I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘And me,’ Dar-volci said.

  It was difficult to hear them; the wind was growing stronger and the noise from above louder. Hawklan looked up again.

  The vortex was lower. It was a fearful sight, grim and vast. He glanced once more at the motionless figure of Gulda, head bowed now, then at the narrow pathway ahead of him.

  At the far end, suffusing the top of the isolated column, was a bright light.

  ‘Great mercy, I’m afraid,’ he said, his voice trembling.

  Then, with a deep breath, he walked onto the narrow span, the wind tugging and buffeting him. Gavor spread his wings and floated off Hawklan’s shoulder as the healer pressed on uncertainly, shoulders high with tension. Hawklan struggled to keep his gaze fixed resolutely in the distance, but it was drawn inexorably downwards. His legs were shaking so violently that he could scarcely control them, but he was a long way from the beginning when he stopped.

  The depths on either side tempted him.

  ‘One step at a time,’ Dar-volci said.

  ‘I need to rest a moment,’ Hawklan said, breathing heavily. ‘This wind, this noise . . .’

  He crouched to make himself less vulnerable to the tugging of the wind.

  Then he was on all fours, scarcely able to move.

  ‘I don’t think you have a moment,’ Dar-volci said, shaking him gently.

  Hawklan looked up. A light was moving towards him along the bridge. For a moment his fear threatened to become outright panic but as it surged to a peak, so it was transformed into cold anger and battle-readiness. His legs were still trembling – his whole body was trembling – but the movement was familiar and he knew it for what it was: ancient reflexes releasing him to fight.

  He stood up.

  The light drew nearer.

  Hawklan began walking towards it as steadily as he could. The wind was continuing to grow stronger and the noise from the turbulent sky louder. Violent, roiling and shot with lightning and endlessly shifting colours, it was still descending. Whatever it was, there could be little doubt that nothing would survive its touch.