by Roger Taylor
'There is no danger,’ said the voice. ‘They are truly dead. Come.’ And a silver tone sang out through the darkness, solid and strong, to guide them.
'Come on, come on,’ Gavor said, jumping up and down impatiently. Dacu motioned Hawklan forward.
Following the sound, the four men found themselves walking along a tunnel that was broad and spacious, and free from any sense of oppression. Its finely hewn walls were riddled with circular openings of all sizes.
As before, there were elaborate junctions and side tunnels and at each of these Dacu paused and made a conspicuous mark in the rock with a small metal spike.
'The Goraidin has doubts about us,’ the voice said, slightly amused.
'The Goraidin has survived to be this old by having doubts,’ Dacu replied unashamedly. ‘And I'm not too impressed so far by the way you cope with emergencies. I can't risk our being lost down here if you panic and run.'
'Oh,’ said the voice simply. There was a thoughtful pause, then, ‘But there's no danger now. There was only the poor wolf.'
Dacu grunted non-committally, but made no other comment.
There was another pause. ‘The scars in the rock mar the song,’ said the voice tentatively.
Dacu stopped. The comment made no sense to him but he had noticed that the texture of the walls was unusual, as if it had been finely carved in some way. He moved on without speaking, but at the next junction he made a large mark in the dust with his foot.
Gavor chuckled, but before he could speak the tunnel suddenly opened out, the walls curving away, and the roof soaring upward beyond the reach of the torchlight. Ahead of them an ornate stone balustrade came into view, while on both sides the tunnel was transformed into what appeared to be wide curving balconies. The four men stopped, but Gavor continued, flapping up on to the balustrade and peering over the edge. He looked intently from left to right.
'Hurry up, dear boys,’ he said. ‘Bring the torches.'
The torches, however, made little difference to the visibility. Their light showed the walls curving up and over for some height, and to Isloman, leaning perilously over the balustrade, they revealed various levels of balconies below. Beyond the balustrade however, the light disappeared futilely into the vast darkness.
Yet for all its gloom, the atmosphere of the place was open and light; uplifting, Hawklan felt.
'You are at the edge of our Heartplace,’ said the voice, very softly, and full of wonder.
'Bit dark,’ Gavor muttered prosaically.
Thc voice was amused again. Soon it will be on its journey back to its old splendour sky prince,’ it said. ‘With songs and lights such as you have never seen. But come this way.'
The four men followed the voice, leaving Gavor talking to himself about the ‘discernment and fine sensibilities of these people.'
Like the tunnel they had just walked along, the wall to the balcony was full of circular openings of many sizes, and there were frequent side tunnels and large sweeping alcoves.
Then the balustrade itself turned away from them, and the sound led them on to what was apparently a bridge spanning the dark abyss fringed by the balconies. It rose up in a gentle curve and was intercepted by other spans arching in from the darkness both above and below.
'Remarkable stonework,’ Isloman said. ‘Very unusual. I've never seen the like. There's a lot to be learned here.'
Hawklan nodded, but seemed to be preoccupied in keeping well away from the rather small balustrades that protected each edge.
Then they were on a wide circular plateau. The sound drew them forward until they came to a central structure. It seemed to be the base of a great circular tower, though the wide arched openings that penetrated it gave it the appearance of being the roots to a massive, symmetrical tree.
The sound faded into nothing.
'Here,’ said the voice. ‘See His creatures.'
There was no alarm in the voice, and Hawklan stepped through one of the openings. The others followed, Gavor keeping a discreet distance to the rear.
Hawklan let out a long, slow breath. There, white in the torchlight, were three skeletons lying in the scattered debris of what must have been an ancient den.
He knelt down beside one and examined it silently. It was the size of a large man, or a small horse. The images clashed in his mind.
'What ... was it?’ Tirke asked.
Hawklan stared at the skeleton, his face pained. ‘An obscenity,’ he said. ‘It looks like the worst of many things forced into a single frame—men, animals...’ He grimaced. ‘Nothing like this ever came into being naturally. Even so long dead, there's no harmony in it. It must have been bred like this. And over many generations. It's appalling.'
'What was its purpose?’ Dacu asked.
Hawklan turned and looked at him. He'll be a fine example to the Orthlundyn, he thought, for although the man felt the awe of this almost unbelievable place and the eerie presence of these remains, his Goraidin mind still cut straight through to the heart of their need. If it was bred, it was bred for a reason and that reason should be known. What had been, could be again.
Hawklan turned back to the skeleton. ‘Powerful legs,’ he said. ‘Probably very fast and capable of running on two legs or four. Large taloned hands, with opposing thumbs to grip and tear.’ He shook his head. ‘And these,’ He reached out cautiously to touch one of the creature's glittering teeth. His hand twitched uncertainly, as if the cruel jaws might suddenly spring open and seize it.
All three watchers started at this involuntary gesture. Hawklan smiled apologetically and lifted the errant hand to hold his damaged arm. There would have been no brave struggling against this creature. These hands would have held him powerless and these teeth would have torn his arm off effortlessly.
'Its purpose was killing,’ he said simply. ‘And if its spirit was as racked and distorted as its body, terrifying its victims also.'
Dacu's eyes narrowed and he nodded. It was not an unexpected conclusion.
Hawklan stood up and looked around. Something about the place was disturbing him slightly, but it took no clear shape, and he dismissed it.
'We are finding others, different,’ said the voice.
'Leave them,’ Hawklan said.
'They pollute our...'
'Leave them,’ Hawklan repeated more firmly. ‘Please. Later we'll need to study them.’ He looked round at the clutter of the creatures’ den again. ‘We must learn what we can from both their bones and the places they lie.'
'Very well,’ the voice said after a brief pause, mildly injured.
Hawklan smiled. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘They've lain here for generations. A week or so will cause no further harm, surely?'
'No,’ the voice agreed reluctantly.
'We must go now,’ Dacu said. ‘Unless there's anything else we need or if we're needed here. We've still got a long journey ahead of us and we haven't found the gully to take us across the mountain yet.'
Hawklan nodded.
'We will guide you,’ said the voice. ‘There are ways through the mountain for even your horses.'
Dacu looked around the strange circular enclosure for a moment, and then shook his head.
'Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘We must travel outside. The route may be needed for others in the future—many others. It must be well drawn.'
'You speak of armies?’ asked the voice.
'Quite possibly,’ Dacu replied.
There was a pause, then the voice said sadly, ‘You tear us ... friends.'
'No,’ Hawklan said. ‘Don't be distressed. You're right in your feelings. None of us wants such a thing, but Dacu is correct. We must learn about the mountains just as you must learn about the ways that lead around and from your Heartplace here. Who travels them in the future is for the judgement of other times and other needs.'
'Yes, you are right,’ the voice said. ‘Indeed, what we learn now may forestall the grimmer needs,’ it added, mildly triumphant.
Hawkla
n laughed. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he echoed. His laughter was caught up and swirled around into seemingly endless distances. ‘But we must go now. It's night and snowing outside. We must tend to our horses and our camp.'
'We will guide you at least to there,’ said the voice, friendly, but brooking no debate. ‘We have found a swifter way to the gate through which you entered.'
Hawklan looked at Dacu. The Goraidin nodded, and between thumb and forefinger delicately held up the small spike he had used to mark the rock on their journey through the tunnels.
'We should prefer you to continue to make your marks in the dust, Goraidin,’ said the voice, mildly reproachful. Dacu raised his hands in acknowledgement and the voice dwindled again into a single guiding tone.
As they followed it along another wide tunnel, Hawklan noted that all around them gentle sounds were growing. Shifting and changing, they built and intermingled until they were like a warm and welcome summer breeze enveloping the four men.
'They're coming from some of these,’ Tirke said, running a finger around the edge of one of the circular openings that decorated the walls.
'A small gift to thank you,’ said the voice, riding on the breeze. ‘And perhaps to sustain you until we speak again.’ Strange sounds permeated the voice. It was struggling with its true language. ‘But we shall be ever in your debt, for what you have returned to us,’ it managed eventually.
None of the men spoke, each sensing that their speech would jar and rend the calm that was pervading them.
A tiny worm of doubt wriggled inside Hawklan, however. Something about the ancient bones they had found—and the remains of the old nest.
He frowned. There were many mysteries about this place and its history. For the time being he should act as Dacu would and confine himself to what was immediately relevant; to what would bring them to Anderras Darion safely and open up a route from Orthlund direct into Darek's estate and thence to the other eastern Lords.
'What's the matter, dear boy?’ Gavor said softly.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘I'm not sure,’ he said.
'Let it go then,’ Gavor said bluntly. ‘It'll come when it's ready.'
Hawklan nodded. ‘I suppose so.'
The tunnel eventually opened into a wide stepped balcony that took them downwards and wound round almost a full circle until it became another arched bridge to carry the four over some unknown depth.
Tirke looked tentatively over the low balustrade into the darkness below.
'Ancient rocks down there,’ Isloman said casually, following Tirke's gaze.
Ancient! The word acted like a focus and Hawklan found himself looking again at the bones of Sumeral's long-dead creation lying amidst the wreckage of its nest. He stopped.
'They weren't that old,’ he said out loud, making the others start. They looked at him, puzzled. ‘The bones,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘They were very old. But not ancient. Not going back millennia, to whenever...'
Abruptly the silver tone that had guided them stopped, leaving a strange gap in the still-flowing stream of sound that pervaded them.
A pulse replaced it; an ominous pulse. Hawklan strained forward. It was the sound of heavy running feet.
Suddenly a wave of horror washed over him and he felt his flesh crawl as every hair on his body stood erect. Both his eyes and his mouth opened wide. One to peer deeper into the darkness beyond the torchlight, the other to shout a warning. But the warning never formed. Before it could, a stooping figure surged into the light. Powerful legs drove it forward, straight towards the motionless men, large taloned hands reached out to grip and tear, and glittering teeth framed a red maw from which an appalling scream began to sound.
* * *
Chapter 28
Hawklan watched in horror as the creature came straight and purposefully towards him.
In an instant he saw that it was thin and weak and old, but he saw also that under its long fur rippled muscles and sinews more than powerful enough to dispatch him and the others with little or no effort. And its age too seemed only to have heightened the malevolence that shone red and bloody in its eyes.
In the same instant he saw also that the bridge was too narrow and crowded for him to side-step and that in any event it was too late—the creature was too near and moving too fast.
Suddenly, without breaking its headlong charge, the creature stood up fully on its hind legs and raised a terrible clawed hand. It was a head taller than Hawklan.
Gavor leapt off Hawklan's shoulder powerfully. Not in fear, but to leave his friend free to move. Catching the driving impetus of this movement, Hawklan stepped back and, turning, drew his sword. It swung up in a glittering black arc as he took another step, then down and up again as he turned to face the creature. The upward stroke cut a great diagonal gash across its torso.
Without pause, Hawklan stepped back again and, spinning round, brought the sword down to cut a second gash across the first one.
Despite these two desperate wounds however, the creature came relentlessly forward, carried by its own momentum and intent, but, clear now of his friends, Hawklan suddenly stepped sideways and drove the sword into the creature's flank as it passed by him.
The impact of the blow sent the creature staggering over the low balustrade. Still screaming in rage, it twisted as it fell and the clawed hands lunged out to seize the coping of the balustrade.
So fast had Hawklan's three blows been, that even Dacu had scarcely been able to draw his own sword before the battle was finished. He came to Hawklan's side as the healer stepped forward, raising the black sword to deliver a final blow that would send this abomination into whatever depths lay below.
The creature's scream had become a strange whimper and its claws were scraping desperately across the stone coping as it struggled to save itself.
'Kill it, man,’ Dacu said desperately, his eyes wide with horror as he looked in disbelief from the creature to Hawklan.
Then Isloman and Tirke were there, white-faced and stunned.
Hawklan looked down at the creature. He could see the two terrible wounds he had cut beginning to open and disgorge the creature's entrails. The creature looked at him, then, releasing the coping with one hand, held it out to him, its eyes full of fear.
Hawklan watched, unable to move, as the other hand screeched across the coping and, with a brief choking mewl, the creature disappeared into the darkness without a sound.
Slowly he lowered the sword and then slithered to the floor. He was trembling. His hand involuntarily began to nurse his damaged arm again.
The balmy sounds that had been bathing them since they left the Alphraan's Heartplace were silent, and all that could be heard was the hoarse breathing of the four men. Gavor dropped silently on to Hawklan's shoulder.
'Thank you,’ Hawklan said, softly, reaching up and touching his friend's beak. Gavor did not reply.
'What was it?’ Tirke asked shakily after a long, unsteady silence.
Hawklan lowered his head. ‘The last of its breed,’ he said quietly.
He looked at his sword, gored and steaming from his last dreadful thrust. He turned away as the smell wafted in his face.
'Clean it in the snow,’ Dacu said, looking at the sword then at an inadequate kerchief he had pulled from his pocket.
Hawklan nodded. ‘I wonder how many other remnants of the First Coming are still with us?'
No one spoke.
'The last of its breed?’ The Alphraan's voice was soft and hesitant.
Hawklan nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said sadly. ‘Without doubt. No great victory there, just a pathetic end to a grim song, as you might say.’ He looked up. ‘You've lost another, have you?’ he asked.
'Your guide,’ the voice replied.
'I'm sorry,’ Hawklan said.
'It was not your fault,’ the voice said. ‘But we will lose no more.’ There was a new note in the reply; one of determination. It continued. ‘We sink ever deeper into your debt, Hawklan. It is no
t possible for us to repay you in like manner, but we are with you now, utterly...’ The voice slipped into its own language and the four men were surrounded by sounds which told them of past doubts set aside and the pledged and immutable allegiance of an entire race.
Hawklan stood up—he was still shaking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, simply. ‘But there is no debt, just a common need. Pledge yourself to facing that by our side.'
The guiding sound returned, its note now ringing and purposeful.
Once or twice as they followed it, Isloman thought he glimpsed a tiny figure in the distance, but none of the others saw it, and even his shadow vision did not enable him to see any detail.
Then they were at the mouth of the tunnel that had first led them into the mountain.
'We will be with you,’ said the voice. The guiding note faded until it became the low moaning of the wind in the narrow cleft.
'Storm's getting worse,’ Dacu said briskly, anxious to get back to some semblance of normality and watching the light flurries of blown snow floating past them. The four men paused briefly to fasten their cloaks before stepping out of the tunnel and heading back towards their camp.
As they moved along the narrow cleft, the wind strengthened and its low moaning changed gradually into a buffeting, echoing reflection of the storm raging outside.
Eventually they found themselves walking through drifting snow and then at the foot of the rocks that had sealed the cleft. Hawklan bent down and cleaned the blade of the black sword with handfuls of snow. It gleamed in the torchlight, but Hawklan looked in distaste at the despoiled snow lying at his feet.
Dacu pulled them all together.
'Turn your torches up and hold on to one another tightly,’ he shouted, struggling to make himself heard above the noise. ‘It's not far to the shelter and its beacon's lit, but we can still miss it in this weather. I don't particularly want to spend the rest of the night huddled behind a rock in a snow shelter. And be careful where you tread,’ he emphasized. ‘The rocks on the far side will be well covered by now.'
His comment proved timely as they rose up over the top of the rocks; hooded figures, eerie in the flowing torchlight, stumbling awkwardly through the screaming wind, and whitening rapidly in the driving snow.