Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

As suddenly as it had come the blackness vanished. The prospect ahead was no less daunting but he realized that he had accepted the Goraidin’s way at its deepest level. He could do no less than direct his every skill towards defeating Sumeral, futile or not. He might well die in the process, but he would not die either willingly or quietly.

Antyr’s words, shouted as the greyness had engulfed them all, came back to him.

‘Our minds reach into the very heart of this.’

Antyr’s intuition about the workings of the mind had led him to a place that the Cadwanol’s sophisticated reasoning and experimenting had hardly dared point towards. And, too, he reproached himself, though his own work on the pending conjunction had foundered because the stern and ordered thinking that had foreseen it could not cope with the infinity of events that might occur in a single moment, that same thinking told him that the smallest of actions at that moment might shift the balance and determine the outcome – the very smallest.

Who could say which action would prove to be pivotal?

Pivotal.

The word took him back to the stream near the Cadwanen where he had lain, seeking inspiration in its sun-dancing ripples.

How long ago had that been…?

Two weeks? Three weeks? He could not remember exactly, but it seemed like a lifetime ago, so many things had happened so quickly.

As he knew they must.

They would happen even faster now.

‘We’re stronger than we know,’ he said, echoing Antyr as he turned away from Gentren’s ruined world and back to his friends.

‘Let’s see what we can find out about this place.’

A brief search brought Isloman and the Cadwanwr to an opening that led on to a wide landing. Where they might have expected stairs, however, was a sloping ramp.

‘Down?’ Andawyr asked rhetorically as he set off purposefully.

The ramp sloped more steeply than the tunnel they had first found themselves in and it was uncomfortable walking. It spiralled steadily downwards, pervaded by a blue light that was sufficiently bright for them to see where they were going without the aid of a lantern. It prompted some comment but no one could find a source.

‘It’s the rock itself,’ Isloman said, his voice strained. ‘It’s screaming. This is a dreadful, dreadful place.’

As Orthlund’s First Carver, Isloman was unusually sensitive to qualities in rock that others were quite unaware of. Now his whole posture radiated distress.

‘Whatever this place is, it isn’t the work of master builders… it hasn’t even been built,’ he said. ‘It’s been twisted and torn from the virgin rock.’

Andawyr laid a comforting hand on his arm, but said nothing.

They passed openings that led on to the two lower balconies and a cursory inspection showed them to be similar to the one they had left. Eventually they came to the floor they had seen from high above. Andawyr held out a cautionary hand as they gathered in the broad doorway.

What had appeared to be a mosaic at its centre proved to be very different. The silver star was hovering some way above the floor, solid and many-faceted, with thorn-sharp points pricking the blue air. No support to it was immediately apparent. The rays that, from above, seemed to run from it were actually ridges rising from the floor, undulating up towards it.

‘They’re like those… mountains… outside,’ Ar-Billan said. ‘Same pattern.’ He bent forward and looked at them intently. ‘Probably the same proportions, by the look of it.’

He was about to step closer but Andawyr stopped him.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘But we must be careful. This is no decoration. Everything here will have a purpose, and a bad one at that.’

Looking anxiously from side to side he stepped into the chamber.

‘It’s strange,’ he said, apparently satisfied that there was no immediate danger. ‘This must all have been achieved by the use of the Power, but I can feel nothing of it.’

He looked around and scowled. Serried ranks of unkempt Cadwanwr scowled back at him, for the circular chamber was lined with tall, narrow mirrors. The result was a vast blue desert, littered with ridges and overlooked by row upon row of ill-omened stars. As the others joined Andawyr, so crowds appeared all around them.

Despite their predicament, Usche was wide-eyed. ‘It’s like being at the centre of infinity,’ she said, spinning round and watching her myriad counterparts aping her.

Andawyr grunted and fiddled with his nose. ‘I’m open to suggestions,’ he said.

‘Smash it. Smash it all.’

Isloman’s harsh verdict drew all eyes to him.

‘I meant, what’s all this about?’ Andawyr remonstrated.

‘I know what you meant, but this isn’t the time for debate,’ Isloman retorted. ‘We don’t know how or why we came here – whether it’s chance or some devilment on Sumeral’s part – or whether we’re all dreaming, for that matter – but there’s nothing here I want to learn about any more than there’s anything I’d want to learn from murdering children in their beds. Smash it.’ He took his chisel back from Atelon and made to stand on one of the ridges, apparently with the intention of assaulting the baleful star.

‘No!’ Andawyr cried out urgently, seizing the big man’s arm and pulling him back.

Isloman jerked his arm free angrily and seemed intent on arguing, but Andawyr did not give him the opportunity.

‘I told you – none of this is decoration,’ he said, seizing Isloman’s arm again. He pointed at the star. ‘That thing’s the centre of something – a terrible focus for everything here. Who knows what touching it might do?’ He looked questioningly at Oslang and Atelon.

Both of them looked unhappy about what he appeared to be asking.

‘We’ll have to, I suppose,’ Oslang said. ‘But be careful – very careful.’

Andawyr ushered everyone back into the doorway, then stood with Oslang and Atelon at either side of him.

‘I’m just going to touch that thing with the Power,’ he said. ‘Very quickly. See if I can learn anything about it.’ He turned to Usche and Ar-Billan. ‘Whatever happens to me – or to all three of us – don’t interfere. Do you understand?’

They both nodded.

Andawyr rubbed his hands together nervously, then wiped them down his rope. After a glance at his companions he closed his eyes and became very still. Instinctively, Isloman moved protectively in front of Usche and Ar-Billan.

There was no sound and, whatever Andawyr did, Isloman saw nothing of it. But suddenly he was catching the little man as he was thrown violently backwards. The force of the impact sent both of them sprawling. Isloman rolled over, clutching his stomach, obviously winded, but Andawyr lay still. Oslang and Atelon, visibly shaken, were by his side immediately but as Oslang bent over to examine him, he became aware of Ar-Billan nervously clutching at his robe.

Looking up, he saw that the chamber was no longer empty. Picking its way towards him over the jagged ridges with a repellent fastidiousness was a strange horse, bearing a helmed and armoured rider.

Hawklan froze at the sound. It was a faint clicking. Was the Labyrinth awakening?

Was this the presage of a tumult that would rise and rise until it dashed him to his death?

The clicking grew louder. Hawklan could do no other than hold his breath, even though he knew that no sound was too slight for the Labyrinth to seize upon.

‘Hello,’ said a familiar voice in the darkness. Hawklan, senses heightened by fear, started violently at the unexpected sound.

‘Dar-volci,’ he gasped out in a mixture of anger and relief.