by Roger Taylor
He shook his head in self-reproach at this unexpected emotion, then gratefully lowered his pack on to the ground, and flexed his arms and shoulders. Athyr did the same. Gulda plumped herself down on a rock nearby and folded her hands over the top of her stick, though Loman noticed that, as previously, she seemed to be quite unaffected by the climb.
Tirilen, however, did not sit down immediately, but walked to the edge of the cliff that fell sharply away from the far side of the summit. There, she stood motionless except for her head moving gently from side to side as she gazed around the valleys and lesser peaks spread out below. The wind, strong and cold at this height, buffeted her and blew her hair awry, and eventually she pulled her cloak tight about her. It was a calm, unhurried movement, however, quite free from the hunched and hasty clutching that many others might have shown. Tirilen embraced the winter-presaging wind as readily as she would embrace the warm summer sun.
Loman watched her, his face impassive.
Unexpectedly, Gulda reached up and took his hand. He looked down and met her gaze. ‘They have to leave, Loman,’ she said softly. ‘One way or another. Just as we left our...’ She faltered. ‘...parents, and they left theirs. The only way you'll keep her is to let her go.'
'I know,’ Loman said. ‘I understand.’ Uncharacteristically, he sighed. ‘I think I'm used to the idea of letting her go—but not my need to protect and care for her. It's difficult. And I get so frightened for the future.'
Gulda squeezed his hand. The caring and affection—or need for it?—in the contact were suddenly almost unbearable. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That need I can't help you with. Take heart that Tirilen's well founded in her life. She's as ready to face and cope with its problems as she is to savour its joys. As for the future,’—she shrugged—‘sight of that is denied to us all, thank Ethriss. But at least your people aren't such innocents any more, Loman. They've been given the opportunity to think and prepare for some of the grimmer futures that might come to pass, and they've seen it and acted on it in a manner that barely fouls the present.’ She looked pensive. ‘In fact, I think it may even be enriching it.'
'Not for the people we've lost,’ Loman said.
Gulda squeezed his hand again, ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. Then, releasing him, she clapped her hand on her knee to signal the end of the debate. She stood up and, for an instant, Loman felt himself again in the presence of a younger, immensely powerful, almost frightening woman.
'Anyway,’ Gulda said grimly. ‘You know well enough that the preparations themselves might prevent the very future they're intended to meet. No Mandrocs—or anyone—could march through Orthlund now and be slowed only by fatigue, could they?'
Loman nodded. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘But...’ He waved his arm around the mountains. They had returned to the reason for their journey. Their lack of weapons.
Gulda flicked a long finger at the two packs they had brought. ‘Tip that lot out over there,’ she said.
Loman and Athyr did as they were bidden. Out on to the grassy knoll tumbled the decaying remnants of the wares that Dan-Tor had brought to the village in the spring. Tirilen turned at the sound, her face uncertain.
She walked over to the knoll and, opening her own pack, added its contents to the pile. All four looked at the results with distaste. Metal objects were pitted black and red, fabrics were frayed and mouldering, and wood was cracked and split with unpleasant damp and gaping fissures. The whole, even the children's toys, exuded an almost tangible unhealthiness.
Unthinkingly touching the slight blemish on her throat, Tirilen crouched down and carefully picked up individual items. ‘They're still getting better,’ she said after a while. ‘But it's painful.’ She looked up at Gulda questioningly. ‘Are you sure this is necessary? she asked.
Gulda raised her eyebrows. ‘No, I'm not,’ she said. ‘But it's all I've been able to think of.’ She looked around at the mountains. ‘It's an obscenity to bring these things here, but some, perhaps most, of the Alphraan don't seem inclined to listen, so they'll have to see for themselves. That plus our new training exercises might make them think a little.'
Tirilen nodded reluctantly. ‘Before we leave, I'll do what I can to make sure they don't harm anything—or anyone—that happens on them by chance,’ she said. ‘But I'd rather have them by the Leaving Stone where we can all see them. It's bad enough that they foul one patch of ground.'
Gulda laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You can do no more,’ she said gently. ‘That's why I asked you to come. That, and the fact that you need the mountains for your healing skills.'
'Yes,’ Tirilen said softly, looking round and smiling. ‘I do. I hadn't realized.'
Gulda gave a satisfied grunt and stumped over to the cliff edge where she stood for some time like an angry black cloud.
'Alphraan,’ she shouted into the blustering wind. ‘We came to you before with a gift and a message. You took the one and ignored the other. Now we bring you another gift, and the same message. You're divided amongst yourselves, that much we heard in your song, but the debate is not yours alone. Know the truth. Sumeral is awake and we must all—all—of us prepare to face Him. Know too that He cannot be hidden from. He will seek us out, each in our turn, when His strength is sufficient. And this may be soon. Nothing can prevent this and nothing can protect you except your willingness to protect yourselves.’ She levelled her stick at the pile. ‘Here's our gift,’ she continued. ‘It's what His agent brought to Orthlund. And far worse followed in its wake, which we'll tell of when you want to listen. But for now, study these corrupted wares well. If in the face of these, the ignorant and foolish among you still prevail, then so be it. You would not be the first in history to turn your backs to the knife.'
Her voice suddenly became more powerful. ‘But you cannot oblige others to do the same. You must release the weapons of Anderras Darion; the weapons of the Orthlundyn; Ethriss's weapons. The Orthlundyn are a free people. They have made their decision and they accept its responsibilities. You have no right to do what you've done unless you are prepared to carry the burden of protecting them when His hordes come!'
Her voice seemed to echo round the surrounding crags, but as it faded no other sound could be heard apart from the wind swirling around the peak where they stood.
'Not so talkative today,’ Loman said. ‘Do you think they heard?'
Gulda chuckled. ‘They heard well enough,’ she said. ‘Every word. And watched our every action.'
'We're leaving now,’ she shouted abruptly. ‘Tirilen's healing will protect you and anything else from the random harms that might come from this...’ She pointed again to the pile. ‘And have no fear. In time we'll return and take it back to the village. The people of Pedhavin know it was to their shame that they didn't see these things for what they were, and they'll both bear that odium and learn from it. But until we return, feast your senses upon what you find here, sound carvers. See what songs it inspires.'
Still there was no reply.
Gulda nodded to herself and turned away. Then, as if it were an afterthought, she turned back again. ‘Our people will be returning to the mountains soon,’ she said. ‘To continue practicing the skills—the awful skills—that must be acquired to face Him. Skills which may yet be used in time to protect you. They will carry no weapons, but you must watch and listen, and learn. And do not seek to harm those who are prepared to face the evils you would turn away from.'
Loman looked at Gulda sharply. Her whole speech had been delivered with what was tantamount to angry scorn, but the nuances in her voice during this last statement were strange and he was unable to tell whether it was a plea or a threat.
Before he could comment however, she turned away purposefully and signalled to him and Athyr to pick up the packs and prepare to leave.
Throughout their journey back to the Castle they heard no sound other than those of the mountains.
* * * *
Immediately on their return to Anderras Darion, L
oman ordered the commencement of the new training exercises and, within days, large groups of Orthlundyn began making their way into the mountains to establish a series of temporary camps.
'At least, I hope they're temporary,’ Loman said to Gulda as they walked up the steep road to the Castle from the village. ‘It's been a hard struggle to persuade everyone that it's necessary, and there're still some reluctant souls out there.'
Gulda stopped and turned round to look down at the village with its solid houses scattered about the slopes below. To the north, the sky just above the horizon looked grey and misty, but a pleasant sun shone on the village, cutting sharp shadows through its maze of streets.
'Always different, always the same,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Poor Orthlundyn. Preparing for war again.'
She turned back and began marching towards the Castle. ‘They should be temporary,’ she said. ‘I can't see the Alphraan taking kindly either to what I said, or to Dan-Tor's wares.'
'You were quite forceful,’ Loman said cautiously. Gulda's speech and its blistering delivery had concerned him since they had come down from the peak, but he had found no suitable opportunity to comment on it.
Gulda chuckled. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I told them the truth and I told them in a manner that they couldn't ignore.'
Loman looked at her. ‘With our people going out there, was it wise to risk making the Alphraan angry?’ he asked.
Gulda returned his gaze and pointed towards the distant path leading up from the village into the mountains. ‘There's only one way the Alphraan could prove to be a permanent danger to us,’ she said.
Loman raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
'By doing nothing,’ Gulda replied emphatically. ‘By just sitting quiet in their little holes and doing nothing.'
Loman frowned uncertainly. Gulda took his arm. ‘If they do nothing, Loman, what can we do?’ She did not wait for an answer. ‘Also nothing. We'll be left with an Armoury we can't get into, no way of getting weapons in any quantity, and no way of reaching the people who're causing the problem.'
For all its brevity it was an apt summary of the grim outcome that could ensue from simple inaction by the Alphraan. It was an idea that had not occurred to Loman and it chilled him. He made no effort to reply.
Gulda continued. ‘Fortunately they've already shown themselves willing to make contact with us, just by interfering, so it's important that we respond, and respond vigorously, to provoke response in return. We must keep them moving. Each time they respond we'll learn more about them.'
Loman was torn. ‘And if their responses involve hurting some of our people ... our friends?’ he asked.
'People are getting hurt all the time,’ Gulda replied brusquely. ‘You can't learn what's got to be learnt and not get hurt at some time or another. You've been hurt often enough before now and come out none the worse for it.'
Loman looked angry. ‘It's not the same,’ he said. ‘We're using other people to...’—he searched for a phrase—‘...to test the heat of the furnace. And we've no idea what's going to happen to them. You'll forgive me if I feel for them a little?'
Gulda's tone became hard. ‘It's exactly the same, Loman,’ she said. ‘They're all going of their own free will. They've all been told as much as we know...'
'They were persuaded.'
'They were told the truth,’ Gulda snapped back. Then, more softly, ‘School yourself to this kind of pain, Loman. There'll be more, and worse, to come. Your concern does you credit. But there are times when you can't allow yourself to feel for individuals too much, it'll mar your judgement, and you'll make mistakes that'll plunge everyone into the furnace with a vengeance. You need balance in your compassion.'
Loman stopped walking. ‘That's not balance, that's callousness,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Training and organizing is one thing, but this ... I'm not sure I can do it.'
Gulda tapped her stick on the hard ground, an ominous tattoo. ‘You can't not do it, Loman,’ she said. ‘If you want to preserve all this.’ She swung her stick round in a sweeping arc to encompass the Castle, the mountains and the rolling landscape. ‘And all your friends. You're Orthlundyn. You've enough shadow skill in you to know how a change in perspective changes a scene. Your perspective is changed now. You have a broader vision. You can't see everything. No one can. But you can see more than many. Just play your part and think yourself lucky you've got plenty of good, sensible, capable, people around you to support you.'
Loman looked at her, his eyes penetrating. ‘Where did you learn all these things, Memsa?’ he asked abruptly.
Gulda turned away from him sharply, almost as if she had been struck, and started off up the road again without replying.
'You're right,’ she said, as he caught up with her. ‘It is callousness. But I'm right as well. We've no alternative.’ She turned and looked at him, her face unreadable. ‘No alternative that we can live with. The few have always fallen for the benefit of the many,’ she said stonily. ‘Always. Our pain is to accept that; to honour our own lives when we've helped deny them theirs. And our task is to make that few as small as possible. What that costs us personally is irrelevant.'
Without speaking, Loman walked off the road and across a small area of short springy turf sprinkled with bright flowers, to a jagged rocky outcrop. Standing on it, he could see the stream that bubbled out of Anderras Darion, cascading white and silver towards the river below. Beyond lay the village and the familiar countryside, small patches now scarred brown where fallow areas had been used for cavalry and infantry training.
Gulda had told him nothing he did not already know, but the speaking of it had changed it in some subtle way. He was at once profoundly free and profoundly pinioned.
He looked to the north and the habitual thought came—where are you, Hawklan? Isloman? What are you doing? When are you coming back? But even as the thought occurred he knew that their return would make no difference to his burden. Indeed it might well presage events that could make that burden worse. No, his greatest solace would lie in Gulda's last statement. ‘Our task is to make that few as small as possible.’ As small as possible! That was a practical problem and would have practical solutions. That, he could apply his every resource to willingly.
He turned away from the scene and returned to the road. Gulda had gone on ahead, leaving him to his reverie, and she was now a tiny black insignificance moving along at the foot of the towering splendour of Anderras Darion.
* * * *
For several days, nothing untoward was reported from the mountains. The various camps were established without any serious difficulties, and training began almost immediately.
Visiting the central camp, Loman found Athyr well pleased. It seemed that an atmosphere almost of Festival had sprung up in the more spartan conditions of the camps, and training was being pursued more energetically than ever. The Orthlundyn were tackling with some relish the problems of using infantry phalanxes and cavalry in the difficult terrain, and were proving inventive in the development of techniques for ambush and unarmed fighting skills.
Loman recalled Gulda's comment that they might indeed be grateful to the Alphraan in the end. However, he detected a small note of reserve in Athyr's report. ‘That's far better than we could have hoped for,’ he said, when Athyr had finished talking. ‘But what's bothering you? Injuries?'
Athyr shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Only a few cuts and bruises among the more boisterous. Nothing that needs any special attention.'
'What then?’ Loman asked.
Athyr bent down and picked up a small rounded stone. ‘We made sure that no weapons were brought up here,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But ... everyone's suddenly practicing stone throwing and slinging.’ He raised his hands in premature denial. ‘Not my idea,’ he said, shaking his head.
Loman rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then the new spirit pervading the camp swept over him. ‘Good,’ he said, laughing. ‘Encourage it. It's as effective as bowmanship
in its place, and, round here at least, you're not going to run out of ammunition.'
Athyr looked heartened by this response, but cast his eyes around the surrounding peaks significantly.
'We told them we'd bring no weapons,’ he said.
'We haven't,’ Loman said. ‘Nor will we. We told them we were coming here to continue learning the skills we need.’ He waved his hand around the busy camp. ‘These people made this decision for themselves. Let the Alphraan see where these skills derive from—from the hearts of ordinary people prepared to defend what they value. And let them realize truly what a weapon really is.’ Then he laughed again. ‘And you'd better start practicing yourself. As I remember, slinging's not exactly your strong point.'
Loman was still in high spirits as he prepared to leave the camp, but he had only just mounted his horse when a distant but powerful whistle made him look up. It was followed immediately by a cry from someone in the camp.
'Message.'
Athyr cast about for a moment and then directed Loman's gaze to a crag high above them. There a figure was waving two signal flags frantically.
Loman narrowed his eyes in concentration as he read the signal. It was brief and to the point. ‘Fighting. Camp three,’ it said. Then, ‘Serious.’ The routine noise and clatter of the camp had stopped at the first cry. Now it was replaced by a buzz of concern.
Athyr ran towards a small platform that had been built at the centre of the camp. Loman swung down from his horse and handing it to a young woman nearby, ran after him.
Before he reached him however, Athyr was already on the platform and banging an alarm bell. Loman suddenly found himself part of a general convergence on the platform, and when he reached it he had to push his way through a growing crowd before he could clamber up to join Athyr.