Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  As they walked, they found that the mist came and went in accordance with mysterious laws of its own and with scant regard for the damp wind. Sometimes they could see to the horizon, at others, visibility was reduced to twenty or thirty paces. During such times, Byroc would raise his muzzle into the air and sniff rapidly and audibly at regular intervals.

  The vegetation around them was stunted and seemingly deformed, as if it had fought some great battle just to struggle through to the surface. The dense patches of undergrowth that littered the plain and which loomed up out of the mist alarmingly on occasions, seemed to consist mainly of tangled brambles, as thick as tree trunks in places, and armed with vicious thorns.

  From time to time, various animals bolted suddenly and startlingly in front of them causing a mixture of alarm and amusement. Hawklan frowned; for the most part the creatures were such as might be encountered anywhere in such wild terrain, but they were strangely altered. Teeth, claws and colouring betrayed powerful predatory needs, and eyes revealed constant watchful alarm. Occasionally he caught a brief snatch of speech, and that too was full of a mixture of menace and fear.

  'Is there nothing here that hasn't been touched by Him?’ he said softly to Andawyr.

  'No,’ Andawyr replied, adding enigmatically. ‘Including us.'

  Hawklan looked up into the grey sky. High above, Gavor was circling, spurred and watchful. Around him the Goraidin and the Helyadin were moving silently, armed and watchful.

  Did you think that the chief of the Ivrandak Garn could not recognize hunters? Byroc's words came back to him.

  He looked up again at Gavor. At least we have the eyes now, he thought. It gave him comfort. The combined skills of the group would keep them from the eyes of men, and Andawyr's silence would keep them from His sight. Their presence was unknown and thus unlooked for.

  * * * *

  Dan-Tor dismissed the exhausted and quaking Mandroc messenger. He sat silent for some time, a strange sensation stirring inside. When it emerged, he recognized it as amusement, black and rich. It bloomed to enfold the vision that had been tormenting him since the eye of the Vrwystin he had been holding had shrieked and, impossibly, died; the vision, fleeting but vivid, of Hawklan wielding the black sword of Ethriss and destroying his precious creature.

  Now came the news that at the same time as the Vrwystin had been slain, the mines had been attacked by an unknown force of men, and that all the workings had been destroyed, and the shafts and adits sealed utterly by a terrible fire.

  Dan-Tor luxuriated in the irony. Silently creeping into my domain again, Hawklan, he thought. Seeking to destroy my eyes and the food for my weapons with your treacherous cunning, and now destroyed in your turn by your own men.

  A rumbling laugh began to form. So His enemies stumble and fall. Their every seeming success had been but a failure in disguise. Soon the rest would come clamouring across the plains of Narsindal to be destroyed in their turn; Cadwanol, Fyordyn, Orthlundyn and Riddinvolk; the old enemies, to be crushed this time at the very outset.

  But through his malevolent delight shimmered a cold, sharp, sliver of uncertainty.

  Hawklan had eluded destruction and capture so often; had appeared where he should not have been; had struck mysteriously beyond where he should be able to reach.

  'Commander Aelang,’ he said.

  Aelang appeared from an adjacent room and saluted.

  'You heard the message, commander?’ Dan-Tor said.

  'About the mines? Yes, Ffyrst,’ Aelang replied.

  Dan-Tor stood up. ‘Take a company from the deep penetration patrol, go to the mines and destroy any of the attacking force who may have escaped to the north,’ he said.

  * * *

  Chapter 29

  'You're a better rider than I imagined, Hylland,’ Sylvriss said, as they trotted steadily along the valley towards Narsindalvak.

  Hylland bowed his head. ‘I merely follow your example, Majesty,’ he said.

  Sylvriss looked at him sideways. ‘Your saddleside manner is more courtly than your bedside one,’ she said, smiling.

  Hylland nodded sagely. ‘Ah, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Here I bask in the presence of my beautiful and honoured Queen. Elsewhere I often have to deal with wilfully obstreperous and difficult patients.'

  Sylvriss laughed, and the sound mingled with that of the clattering hooves to echo along the towering rock face they were passing.

  The valley was a harsh place, full of lowering crags, made all the darker by the grey, sullen sky, but Sylvriss found herself immune to such influences. She reached forward and patted Serian's head. It was a strange experience to ride such an animal, both exhilarating and quietening. He responded unhesitatingly to her will, yet was quite beyond and above it. She knew that sooner or later, at a time of his own choosing, he would go on his own way in search of Hawklan but that now he was hers as utterly as he would be Hawklan's.

  On one occasion she became aware that she was riding with a stillness and awareness that she had never known before. It came to her suddenly that Serian was teaching her how to ride, teaching her lessons that only someone who was a consummate rider could have the humility to understand and accept.

  The experience brought tears flooding to her eyes.

  Hylland saw the tears but sensed also their cause, albeit dimly, and kept his peace. Later he offered her a kerchief which she accepted, and for a good way they rode on, sharing a deep companionable silence.

  As they neared the tower, a group of horsemen rode out to meet them. At their head was Lord Oremson, an old and trusted friend of Eldric's who had earned the odium of Dan-Tor for his passive obstructiveness following the suspension of the Geadrol and who had been imprisoned for a while after Eldric's ill-fated attempt to demand an accounting of the Ffyrst.

  'Majesty,’ he said. ‘I couldn't believe the messages we were receiving. You shouldn't be riding out here, it's far too dangerous. And with your baby too.'

  Sylvriss smiled at the Lord's fatherly manner. ‘Come now, Lord. The danger lies beyond Narsindalvak not before it,’ she said. ‘And how can I be in any danger with your look-outs and signallers watching my every step?’ She smiled again and waved her hand along the high ridges above.

  Oremson made to speak again, but she stopped him gently.

  'Hylland and I will stay at the tower tonight, then we must leave to catch up with the army at daybreak,’ she said.

  Oremson's mouth dropped open. ‘Majesty, I can't allow...'

  'Can't, Lord?’ she said, before he could continue. ‘This is my intention, not a proposition to debate. Have no fear. I shall choose a suitable escort, and I'm not without some resource myself.’ Her smile had faded and her whole manner was unequivocal.

  Oremson's gaze went from his Queen's resolute face to the baby slung about her shoulders and thence to the sword and staff hanging by her side. With an effort and a reproachful look at Hylland, who shrugged a wordless disclaimer, he managed a fretful acknowledgement of his Commander's will.

  'And I want no ceremony, Lord,’ Sylvriss added as they rode forward again. ‘I'm here as your Commander and I wish to know the state of the war.'

  When she arrived at the tower, however, Sylvriss found that a formal welcoming escort and a large cheering crowd were already waiting for her. The sight made her relent a little and she allowed herself a happy entry to the grim fortress.

  The evening was spent as she had promised, and the would-be revellers found themselves closeted with their Commander and poring over the messages and reports that had been sent back by the advancing army.

  The following morning, Oremson had almost given up all attempts at dissuading his Queen from her journey. Apart from her own determination, she would have an escort that would be more than adequate: a company of mounted High Guards routinely going to reinforce the forts, and a squadron of Muster riders who had followed late in the wake of their Ffyrst. He fought to the end, however.

  'Majesty, you've studied all the reports and
messages,’ he pleaded. ‘There have been regular harrying attacks on the army. And serious assaults on at least two forts. I beg of you, reconsider, if only for your baby son.'

  Sylvriss looked down at her baby and then at Oremson's anxious face. ‘Lord,’ she said. ‘I'm travelling on an errand that's simply not of my choosing. When it's completed I'll return, and gladly. But in the meantime I'm bound by duties as you are; duty to my crown and duty to my son.'

  Oremson yielded reluctantly. ‘We shall be watching you for as long as we can, Majesty,’ he said. ‘And I'll have men stand by to come to your aid immediately if need arises.'

  Sylvriss smiled and saluted. Then, mounting Serian, she gave the order to advance.

  She did not look back as she rode down the valley away from the tower.

  * * * *

  'Sit down, Lord, you look tired,’ Loman said as Eldric entered the tent.

  Eldric accepted the offer and flopped into a nearby chair noisily. ‘After we escaped from the Westerclave, I swore I'd never again complain about creature discomforts,’ he said. ‘But this place is just as bad as I remember it. It's as if even the air is tainted in some way.’ He gazed up at the roof of the tent. ‘I'm haunted by the thought of my favourite chair, and the carvings around my room, peaceful and homely in the light of the radiant stones.'

  He fell silent and continued staring at the floor for some time, then, with a sigh of self-reproach, he sat upright again.

  'Sorry,’ he said brusquely.

  Loman smiled. ‘I should think so, Lord. Any more of that and you'd have been on a charge for spreading despondency amongst the ranks.'

  'No, no,’ Eldric said. ‘There's insufficient evidence for a charge. I'm only spreading my despondency to you. I'm quite hearty out there.'

  Any further debate was ended by the arrival of Arinndier, Hreldar and Darek.

  'A good day's progress,’ Arinndier said.

  Loman nodded off-handedly. ‘Have you checked the perimeter fence?’ he asked.

  'Twice,’ Arinndier replied. ‘And there's no shortage of volunteers for guard duty these nights.'

  Loman frowned. Would that it were otherwise, but Mandroc raids during the night were becoming almost routine and while they had little effect, they could not be ignored. On the first few occasions they had caused great alarm, the Mandrocs showing a reckless wildness which, for the Orthlundyn, was quite different from the ferocity of the Morlider and, for the veteran Fyordyn, quite different from such few encounters as they might have had when riding the Watch.

  Morale had wavered initially, but the perimeter fortifications which had been built each night with much grumbling had demonstrated their worth admirably, and Loman and the Lords had been able to change these strangely desperate forays by the enemy into valuable training exercises.

  As a result, the Mandrocs suffered heavy casualties with little to show for their pains. Yet, despite the losses, the attacks continued and, in fact, they were becoming progressively more severe as the army moved further northwards. Such determination and such an indifference to life on the part of the enemy was a grim portent, and one which was burdening Loman profoundly. Looking at his companions, he raised this concern with them for the first time.

  There was an odd silence when he had finished and Loman had the feeling that these four foreigners were communing with one another in some silent fashion.

  'Urthryn doesn't like his people manning the fences. He's bursting to go after the Mandrocs during the day on reprisal raids. And the Helyadin want to find their camps and attack them pre-emptively,’ Hreldar said eventually. ‘Give them their head.'

  There was a note in Hreldar's voice which Loman could not identify at first. Then, quite suddenly, his foreboding was gone; despite themselves, and perhaps even unknowingly, these four old friends were anxious about this outlander commanding their army.

  'No,’ he said unequivocally. ‘If we send people out into this country we'll be giving the enemy an advantage. They might find the odd camp and do some damage, but at what cost?’ He looked around at the four Lords. ‘We've agreed that it's highly probable we've been drawn into this conflict so that Sumeral could fight a defensive war and destroy His most powerful enemies with one single campaign. We march knowing that. If now He chooses to attack and allow us the advantage of defence, then that's fine—we'll make the most of that advantage.'

  He grimaced as the next words formed in his mind but, increasingly now, he knew that he must deliberately detach himself from the personal agonies of the individual soldiers and the price they must pay for this horror both now and in their future lives. He must concern himself with the broader cruel realities that those same soldiers demanded of him to ensure that they would have a future. Further, he must separate himself a little from these four stalwart leaders if he was to obtain their total support.

  He went on, speaking as he knew Hawklan would. ‘The simple fact is that every Mandroc that dies here can't fight us again. And, to be blunt, it's important that our troops get plenty of practice at hand to hand killing, and winning; the Muster not least. That's why I've got them manning the perimeter. After what happened in Riddin they've been wearing their sense of failure like a wet cloak and it's been destroying their morale.'

  The atmosphere in the tent eased perceptibly.

  Loman moved in to finish his task. ‘I don't mind your doubts about me, Lords,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly stern. ‘I take them as a sign of trust and affection. And, despite the opinion of your Queen and Hawklan, leaders of men such as yourselves would be rare fools not to be concerned about a bumpkin horse shoer from sleepy Orthlund suddenly given charge of this vast army. But in future, do as I do, speak your doubts to me as they occur. I knew I could speak freely to you here of the vague darkness looming in my mind, and that I would be heard and helped. In such manner we will win this war.'

  Eldric lowered his gaze and there was an uncomfortable silence in the tent for some time.

  'I'm sorry—we're sorry,’ he said when he looked up. ‘You shame us.'

  Loman waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, Lords,’ he said. ‘Sometimes doubts come because you are seeing the uncertainties more clearly, and there's no shame to be had in seeing the truth, and accepting it.'

  He leaned forward before any of them could reply. ‘Know this truth, Lords,’ he said, quietly, but with chilling force. ‘As we near this creature's lair and as we pile up His soldiers dead by the wayside, I am set on our original intention more strongly than ever. We march straight forward, to His very throne, and through His corrupt heart. If anything chooses to stand in our way we will crush it as completely as we can and at as little cost to ourselves as our combined wits and ingenuity can allow. This is no more than His intention for us, and nothing less on our part will suffice.'

  * * * *

  Flat on his stomach at the top of a small rise, Hawklan looked at the distant clutter of buildings, colourless and drab in the grey dawn. ‘I didn't think your people lived in villages,’ he said to Byroc.

  Byroc shook his head. ‘That is one of His slave places,’ he said. ‘Where weapons and other things are made. We must pass by carefully. There will be many black ones there and probably stinking Dowynai Vraen priests.’ Hawklan shot him a sidelong glance. The Mandroc was trembling with rage and it seemed that at any moment he might leap up and charge into the camp to wreak what slaughter he could before he perished. It was a response he would have to watch for carefully.

  'Control your anger, Byroc,’ he said, his voice like ice. ‘Or go your own way, now.'

  Byroc's eyes narrowed viciously. ‘You do not understand,’ he growled after a moment.

  'I, above all, understand the loss of a people,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Save your anger for the true creator of your ills.'

  Dacu interrupted. ‘Do you want me to find a way round?’ he asked.

  Hawklan nodded, but Byroc grunted. ‘I know the way,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ And, without waiting for any debate, he wriggle
d backwards down the slope until he could stand without being seen from the slave camp. Hawklan and the others followed.

  For some time they followed a wide circular route around the camp which took them through increasingly wet ground. After they had jumped over several rancid-smelling ditches, Byroc stopped, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘This place has changed,’ he said. ‘And it stinks of His work. We must turn back.'

  Hawklan looked down at the unpleasant mud clinging to his boots. It was black, with streaks of white running through it, and it was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

  'Let's go a little further,’ he said. ‘It may be drier up ahead.'

  Reluctantly Byroc agreed, and the party moved off again. They were soon brought to a halt, however, as they suddenly found themselves at the edge of a vast swamp-like area, flooded to a large extent by a black liquid. Several areas of tufted vegetation stood above the liquid but they were blackened as if they had been scorched, and the few trees that could be seen were not only leafless and stunted, but also a ghastly white.

  'They're like the hands of drowned men,’ someone said into the sudden silence.

  Hawklan bent down and looked out over the silent black surface. It was alive with shimmering iridescence.

  Cautiously he moved forward, but he had gone scarcely four paces when his foot sank into the ground and suddenly he stumbled.

  Several hands seized him immediately and dragged him back before he could fall. The ground released his foot with a noisy lingering slither and a foul smell rose into the air.

  Coughing and choking, the group retreated in disorder. When they stopped, Hawklan's flesh was crawling. ‘What is that?’ he said, turning to Andawyr wide-eyed.

  The Cadwanwr shook his head but nodded towards Byroc. ‘His work,’ he said, echoing the Mandroc's remark. ‘Keep away from it.'