The Return of the Sword

by Roger Taylor

  Wings reaching into the ways of the wind to keep his flight steady, Gavor suddenly soared above him, a black and sharp-edged silhouette stark and clear against the confusion.

  Hawklan looked back along the bridge. Gulda was still there, though he could see her only indistinctly. He turned back to the approaching light.

  It was nearer now.

  And he felt again the presence he had felt as he had trekked across Narsindal to stand before the mist-shrouded castle of Derras Ustramel.

  Sumeral had been given form again.

  Hawklan moved forward. He was alone, unarmed, racked by the tearing wind and menaced by the siren call of the abyss beneath him, but he knew he must stand against this abomination. Futile it might seem but even as the thought came to him he could hear Andawyr proclaiming, ‘Never underestimate the effects of the smallest action.’

  ‘You are smiling.’

  The cold words formed within him as they had when he had heard them on the causeway across Lake Kedrieth.

  Hawklan straightened and gazed into the light. It was barely five paces away from him. There was the hint of a figure at its heart. He did not reply.

  ‘Ethriss’s creations were ever flawed. Smiling in the face of their destruction.’

  Still Hawklan did not speak.

  ‘You have no questions? No plea to make – for his sorry world – for yourself? You, who could have been the greatest of My Uhriel – My chosen.’

  Silence.

  Hawklan opened his arms in a gesture that might have been acceptance or welcome. He looked up at the vortex.

  ‘This is the dance of My new creation – the wiping away of all things so that perfection can be made.’

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘This will indeed sweep all things away – but it is not Your creation. The folly that brought it about created You also – the essence of all that is foul in humanity, unfettered and given form by cruel chance. This You must know, as Ethriss did. Prepare yourself for oblivion.’

  He turned.

  The bridge behind him was fading into greyness, but he felt no fear at the sight.

  ‘There is nowhere for You in this time. Whatever bound You here – sustained You – is passing on, free now. The Guardians too passed on when they realized the truth of their nature; so now will You.’

  The brightness faltered momentarily, and though the howling of the wind and the rumbling of the vortex filled everywhere, Hawklan felt only a long silence.

  ‘You would have been a fine servant, Hawklan. Your treachery and guile are worthy of My favour. But I have been bound here too long. I will honour you as I honoured My Uhriel. With the key that will unlock Ethriss’s cursed Labyrinth.’

  Hawklan stepped back instinctively and the point of the black sword passed in front of him, cutting a singing horizontal arc out of the brightness.

  ‘That is my sword,’ he said. ‘It comes from the heart of whatever brought this upon us. Made by Ethriss when his doubts began, in the faith that it would protect us.’ He opened his arms again. ‘If You would be free, give it to me and perhaps I will have the knowledge that can truly end this.’

  Two further steps back saved him from the diagonal cuts that came by way of reply.

  ‘It is my sword,’ he said again. ‘You cannot use it. It will doom you.’

  ‘Take My merciful thrust or avoid it again and step into the nothingness at your back.’

  Hawklan turned his head slightly. At the edge of his vision was greyness. He could go no further.

  He was aware of Dar-volci at his feet, of the vortex closer than ever, chaotic and wild, of the wind tugging at him and of Gavor struggling with it. And, not least, he was aware of the point of the black sword little more than a hand-span in front of his throat.

  There was great clarity.

  He was moving to one side of the blade as it was moving forward. His right hand was clutching the hilt of the Sword, while his left, opened wide, was extending into the brightness as he turned towards it.

  Then it was gone. With a cry that pierced the roaring of the vortex, the figure was tumbling into the abyss, flaring like a falling star. As it guttered out, Hawklan was standing with his arms open, as though to embrace the whole world.

  And clutching the black sword.

  That it was his he had no doubt. There was a completeness to him that he had not known since he had lost it. Yet no new knowledge came with it. Sumeral, the evil that had destroyed Gentren’s world and plagued this one through aeons, was gone – but still destruction threatened.

  He looked at Dar-volci and Gavor in desperation.

  Gavor flapped in front of him, hovering briefly, before the wind tore him away.

  ‘Strike to the centre, warrior,’ he cried out.

  Then Hawklan was running along the narrow bridge, the wind pounding him, grey emptiness at his back and the vortex ever closer above him, its roar rising in pitch until it became a screaming that threatened to rend him apart.

  As he reached the place that had been the centre of the abyss, the turmoil began to worsen with each step he took until it was only his will that sustained him.

  ‘I will not yield,’ he shouted into the mayhem.

  ‘Nor need you, for you will be Mine soon enough.’

  Hawklan cried out as the cold voice filled him again.

  In front of him were a myriad facets. In each could be seen the whirling vortex.

  Save in one.

  In that was only his own image, watching him with cold amusement.

  ‘Did you think I would be so foolish as to face My chosen with his own Sword? That was but My shadow you destroyed – a faltering echo in your world sent to bring you to Me with the Sword.’

  ‘To end you finally.’

  ‘No. To free Me.’

  Hawklan’s grip tightened about the Sword grimly and he urged himself forward. But he could not move against the wind, so powerful had it become.

  ‘No. It is beyond even you to take this last step. It transcends the ability of any man. You are bound where you are by what you are. Only the Sword and that part of you which is truly Mine will be drawn to Me when the final joining comes. And as it returns, so shall I be made truly whole, and so shall I come in glory to the remaking of My heartworld.’

  Despair racked Hawklan. He raised the Sword to strike but all strength had left him. He was helpless. The vortex roared triumphantly, bloody and dark, all about him.

  ‘I will not yield,’ he cried again, though he could not hear his own voice and his heart was bursting.

  Then, a whistling, high, loud and needle-clear, pierced the clamour, and a pulsing, pounding rhythm shook it. Hawklan recognized the call of Dar-volci and the urgent beating of Gavor’s wings. But they could do nothing now. He tried to set the distracting sounds aside.

  Then he listened to them.

  And surrendered to them.

  As he did so, the hunting spirits of Tarrian and Grayle, feral, ancient and terrible, surged through him, releasing him, carrying him to where he could not go alone.

  The Black Sword severed the mocking image from top to bottom.

  Chapter 37

  Loman and Endryk were silent company for one another. That they had the blessings of their friends, that they were doing only what they could do, was poor consolation for both of them.

  That the day was fine and clear deepened their inner darkness.

  Something flickered.

  They both started and their horses whinnied and skittered.

  ‘Was that lightning?’ Endryk asked, as he steadied his horse.

  They both gazed round at the clear blue sky.

  Loman reined to a halt and raised his head as though he were scenting something.

  He grasped Endryk’s arm and shook him roughly. ‘It’s over,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s over.’ Without pausing to debate the point, he turned his horse about and began galloping back towards Anderras Darion.

  * * * *

  Thyrn and Farnor opened their eye
s.

  All about them they could feel gashes and rents torn into the reality of their world. But the wound that had overwhelmed them, that the Great Forest had reached out and snatched them from, was gone.

  Touched by the deep knowledge of the Great Forest, they understood now their own quiet gifts. Reaching into the pain, they healed, making good the hurts, sealing away for ever those places that should not have been there.

  The greyness faded from the Labyrinth hall, and all was as it had been, save that all present were exhausted and drained, and, in the case of the Goraidin, injured.

  Nertha was embracing both her husband and Antyr, who was patting his chest ruefully. Tarrian and Grayle were shaking themselves and scratching.

  Only Gulda was gone.

  As was the Power.

  * * * *

  Andawyr and Usche stood by the stream in front of Anderras Darion. It was early evening. Usche looked down at her hands.

  ‘What shall we do, now we can’t use the Power?’ she asked.

  ‘What we’ve always done,’ Andawyr replied. ‘Learn, teach. We must spread our learning further. Sumeral may be gone but we’ve learned from Antyr and the others that there’s more than enough ignorance out there to feed our darker natures. He may not return, but the folly that made Him will always be there. There are plenty of places that need the light shining into them.’

  ‘But without the Power . . .’

  Andawyr dashed the objection aside casually, though there was a harsh edge to his voice.

  ‘The likes of the Kyrosdyn don’t have it either, girl. Be glad of that.’ He softened. ‘Besides, when did you last use it, other than in training?’

  Usche shrugged, then shuddered. ‘Except in that awful place, I don’t know. You were always very sniffy about us using it for odd jobs.’

  Andawyr made to put a comforting arm about her shoulders, then changed his mind and rubbed his nose.

  ‘Yes, and rightly so too, it seems. It was a dangerous thing. Looking back, I can see we were riding an avalanche. It was an instability deep at the heart of things that made it possible and even if that hadn’t threatened us, it gave us power that was beyond our ability to use responsibly.’

  ‘I think you misjudge us.’

  ‘Possibly, but I doubt it. Easy ways always seem to be treacherous in the end. There’s something about true learning, true progress, that demands effort – a painstaking turning of disorder into order – the common condition to the rare. On a good day, we move three steps forward and two back – five steps to make one. You know that.’

  Andawyr looked up at the ramping towers and spires of the castle, then down at Pedhavin, thronged with people attending a festival of carvings.

  ‘Look. Stone upon stone, chisel stroke after chisel stroke. Thought upon thought. The effort lingers and informs those yet to come – tells them that, while our names and memories may be forgotten, we’re the same as them and we offer them a foothold to climb even higher.’

  ‘Climb to where?’

  Andawyr laughed. ‘Ah, you know that only children are supposed to ask questions like that, don’t you? We’ll find out when we get there.’

  ‘Yes,’ Usche said dubiously. ‘You’ve told me often enough. We’re just the universe’s way of discovering itself. I suppose we’ll understand when the last star blinks out.’

  Andawyr clicked his tongue mockingly. ‘You’ve been too long looking inwards, my dear. When we get back to the Cadwanen you must start looking outwards a little more – look carefully enough and you’ll see a distinct hint of blue in the stars.’

  He laughed again. It was a joyous sound in the soft evening. Usche smiled and turned towards the setting sun. The Orthlundyn landscape was awash with its bright light. It turned the castle into a glittering beacon and, as it moved through the streets of Pedhavin, it drew applause and cries of approval and wonder as the many carvings responded to its subtle touch.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  She sat down on the soft grass at the edge of the stream and let her hand play idly in the water.

  * * * *

  And So . . .

  Though what had happened became widely known and was much theorized about amongst the Cadwanwr and other inquirers, it never became a matter of legend and fireside telling. It was too strange. Sumeral and His army had been conspicuously and bravely defeated sixteen or so years before; that was enough for such tales.

  Both the Cadwanen and Anderras Darion became centres of great learning, attracting scholars from many distant lands and sending forth its own. The Fyordyn, the Riddinvolk and the Orthlundyn continued in their ways, although, having heard about the homelands of Antyr and the others, they became even more appreciative of what they had. And protective. Their hearths remained ever open to strangers, though no house was without its Threshold Sword, sharp and bright, hanging behind the door.

  Farnor and Thyrn, with the guidance of Hawklan and Nertha, became healers. They returned many times to their old homes. Antyr and Vredech too followed their strange profession, bringing help and solace to those whose troubles were not wholly of the body.

  Tarrian and Grayle helped them, too. And roamed the mountains, singing to the Alphraan.

  Gentren became a carver under Isloman’s tutelage. He was ever genial, but his eyes were sometimes distant and haunted, and his work was often strange, desolate and disturbing.

  Pinnatte spent his days studying in the library of Anderras Darion and working in the fields around Pedhavin. He was at peace with himself, and though he remained hesitant in his speech, it was no burden. When he spoke, people listened.

  The Goraidin were all nursed back to health, though it was no light healing and all of them bore the scars of their terrible conflict. Marna became one of them and, with them, an instructor of those similarly inclined. They maintained a discreet and continual watch on the bounds of the three lands.

  Dar-volci continued as Andawyr’s nemesis, constantly reminding him of the felcis’ responsibility for humanity.

  Gavor remained Gavor.

  Hawklan wandered, healing, teaching, laughing a lot, though some thought there was a loneliness in him.

  * * * *

  He was lying idly in the shade of a broad-canopied tree one day when a shadow fell on his face. He looked up to see a tall figure silhouetted against the white-flecked sky. As he clambered to his feet, Gavor, perched on his toe, fell off amid a confusion of flapping wings and bad language.

  The stranger was a tall woman with piercing blue eyes and hair as black as Gavor’s plumage. She had a strong face and a commanding manner and was beautiful.

  Hawklan looked at her for a long time before he spoke.

  ‘I didn’t recognize you,’ he said eventually. His voice was hoarse. ‘I’d thought you gone – lost for ever.’

  The woman smiled archly and put her arm through his. Leading him back to the road she said, ‘Since things have . . . changed . . . I’m not the woman I was, without a doubt, but I’m no slight thing to be lost so easily. And as age is setting in now – for both of us – I’m even less inclined to dither about what I want than I was before.’ She tightened her grip on his arm. ‘You’ll be needing a companion in your wanderings, won’t you?’

  And companions they became. They both laughed a lot.

  Gavor ever the hedonist, was immensely amused and for a long time could only soar high into the blue sky and chuckle darkly, ‘Dear boy, dear boy.’

  After a while, their journeyings brought them back to Anderras Darion where they married. In the Fyordyn tradition, the ceremony was held in the ninth hour.

  * * * *

  ‘The time of Hawklan is so far in the future that it could be the distant past.’

  Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor

  The Call of the Sword

  The Fall of Fyorlund

  The Waking of Orthlund

  Into Narsindal

  Dream Finder

  Farnor

&
nbsp; Valderen

  Whistler

  Ibryen

  Arash-Felloren

  Caddoran

  The Return of the Sword

  Further information on these titles is available from www.mushroom-ebooks.com