by Roger Taylor
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked anxiously.
Gavor was still indignant. ‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve bust my chuffing pectoral again. I’ve had to walk all the sodding way and my feet are killing me.’
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Bust your pectoral,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘Don’t get technical with me, bird. I’ll do the diagnosing, you just stick to the flying.’
Gavor snorted. ‘Where are you going to drag us off to next?’ he asked crossly.
Hawklan looked out across the grim, seething, bat-tlefield.
‘Home, I think, Gavor,’ he replied. ‘Home. Back to the light. Back to Anderras Darion.’
And So…
Many events occurred after the Last Battle of the Second Coming which cannot be told here.
Sylvriss returned with her triumphant raggle-taggle squadron and relieved a harassed Oslang of his noisy burden.
The heads of Creost and Dar Hastuin were retrieved from the shattered causeway at Lake Kedrieth and then burned together with their bodies and those of their awful steeds, so that all could see their destruction and know of it. Their ashes were scattered to the winds so that none could so easily worship them again.
The body of Oklar was not found, and Hawklan, looking into Serian’s eyes, sought no answer.
Gulda was not seen again, though the Alphraan sang of her journeying south, past Anderras Darion, giving her a name that no human could truly hear.
Tirilen and Hawklan tended the injured and sus-tained also the healers in their great pain.
Gavor developed hypochondria again for a while.
Under Loman’s leadership, and through its deep discipline, the army of the allies had lost but a few hundred dead while their reckless enemy had lost countless thousands. Each of the dead was remembered then, and through the years, but all who had been there remembered that day every day of their lives thereafter.
‘There is no healing for this, any more than there is truly for any hurt,’ Hawklan said. ‘Time will blur and cloud the memory of the pain, but your lives cannot be as they were. Make of it a learning and you will become whole, and worthy teachers for your children. Cherish it as a grievance and you will twist and turn through your lives seeing only your own needs, betraying and burdening all around you.’
To Urthryn and the Lords, he said, ‘Sumeral’s teach-ings are deep within us. Only in the light of knowledge and truth can we truly see and understand them. You must begin the Watch again, but to study and learn about Byroc’s people and their tortured land. Let Orthlundyn, Riddinvolk and Cadwanwr ride with you and let Narsindalvak become both a fortress and a repository of learning. Let its great seeing eyes see all things.’
* * * *
Gavor glided along the unseen paths that came and went among the sunlit towers and spires of Anderras Darion. His black shadow leapt nimbly from wall to roof to keep pace with him. Far below, the villagers were preparing for the spring Festival and, in one of the castle’s many halls, Hawklan sat idly watching a splash of sun-carried colour move across a table, and pondering the worlds that Sumeral had shown him.
Gavor dipped agilely and disappeared under a broad over-hanging roof.
He landed with consummate elegance on a shady, twig-strewn ledge and stood for a moment by a nest hole presenting his best side in silhouette against the blue sky. Then he turned and peered through the drowsy motes hovering in the half-light of the nest.
‘Dear girl,’ he said, stepping inside. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve been such a time. Recuperating from my war wound. A damaged pectoral, you know.
‘Now, where were we…?’
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Document ID: fbd-b2f212-538a-7046-feb9-4cfd-baeb-2cf402
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Document creation date: 20.09.2010
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