The Waking of Orthlund [Book Three of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  However, in the shade of some of the windows Isloman could see Arinndier and the other Lords, making their silent farewells, together with Varak and Yatsu and such other of the Goraidin who were not out in the field.

  Distant and dark-shrouded though they were, Isloman looked at each in turn and then raised his arm in a broad salute to them all.

  Then he turned to his own escort; the Goraidin Dacu and the High Guard, Tirke. Both nodded to him.

  Carefully he put his arms around Hawklan and took Serian's reins. ‘Let's go back to Anderras Darion, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Let's go home.'

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  When the Guardians, Sphaeera, Enartion, and Theowart, had formed the world as a celebration of their being, they found such joy in it that they bade the First Comer Ethriss to create others so that they in their turn might celebrate the miracle of being.

  And with his three soul-friends, Ethriss created many others and taught them the Guardians’ ways and gave them of their power so that they could create and take joy in being.

  And amongst these was man.

  But Sumeral, the Great Corrupter, saw the flaw that must be in all things, and hated it and all the creations of the Guardians, especially those of Ethriss. And He saw that man was possessed of greater power of creation than any other. So as the Guardians slept, He came to him and with soft words said, ‘Blessed are the gifts of Ethriss that bring such joy unto yourself and your neighbour.’ And He passed on.

  But in the word ‘neighbour’ He laid a subtle snare, and discontent was born, and men began to seek him out, saying, ‘You are wise. Tell us, are we as blessed as our neighbours?'

  And Sumeral did not answer, but showed them the gift of the power of creation that Ethriss had given them, and said, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.’ Which was both true and false, for though joy may lie in creating, it is in the totality of the creating and the created object that the true joy of being lies.

  And men found indeed that joy was to be found in the power of creating, but under His guidance their creations were flawed, and knowing there was no true joy in them, men's discontent grew, and they sought Him out further.

  But He dismissed them, saying again. ‘I have told you. In the use of this power will your joy be increased. Trouble me not. Create yet more.’ Though privily He would say to some, dropping His soft, sweet words into the gaping maw of their desire, ‘If your neighbour's creations are more joyous, perhaps it is a flaw in the way of things that should be mended.'

  And when they asked how this might be done, He said yet again, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.'

  And looking on the perfection of His beauty, many men believed Him, and began to gather power to themselves not only to create yet more of His flawed designs but to mar the creations of their neighbours. And their discontent grew beyond measure, until the time came when many were utterly lost in bewilderment and followed His words blindly.

  Thus His stain spread across the world, and the air and the sea and the earth became fouled with the poisons of His works, and many humbler creatures were slaughtered utterly. And He led His followers to create war, and wage it upon those who remembered the Guardians and the ways of true joy, for His own discontent grew also.

  But in His arrogance and hatred He forgot the Guardians, until the clamour of war awoke them and they opposed Him. And the conflict was terrible, for men were now as skilled in the use of Ethriss's gift of creation as they were blind to its true purpose, and there was no limit to their awful skills.

  Yet Sumeral feared Ethriss and the Guardians, knowing that in each of those who followed Him there lay still an echo of the truth of Ethriss's way and that the light of knowledge and truth must eventually destroy Him. So He took His three most cruel regents and taught to each a different portion of His skill in the use of the Power that had come from the Great Searing. And though He knew that their lust and folly would prevent their conspiring to overthrow Him, yet He kept from them the secret of life so that that which they desired the most, to be forever, would be always at His whim. And thus they were bound to Him utterly.

  These three He called His Uhriel: Creost, to whom he gave power over the seas and lakes and rivers, to bind Enartion; Dar Hastuin, to whom he gave power over the air and the skies, to bind Sphaeera; and Oklar, His closest and most favoured, to whom he gave power over the land and the mountains, to bind Theowart.

  And when Ethriss learned that Sumeral had so instructed and bound these men, he knew that all being could be lost, for now the Guardians must oppose the Uhriel, and could no longer aid those few armies of men that stood against Sumeral's vast and cruel legions.

  So, silently, he sought amongst the wisest of those who opposed Sumeral and taught them to understand the Power of the Great Searing so that they might learn further, unaided, and with their own skills grow to aid both the Guardians and the armies of the Great Alliance of Kings and Peoples.

  And these he called Cadwanwr and together they were called the Cadwanol.

  And silently, with the aid of Theowart, he built the Caves of Cadwanen for their home, a fortress under the mountains, so complex and intricate that its labyrinth of chambers and passageways could have swallowed an entire army and left the occupants undisturbed. Though in its deeper parts he came upon a mystery of which he spoke to no one save to say that the caves were without end.

  For their further protection however, the Cadwanol filled the caves with myriad traps and deceptions created from the Old Power, as Ethriss had taught them, so that even he could not enter readily without their will. And he was pleased.

  And in great secrecy, protected at first by Ethriss and then by their own skills, the Cadwanol learned and grew and prospered, aiding both the Guardians and the armies of men. And for many generations Sumeral was ignorant of the strange presence that so constantly disturbed His plans.

  And when He learned of them, it was too late, for they were both cunning and powerful and through their efforts He could not then turn from His conflict with Ethriss nor could His Uhriel turn from their conflict with the Guardians.

  Thus did the Wars of the First Coming become, for their greater part, the wars of men.

  Yet the most terrible battles fought by the Cadwanol came in the aftermath of the destruction of Sumeral. For in His deep plunderings He had released from the rocks many strange creatures. Some, it was whispered, as fell as He and even older, though lacking His great power. Those He could win to His service, He did; and those He could bind, He did; but the remainder He ignored, trampling them underfoot or handing them to others for sport.

  Thus when His spirit was struck down by Ethriss, and His body by the Fyordyn, many of these creatures fled back into the depths. Some to hide in fear, some to seek their old home and forget the horrors of the world they had been thrust into. Some to wait His Second Coming.

  * * * *

  Only the arrival of the felci saved the Cadwanol from destruction.

  Appearing mysteriously one day from somewhere beneath the habited depths of the Caves of Cadwanen, one passed through the many traps and deceptions that should have bound it, and presented itself to the Cadwanol, who were celebrating His passing.

  Long-haired and long-tailed, with a sinuous body and a neck that ended in a pointed, inquisitive head, it looked more like a river creature than a cave dweller. But it waited for no curious outbursts from the assembled gathering.

  Rearing up on its hind legs it said. ‘Defend yourselves, wise men,’ in its dark, and what was to become unmistakably characteristic voice, edged even in that grim moment with a touch of mockery. ‘His allies live and gnaw at your roots.'

  Then it turned and left before the Cadwanwr could recover. As they called after it in confusion, it turned and said. ‘Hurry, or they'll be gnawing your bones soon. And my people are dying. We need your help and you ours.'

  Then followed a terrible carnage in the uncharted depths of the Caves, as t
he Cadwanwr found themselves fighting the blighted remnants of Sumeral's fouler allies.

  They came in great numbers, fighting with fang and claw, sword and axe, and His terrible weapons of fire. The felci in their turn opposed them with fang and claw, and the Cadwanwr with sword and spear, but in the dark and treacherous passageways they could not stay the onslaught.

  Then, in their last extremity, their leader gave his life by using the fire of the Old Power.

  For the close confined tunnels were choked with His creatures, and as he sent out the fire, it curled and flared around, and returning, consumed him. But as he perished he was transformed and he fell upon the enemy, sending a great light blazing through the ancient darkness, destroying those it fell upon and scattering the remnants, gibbering and blinded, into the darkness.

  And as their leader's lingering sacrifice faded, the Cadwanwr pursued the retreating creatures, slaying many, until silence filled the caves again.

  Then, saddened, they returned to their Caves and began to seal them against the return of such horrors. It was no light task, and they were assailed many times before the work was completed, and though each time they were attacked with diminishing force, their losses were sore.

  It was many years before the depths were deemed to be free of these grim remnants of Sumeral's long reign.

  * * * *

  Oslang frowned a little as with a pass of his hand he sealed the heavy door. Andawyr noted the expression but made no comment; no one liked wandering about so deep below the mountains. They were very nearly at the lowest habited level of the Caves, and though nothing had stirred in the outer depths for generations, the bitter aftermath of the Wars of the First Coming were etched deep into the lore of the Cadwanol.

  No bright summer light was brought down here by mirror stones. Only torches lit the passages and rooms and, bright though they were, they seemed to struggle against the oppressive mass of the mountains above.

  Yet, paradoxically, the sensation that Andawyr and many of the others felt at this depth was not one of being burdened from above, but of being exposed, as if at a great height above some strange mysterious world into which a careless step might plunge them.

  The two men walked for some way along a bare passage. One day, Andawyr thought, as he invariably did on the rare occasions he came down so deep, we must face this strangeness and push out further and deeper. But at the same time he set the problem comfortably low on his list of priorities. Then they were at their destination. Stopping outside a sealed door, Andawyr hesitated, but Oslang stepped forward purposefully and opened it.

  The room was circular with a wide column at its centre. From the far side of the column, an uncertain blue radiance spilled round into the whiteness of the torchlight.

  Andawyr grimaced and hesitated again. Oslang pushed him gently. Still reluctant, Andawyr moved round the column towards the source of the blue light.

  It came from an alcove set into the column. Inside the alcove lay the sinister bird that Hawklan had inadvertently brought into Andawyr's hidden quarters at the Gretmearc. One of the myriad eyes of the Vrwystin A Goleg—Oklar's creature.

  It was sitting motionless, but as Andawyr moved closer it burst abruptly into a frenzy of activity, its eyes and beak wide and its wing and claws beating frantically. The blue light surrounding it swirled.

  Though no sound came out of the blue depths, both Oslang and Andawyr stepped back involuntarily, Andawyr lifting his arm across his face as if for protection, his eyes wide with fear.

  Then, like an echo of the bird's reaction, Andawyr's face twisted into an expression of seemingly uncontrollable rage and he levelled his hand at the demented creature. A stream of white light came from it, striking the bird and sending it crashing into the back of the alcove where it continued to struggle desperately. Light still streaming from his hands, Andawyr stepped forward as if to reach in and throttle the bird.

  For a moment Oslang stood stunned, then he seized Andawyr's arm powerfully. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, his voice hoarse with fear and disbelief.

  The white light faltered, and Andawyr rounded on him angrily. But with a further effort, Oslang managed to drag the smaller man away. The light faded completely and almost immediately Andawyr's face became apologetic. He put his hand to his head. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘That awful—thing—I just want to...’ He drove his fist into his palm.

  'I understand,’ Oslang said. Then, with a faint smile: ‘You always were inclined to be a little physical.'

  Most of the tension faded from Andawyr's face and he too smiled, though sadly. ‘No, you don't,’ he said. ‘And I pray you never do.’ He paused. ‘Why do you think I've put off coming down here so long?’ Oslang did not reply; Andawyr had made little or no effort to hide his fear. Andawyr's expression became distant. ‘I'm afraid that the Slip from the Gretmearc will trouble my dreams for a long time yet,’ he said softly.

  Oslang looked at his friend. This was the first time he had made any personal reference to his explosive and terrifying return journey from the Gretmearc. Without exception, the brothers of the Cadwanol had been concerned about his silence.

  'You faced the creature as it truly is, in the Slip?’ Oslang asked hesitantly.

  Andawyr nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘For the heartbeat that took, but...'

  'Some heartbeats can last a thousand years,’ Oslang offered.

  Andawyr nodded again, his face distressed. Then his jaw became determined. ‘But I faced it. I was frightened beyond belief. I still am. But I didn't flinch from it. I saw it, became it, and controlled it, until it too knew fear, I'm sure.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘The Slip seemed to last forever. Dreadful.’ He shuddered. ‘I felt I was becoming so weak. If it hadn't been for Hawklan's sustaining touch, I don't...’ He did not finish the sentence. ‘And then suddenly I was here.'

  'You were indeed,’ Oslang said, eyes wide and eyebrows high. ‘Every warning in the place screaming out.’ He lifted his hands protectively at the memory.

  But Andawyr was not listening. ‘I became it,’ he repeated. ‘Saw what it saw. Heard what it heard. So much and in so many places—I wonder...'

  The two men looked at one another silently. Slowly Oslang's eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ he said softly, anticipating his leader's thinking. ‘It's a corruption. We can't use it ourselves. That's His way. A trap baited with the lure of power for a good cause. It would bind us in some way, you know that.'

  Andawyr pulled a wry face. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But it sees and hears many things in many places and we're woefully short of information. We've far greater knowledge of the Old Power than our forebears.'

  'True,’ Oslang said. ‘But that doesn't mean we're any wiser. He probably knows more as well. For all we know, you might have been allowed to capture this’—he nodded towards the still struggling bird—‘this thing, just so that you could be so tempted.'

  The flickering blue light reflected on Andawyr's face. He scowled. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I doubt it. Oklar wouldn't sacrifice such sight for any prize.'

  'Oklar will do what He tells him,’ Oslang said, bluntly. ‘And the binding of the Cadwanol would be no small prize.’ He suddenly raised his voice. ‘Good grief, you yourself pointed out how we've grown inclined to sit and wait for news to be brought to us. Who knows how that came about? What would we become if we controlled or thought we controlled this?'

  'Better informed,’ Andawyr said, his brow furrowed.

  'Stop it, you're frightening me,’ Oslang said heatedly. He jabbed his finger at the bird. ‘With this bound here, Oklar's as blind as we are. And I'd rather us both be blind than risk sharing his sight.’ His voice fell. ‘Even if we could use it, it would be like a crutch. It would atrophy what's left of our true inner sight, and it would fail us in the end. You know that, don't you?'

  For a moment, Andawyr seemed about to flare up at this opposition, but Oslang's gaze allowed no such excess. Gradually, the little man's face relaxed an
d he slumped slightly. ‘Yes, I suppose you're right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I'm sorry. It was just a passing thought.’ Then he stuck out his bottom lip pensively. ‘Even so, we may have no alternative one day,’ he said quietly.

  Oslang grunted. ‘We'll talk about it on that day, then,’ he said firmly, laying a reassuring hand on Andawyr's shoulder.

  He was relieved. Their brief confrontation had been oddly harrowing, but at last Andawyr had voiced his hitherto unspoken fears and desires, and that was highly significant. Mundanely, he said, ‘Now perhaps you'd like to do what you came here for, and check our work. You've been putting it off for long enough and I've been very uneasy about it. We can't afford the risk of it escaping, especially today.'

  Andawyr nodded and began looking round the alcove intently. The bird's frenzy heightened, but he ignored it. Then, seemingly satisfied, he turned his attention to the rest of the room, starting with the door.

  As he reached it, there was a scratching noise and a voice called his name. He opened the door and the sinuous brown form of a felci slid in.

  'Kristabel,’ Andawyr said delightedly, kneeling down on the hard floor. With her tail as a counterbalance, the felci stood on her hind legs so that she was face to face with him. She cocked her head on one side, then reaching out with her forepaw she took his nose between her powerful claws and shook it gently.

  'Andawyr,’ she said, her voice deep and rich, and full of affection, though slightly ironic. ‘I thought the nose was familiar.’ Then her lip went back, revealing her formidable, rock-chewing teeth, and her silvery chattering laugh filled the room.

  Andawyr gently cupped her head in his hands. ‘Are you better?’ he said anxiously.

  'Yes,’ she drawled, disparagingly. ‘A lot of fuss about nothing. I've been rocked worse than that. It was only a thin vein I went through, that's why I didn't notice it until it was too late.'