by Roger Taylor
'If Oklar lived, no man could face him.’ There was blistering contempt in the word ‘man'. ‘Your friend ... Hawklan,’—more contempt—‘is stricken because he stole Ethriss's sword. And you talk of the song of your scratchings. What do you know of song? You and your kind are as treacherous and faithless as ever. You must be punished for your blasphemy.'
But around the voice, doubts and debate still hovered. The carving was true, they said. Sketch it might be, but it was the work of a master craftsman. The voice denied them, swept them aside angrily.
Isloman forced his eyes to look again at his carving. Something helped him. As he gazed at it, it seemed that in Dan-Tor's eyes there gleamed a look of triumph. Isloman knew that it was no device that he had put there, but carvings invariably yielded more than their makers intended, and it should have been no great surprise. Nonetheless, the look struck deep into Isloman and released a great rage in him.
'No,’ he whispered. The strange bonds holding him faltered. ‘No,’ he said again, louder. ‘No. You may choose to be bound by your ignorance, but we will not.'
He was free.
Waves of sound billowed around him, almost in panic, but striding forward, he bent over Hawklan and unfastened the scabbard of the black sword. Then, holding the sheathed sword in his left hand, and his torch in his right, he strode into the darkness. The rear of the cave tapered into a wide tunnel.
Gavor stretched out his wings and launched himself after the retreating figure. ‘Dacu, guard Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Tirke, bring torches.'
His tone was so authoritative that the two men moved to do his bidding without question. The torches however, were hardly needed, for Isloman stopped, only a score of paces down the tunnel. Gavor landed on his shoulder.
In front of them, the tunnel divided into four others, and down these, at the faint extremity of the torchlight, could be seen more junctions.
Isloman seemed inclined to go forward, but Gavor closed his claw anxiously on his shoulder.
Isloman nodded, then held out the sword. ‘Know this, you ... sound weavers,’ he shouted. ‘Hawklan is no thief. He came from the mountains with Gavor, bearing the key and the word to open Anderras Darion...'
'Anderras Darion is open?’ Voices cut across his outburst.
'Is open? ... is open? ... is open?...’ echoed endlessly into the distance. Other sounds joined it. ‘The word ... the word ... the word...’ A whispering confusion began.
Isloman frowned and brandished the sword again. ‘This sword chose him, not he it.'
'Chose ... chose ... chose...’ joined the mounting chorus.
'Listen to me, damn you,’ Isloman shouted. ‘Oklar lives. All the Uhriel live.’ Sounds flooded out of the tunnels in front of him. He bellowed into it. ‘He too lives. Scurry through the darkness where you wish, hide where you will, but know that Sumeral is risen again, and to deny His being is to aid Him.'
Suddenly the sounds came together like a wind-tormented ocean and crashed over him in an irresistible tide. With a cry, he staggered backwards, dropping the torch and the sword.
Instinctively he closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears, but as before, this only seemed to trap the terrible sound inside him.
An impact winded him slightly, and part of his mind realized that he had fallen over. Somehow he opened his eyes. The torch lay some way from him, though it was undimmed, and the clarity its light gave to the scene seemed to stem the appalling, crushing, noise momentarily.
Rolling over, Isloman had a fleeting glimpse of his companions. Gavor, on his side, one wing flapping desperately and his wooden leg ineffectually sliding on the rocky floor as he tried to stand. Dacu and Tirke struggling with demented horses. Serian, his great head bowed low and shaking frantically from side to side. The whole scene juddered and shook as if his eyeballs were going to burst from his head. The only stillness in the scene was the dark shadow of Hawklan, resting against the wall.
He tried to rise, but somehow his legs were no longer part of him. He tried to cry out, but as his mouth opened to voice his feeble protest, the noise seized it for its own, like an awful predator and, thrusting it back inside him, began to crush every part of his body with it.
Briefly a great fear overwhelmed him as he realized he was helpless and about to die. Then, swimming in the tide that he knew was to carry him beyond, came a shimmering kaleidoscope of memories: his father and mother, and little Loman, picnicking in front of the silent, sunlit Gate of Anderras Darion; his first tingling excitement as the master carver in him began to stir; the grim and grimy-faced friendships and affections he found in the Morlider War; the welcoming grace of Hawklan, hooded and strange in the flickering firelight, as he rose to meet his wide-eyed visitors from the village. So many rich memories.
'No,’ he made his voice cry out, and this time the flood moved around it as though it were a rock. He would not die other than in honouring both the pains and joys of such a life and in struggling to oppose the power that would deny such choices to others.
His left hand closed around the scabbard of Hawklan's sword, but as he lifted it, a final wave swept over him, cold and black, and everything was gone.
* * * *
All was silence. A great, deep, motionless silence from which all things had come and which lay yet at the very heart of all things.
And a great darkness. Not the darkness of fear, but the timeless, eternal empty darkness of beginning.
Only one thing disturbed the silence and the darkness.
Consciousness.
Is this death? it thought. Is this the great bane and wonder that all life strives to avoid while in its frenzy rushing towards it?
There was no answer. The silence and the darkness were, and were not. To know of them was to hear and see them, and the silence and darkness that could be heard and seen were not the true silence and darkness.
Consciousness.
The silence and darkness shifted, like a great deep ocean touched by the distant moon.
Rock song was there; faint and distant. Rock song?
Am I dead?
I?
The silence and darkness shifted again, and the consciousness knew itself.
It separated from the silence and darkness.
I am Isloman. A carver. From Pedhavin, in Orthlund. Slain by the Alphraan defending ... Trying to defend ...
Pain.
... failing ...
More pain.
Something touched the pain and it was gone.
Rock song; faint, but close. And the smell and feel of rock. Against his face, under his hand.
His hand?
And the other hand?
It tightened around the scabbard of the black sword.
Hawklan's sword! It must not be lost!
Isloman's awareness rushed in upon him and, with a start, he rolled over and opened his eyes. A flood of images rushed in on him. Torchlight and moving shadows formed an unfocussed, ill-shaped background. But immediately in the foreground, a dark silhouette bent over him, hand extended.
Isloman raised his left arm to protect himself, but the figure caught it and laid it aside.
'It's all right, Isloman,’ Hawklan said. ‘It's all right.'
* * *
Chapter 20
Loman clattered down stairs and along corridors, struggling to keep up with the fleet-footed young apprentice who had brought him the message. At his side ran Athyr. Yrain, troubled by her foot, fell increasingly behind, accompanied by a reluctantly sympathetic Gulda.
It was a long journey, deep into the heart of the Castle, but each time they slowed down to a walk, the boy looked at them anxiously. ‘Master Ireck said I was to ask you to hurry,’ he would repeat after about a dozen more leisurely paces. Thus both men were breathing heavily when they came upon Ireck and a group of others waiting in the hall in which the weapons were being temporarily stored and which marked the entrance to the labyrinth.
Loman made straight for Ireck.
'I h
ope this is as urgent as your little messenger here made out, Ireck,’ he began crossly. He was about to tell Ireck that the meeting he had interrupted was important, but immediately regretting his initial irritability, he reached for a threat at once more dire and less serious. ‘Gulda's coming,’ he said, flicking his thumb over his shoulder.
But Ireck's face was grim, and showed a mood impervious both to Loman's anger and his levity.
Loman began again. ‘What's happened?’ he asked seriously.
'We can't get near the labyrinth, to collect the weapons,’ Ireck said simply.
'What do you mean?’ Loman said.
'Just that,’ Ireck said, frowning abstractedly at this response. ‘We can't get near it. Sounds are coming out of it ... it's spreading ... reaching out.'
Loman looked at him and then across the hall. The neat stacks of weapons stood clear and glittering against the ominous gloom of the labyrinth's columns at the far end, like a field of golden, sunlit sheaves waiting under summer thunder clouds looming darkly on a near horizon.
He scowled, disturbed by Ireck's vagueness. How could they not reach the weapons? They were only paces away. But Ireck had received a severe shock by the look of his face, and anyway was not a man given to hasty comment.
Loman cut through his own conjectures and, without comment, strode off towards the weapons. He felt Ireck's hand brush his sleeve briefly as if to stop him. ‘Be careful,’ came his anxious voice.
Halfway towards the weapons, however, Loman needed no warnings. Crawling around his feet he felt the whisperings that were characteristic of treading too near the edge of the pathway through the labyrinth.
He stopped, and the sound of his footsteps mingled with the whispering and rose up around him mockingly. He felt his chest tighten and his mouth go dry with fear.
Slowly, face contorted with expectation, he placed another foot forward. A watchful expectancy came into the sounds hissing around him, and he seemed to feel a myriad tiny fingers plucking him forward. Horrified, he withdrew his foot quickly. A strange moaning sigh filled the hall, and he heard the group behind him shuffling further away.
Very cautiously, Loman stepped back until the whispering faded away. Then he stood motionless, his flesh crawling and his hands and face clammy.
Behind him he heard the group respectfully greeting the arrival of Gulda.
Without turning round, he said, ‘Memsa,’ hoarsely. He heard the soft clump of her stick on the hall floor as she approached, then he felt her dark form appear by his side. But his eyes did not waver from the waiting columns.
'What is it?’ he said, still without turning.
Gulda moved forward a little, tapping her stick thoughtfully on the floor, then she walked to and fro across the hall just in front of him, her head craning forward, listening intently.
After two such patrols she clicked her tongue, then, without comment, returned to Ireck and the others. Loman moved after her, walking backwards for a part of the way, loath to turn his back on this frightening new manifestation.
'Are you all right?’ Gulda said to Ireck.
'Yes, thank you, Memsa,’ he replied. ‘I think so. But it was a nasty shock. I just walked straight into it.’ He slapped his hands together to demonstrate the impact. ‘I can't remember how I got out now. I must have staggered back.'
Gulda looked at him carefully and took his arm gently. ‘It'll take you a little time to recover fully,’ she said. ‘Perhaps a day or so. But the effects will fade, believe me.’ Ireck nodded, almost reluctantly, Loman thought.
'When were you here last?’ Gulda went on.
'Two days ago,’ Ireck replied after a moment's thought. ‘We moved those from over there.’ He pointed to a wide gap in the nearest row of weapons. ‘There was nothing wrong then that I noticed, though I didn't go near the labyrinth.'
Gulda nodded. ‘Has anything strange happened here recently?’ she asked. ‘Anything at all.'
Ireck shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. Then, as an afterthought, ‘There were some children in here when I arrived. I'd forgotten that, but they...'
Loman caught Gulda's eye. ‘Children?’ he said, interrupting. ‘Whose?'
Ireck nodded and then shrugged. ‘I didn't see them,’ he said, adding, slightly flustered, ‘Well I did and I didn't. They were playing in here, then they hid when I came in, and scuttled off when I was distract...’ He stopped suddenly and his eyes opened in realization. Slowly he pointed towards the centre of the stacked weapons.
'They were over there,’ he said anxiously. ‘Right over there. Crouching down.’ He turned to Gulda. ‘How ... ?'
She squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘What distracted you, Ireck?’ she asked.
Ireck told her of the voice, and Gulda questioned him gently. No, he'd no idea who it was, or where he'd gone, or what he'd wanted. But the position of the playing children dominated his concern. ‘It ... this change ... must have happened immediately after they left,’ he concluded. ‘They couldn't possibly have been so far into the hall otherwise. But I didn't hear or see anything.'
Gulda affected indifference. ‘Children are children,’ she said offhandedly. Then, briskly, ‘Re-order your day, Ireck. You'll move nothing from here today.'
'But what are we going to do, Memsa?’ Ireck asked anxiously. ‘What's happened? We need more weapons. I doubt we've enough upstairs for all our training needs, and even with these here there won't be enough for any large distribution. We have to be able to get into the Armoury. We...'
Gulda patted his arm affectionately, and turned him towards the exit. ‘Yes, you're right, Ireck,’ she said. ‘We do have a serious problem here, but it won't affect us immediately, and not all our training is weapons training, is it? The important thing is that we mustn't allow this to interfere with our overall intention, must we?'
Ireck nodded, but looked doubtful. He folded his arms as if to protect himself from something. ‘It's a bad feeling, Memsa,’ he said. ‘The Castle turning against us like this.'
Gulda's face became stern. ‘It's not the Castle, Ireck,’ she said forcefully. ‘Trust me. The Castle's protecting us as it always has and always will. Never think otherwise.'
She turned to the rest of the group, before Ireck could voice any doubts. ‘I think I know what's happened here,’ she said. ‘But I have to think about it. And I have to talk with Loman. When that's done, then we'll all talk and decide what to do. In the meantime, we must continue with our work. Nothing must deflect us from that.’ Her piercing blue eyes scanned her listeners, defying any argument.
As the group left, she instructed Athyr to accompany Yrain to Tirilen. ‘The silly girl's foot needs attention,’ she said. ‘And there's nothing you can do here for the time being. Tell Tirilen that it's important I have Yrain fit and well again as soon as possible. I'm afraid we may have a rough time ahead of us, and I want no weak vessels with us.'
Then she turned to Yrain. ‘Last chance, girl,’ she said with a sudden power and grimness that made even Loman start. ‘You do exactly what Tirilen says. And start now learning to listen. Either that or school yourself to the idea of making your contribution from your village infantry group.’ Yrain's brow furrowed and her mouth became a tight, rebellious line. Gulda bent forward towards her, blue eyes terrible. ‘You should know by now I don't speak just to hear my own voice, girl. Your scatterbrained notions of independence are going to get someone killed eventually. Someone, perhaps, that you're fond of. Someone, perhaps, that I'm fond of, and...’ Her voice faltered slightly. ‘I've lost enough already. We all stand on each others’ shoulders round here. In future, if you've any bright ideas of your own, spit them out so that we can all debate them, otherwise be under no illusions, you are out.'
The last three words were articulated slowly and came out like dagger thrusts. Yrain, already pale due to the pain in her foot, went paler still under Gulda's onslaught. Her mouth worked vaguely, as if she were searching for words, but all she managed was a very faint, ‘Yes, Mem
sa,’ before reaching out to Athyr for support.
'That was a bit severe, wasn't it?’ Loman said when the couple had left, Yrain leaning heavily on Athyr and looking very young.
'No,’ Gulda said, brusquely. ‘She hasn't the judgement to use that kind of initiative yet. She could be a considerable asset, but if she can't learn what it means to be part of a team, as well as being an individual, she'll be a monumental liability. You can't fight properly if you're wondering what someone like that's doing instead of guarding your back, you know that. If she doesn't buck up, she goes.'
A flick of her hand ended the debate. Loman was not unrelieved. Gulda was right about Yrain, but he found the making of such decisions difficult and was quite willing to let Gulda carry the burden. He knew too, though, that the scene he had just witnessed was also to highlight for him this particular weakness in his leadership. He too must learn to accept the truly harsh responsibilities of his position.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the memory of Yrain's pain came to him briefly, then, dragging his mind back to the present, he turned to the labyrinth and said, ‘It's the Alphraan, isn't it? Children—little people, using sound like that. What have they done? And how?'
Gulda did not reply at first, but walked forward until Loman heard the sound of the labyrinth stirring. Then, as before, she prowled back and forth across the hall, as if making out a boundary or testing for a way through.
Cautiously he joined her. ‘You don't ask why?’ she said, stopping in front of him.
Loman replied without hesitation. ‘They said they'd oppose us, and now they are doing so,’ he said. ‘Though why they should, defeats me. And I never dreamt they'd come down out of the mountains to do it. I thought they'd carry on as before, just interfering with our mountain training.'
Gulda nodded. ‘We misjudged them,’ she said. ‘And now they've struck right to our heart.'
Loman frowned. ‘What can we do?’ he said. ‘We're lost if we can't gain access to the Armoury.'
'Can't we make the weapons we need?’ Gulda asked.