by Roger Taylor
Isloman nodded appreciatively and looked again at the map.
'Where's this route around the mountain?’ he asked.
Dacu indicated a short broken line on the map. ‘It's a narrow gully, apparently.'
'Not far,’ Isloman said.
Dacu raised his eyebrows. ‘Not on the map,’ he said, reaching up to increase the brightness of his torch. Immediately, under the touch of the torchlight, the subtle colouring and shading of the map gave a look of solidity and depth to the mountains. The spur could be seen rising up steadily out of the green of the valley, tapering gradually into a narrow ridge that buttressed the peak. Other ridges and peaks in the vicinity also seemed to stand sharply out of the map.
Isloman was admiring. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘That's very good. Whoever drew that knew his shadow lore. I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't studied in Orthlund. The depth expression is remarkable.'
Dacu nodded. ‘It's an old map,’ he said with a touch of sadness. ‘I doubt anyone knows how to draw them like this these days.'
The image of Dan-Tor, slowly, methodically, destroying the old ways of the Fyordyn, came to Isloman. ‘They will again,’ he said. ‘Your map shows the way back to those times just as it shows a way through the mountains.’ He smiled. ‘Providing we use our wits,’ he added, mimicking Dacu's earlier reproach.
A gust of wind shook the shelter and, with a yawn-stifled, ‘Good-night,’ Tirke doused his torch and lay down. Isloman looked again at the map. The difference in heights between Dacu's latest cross and the broken line was now clearly visible.
'It's a lot higher up, isn't it?’ he said.
Dacu nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Almost as high again as we've travelled today. Well into the snow, and probably the mist.’ He looked at Isloman. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.
'I'll manage,’ Isloman replied. ‘It was just a shock coming on it so suddenly. It just...’ His voice tailed off.
'We've all got old wounds, Isloman,’ Dacu said quietly. ‘We know Dirfrin's group had a bad time that winter. But better to admit the fear than let it fester.'
'I know. But it's never easy, is it?’ Isloman doused his own torch and lay down. ‘I'll be all right. Don't worry.'
Dacu opened his journal and, dimming his torch a little, began writing.
'Good,’ he said. ‘I don't think this gully's going to be easy to find. Unless visibility's good I think we're going to need your eyes.'
* * * *
Visibility the next day, however, was not good. During the night the wind dropped, and when they woke it was to a motionless mist, tinted grey by the pending dawn. It had a characteristic chill.
Dacu allowed no time for conjecture. Rapidly he stripped the shelter to galvanize his charges, then issued a swift series of orders for the harnessing and loading of the horses.
'What about something to eat?’ Tirke pleaded, struggling with his pack. Gavor anxiously added his own concern to the request.
'You can eat as you ride,’ Dacu said, his breath steaming. ‘It's going to snow today, beyond a doubt, and I'll be surprised if this mist lifts much. We must move while we can.'
'Which way?’ Hawklan said, when they were all mounted.
Dacu pointed a finger upwards. ‘For at least four or five hours, I should say, then we'll have to move more carefully. We could have problems if we wander past the gully.'
They were able to ride for quite some distance and gradually the mist brightened and thinned as the unseen sun rose and reached out with its warming touch. The group's unease lightened with it, but the chill remained.
Perched on Hawklan's shoulder, Gavor looked at the silver droplets decorating his iridescent feathers. He shook himself, wreathing Hawklan's head in fine spray.
'Thank you, Gavor,’ Hawklan said with heavy irony, hunting for a kerchief.
'It'll freshen you up, dear boy,’ the raven replied, only mildly repentant.
'Go and see what the weather's doing,’ Hawklan said, casting a glance upwards. ‘See if you can get over this mist.'
'Dear boy, I might get lost,’ Gavor protested.
'Not while we're carrying food, you won't,’ Hawklan said unsympathetically. ‘Go on.'
With a martyred and dignified sigh, Gavor left.
A few minutes after his departure, the party found itself at the foot of a much steeper incline. Dacu dismounted.
'We'll have to lead the horses from now on,’ he said. ‘Be careful. Slow and steady will get us there. Rushing could kill us all.'
Slow and steady, however, was their only alternative, as the men had to make several journeys up and down each section of the incline to help the struggling horses. Hawklan took his guidance from Serian.
'This is difficult, Hawklan,’ the horse said. ‘They're good nags, but they're getting frightened and it's sapping their will.'
'Reassure them,’ Hawklan said.
The horse chuckled. ‘Only humans lie, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We're much simpler souls. We only see the truth.'
Hawklan smiled at the reproach and patted the horse's neck. ‘Goad them, then,’ he said. ‘There's nowhere else we can go except forward.'
Gavor floated down out of the greyness. ‘My, you have been working hard, haven't you?’ he said to the four men, who were steaming almost as heavily as the horses.
'The weather, Gavor,’ Hawklan said, glowering at him.
Gavor became more serious. ‘Not too good, I'm afraid,’ he said. ‘This mist is local, but it's widespread and it's not going to clear. The clouds are dropping. It won't be long before the snow reaches us.'
Dacu was unsurprised. ‘If our information's correct, this incline should ease after a while, then we'll have to start searching for the gully. Let's hope our luck holds for a little.'
As if in mockery of this prayer, a solitary snowflake tumbled silently out of the mist to land softly on his arm. Dacu looked up. Black against the grey sky, like the vanguard of a great host, more flakes twisted and turned purposefully towards him.
'Let's move,’ he said quietly.
For a further hour they struggled up the rocky slope, the horses slipping and slithering as the snow thickened around them, slowly obscuring the uneven ground.
'I can't see any army making its way over this lot,’ gasped Tirke at one stage, as he and Dacu heaved one of the pack horses back on to its feet.
'Armies can get over anything when they want to,’ Hawklan said, overhearing the remark. ‘Mountains and rivers are obstacles only to the will, and only the will falls before them.’ Dacu looked at him strangely. What quality was it in this man that made him at once so approachable and so frightening? He realized that at times he felt before Hawklan as he had when he first saw this mountain looming ahead of them, far bigger than he had imagined, and dominating their way forward, utterly oblivious in its ancient patience to their fleeting needs.
Yet Hawklan was also the opposite. He was wholly concerned with the needs of others.
As if catching his thoughts, Hawklan reached down and extended his hand to help Tirke over an awkward boulder. As they climbed, the snow began to fall more heavily and visibility became very poor. Gradually, however, the slope became less severe and eventually the horses were able to walk unaided.
Dacu halted and, crouching down, ran his gloved hand through the snow. ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Fresh on top of old. We're up in to the permanent snow now. We'll have to start looking for the gully.'
He peered into the silent grey anonymity around them.
'Should we camp and wait to see if the snow stops?’ Tirke asked.
Dacu looked up at the sky. ‘I don't think so,’ he said. ‘This is well set in and there's a lot of daylight left yet. We must keep moving.'
'But if we miss the gully, we could wander anywhere in this,’ Tirke said. ‘Up on to the mountains to the west—anywhere.'
'True,’ Dacu agreed, walking over to one of the pack horses. ‘But we're also too exposed here. If the wind starts blo
wing it'll reduce what visibility there is, and give us some real problems. Not to mention problems for the horses. We'll have to keep moving if only to find better shelter.'
Isloman, knowing what Dacu intended, put a hand on Tirke's arm to forestall his next concern. ‘Don't worry, Tirke,’ he said. ‘You'll enjoy this. It'll be a chance for you to build snowmen again.'
'Here's a present for you, Tirke,’ Dacu said.
Tirke looked at the proffered object suspiciously. It was a spade.
'You do the digging and I'll do the hard work—the thinking.’ Dacu smiled broadly and pulled a small book and pen from his pocket. ‘Later on, we'll change round and ... Isloman and Hawklan can do the digging.’ He laughed. ‘We'll take here as base—build a big one.'
For the rest of the day, the group wandered methodically to and fro through the silence of the steadily falling snow, building cairns of snow under Dacu's instruction to mark their passage. Dacu compacted a portion on each cairn and made a mark on it which he duly recorded in his book.
'It's just a simple grid,’ he explained to Tirke. ‘It'll suffice in this light, and these cairns should survive a day or so, with luck. At least we won't wander too aimlessly. The rest depends on good luck.'
Good luck, however, seemed to desert them, and although they came upon several rock faces and clefts through the day, none seemed to lead anywhere. As the light began to fade, the search became one for shelter.
'This'll have to do,’ Dacu said wearily, lifting up his torch and peering around a cluster of large boulders lying at the foot of a rock face. ‘It should be out of the wind if it picks up, and there'll be space enough for the horses behind the shelter.'
When the shelter was erected, Dacu permitted the issue of extra rations. ‘It's been a hard day,’ he said. ‘And I don't think they'll be getting any easier. Time for a little self indulgence, I think.'
'Hear, hear,’ said Gavor.
But it was difficult for the group to maintain any feeling of light-heartedness. All were tired and dispirited from the rigours of the day and the gentle tapping of the still falling snow did little to reassure them about the morrow.
'What are we going to do?’ Tirke asked drowsily when they had all doused their torches and were drifting into sleep.
'Search, or wait and search,’ Dacu said simply. ‘It depends on the weather.'
'But if...’ Tirke began.
'No ifs, it's too long a word,’ Dacu interrupted. ‘Tomorrow we search, or we wait and search,’ he repeated. ‘Now, we're well fed, and we're warm. All we can do is rest. We know the decisions we'll face in the morning and there'll be time enough to debate them then. For now, go to sleep.'
Tirke muttered some vague protest, but his body had anticipated Dacu's command, and the muffled comment was only in response to some random shape floating in the pattern of his dreams.
Despite his tiredness however, Hawklan lay awake in the darkness, listening to the breathing of his friends and the occasional whistle or snort from Gavor. How long had he lain, and in what unknown darkness? he thought. How long before he had found himself wandering in the snow-filled mountains on his way to Anderras Darion?
But as ever, no answers came. Why should they? He would wake here in the morning and have no memory of either going to sleep or being asleep. For all the awareness he would have of the passage of time, it could have been a single night or ten thousand years. At least here I'll remember the previous day, he thought. The deep silence within him did not stir.
Knowledge had come to him while he lay immobile in Isloman's care after Oklar's assault, though he had no recollection of its coming. He found he had knowledge of the ruling and commanding of people, and of the many arts of war. And there was a knowledge that he had striven through his life to acquire these arts. Yet the knowledge was like a dying echo. The true sound was denied him still, and the names and the faces, the deeds, all the memories that should have been central to this life, were missing.
His mind told him that this new knowledge was perhaps no more than a coming together of all his recent experiences and the studying he had done before he left Anderras Darion, but his heart and his body showed him it was too deeply rooted for that. He refused to search for the missing memories, however, sensing that such a search could lead him nowhere but into fruitless winding spirals.
But a darker image did concern him. An image of betrayal? Guilt? His betrayal. His guilt. Somewhere in his long and hidden journey to this time, he had shed a great and terrible burden. Or had it been taken from him? A burden of appalling suffering and thousands of lives lost through his folly.
Yet he was at ease here. How could such a burden have been shed? How could it not be carried forever, just as its consequences would spread ever outwards? Why was it lying somewhere, mouldering by the wayside of his life just as Dan-Tor's wares rotted outside Pedhavin? But above all, what was it?
What had he done? Who had he betrayed, or failed?
He seemed to hear faint clarion calls. The haunting vision of swirling blackness returned to him. Battling against endless undefeatable waves of unseen foes, under a dark flickering sky, with the air pulsating to sinister chanting and the ground moving unsteadily under his feet. He shuddered. Despair and guilt sapped him as much as they fired him. Then as he sank, something touched ...
Hawklan opened his eyes, solidly in the present again, if present it was. Noises! Faint noises. Just outside the shelter? Familiar yet strange. He held his breath and listened intently. He could hear the snow still falling, though it had changed in tone indicating that the wind was beginning to rise. And one of the horses was a little uneasy, but not as though some prowler were in their midst. Yet the sounds seemed to be quite close—or were they? Hawklan became aware of another presence, listening.
'What's happening?’ Dacu's whisper in the darkness startled Hawklan by its apparent nearness.
'I don't know,’ Hawklan whispered back. ‘Listen.'
The noises rose and fell, coherent yet unintelligible, and still both familiar and unfamiliar.
'It's the Alphraan,’ Hawklan said, suddenly identifying the strange unfocussed quality in the sound.
'I can't understand what they're saying,’ Dacu said.
Hawklan frowned slightly as the sound drifted into some echoing distance and almost vanished under the hissing snow.
'I don't think they're talking to us,’ Hawklan said. ‘I think we're eavesdropping.'
A great yawn filled the shelter. ‘Dacu, dear boy,’ came a reluctant voice. ‘It's surely not time to get up yet.'
The two men shushed the bird, only to waken Isloman. Then there was a brief confusion of incoherent but very recognizable sounds which drowned out the faint noise of the Alphraan until eventually all four men were lying awake and silent in the darkness.
Slowly the sounds emerged again.
'What do they want?’ Isloman whispered.
'I don't know,’ Hawklan said. ‘Just listen. There are images in the sounds.'
And images there were. Images of great determination. But also, images of defeat? And fear? Terror, even?
Hawklan's eyes opened wide in horror. Had another people followed him, only to be led to their doom?
The shelter felt suddenly suffocating. Without speaking, Hawklan struck his torch and, seizing his sword, threw himself headlong out through the entrance.
Blinking in the sudden light, Gavor flapped after him. As he stood up, Hawklan found himself calf-deep in fresh snow, surrounded by whirling eddies of snowflakes, twisting and spiralling around the little torch-lit enclave. A strong wind shaped their dance and Hawklan felt the cold strike through to him immediately. Chilled air rushed into his anxious lungs and woke him utterly. Fumbling with the torch, he fastened his sword belt awkwardly.
Gavor flapped up on to the top of the shelter, but before he could speak, Dacu crawled out of the entrance, followed immediately by Isloman and Tirke. Their torches brightened and broadened the small snow-laced sphere th
at they centred.
Dacu threw Hawklan's cloak about his shoulders.
'Be calmer, Hawklan,’ he said quietly, though his voice and eyes were as chill as his steaming breath. ‘Six paces here might mean your death.'
Hawklan made no response but offered him no resistance. The cloak was warm, and Dacu was only speaking the truth. But all around now were the sounds of the Alphraan and their fear was almost tangible.
'Alphraan,’ Hawklan shouted suddenly. ‘Where are you? I hear you. I'll help you.'
The sounds shifted. Hawklan called again.
'Yes. Help us, Hawklan,’ said a voice around them hesitantly. It was set in a jabbering mosaic of anxieties and terrors. ‘Our means fail our will. We will be destroyed.'
'What do you mean? Where are you?’ Hawklan asked.
'Follow. Please, quickly. We will guide you.’ The voice dwindled suddenly into a single faltering tone. It led into the blackness beyond the shelter.
Hawklan moved forward but Dacu stepped in front of him. ‘What are you doing?’ he said in alarm. ‘Didn't you hear me before? You can't go wandering off in these conditions. Look around you, man.’ He brushed the already thickening snow off the front of his cloak.
'They followed me,’ Hawklan said. ‘Now they're dying. I must go to them.'
Dacu placed a restraining hand on his chest. He was about to tell Hawklan that he had a duty to his own kind first, but it died on his lips. ‘It could be a trap,’ he said desperately, turning to Isloman for support. As he did so however, Hawklan quietly side-stepped him and strode off towards the darkness.
'Stay where you are,’ he said, without turning. So imperious was his voice, that for a moment Dacu faltered. Then he swore. ‘Get your swords,’ he said grimly to Isloman and Tirke, striking the beacon torch that topped the shelter. ‘Gavor...’ He was about to tell Gavor to follow Hawklan, but the instruction was unnecessary, Gavor was gone. He turned to Isloman. The carver looked at him. ‘Be ready to hit your friend,’ he said. ‘Hard.'