Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Andawyr shook his head and cast a knowing glance upwards.

  'Dar Hastuin?’ Hawklan said, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

  Andawyr hesitated. ‘I can think of no other,’ he said. ‘The Power's being used for no good, that I can tell. And it seems to be ... up there. But it's way beyond anything we can influence.'

  The memory of Ynar Aesgin's pain and fear returned to Hawklan, but further discussion was ended by the appearance of Gavor. He landed on Hawklan's shoulder and shook the snow from his feathers. ‘Jaldaric and Athyr have just got back,’ he said. ‘They want to see you right away.'

  The two Helyadin, still wearing their white camouflage, were pacing up and down outside Hawklan's tent when he and Andawyr returned.

  'What's happened?’ he said, motioning them inside.

  'They've started to send out foot patrols,’ Athyr said, loosening his coat and throwing his hood back. ‘They nearly spotted us.'

  'It's about time,’ Hawklan said, then, anxiously, ‘What about Tirke and Yrain?'

  'They should be all right if they keep their wits about them,’ said Athyr. ‘But I don't think they'll be able to move until nightfall.'

  'Gavor, find Loman and Isloman will you?’ Hawklan said. ‘Ask them to come here straight away.'

  'And Dacu, dear boy,’ Gavor added.

  'And Dacu,’ Hawklan confirmed.

  Within minutes, the bulk of the two brothers was filling the small tent. When Dacu arrived, Dar-volci reluctantly yielded his place at the fireside and clambered on to Andawyr's lap.

  'Decision time I think,’ Hawklan said when Athyr had given his news to the new arrivals. ‘Presumably it's only a matter of time before they find us if they're sending out patrols, and we can't lose the one advantage we have—surprise.'

  No one disagreed, though the atmosphere in the tent seemed to become suddenly heavy.

  Dacu crouched down and stared into the small fire.

  'When shall we attack?’ he said.

  'Unless Tirke and Yrain tell us something different when they get back, we'll have to make the first raid tonight,’ Hawklan said, without pause. ‘And be ready for a major encounter tomorrow or perhaps the day after.'

  Dacu closed his eyes. ‘With no cavalry worth speaking of,’ he said.

  Hawklan nodded. ‘But such as we have is better than theirs,’ he said. ‘And they've almost certainly been training to face cavalry and not infantry.’ He waved the conjectures aside. ‘It's of no importance anyway. We're going to face the reality of it all soon enough, and our people are as well prepared as they can be.’ He looked around the tent. ‘Does anyone want to change any of the battle plan?’ he asked. Dacu smiled wryly. ‘Other than to march back to Orthlund,’ Hawklan added in reply to the unspoken suggestion.

  But the mirth could not survive in the stultifying atmosphere of the tent. ‘Come on,’ Hawklan said understandingly. ‘We've no choice, you know that. There's nowhere we can hide or seriously disguise our numbers out here, and if they find us they'll move out to meet us and against such numbers we'll have a real problem on our hands. Added to which we're going to start running into serious supply problems very soon.'

  He looked round at his friends again. All, except Dacu, were looking at him. The focus of all their attention, he felt a great loneliness rise up inside him like a black, engulfing shadow. The familiar, terrible images that had so often returned to haunt him, images of war and defeat in a long gone time, came with the darkness and, for a moment, it seemed that the tent and the waiting people were receding into an unreal distance.

  But his mind would not allow it. He rested high on the shoulders of these people, like a mountain peak on its broad base, yet, paradoxically, he alone must support their entire weight now. He knew that if he faltered then all would fall. Many things may sway a battle, but the resolution of an army was paramount and this was merely a measure of the resolution of its leader. Wilfully he looked into the ancient darkness and then scattered it with the light of his twenty years at Anderras Darion. Whatever the Morlider had been, they were His creatures now. They must be defeated utterly; crushed. The only choice that he, Hawklan, could give them was flight or death.

  The atmosphere in the tent changed palpably. Andawyr inclined his head and looked at Hawklan narrowly. Dacu turned from the fire as if someone had spoken to him.

  Hawklan stood up. His presence was suddenly almost frightening and, despite the softness of his voice, everyone in the tent held their breath.

  'Dacu.’ The Goraidin stood up. ‘Extend our perimeter guards and double your observation patrols. We need to know exactly where they are at all times if they're going to move about. If any come near this camp, destroy them totally. Act on your own initiative if Tirke and Yrain run into difficulty, but jeopardize nothing, you understand?’ Dacu nodded and turned to leave.

  'Loman,’ Hawklan continued. ‘Rouse the company commanders. Tell them what's happened and issue the battle orders. Isloman, Athyr, get your group ready to move tonight. We'll meet in the command tent and go through the final details at sunset or whenever Tirke and Yrain get back.'

  As Dacu and the others were leaving, a sentry appeared outside the tent escorting a slouching figure wearing a bedraggled and over-sized fur coat, and carrying a large pack.

  'What's this?’ Hawklan asked, looking at the vision with some amusement.

  'It just wandered in from the north and asked for Andawyr,’ replied the sentry.

  Hearing his name, the little Cadwanwr stepped forward, setting aside Hawklan's cautionary hand. He peered into the deep hood. The figure extended its arms, and two gloved hands eventually appeared from the long sleeves of the coat.

  'Atelon?’ Andawyr said in a mixture of delight and concern. The hands flicked back the figure's hood to reveal the tired but smiling face of the young Cadwanwr.

  Andawyr embraced him and then ushered him quickly into Hawklan's tent.

  'What are you doing here?’ he said, removing the young man's snow-clogged coat busily. He stepped outside before Atelon could answer and Hawklan could hear the coat being shaken vigorously. Atelon gave him a nervous smile and Hawklan introduced himself. The Cadwanwr looked at him uncertainly as he took the offered hand and gave his own name.

  'Sit down,’ Hawklan said. ‘You look very tired.'

  The young man needed little bidding and he was warming himself in front of the radiant stones when Andawyr returned.

  'What are you doing here?’ Andawyr repeated, sitting down beside him.

  Atelon looked mildly surprised. ‘The felci brought your message,’ he answered. ‘We didn't know what to think. Oslang had sent the Muster to take us down south when the Morlider islands appeared.’ He cast a glance at the seemingly sleeping Dar-volci and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And the felci have been behaving most peculiarly lately. Rambling on about the Alphraan, and opening the ways ... all sorts of things. We didn't know what to make of it. But they were adamant about what you'd said. The Morlider were landing in the north—here. And the Orthlundyn were coming. So, in the end we decided we'd better find out. It was all we could do.'

  Andawyr nodded and patted his arm. His face was concerned. ‘We?’ he said. ‘Where are the others?'

  'There was only Philean and Hath left, of the Senior Brothers,’ Atelon said. ‘And they're far too old for such journeying. I was the only one who could possibly...’ He stopped; Andawyr was gaping.

  'Only Philean and Hath and you!’ he said, his voice rising. ‘How many went south?'

  Atelon gesticulated vaguely. ‘All the senior brothers who were still there, except we three,’ he replied. ‘But most of the students and junior brothers are still at the Caves,’ he added reassuringly.

  Andawyr stood up. ‘What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked. The Cadwanwr frowned a little. ‘The Caves are vulnerable,’ he said.

  'All the defences are sound,’ Atelon said, a little reproachfully. ‘And the seals to the lower levels. We checked them t
horoughly before I left.’ He met Andawyr's gaze. ‘The Pass has been as quiet as ever since we put the watch stones out. And while Philean and Hath mightn't be up to a winter hike they're...'

  Andawyr raised his hand. ‘Yes, I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I'm sure you've done everything that was necessary. It's just that your news startled me. It's a long time since the Caves have been so empty.’ He managed a forced smile. ‘But it's good to see you. To be honest, I had my doubts about whether the message would even arrive and I didn't seriously think that anyone would venture out in this weather if it did. I'm indebted to you.'

  Atelon returned the smile, but his face too was concerned. ‘Is it true?’ he said. ‘Have the Morlider come north as well as south?'

  Hawklan interrupted. ‘Take him to your tent, Andawyr,’ he said, laying a hand on the young man's shoulder and easing a little of the strain and fatigue he felt there. ‘Tell him what's been happening while he eats, and then let him have a rest. He might be needed soon.'

  As the two Cadwanwr strolled through the falling snow, with Dar-volci loping along behind, the camp was coming alive. Well-wrapped figures were moving purposefully hither and thither through the greyness as Hawklan's battle orders began to be implemented. Atelon kept glancing upwards nervously.

  'He's a strange man, Hawklan,’ Atelon said. ‘Very powerful. More even than I'd imagined from your description of him.'

  Andawyr nodded. ‘He's changed,’ he said. ‘Very much changed. And you've caught him at a ... crucial moment. But I'll tell you about that shortly. Tell me about your journey.’ He looked at the young Cadwanwr solemnly. ‘It was hardly an act of wisdom to venture out on your own in these conditions.'

  Atelon shrugged. ‘It wasn't much fun,’ he conceded. ‘And I got lost a few times. I know this area a little but I'd forgotten how the snow changes the countryside. That sentry frightened me to death appearing out of nowhere, but I'll admit I was glad to hear that Orthlundyn accent when he challenged me...’ He glanced upwards again.

  'What's the matter?’ Andawyr asked.

  Atelon looked awkward. ‘I thought it was because I was tired,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But it's still there, coming and going, and not pleasant.'

  'What is?’ Andawyr persisted.

  'The Old Power,’ Atelon said, rather hastily, as if to get an anticipated reproof over with quickly. ‘I think. No, I'm sure it is. It's faint and distant and...’ He extended a finger upwards. ‘It's ... up there ... but...'

  Andawyr did not let him continue. ‘Did you use the Old Power yourself to get through your journey?’ he asked.

  Atelon shook his head. ‘No. Except once, a little, to light some bad radiant stones—I'm sure they'd been baked you know,’ he said with mild indignation. Dar-volci cleared his throat conspicuously but Andawyr said nothing, and Atelon returned to his answer. ‘I'd no idea what I was walking into. I didn't want to attract the attention of anyone—anything—I couldn't cope with. Especially after I began to feel that.’ He looked upwards again.

  'Sound judgement there, anyway,’ Andawyr said approvingly. ‘That,’—he imitated the young Cadwanwr's gesture—‘is Dar Hastuin.'

  Atelon's eyes widened in fear and, unconsciously, he cowered a little as if to avoid the attention of the sinister presence far above him.

  'Viladrien are nearby,’ Andawyr went on. ‘And from what Hawklan's told me I suspect some battle's afoot up there which may be as vital to us as anything that's happening down here.'

  'Viladrien?’ Atelon said in amazement. ‘And fighting?'

  Andawyr nodded, but did not amplify his remarks.

  'What can we do?’ Atelon said after a moment, rather from want of something to say than anxiety for an answer.

  'Nothing,’ Andawyr replied, shaking his head. ‘Except hope, and be aware.'

  He stopped at a tent and unsealed the entrance. Dar-volci scuttled in and headed for the radiant stones. ‘Here's my tent,’ Andawyr said. ‘Let's obey our leader's orders and talk while you eat and rest.'

  * * * *

  When Andawyr and Atelon left his tent, Hawklan threw on his cloak and, gesturing Gavor on to his shoulder, strode out into the snow.

  Until the time of his meeting with Isloman and Athyr, he knew that he must wander the camp, talking, laughing, encouraging, commiserating, but, above all, quietly inspiring the Orthlundyn army—his army—with the deep resolution that alone could bring it against the superior numbers of the Morlider with any chance of success.

  His pilgrimage took him through tent after tent, each standing dark and sullen in the fading winter light but inside glowing with subdued torchlight and filled with men and women, honing edges, testing bow strings, checking shields, armour, belts and buckles. Some were quiet and thoughtful, others were talking more loudly than usual and laughing too easily. But few needed his words. The Orthlundyn know what they face and what they need to meet it, he realized. It heartened him. Who supports whom? he thought. Perhaps, after all, he was no more than one man in the Orthlundyn army.

  The camp's small administrative centre was frantic with activity, as were the stores, and a mere glance told him he was not needed in either place. The kitchens were pursuing their normal routines uncertainly, but there he could be of no help anyway.

  Only towards the end of his brief journey did he feel his resolve tested: twice.

  As he entered the hospital tent, the two duty healers rose to greet him. They were smiling, but a subtle reproach hung in the air. How can you be both healer and warrior, Hawklan? it said. You know the scenes that will be enacted here soon, as smashed and broken bodies are dragged in from the battlefield in hope of repair or solace, or at worst, an easier death; bodies that have walked and run, slept, eaten, loved. And followed you.

  There was no answer other than that he and those with him were there by choice and knowing at least some of the truth.

  It offered little comfort.

  He placed his arms around the shoulders of the two women. ‘Don't be afraid of your anger,’ he said. ‘You'll need it to mend some of the ills that you'll see soon. Use it.'

  Leaving the hospital tent he wandered absently for a few minutes before finding himself by the stables. Someone inside was singing softly. Entering, he saw that the singer was a lanky youth grooming one of the horses. At the sound of Hawklan's footsteps in the straw the youth turned and, recognizing him, smiled awkwardly.

  But as their eyes met the youth looked away suddenly.

  'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked.

  The youth's hand fidgeted with the grooming brush, then, suddenly he said. ‘I'm frightened, Hawklan.'

  'Good,’ Hawklan replied, almost automatically. ‘Your fear will help keep you alive.'

  The youth looked at him suspiciously. He put down the brush gently on a nearby stool and twisted from side to side, his whole body denying Hawklan's words.

  'It's not the same, Hawklan,’ he said fearfully. ‘Not the same as training and talking at home.’ Then, abruptly, ‘I don't want to die,’ he said. ‘Or be ... maimed. And I don't want to kill anyone. I don't think I can. I ... don't want to be here ... freezing, frightened and days from home.'

  The brief flow stopped and the youth turned round and began to stroke one of the horses nervously. Hawklan looked at him, his own conscience made flesh.

  'You're not alone in that,’ he said quietly, after a pause. ‘What else are you frightened of?'

  The youth turned back to Hawklan sharply, oddly unbalanced by the question. ‘Isn't that enough?’ he said.

  'Speak all your fears,’ Hawklan said, ignoring the question.

  For a long moment the youth stared at him, then he seemed to become more composed. ‘I don't want to see my friends killed,’ he said. ‘I don't want to be responsible for their deaths. Suppose I ... fail them in some way; slip, stumble, forget a drill when I'm in the line and break it...'

  Hawklan looked down. Something in the youth's manner touched him deeply. These last remarks were only a hastily snatc
hed garment to cover the naked truth of the previous outburst. But it did not matter. The youth's fear taunted him. He had many skills he could use to lift the morale of his people when it proved necessary; skills that would ease burdens and carry the bearer boldly into battle. But now they had a hollow ring to them; Hawklan recognized the mocking residue of their original creator's teaching.

  Here he could use none of them.

  Reaching out, he stroked the horse as the youth had been doing. ‘You won't,’ he said simply. ‘Will you?’ It was all he could offer.

  Leaving the stable, Hawklan continued on to the command tent. Tirke and Yrain were there with Isloman and Athyr, poring over a plan of the Morlider camp. Both radiated a mixture of relief and exhilaration at their first silent encounter with the enemy. Their mood lifted some of the darkness from Hawklan that his encounter with the youth had left. He smiled and as he had with the healers, laid a hand on the shoulder of each as a token of welcome and understanding.

  Yrain was marking on the plan the extent of the latest fortifications. Hawklan looked over her shoulder.

  'They're nearly completed,’ he said unnecessarily when she had finished.

  Isloman ran his finger over the plan. ‘Apart from this uncompleted end here, there are four openings,’ he said. ‘None of which is gated so far. The ground's well compacted by now. We should be able to get in and out quickly in the confusion.'

  Hawklan frowned uncertainly.

  'They're not expecting anything,’ Isloman went on persuasively. ‘They've still not got guards out. They haven't had any all the time we've been watching them.'

  Hawklan nodded, and tapped his finger on the plan thoughtfully. ‘This uncompleted end is cluttered with tents and stores of some kind,’ he said. ‘Access is out of the question there. Then these gaps are a long way apart and none too wide. And for all they've no guards that we can see, we've no idea how quickly they'll respond once things start to happen. You could find yourselves trapped in there and our hit and run attack could easily turn into a slaughter.'

  The entrance of the command tent opened to admit Dacu and Loman.