Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Two further steps back saved him from the diagonal cuts that came by way of reply.

‘It is my sword,’ he said again. ‘You cannot use it. It will doom you.’

‘Take My merciful thrust or avoid it again and step into the nothingness at your back.’

Hawklan turned his head slightly. At the edge of his vision was greyness. He could go no further.

He was aware of Dar-volci at his feet, of the vortex closer than ever, chaotic and wild, of the wind tugging at him and of Gavor struggling with it. And, not least, he was aware of the point of the black sword little more than a hand-span in front of his throat.

There was great clarity.

He was moving to one side of the blade as it was moving forward. His right hand was clutching the hilt of the Sword, while his left, opened wide, was extending into the brightness as he turned towards it.

Then it was gone. With a cry that pierced the roaring of the vortex, the figure was tumbling into the abyss, flaring like a falling star. As it guttered out, Hawklan was standing with his arms open, as though to embrace the whole world.

And clutching the black sword.

That it was his he had no doubt. There was a completeness to him that he had not known since he had lost it. Yet no new knowledge came with it. Sumeral, the evil that had destroyed Gentren’s world and plagued this one through aeons, was gone – but still destruction threatened.

He looked at Dar-volci and Gavor in desperation.

Gavor flapped in front of him, hovering briefly, before the wind tore him away.

‘Strike to the centre, warrior,’ he cried out.

Then Hawklan was running along the narrow bridge, the wind pounding him, grey emptiness at his back and the vortex ever closer above him, its roar rising in pitch until it became a screaming that threatened to rend him apart.

As he reached the place that had been the centre of the abyss, the turmoil began to worsen with each step he took until it was only his will that sustained him.

‘I will not yield,’ he shouted into the mayhem.

‘Nor need you, for you will be Mine soon enough.’

Hawklan cried out as the cold voice filled him again.

In front of him were a myriad facets. In each could be seen the whirling vortex.

Save in one.

In that was only his own image, watching him with cold amusement.

‘Did you think I would be so foolish as to face My chosen with his own Sword? That was but My shadow you destroyed – a faltering echo in your world sent to bring you to Me with the Sword.’

‘To end you finally.’

‘No. To free Me.’

Hawklan’s grip tightened about the Sword grimly and he urged himself forward. But he could not move against the wind, so powerful had it become.

‘No. It is beyond even you to take this last step. It transcends the ability of any man. You are bound where you are by what you are. Only the Sword and that part of you which is truly Mine will be drawn to Me when the final joining comes. And as it returns, so shall I be made truly whole, and so shall I come in glory to the remaking of My heartworld.’

Despair racked Hawklan. He raised the Sword to strike but all strength had left him. He was helpless. The vortex roared triumphantly, bloody and dark, all about him.

‘I will not yield,’ he cried again, though he could not hear his own voice and his heart was bursting.

Then, a whistling, high, loud and needle-clear, pierced the clamour, and a pulsing, pounding rhythm shook it. Hawklan recognized the call of Dar-volci and the urgent beating of Gavor’s wings. But they could do nothing now. He tried to set the distracting sounds aside.

Then he listened to them.

And surrendered to them.

As he did so, the hunting spirits of Tarrian and Grayle, feral, ancient and terrible, surged through him, releasing him, carrying him to where he could not go alone.

The Black Sword severed the mocking image from top to bottom.

Loman and Endryk were silent company for one another. That they had the blessings of their friends, that they were doing only what they could do, was poor consolation for both of them.

That the day was fine and clear deepened their inner darkness.

Something flickered.

They both started and their horses whinnied and skittered.

‘Was that lightning?’ Endryk asked, as he steadied his horse.

They both gazed round at the clear blue sky.

Loman reined to a halt and raised his head as though he were scenting something.

He grasped Endryk’s arm and shook him roughly. ‘It’s over,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s over.’ Without pausing to debate the point, he turned his horse about and began galloping back towards Anderras Darion.

Thyrn and Farnor opened their eyes.

All about them they could feel gashes and rents torn into the reality of their world. But the wound that had overwhelmed them, that the Great Forest had reached out and snatched them from, was gone.

Touched by the deep knowledge of the Great Forest, they understood now their own quiet gifts. Reaching into the pain, they healed, making good the hurts, sealing away for ever those places that should not have been there.

The greyness faded from the Labyrinth hall, and all was as it had been, save that all present were exhausted and drained, and, in the case of the Goraidin, injured.

Nertha was embracing both her husband and Antyr, who was patting his chest ruefully. Tarrian and Grayle were shaking themselves and scratching.

Only Gulda was gone.

As was the Power.

Andawyr and Usche stood by the stream in front of Anderras Darion. It was early evening. Usche looked down at her hands.

‘What shall we do, now we can’t use the Power?’ she asked.

‘What we’ve always done,’ Andawyr replied. ‘Learn, teach. We must spread our learning further. Sumeral may be gone but we’ve learned from Antyr and the others that there’s more than enough ignorance out there to feed our darker natures. He may not return, but the folly that made Him will always be there. There are plenty of places that need the light shining into them.’

‘But without the Power…’

Andawyr dashed the objection aside casually, though there was a harsh edge to his voice.

‘The likes of the Kyrosdyn don’t have it either, girl. Be glad of that.’ He softened. ‘Besides, when did you last use it, other than in training?’

Usche shrugged, then shuddered. ‘Except in that awful place, I don’t know. You were always very sniffy about us using it for odd jobs.’

Andawyr made to put a comforting arm about her shoulders, then changed his mind and rubbed his nose.

‘Yes, and rightly so too, it seems. It was a dangerous thing. Looking back, I can see we were riding an avalanche. It was an instability deep at the heart of things that made it possible and even if that hadn’t threatened us, it gave us power that was beyond our ability to use responsibly.’

‘I think you misjudge us.’

‘Possibly, but I doubt it. Easy ways always seem to be treacherous in the end. There’s something about true learning, true progress, that demands effort – a painstaking turning of disorder into order – the common condition to the rare. On a good day, we move three steps forward and two back – five steps to make one. You know that.’

Andawyr looked up at the ramping towers and spires of the castle, then down at Pedhavin, thronged with people attending a festival of carvings.

‘Look. Stone upon stone, chisel stroke after chisel stroke. Thought upon thought. The effort lingers and informs those yet to come – tells them that, while our names and memories may be forgotten, we’re the same as them and we offer them a foothold to climb even higher.’