by Roger Taylor
The old man from Wosod Heath was called Aynthinn and he seemed to have become the spokesman for most of the people there. He shook his head sadly when Hawklan had finished.
'These are dark and fearful things you tell us, Hawklan. The Second Coming of the Creator of Evil; a creature that hitherto we knew only in our children's tales. I doubt any but you could have told us this and been listened to, and I can see it's not been easy for you. Still, the truth of your telling is apparent, and for some of us, the older ones in particular, it answers some long unspoken questions. I remember as a boy, watching my grandfather working.’ Hawklan looked anxiously at Gulda, nervous that the old man was about to ramble off into some protracted reminiscence. She raised her hand slightly to indicate he should be patient.
'I can see him now as clearly as if it were yesterday. Then I look at...’ He cast around the room for a moment, ‘Isloman for example.’ He pointed to the Carver, who returned him a gaze of mild suspicion. ‘Isloman's the finest carver we have. No one disputes that. What happened to him in Riddin twenty years ago somehow transformed his work and set him above us all. But it's not much better than my grandfather's work, and it's less than most of what our forebears have left us.'
He lapsed briefly into the Carver's argot apparently to explain this remark further, causing both Hawklan and Gulda to lean forward anxiously. Seeing their reaction, the old man apologized.
'I'm sorry, my friends,’ he said. ‘I forgot myself. However, accept my judgement. Our work has deteriorated through the years. It has become coarser, more impatient, as if we were hurrying towards something. We live in the shadow of those who went before when we should have learnt their lessons and moved forward.'
He paused and looked around the room. ‘Ironically, it's been particularly apparent over the last few days. Staying here, among all this.’ He pointed to the carvings and pictures covering the ceilings and walls of the circular hall. ‘This is something we've all known, but we always seem to avoid talking about it. It's not easy. It's a subtle, elusive thing. But now, let me bring out from the shadow what should be said.'
His voice became strong, belying his frail appearance. ‘Consider, my friends. We can't deny our own failings, but doesn't even the land seem to bruise more easily under our feet? Our food grow more reluctantly? Our animals come less close?'
There was an uncomfortable silence in the hall, but no one ventured to disagree with him. Then, very quietly, but very clearly, his words hanging in the waiting air:
'Is not the Great Harmony itself less sure?'
Silence.
'My friends, only a most awesome power could so disturb the Great Harmony.'
With these words the tension in the hall seemed almost to vanish and Hawklan saw many of the listening people nodding their heads in agreement.
Aynthinn turned to Hawklan. ‘We've been losing our sight for many years, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Now, with your dark news, you bring perhaps a little light to etch out our faults more clearly for us.’ He chuckled. ‘Subtle shadow lore, yours, outlander. Subtle.’ And he looked round the hall, his old face wrinkling into an infectious smile that spread through his audience like a ripple of wind over a cornfield. Chuckling again, he said. ‘Forgive us, Hawklan. Carver's humour. Now you must tell us what to do.'
Hawklan's hands came up in a gesture of refusal. ‘No, no, Aynthinn,’ he said. ‘I'll tell no one what to do. We'll all talk and then we'll decide what to do. I'll not be bound by you, nor will I allow you to be bound by me. Whatever's to be faced we'll face together. None can pass his responsibility to another.’ This last remark was said with some sternness, and Aynthinn raised his own hands in acceptance.
As the day wore on, the storm clouds dispersed, although without the redeeming freshness of a downpour, the air outside was laden with a lingering sense of regret. It did not, however, linger in the high-ceilinged hall, and with new-found loquaciousness the Orthlundyn talked and talked.
Hawklan found himself hard pressed to get a word in, and he was forced to smile at his fear that they might follow him blindly.
Gulda, though, was silent by choice, her eyes flitting from one speaker to the next in relentless scrutiny. Later, Hawklan learned she was ranking them in order of reliability with judgements that were swift, ruthless and invariably accurate.
Tapping her temple with a purposeful finger, she said: ‘They're in here. Labelled. “Duffers", “Windbags", “Incompetents", etc.'
The setting sun was throwing its red dusty light through a few remaining black strands of cloud when the meeting finally ended. The gathering had roamed over many topics and through many moods, but for all their trust in Hawklan, implicitly sustained by Gulda's buttressing presence, the Orthlundyn still felt the dearth of information. Rock song as they called it.
'We can't know what to do until we see more clearly what's happening,’ they concluded. ‘And, as the problem stems from Fyorlund, that's where we must go for information.'
Hawklan realized that this conclusion had been more or less inevitable, but it placed him in a dilemma. On the one hand, he wanted to go to Fyorlund and find this tinker Lord who had hounded him so and wrought such havoc amongst his friends. But, equally, he wanted to seek out the Cadwanol to give them Andawyr's message and perhaps learn his true identity.
Gulda saw the indecision in his face but offered no counsel.
Finally he decided he would ride to Fyorlund for the Orthlundyn. The threat from there was tangible and bloody. He had seen it with his own eyes. The threat mooted by Andawyr was what? No more than a dream? It might be more, he knew, but he would have to live with his unease. Besides, the healer in him had to move to where it felt the centre of the ill. He had little real choice.
His decision made, Hawklan spoke out against a formal delegation. ‘If all the King's new officers are such as we encountered, then I doubt that reasoned discourse will yield much. In fact I think that a formal delegation might well be in some danger.'
Eventually it was agreed that he and Isloman would retrace their recent journey northwards and continue it cautiously into Fyorlund as ‘watchful travellers'. Gavor would act as messenger should they be detained in any way, and horses and riders would be posted along the road for the rapid carrying of the news back to Pedhavin, and thence through the land.
Aynthinn had reservations about such secrecy and prevailed upon Hawklan to carry with him a document which would enable him to speak for all the Orthlundyn if need arose. Reluctantly, Hawklan agreed.
The Elders departed in a mood almost of excitement, full of promises to take the advice Gulda had given to Hawklan, namely, to learn their history and their lore. Gulda made no comment on this, but her expression was eloquent. Aynthinn, however, conceded everything.
'Gulda. Our lack of curiosity is a willingness to accept ignorance. We see that now. It must end. We must apply ourselves to the knowledge of our past as we apply ourselves to our crafts.'
Gulda's look of withering doubt faltered slightly at Aynthinn's tone and the old man took the advantage with a fleetness that made Hawklan look away to hide a smile. ‘You will help us, won't you, Gulda?’ he asked.
Somewhat dourly, Loman agreed to remain in Anderras Darion to tend to the needs of the Elders and anyone else who came to study, though Hawklan sensed some relief in the smith that he would thus be able to remain near his daughter.
Later, however, Hawklan sought him out and, together with Isloman, they strolled idly round the Castle grounds. A soft warm breeze carried the scent of the mountains and a hint of the coming summer heat. High above them, visible in the moonless sky only where they hid the stars, soared the towers and spires of the Castle. To the keen ear, night birds could be heard gliding through the quiet air, but the darkness of Anderras Darion was the darkness of comfort and rest, not menace, and the night was undisturbed by the shrieks of dying prey. Occasionally, clear in the stillness, a dog would bark, or a door close, or a small bud of distant laughter would bloom and fade.
Loman looked at him but did not speak.
Hawklan turned to Isloman to ensure he was included in the conversation. ‘When the messengers go out tomorrow to tell the villages what's been discussed and decided here, I want you to send private letters to those men who fought with you in the Morlider War. Ask them to come here, quietly, but quickly.'
The starlight caught the glimmer of a smile on Loman's face.
He nodded, though still did not speak.
'When you've all finished your reminiscences, I want you to set down everything you can remember about the way the war was fought. Weapons, dispositions of men, tactics, supplies, command structures ... everything.'
Isloman chuckled, and Loman's smile broadened. Hawklan looked at both of them quizzically.
'I think you must have eaten some of those books, Hawklan,’ said Isloman. ‘Dispositions, command structures, indeed.’ His tone was full of mock disparagement and Loman laughed out loud in agreement. For an instant Hawklan felt inclined to be indignant but the mood passed almost immediately and he smiled.
'All right, all right, you two seasoned warriors. Have your fun.’ Then poking Loman in the chest with his forefinger, ‘But get your old comrades in arms here and get the job done. Then you can take my place in the Library and start looking for all the books you can find on the same subjects. Then see if you feel like laughing.'
His tone became more serious. ‘Aynthinn spoke as only the very wise and the very foolish can. He told us the obvious. He showed us what was in front of our faces. We must learn from the experiences of the past. There's no point in relearning bitter old lessons the hard way. It's not a rule confined to carving. I doubt any of those High Guards ever lifted a sword in anger before, but they were trained and disciplined, and they took a considerable toll of those Mandrocs. We've none like that if we should ever need them.'
'You don't seriously think we'll need to defend ourselves like that, do you?’ said Isloman anxiously.
Hawklan shrugged. ‘I've no idea,’ he said. ‘But misled though they might have been, those High Guards came deep into Orthlund for no good cause, and those Mandrocs marched in, in armed force, prepared to commit murder. Only through good luck did we stop the one, and we could do nothing about the other. I think it'd be unwise to note those two facts and then imagine they couldn't happen again.'
He started up one of the broad stairways that led up the main wall. The two brothers followed him in silence.
'After the Morlider War, we want nothing to do with fighting, Hawklan,’ said Loman unequivocally.
Hawklan stopped and, turning round, looked down at them. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I understand. But we may not have a choice. Sometimes people's best endeavours can't prevent it. You wouldn't have spent part of your youth in Riddin doing what you did had it been otherwise, would you?'
No answer coming, he turned round again and continued slowly up the stairs.
'Hawklan, you're not thinking about training an army, are you?’ said Isloman.
The words seemed to hover in the soft night air, as if fearful of spreading their message.
'I don't know what I'm thinking about, Isloman,’ said Hawklan. ‘But consider. If they'd wished to, those Mandrocs could've swept through a dozen villages before anyone knew what was happening. And then what resistance could we have made?’ He stopped on a landing where the stairway met one of the buttresses to the Great Gate. A sudden surge of anger rose up inside him and with a grimace he slapped his hand hard against the wall.
'None!’ he exclaimed viciously.
Loman and Isloman both started at the unexpected violence of this ejaculation.
Hawklan swung his arm in a horizontal cutting movement. ‘None at all. The only thing that would've stopped those Mandrocs sweeping over the entire country in a matter of days is fatigue.’ He slumped against the wall, frowning.
Neither Loman nor Isloman seemed inclined to argue this statement. There was little point. Hawklan was right, even though his implied conclusion left them more than uncomfortable. Isloman ran his big hand over the stonework tenderly, seeking solace in its ancient crafting.
'Aynthinn was right,’ he said. ‘We must have been going downhill for generations. It's all around us in this Castle. We should be better than our ancestors, not worse. Whether we've lost something or whether it's been stolen doesn't really matter, does it? Somewhere we've betrayed a trust. We've let the old crafts deteriorate to the point where even the Great Harmony suffers. And, now, ill things come in from the outside and we're unprepared.’ He sat down slowly on the steps and rested his head against the wall.
The three men remained there for a long time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Hawklan leaning against the buttress, arms folded and looking moodily downwards; Isloman leaning against the wall, and Loman leaning over the parapet staring out over the Castle grounds in the darkness below.
Somewhere in the distance there was a brief stir of voices and a door was opened and closed.
Hawklan looked up along the stairway, faintly visible in the starlight. Over him the main wall of Anderras Darion loomed protectively. He frowned again at the unforgiving truth of his reasoning.
'We've no alternative, have we?’ he said.
The two brothers shook their heads.
Loman spoke. ‘We'll remember and relearn all our old “skills", Hawklan.’ There was bitterness in his voice. ‘And we'll learn from such others as we can find in the Library, then...’ He turned and looked at Hawklan, ‘then we'll teach them to ... to everyone.'
Hawklan nodded, and echoed their thoughts. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘There's a great wrongness in all this. I can't fault our conclusions in the light of what's happened. There is no alternative. But,’ he shook his head, ‘I can't escape the feeling that the very existence of armed power in Orthlund may in itself destroy the Great Harmony, or that it may somehow attract those it's meant to deter.'
* * *
Chapter 24
As Loman stepped out of the maze of ornate columns that guarded the Armoury, he turned round and, with arm extended, snapped his fingers into the maze. It was a childish trick he indulged in occasionally, for the snap of his fingers was deliberately off the path through the maze, and the sounds of its increasing echoes swirled round and round until they surged thunderously against the unseen bounds set by the columns, like an enraged animal crashing against the bars of its cage.
He shook his head at his own whimsy and strode off purposefully down one of the long aisles of the Armoury towards the great mound of weapons. The mysterious appearance of Ethriss's black sword had unsettled him more than he was prepared to admit. Had he not known this place intimately for some twenty years? A blade like that could not have lain hidden from him. And yet ... ?
Thus, since his return to the Castle with Tirilen, he had haunted the Armoury, trying to view it with a newer eye and carrying with him a vague compulsion that there was something he should be doing. He had little doubt that the metal was speaking to him but he did not seem to be able to hear it clearly.
His subsequent discovery of the small black blades that became Gavor's fighting spurs unsettled him even further, and the vague compulsion became almost an obsession. Repeatedly now, he cast his eye over the great mound of weapons, wondering what other mysteries it was concealing from him. But everything seemed to be as it had been since he first followed the strange tall outlander into this stronghold twenty or so years ago and stood open-mouthed amid the harvest-field rows of points and edges glittering in a bright summer sun.
Reaching the mound, he stood there once again on an uneasy vigil, all too aware that the familiarity around him still persisted in decl
aiming itself changed.
'Loman?'
The voice behind him drew his mind from its reverie, and air into his lungs, in one heart-jolting blow. He spun round, eyes wide, his mind encompassing uncountable numbers of alternatives and his body incapable of facing any of them.
Gulda raised an eyebrow at this sudden flurry.
Loman finally succeeded in gaining control of his jaw and raised his hand to point in the direction of the distant entrance.
'Memsa,’ he demanded. ‘How did you get in here? Through the columns...'
Gulda brought her stick up and placed the end of it against the smith's stomach. ‘I'm looking for Ethriss's bow, young Loman, where is it?'
Loman continued pointing for a moment and then lowered his hand resignedly. So far, Gulda had met questions about her knowledge of Anderras Darion by simply ignoring them. A prod from the stick focused his attention again. Better head for safer ground.
'The bows are over there,’ he said brusquely, pointing now to a nearby rack. Gulda clicked her tongue impatiently, and levering Loman to one side with her stick walked in the opposite direction.
'Don't clench your fists at me, young man,’ she said as she passed. Loman felt a rumbling growl forming inside him and quickly cleared his throat.
Gulda was muttering to herself. ‘Now let me ... so long ago.’ Her hand came to her chin pensively and the great nose twitched as if scenting out quarry. Then she did a brief mime, head bowed, eyes closed and face earnest. Her hands pointed forward, as if marking out some earlier entry she had once made into the Armoury, then they flicked hither and thither, tracing her old route; sometimes decisively, followed by a flick of confirmation; and sometimes hesitantly, followed by a palmy wave to expunge the error. Finally she arrived.
'That's it,’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘I'll swear to it.’ And off she went, Loman trudging behind suspiciously. Eventually they stopped in front of one of the ornately painted wall carvings that decorated those walls of the Armoury that contained no weapon racks.