Roger Taylor: Caddoran

The few Tervaidin lingering hesitantly on the slope retreated further.

As she looked up, it was to see Vashnar attacking Thyrn. The young Caddoran had dropped his bow and was flailing his sword in a vain attempt to protect himself. The three Wardens began running at the same time but it seemed they could not reach him in time to prevent Vashnar pressing home his brutal onslaught.

Then, Nals was in front of Vashnar’s horse, hackles raised, teeth bared, and Nordath, his head bleeding, was clinging on to Vashnar’s leg, trying to unseat him. After a vain attempt to shake him off, Vashnar abandoned his attack on Thyrn to strike down this new assailant. Thyrn, seeing the danger to his uncle, lashed out at Vashnar but missed and struck his horse a glancing blow. Already frightened by Nals, the horse reared, dislodging Nordath and knocking Thyrn over. As he landed, the impact bounced the sword from his hand. Vashnar swung down from his horse and moved to finish on foot the task he had failed to do on horseback.

Scrabbling backwards over the rocky ground, Thyrn seized a rock and hurled it at him. It struck Vashnar on the chest without effect.

Vashnar’s eyes were blazing, but terrifying Thyrn as much as his immediate physical danger was the fragmenting confusion that swirled in Vashnar’s wake – the shards of countless colliding realities. And illuminating all, the bloody light of the power that hung about this place – a power that he knew Vashnar would take into realms beyond imagining – a power that was the very essence of those who had destroyed an entire world with their ignorance and consuming hatred. The scale and horror of this vision threatened to unman Thyrn totally, but even as he felt his last control and resistance slipping away, something deep within him reached out and touched the hurt that was focused about Vashnar – denying it, healing it.

‘No!’ A chorus of screaming voices crackled around Vashnar’s cry, and Thyrn’s strange and tenuous touch was dashed aside.

But where there had been fear there was now anger. As Vashnar strode towards him, Thyrn’s hand closed about a fist-sized rock and with a single sweeping movement, powered by that inner knowledge which as a child had bounced a precious, bright red ball to and fro, he hurled it at Vashnar’s head, a great cry surging in its wake. Vashnar flinched, lifting an arm to protect himself.

The rock struck his hand.

It shattered his ring.

It seemed to Thyrn that suddenly he was alone on the mountain and that a deep silence and stillness pervaded the whole world.

Then he was aware that the rent into this world which Vashnar had opened was gone, save for a trembling residue that shimmered about him. All was whole again.

And the silence was not silence, but a noise loud beyond any hearing – the screaming of the ancient evil that some quality in Vashnar, or the ring, or both, had given form.

It was a scream of withering fury, but it was impotent now, and as Thyrn slowly stood up it faded to become nothing more than a dying, all-too-human cry from Vashnar’s gaping mouth.

Vashnar’s sword slipped from his hand and he sank to his knees. Adren was the first to reach him. Breathlessly she kicked the sword away from him, then, her blade across his throat, she drew back his slumped head.

Vashnar offered no resistance. He was humming softly and tunelessly and his eyes were empty.

It started to rain.

The next few days were dominated mainly by the practicalities of travelling through the mountains. The Tervaidin, already reluctant to attempt another assault on their intended victims after the resistance and resolution they had met, yielded completely on seeing the death of Aghrid and the sudden descent of their leader into idiocy. The dead were buried and the wounded tended. Concerned about travelling with prisoners, Endryk laid down a strict ordering of their travelling, but the Tervaidin showed little inclination to revert to their former ways. Nevertheless, he made them walk and carry on stretchers those who could not.

Nordath was offered a litter which he brusquely refused, taking an uncharacteristic pride in his bandaged head. A sharp eye, however, would have noted him surreptitiously rubbing his bruised back and ribs when he woke each morning.

There was no debate held about their destination.

‘Time to go home,’ Hyrald said as he and Rhavvan raised the broken Vashnar to his feet. Adren wiped the rain from his face and then from her own. Nordath and Thyrn embraced one another silently.

As they left the mountain they met four travellers heading north, three men and a woman. They would have passed with a mere exchange of courtesies, but the woman looked at the weary Tervaidin with some concern and then announced that she was a healer and asked if she could help.

‘You’re not Arvens,’ Hyrald said when she had examined the wounded and satisfied herself that they were being reasonably tended.

‘We’re from Gyronlandt in the south,’ said one of the men, her husband.

The Wardens exchanged significant looks. ‘I didn’t think the southern mountains were passable,’ Hyrald said. ‘It must have been a difficult journey.’

‘We’re used to mountains,’ said one of the other men quietly.

Endryk, who had been staring at the two men intently, started, then said something softly to them which the others did not catch. A subdued but intense conversation followed in a language that was not Arvens.

‘These men are my countrymen,’ Endryk told them apologetically when it was finished. ‘I think we’ve a great deal to talk about. May they accompany us?’

Hyrald looked at the new arrivals. The two men in particular sat their horses with the same easy manner that Endryk always showed. ‘I know nothing about your country, sirs, but we owe Endryk our lives, and if you honour such things, then honour is due to him. You’re more than welcome to travel with us, if you wish, but there may be danger at the end of our journey.’

The older of the two men smiled, and extended his hand as he introduced himself. ‘Tell us on the way,’ he said.

Their entry into Arvenshelm was almost unremarked. Vashnar had swayed many of the upper ranks of the Warding to his plans but Draferth’s actions had caused great confusion and alarm amongst them, and without Vashnar’s unifying and forceful presence they floundered, reducing his grand design very quickly to an undignified melee of mutual blame-shifting – a trait they were well-practised in. Lesser supporters discreetly faded into the background.

A great many impromptu street meetings had occurred, several of which had broken up in disorder and violence, but the most critical point had come with an attempt by Tervaidin officers to arrest Draferth. Two of his supporters were killed before a group of Wardens finally intervened and arrested the leading Tervaidin. It gave Hyrald considerable satisfaction that they were his men.

One other casualty was Striker Bowlott. He was attacked by a frenzied Krim with the Blue Cushion. Though unhurt, he was so disturbed by this culmination of the sudden rush of reality into the Moot Palace that he hastily retired, citing a desire to write his memoirs and a dissertation on the Treatise. Krim subsequently pleaded extenuating circumstances due to the acute distress caused by Bowlott’s curt refusal to order Ector to repair his curtains, and also, unexpectedly shrewdly, immunity by virtue of the definition of his office. After a brief period of rest – and the fitting of new curtains to the windows of the Cushion Repository – he was reinstated.

The Moot rapidly reverted to its old ways by holding a great and solemn debate to discuss how it should learn from what had happened and not simply revert to its old ways.