Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'We've heard of you,’ he said. ‘And are honoured to meet you. You're highly thought of by such as we've spoken to.'

  Unskilled in receiving compliments, Vredech coughed awkwardly and changed the subject. ‘Sadly, you've chosen an evil time to visit our country,’ he said as he sat down. ‘It grieves me to have to say this, but I'm afraid, being foreigners, you may even be at some risk. There is a great deal of confusion about.'

  'Yes,’ Darke nodded. ‘Though the confusion, as you call it, is mainly around Troidmallos, and directed towards those from the west—the Felden?’ Vredech nodded. ‘The further reaches of your land are less troubled and so far all your countrymen have been most obliging to us.'

  'If a little distant?’ Vredech inquired, noting a hesitation.

  The man gave a slight shrug.

  'We are apt to be reserved with strangers,’ Vredech explained, smiling again. ‘It's a national trait, I'm afraid, and one I take no pride in admitting. I hope you've not been offended by our seeming coldness?'

  Darke shook his head. ‘We've travelled through many countries and have learned to accept the different ways of many peoples. We've also learned that apparently major differences between communities are often little deeper than the various costumes they wear. Underneath, people are very much the same everywhere.'

  Vredech, suddenly feeling very parochial, found himself wholly absorbed in what Darke was saying. It was Tirec who spoke next, however. From his face Vredech took him to be about his own age though, like Darke, who was perhaps nearer Horld's age, his mannerisms were those of a younger man. ‘To be honest, we're quite content not to have been attacked in the street after reading this,’ he said, pulling out a neatly folded copy of Privv's Sheet.

  Vredech's nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘You treat it with more respect than it deserves,’ he said. ‘Screw it up and use it to light your camp fire, or put it to some other simple practical use when you're away from the comforts of civilization. I beg you, don't judge us by that.'

  Tirec grinned, but Darke's manner was more sober. ‘We treat it with the respect that all dangerous things warrant: fires, floods, sharpened edges.'

  Vredech's grim preoccupations returned at this last remark, and without thinking, he patted the knife in his belt. ‘Don't you have Sheets in your own country?’ he asked.

  'We have the printed word and many books, and many ways of carrying the news of events, but nothing like this.'

  'Not when we left, anyway,’ Tirec added.

  'True,’ Darke conceded.

  'Consider yourselves fortunate,’ Vredech said warmly.

  Darke looked at the Sheet. ‘We have several of them to take with us for study,’ he said. ‘They seem like a worthwhile idea.'

  Vredech gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘They are a worthwhile idea,’ he agreed. ‘But Privv ...’ He hesitated. ‘Privv's an undisciplined scoundrel who unfortunately has no small gift for words—and he seems to be getting worse by the day.'

  'We were coming to that conclusion ourselves,’ Darke said. ‘Though why anyone should wish to embellish the truth so, defies me. Can't he be restrained in any way?'

  'It's too complicated to explain,’ Vredech replied. ‘And of little value to you to know, I suspect. If you wish these things to be let loose on your own land, then learn from what you've seen here. Whatever lawmakers you have, have them oblige a writer of Sheets to confine himself to the truth.'

  'I'll remember your advice,’ Darke said.

  Vredech suddenly had the feeling that he had been tested in some way, and that these two strangers needed no advice on the running of a Sheet. Darke looked at him intently. ‘May I ask you something delicate?’ he said.

  'Of course,’ Vredech replied, as much out of curiosity as from priestly habit.

  'I think this man, Privv, has done your community great harm,’ Darke said. ‘More perhaps than you know. Please tell me to hold my peace if I offend you—just attribute it to a rash foreigner's ignorance—but it seems to us that even greater harm is coming from the heart of your own religion.'

  Vredech bridled slightly, but it was more a reflex than a true response.

  'This Brother Cassraw seems to be ...’ Darke searched for the words he needed ‘... unusually naive in his preaching, and rather at odds with what, in my limited understanding, I take to be the main tenets of your religion as set out in your Santyth.'

  Vredech looked at him closely. ‘You've studied the Santyth?’ he asked.

  'I've read it,’ Darke said. ‘Not studied it.'

  'What are you scholars of?’ Vredech asked.

  Darke smiled broadly. ‘Everything, Brother Vredech. We put reins only on our conduct, not our minds. There are so many wonders to be seen, to be learned about, to stand in awe before, to celebrate.’ He reached down, plucked a tiny white flower and brought it close to his face. ‘Even though a lifetime of such journeying may not even tell us all there is to know about this single, solitary flower. For then, I suspect, we would know everything.'

  'How strange,’ Vredech said, genuinely moved by Darke's manner. ‘I was thinking similar thoughts myself only a moment ago.'

  Darke looked at him intently again, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘This is hardly a cheering day,’ he said, looking around. ‘Would I be right in assuming that you're sitting here in the stillness and silence because of your concern about the conduct of your colleague?'

  Briefly, Vredech was disposed to be indignant about this question, but it was too accurate. It hurt, however, and the pain came through in his answer. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply. ‘Though I don't see what business it is of yours.'

  Darke laid a hand on his arm. ‘I apologize, Brother Vredech,’ he said, ‘but I had a reason for asking the question.'

  'Where are you from?’ Vredech asked bluntly, reluctant to return to the topic of his own worries. ‘You speak our language well, but I can't place your accent at all.'

  'We're from the north,’ Darke said, adding as Vredech started to shake his head. ‘From beyond the mountains. Our home is far, far away.'

  Where Vredech had felt parochial at unexpectedly meeting these foreigners, he now felt small and insignificant. Beyond the mountains was tantamount to being on the moon for most of the people of Gyronlandt, and he was no exception. He had heard that occasionally, travellers from the lands to the north would come through the mountains to some of the countries along the northern boundary of Gyronlandt, but to actually meet such people...

  It tore open the tight cocoon of his own concerns and for a moment he felt disorientated as this brief insight into a larger world sank in.

  'Are you all right?’ he heard Darke asking.

  'Yes, yes,’ Vredech replied, a little embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry. You surprised me.’ Then, as his cocoon sought to make itself whole again, he asked sharply, ‘Why are you here? There's precious few people in Gyronlandt bother to come to Canol Madreth. Why should such as you, from so far away? There are richer, more exciting states in Gyronlandt to lure travellers.'

  Darke did not reply at once, but his hand twitched nervously. As did Tirec's.

  Vredech's emotions, still unsteady, swung to suspicion. ‘You said you knew of me. Have you sought me out on purpose?’ he demanded.

  Darke smiled broadly and shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We came to Troidmallos on purpose, but finding you here, now, was ...’ He shrugged. ‘Fate, destiny, whatever you choose to call it. Personally I'm quite happy to settle for chance. I think, however, that we would have sought you out in due course.'

  Vredech allowed his suspicions to show. ‘Why have you come to Troidmallos, then? And why would you want to see me?’ he asked. Darke's smile faded and a slight spasm of pain passed over his face. He reached up and massaged his shoulder. This time it was Vredech who inquired, ‘Are you all right?'

  'Yes,’ Darke replied. ‘I hurt it falling off a horse once. It gets a little stiff sometimes.’ He gave his shoulder a final shake. ‘And I can't answer your question,
not directly. As much as anything, we've been drawn here.'

  'Drawn?'

  Darke glanced at his companion, as if for advice.

  'Ask him, he'll understand. He's the one we need to speak to,’ Tirec said, answering the unspoken question. He gave an urgent nod of encouragement. ‘This place is frightening me to death. We need to know.'

  Vredech frowned at this enigmatic remark. Darke fumbled with the copy of the Sheet, then placed it carefully in his pocket.

  'Brother Vredech,’ he said. ‘Bear with me, please. I'll tell you what I can, but I need your help first.’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘We've learned many things since we came here, just by listening to gossip and asking the occasional question. Please tell me if I'm inaccurate in any particulars.’ Vredech's frown deepened, but Darke continued. ‘Several months ago, a darkness came over this land. Your colleague, Cassraw, stormed up into this darkness in a great rage. When he returned, he believed he had been chosen by your deity, Ishryth, to bring about some great “purifying” of the land, for want of a better word. And since that time, your country has begun a seemingly unstoppable plunge into decay and disorder.’ He watched Vredech carefully. ‘We've heard, too, that he's been given certain powers. Powers that he used the other night to control the rain. Is this a reasonable gathering of what's happened?'

  'It is,’ Vredech said. ‘But ...'

  Darke brought his finger to his lips for silence, at once apologetic and authoritative. ‘We've heard also that you, and a Brother ... Horld, I think was the name ... went after Cassraw on that day, and we know that you've been gently striving to oppose what he's been doing since his return.’ His gaze allowed Vredech no escape. ‘Although I'm a complete stranger to you, Brother Vredech, I'll ask you to trust me,’ he said. ‘I'll ask you to tell me what happened to you when you went up into that darkness after Cassraw, and what you think has happened to him.'

  Vredech opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was dry. ‘Who are you?’ was all he could manage.

  'We are who we say we are,’ Darke replied. ‘Travellers and scholars. And I'll tell you what I can in a moment, as I promised, but please, tell me what happened to you that day. And since.'

  Vredech looked away from Darke and caught Tirec's eye. Though the younger man was striving to hide it, there was fear in his eyes, and Tirec did not give the impression of a man who frightened easily. Slowly, Vredech lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  'In your travels, have you ever heard of a man called the Whistler?’ he asked into the darkness. ‘A legend—a story, perhaps?'

  He was aware of Darke shifting awkwardly beside him. ‘I've heard all manner of tales about pipers, flute-players, whistlers, in different places. In some he walks in dreams, in others he walks strange worlds, worlds like this but in some way beyond, his tunes building the bridges between, or binding them together. Some say he's mad, some say he's a great righter of wrongs, a fighter of evil. Some tell of him as a man trapped in his own dream.'

  'Are there worlds beyond this, Traveller?’ Vredech asked. ‘Worlds around us that are here, yet not here?'

  There was a long silence.

  'I've heard it said so, and by people wiser than me by far,’ Darke replied eventually. ‘It's a disturbing thought, enough to shake any man's sanity. Why do you ask?'

  Vredech did not reply, but let out a long breath. Then he opened his eyes and looked up. A small flurry of raindrops cascaded from the leaves above. Most fell on the grass at his feet, twinkling momentarily despite the dullness, but a few fell cold on his hair. He ran his hand over them.

  It occurred to him that he had slipped into another world again and that the two men were of his own creating. But did it matter? he thought. No harm had come to him previously from such excursions. Indeed, on the last occasion it had perhaps saved Nertha from some dreadful fate and, in involving Horld, much good had come of it. He could see now that, each time, he had come away a little wiser. Suddenly, it was as though a keystone had fallen into place, locking together disparate and unstable parts into a solid whole. He was in the world he had always known. And he would know in future when it was otherwise, though he could not have defined the source of this new certainty.

  Then, without preamble, he told Darke and Tirec what had happened on the mountain and since. He made no mention of his own pain or of his meetings with the Whistler, and he spoke in unconscious imitation of Darke, simply and straightforwardly.

  As he talked, he saw the fear in Tirec's eyes grow, and pain appear in Darke's. When he had finished, they both remained silent.

  'I've thought myself mad on more than one occasion these past months,’ Vredech admitted, ‘battling endlessly with screaming doubts.’ Then, slowly, he asked, ‘What does this mean to you?'

  Neither replied for some time, then Tirec stood up and began pacing fretfully. He spoke to Darke in his own language, though the strangeness of it could not disguise the fear-driven anger that filled it.

  Darke looked at him, then very gently said, ‘Of course it's true. We've known it all along.’ He rubbed his shoulder again. ‘We've just not had the courage to accept it.'

  Tirec seemed disposed to argue the point, but Darke motioned him to sit. ‘And speak Madren in front of Brother Vredech,’ he said, with a hint of sternness. Tirec sat down heavily.

  Vredech waited. He was about to repeat his question when Darke began to speak. ‘In our land, we know of the one you call Ishryth,’ he said.

  Vredech could not contain his surprise. ‘You worship as we do?’ he asked.

  Darke smiled, rather sadly Vredech thought, and shook his head. ‘No, we accord all things respect, in so far as we are able, but we worship nothing and no one.'

  'But ...'

  Darke held up his hand for silence.

  'This may be hard for you,’ he said, ‘but it's known that from the Great Heat at the beginning of this world, Ishryth and his three companions—the Watchers, I think you call them—emerged and, through a time that we cannot measure, shaped the world as we know it, and all that's in it.'

  ’”Known"?’ Vredech queried, briefly a theologian again. ‘Believed, surely.'

  Darke shook his head. ‘Known,’ he confirmed. ‘As certainly as anything past can be known. There are unbroken lines of recorded thought back through the ages to the time when he walked amongst men.'

  Vredech was suddenly alarmed. Was he dealing with people whose religious beliefs were as primitive and simplistic as those to which Cassraw was reverting?

  'I see your doubts,’ Darke went on, ‘and I understand them. Just accept what I say for the time being. There's a body of knowledge available which will withstand your finest scholarship, believe me. We're a clear-sighted and inquiring people.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But that's by the by. Suffice it that Ishryth and his companions existed and did what they did. So also did the creature you call Ahmral. It's said that He, too, came from the same Great Heat, but even Ishryth did not know this. What He did is touched on in your Santyth. He took on human form ... or perhaps already possessed it ... and destroyed Ishryth's work wherever He could, the focus of His greatest endeavours always being the destruction of life. Men were His most apt pupils, His greatest allies.'

  'And in the Last Battle He ventured forth amid the pitiless slaughter of men by men, seeking to slay Ishryth, unarmed and at prayer. But around their Lord stood a circle of his Chosen, barbed sharp with spear and sword, and seeing it, Ahmral faltered and was brought low. And with the passing of His body so was His spirit scattered. Yet His teachings lingered.'

  Darke nodded in response to Vredech's quotation from the Santyth. ‘That is from what you call the Lesser Books, is it not?’ he said.

  'Yes,’ Vredech replied. ‘Its origins are uncertain and it's read as an allegory.'

  'It's no allegory,’ Darke said starkly. ‘It's substantially accurate.'

  Vredech frowned. Darke cut through his thinking. ‘I appreciate you've no way of knowing this, but I'm neither si
mpleton, madman nor jester, Brother Vredech,’ he said, with unexpected authority. ‘I am, however, a long way from home and the people I need to speak to about what's happening here—the same people who could show you the truth of what I'm going to tell you. And, like Tirec here, I'm also desperately afraid about what we're discovering.'

  'I don't know what to say,’ Vredech said.

  'Say nothing for the moment, just listen,’ Darke replied. As if he could no longer contain it, strain showed suddenly on his face. ‘Ask whatever questions you wish when I've finished.'

  'Very well,’ Vredech said, though with some reluctance.

  Darke began. ‘Several years ago, through a combination of evil chances and, sadly, our neglect, Ahmral rose again. Took mortal form again.’ Vredech's eyes widened but he managed to stay silent. ‘And too, His ancient lieutenants—those you call the Uleryn—were roused. They were out in the world raising armies to free Him from the bleak land where we unwittingly surrounded Him, before it was discovered what had happened.’ He paused before continuing, though whether to marshal his thoughts or to contain some powerful emotion, Vredech could not tell. ‘I'll spare you the details, but in the end, like a faint echo of earlier times, an alliance was formed and battles were fought and He and His Uleryn were destroyed.’ Then in a tone that cut through Vredech in its pain, ‘As we thought.'

  Vredech wanted to be able to laugh out loud into the silence that followed; to dismiss this rambling nonsense out of hand, to declare these two strangers obviously deranged. But Darke's telling had wrapped about him like a damp, clinging sheet, binding him, chilling him, with an awful certainty.

  'He's come again,’ he heard himself saying. It was not a question.

  'His hand is here, for sure,’ Darke said. ‘I can offer no stern logic for this, but my every instinct tells me that dreadful events are in the offing. Your Cassraw does His will. And there is a strangeness lingering visibly about the summit of your holy mountain the like of which I've never seen before. Nor Tirec, and he was born to mountains.'

  Bridgehead,’ Vredech said softly.