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

by Roger Taylor

  Andawyr nodded. ‘Above all to search for him. He is Ethriss as I live. And he is vulnerable.'

  He paused. ‘He must be found, or we're all lost.'

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Despite his immediate concern about the long journey to Anderras Darion which lay ahead, and his continuing concern about Hawklan, Isloman found the first part of the trek relaxing and pleasant.

  There being no great urgency in their errand, the party was able to travel at a steady and unhurried pace for several days as they moved generally southwards, leaving Eldric's estate and passing through Arinndier's, Hreldar's and finally Darek's.

  Maintaining the quiet secrecy of their departure from Eldric's, they travelled through the hilly grasslands that skirted the mountains, in preference to taking a somewhat easier route through the more fertile and populous plains below. They had no difficulty in avoiding such few people as worked this harsher terrain.

  Only as they were about to move from Hreldar's estate to Darek's did they encounter any difficulty when, passing through a forest, a group of Hreldar's High Guards emerged suddenly and surrounded them.

  'Whoops,’ said Gavor, waking with a start.

  The Guards had a driven and stern look about them and would have detained the group had not Isloman eventually shown them the document that Eldric had provided for such contingencies. It did not identify them, but it gave them unequivocal right of way and was signed by all four Lords. Suspiciously, the High Guards parted to let them through, but kept them in sight until they were well clear of Hreldar's estate.

  As they rode away, Tirke gave voice. ‘They'd no right to stop ordinary travellers like that,’ he blustered. ‘It's disgraceful. Lord Eldric would never have allowed such a thing. When we get back I'll...'

  Dacu scowled. ‘Shut up, Tirke,’ he said angrily. ‘Until you've something worthwhile to say.'

  The young man looked set for an equally harsh response, but seeing the expression on Dacu's face he thought better of it and dropped back a little way sulkily.

  'You seem upset,’ Isloman said to Dacu after a while.

  Dacu looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I am, in a way. I was just thinking. Hreldar's High Guard used to be a fine troop once, then he turned them into virtually a purely ceremonial group. Quite a lot of Lords did actually ... some kind of reaction after the Morlider War we thought at the time.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Now we can lay it all at Dan-Tor's feet, can't we? Anyway, we used to have some fun laughing at their fancy liveries and silly drill displays whenever they appeared at the tournaments, but now...’ He shrugged unhappily.

  'They've changed a little?’ Isloman suggested.

  Dacu nodded. ‘They've changed a lot,’ he said. ‘And it's sad really. On the whole I'd rather have them as objects of mild entertainment than like that.’ He inclined his head towards the now distant forest where the encounter had occurred.

  Dacu's tone brought an old memory back to Isloman. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I've not seen people looking like that since the height of the War. They looked very grim ... weary inside.'

  'Over-training,’ Dacu said unequivocally, his face concerned. ‘Just another reaction, I suppose. Too far one way, then too far the other. Balance is a difficult thing.'

  Isloman agreed with this diagnosis, but both men knew that they could do nothing about it and that little was to be gained by fretting over the idea. ‘It'll settle down,’ Isloman said reassuringly, then in an attempt to draw Dacu from his passing melancholy he appealed to his professional judgement. ‘Mind you, they were quite impressive.'

  The device worked. Dacu pursed his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said, relaxing. ‘Not bad at all.'

  'Not bad,’ said Gavor, mockingly. ‘You never even saw them coming, dear boy.'

  Dacu eyed the bird narrowly. He was about to make the excuse that they weren't actually in enemy territory when he caught the amusement in Isloman's face.

  'Yes, all right. I'll admit that,’ he said. ‘And they hedged us in very neatly. To be honest, I'd never have thought that Hreldar's bunch could have been made so capable so quickly. It was a commendable effort. Still,’ he added critically, ‘they should've had their archers ready in case we made a dash for it.'

  Gavor yawned disparagingly. ‘Do you want me to have a look around?’ he asked, condescendingly.

  'No thank you, Gavor,’ Dacu replied, courteously, but with an ironic edge in his voice. ‘You husband what's left of your flagging energies for the mountains, old fellow.'

  Gavor, who was indeed beginning to nod again, opened one eye and examined him narrowly. ‘It's no trouble, dear boy,’ he said menacingly through his closed beak.

  Dacu chuckled.

  However, Isloman noted, Dacu became noticeably more alert as they moved through Darek's estate.

  'Don't worry,’ Isloman said, patting his pouch. ‘We've got Lord Eldric's pass, and we're still among friends, aren't we?'

  Dacu looked straight at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But we—I—made a mistake in that forest. I should've seen them coming. We'll have to sharpen up. There's no reason to think Dan-Tor will have men out looking for us in the mountains but I'd rather our safety rested on our wits than a piece of paper. It's unlikely to impress a Mathidrin patrol, is it?'

  Isloman concurred. The Goraidin was correct. Should they have to fight or flee, he was burdened with Hawklan, and Tirke was of unknown and slightly suspect mettle. Eldric's last comment about the young man had been equivocal. ‘He's a good enough soldier, and true enough deep down, I'm sure. He's quietened down a bit these last few months and been a great help to Jal, but...’ His nose wrinkled uncertainly. ‘He needs some rough edges knocking off yet. See what you can do on the way.'

  Avoidance would thus have to dominate their progress. True, Gavor would be invaluable, but it had become an unofficial rule among the Goraidin that, except in emergencies, he should be used only for confirmation of their own observations.

  'Where will we be when you leave?’ Yatsu had asked some time ago. ‘Lost, Isloman. Lost, if we start relying on Gavor for every little observation. We're all slow enough after all these years, without voluntarily neglecting our basic skills.’ Isloman could only agree with this sentiment although Gavor subsequently began to affect an injured disdain from time to time.

  Eventually the group came to the extreme south of Darek's estate, where, in a pre-arranged cache, they found two pack horses and extensive supplies. Dacu looked at the supplies appreciatively. ‘These should see us through the mountains, provided winter doesn't come too early,’ was his immediate reaction. However he began to check through them meticulously.

  Gavor ‘helped'. As Dacu and Isloman spread the supplies out on the ground, he walked proprietorially among them, turning over for detailed scrutiny such packages and boxes as took his fancy, and wantonly discarding the less interesting ones.

  Every so often he would find something of special interest and would execute a small hopping dance, saying, ‘Ah, party time.'

  Finally he alighted on Dacu's head, nodding and muttering knowingly as the Goraidin checked each item for the last time. Dacu glanced at Isloman, but the carver shrugged off any responsibility for the bird. In the end Dacu reached up to dislodge him, only to receive a sharp blow on the back of his hand for his pains.

  'Careful, dear boy. You're making me lose count,’ came the reproach.

  When finally the supplies were packed to Dacu's, and Gavor's, satisfaction, Dacu walked to the top of a nearby rise and looked up at the peaks dominating their position. Directly south but still high above them lay the entrance to the pass that would set them on their way to Orthlund.

  He stood for a long time in silence, then he looked at the sky, and sniffed the air. Isloman joined him. ‘Any problem?’ he asked.

  The Goraidin shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing special.’ He paused. ‘There's a chilliness about, though. I think we'll trim our rations. Just in case.'r />
  Isloman looked at him quizzically. Sunlight fell warm on his face and bare arms and etched the mountain peaks sharp and clear against a blue sky. It was a splendid summer day with no hint of winter that he could feel. Yet who was he to dispute with this seasoned warrior travelling in his own land?

  'Whatever you say,’ he said. ‘It'll do no harm.’ He patted his stomach. ‘We've been living well enough of late.’ Then, nodding towards the mountains, he said, ‘Shall we go? We may as well make the most of this weather while we can, and I'll wager it'll take us a large part of the day just to reach that valley.'

  His estimate was almost correct and the evening found them camping only a little way into the valley after having spent the day toiling steadily up the long slope that led to its entrance.

  As he had done on all other evenings, Dacu spread out his map and, in the gentle torchlight, they worked out where they should travel the following day. Isloman knew that Dacu was familiar with the earlier part of the route and that this was largely for the benefit of Tirke. He was impressed by Dacu's subtle patience. As with most things associated with the Goraidin, though, he found it was double-edged.

  'The lad's unsure,’ Dacu said to Isloman sympathetically, as they continued their journey the following day. ‘And he's a long way from his own fellows. He's bound to be a bit spiky. It's important he learns as much as we can teach him on this trip.’ Then, without any change in tone, came the harsh realism. ‘Besides, if we get snow-bound we'll need no passengers.'

  He was less impressed by Dacu's insistence that he and Tirke should keep their own journals of their daily travels. ‘This is vital,’ Dacu said, before any protests could be raised. ‘It'll sharpen your powers of observation, and the three books together will be invaluable to any ... future travellers.'

  Isloman noted the hesitation. ‘Such as an army?’ he asked.

  'Such as an army,’ Dacu confirmed, offering him a blank book. ‘Or anyone who finds our bodies,’ he added, with a laugh.

  As each day passed, the terrain became more difficult and they rose steadily higher and higher. For increasingly longer periods, Dacu decided that they should walk rather than ride.

  As they rose, the wind became stronger and more persistent and, when it shone, the sun less warm. Isloman became anxious about Hawklan. ‘It's difficult to judge whether he's hot or cold,’ he said, placing his hand on Hawklan's forehead. ‘We're moving and keeping warm, but he's doing nothing. And this wind's deceptive.'

  Dacu examined Hawklan similarly. ‘He's unchanged,’ was his conclusion. ‘Don't fret, Isloman. if Hylland's never seen anyone like this, then no one has. I think if he was going to die it would've happened at the Palace gate or on your way to Eldric's. I doubt a little heat or cold is going to injure him.'

  Isloman nodded his head, but seemed doubtful. ‘Don't fret,’ Dacu repeated, earnestly. ‘You're probably too close to him to see clearly.’ He blew out a noisy breath. ‘I haven't mentioned this to anyone because ... well, because it's of no real value in terms of nursing him, but every time I look at him, my guts tell me he's protecting himself in some way.'

  He leaned forward and looked into Hawklan's face. ‘I know I've said this before, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But I don't think you were listening properly then, and you might be now. Thanks again for fixing my shoulder. It's fine now, and you taught me a lot.’ He rotated his shoulder to demonstrate the point. ‘If it's humanly possible, we'll get you back to your home, you know that, don't you? You can come back to us when you feel your friends and your own castle walls around you.'

  Isloman listened in silence.

  The next day, they came upon a broad valley, sunlit and sheltered. Across its floor, swathes of tiny white and yellow flowers decorated a soft springy turf. Wisps of grey cloud, like venerable, blowing manes, stretched out from the peaks of the mountains that shouldered into one another on either side to keep out the searching wind.

  As they rode down into it, Dacu reined his horse to a halt. ‘This is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Last time I was here, it was winter and almost impassable. I never dreamt it would look like this in summer.’ He swung down from his horse. ‘We'll walk,’ he announced. ‘Let the horses roam free. To burden another creature on a day like this would be an affront.'

  Isloman laughed outright. ‘I don't know about me being too close to Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But you sound exactly like him. I think you've been smitten with an attack of poetry. I hope it's not contagious—Tirke might catch it.'

  Tirke looked at the two laughing men, uncertain whether to be indignant or not, but their good nature and the quiet calm of the valley forbade any such rancour and he too dismounted.

  Gavor said nothing, but took wing and soared up towards the protecting peaks. As the party wended its way along the valley, he flew high above them in wide graceful circles, resting on the warm flower-scented breezes that rose up to him. Occasionally, he tumbled over and over, falling precipitately out of the sky and laughing to himself.

  The valley, however, was a brief interlude in what was proving, as expected, to be a relentless and hard journey. Tentatively, Tirke began to grumble. He wished it weren't so hot—or so cold. He fidgeted with his various jackets and tunics—took his gloves off—put them back on—wished the wind wouldn't blow in his face—or down his ear—wished there weren't so many flies—wished they were back in the valley—or in Orthlund—wished ...

  Dacu had learnt early in their journey that this weed was well-rooted in Tirke's personality, and he took the opportunity to grind a ruthless heel into it before it could blossom fully.

  'I've told you once, Tirke,’ he said, quietly, but very resolutely. ‘Don't speak if you've nothing to contribute. The rule is, if you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it then try and get used to it. Above all, don't fret about those things you can't change, they'll cloud your mind and get you killed one day. Just concentrate on being here, and on what's going on around you.'

  Stung, despite Dacu's quiet manner, Tirke's lip curled up and he opened his mouth to speak, but a brief conspiratorial shake of the head from Isloman changed his reply to a simple, if resentful, ‘Sorry, Dacu.'

  Then the clouds closed in, obscuring the distant mountains and truncating those nearby. Occasionally it sank down into the valleys to transform great open vistas into grey, silent and damp caves.

  And the rain began.

  As he fastened his cloak about him and pulled up his hood, Dacu looked significantly at Tirke. The young man affected a calmness he did not feel and copied the Goraidin's demeanour. Dacu winked at Isloman.

  It rained intermittently for several days. Sometimes the rain would come down vertically through a thick obscuring mist, sometimes it would swirl and lash about as if it were trying to escape some driving demon. Small streams became fulsome and noisy, rushing underfoot or tumbling down from the heights above. The turf they walked on became sodden and clinging, and the rocks became blatantly treacherous.

  Each night, after they had camped, they managed to cheer and warm themselves around the radiant stones that they had brought, and Dacu quietly instructed Tirke in the subtler arts of moving through the mountains in such conditions. Again, the man's patience impressed Isloman as he watched him reaching through Tirke's brittle façade to the truer man beneath. Each night also, Dacu made amendments to his map, which was becoming increasingly more inaccurate as they moved away from Fyorlund, and the three men wrote their journals of the day's travelling. Hawklan sat as silent witness to these proceedings.

  As the days passed, the small caravan moved steadily through the grey dampness, but it became increasingly difficult for them to keep dry and warm. Tirke descended into a surly, repressed silence, and Isloman became more anxious about Hawklan. Dacu too became concerned. The weather was worse than might have been expected but the effect on the morale of his charges seemed disproportionate. And these were early days yet. There was worse terrain to come and, almost certainly, worse weather.


  'We must try and find some proper shelter for a while,’ he said eventually. ‘Somewhere where we can dry off thoroughly and check the supplies. Keep your eyes open for any caves.'

  The remark was addressed to both Isloman and Tirke, but it was directed primarily at Isloman, whose shadow vision was most likely to penetrate the shifting greyness that came and went around them.

  Ironically, however, it was Tirke who spotted a shadow at the head of a scree slope towards the evening of the next day. Following his pointing finger, Isloman confirmed his discovery and the three men headed towards it as enthusiastically as the loose scree would allow. As they approached it, however, their euphoria faded. Apparently recently exposed by a rock fall, the cave seemed to be little more than a rather shallow alcove.

  'Still, it's better than nothing,’ said Dacu, lighting a torch. ‘Let's have a closer look.'

  As he stepped inside he found that the shallow appearance of the cave was caused by a large boulder near the entrance. Stepping around it he held out the torch to reveal a spacious chamber with a dusty floor and walls which, apart from a few damp cracks, were quite dry. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘In fact, excellent. Well done, young man. Come on in. And bring the horses.'

  Isloman carried Hawklan in as bidden, but Tirke hesitated just inside the entrance, pretending to adjust his horse's bridle. He peered into the darkness where the chamber narrowed into a tunnel at its far end. ‘Are you sure nothing lives in there?’ he asked, as casually as he could manage.

  Dacu chuckled to himself and increased the light of his torch. The darkness receded along the tunnel a little. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘The horses wouldn't have come anywhere near it if there's been anything wild here. Besides, look.’ He pointed to the dusty floor. ‘No signs of tracks, or of bedding or nesting materials. Nothing lives here.’ A small beetle scuttled away from the torchlight. ‘Nothing big anyway. Come on in.'

  Still uncertain, Tirke led the horses into the cave and began unharnessing them. Dacu joined him, while Isloman began removing Hawklan's wet cloak and checking to see how much water had soaked through to him. After a moment he pulled a face of appreciative surprise. ‘I wish my cloak was this good,’ he said. ‘He's bone dry. Not even clammy.'