Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Andawyr’s face became unexpectedly resolute. Ifs notwithstanding, Hawklan loomed large in all considerations of those events.

Pivotal.

Andawyr recognized that something in his wiser self was prompting him. The word ‘paradox’ had come too glibly; it had misled him. The water over the rock was no paradox, he knew. It was simply the outcome of forces within and without the water which, at least in principle, were calculable. His relinquishing of fretful questions in order to reach an answer was a little more mysterious but was at least based on his own tested and quite consistent past observations. And Hawklan? Healer and warrior. No real paradox there – no inherent contradictions. It was the duty of those who had the ability to stand between the less fortunate and harm, be it with poultice or sword. Hawklan was simply skilled at both, and skilled far beyond the average. He was…

Pivotal.

The word lurched Andawyr back into his deeper concerns. Although clarity was being denied him in these he had throughout an impression of movement, of turning, of innumerable spiralling ways coming together, joining. He trusted such instincts. Many times, vague though they were, they had pointed him in a direction that had subsequently proved fruitful. They were not enough in themselves to lead to conclusions but he knew that nothing else would be forthcoming. His walk through the hills had been helpful after all.

He would follow this instinct. He would go and see Hawklan. At the least, it would be good to see him again. And good to see Anderras Darion again too. The prospect brought him to his feet. There was a considerable interchange of visitors between Anderras Darion and the Cadwanol but somehow there had always been something here that needed his immediate attention whenever he had thought about returning there himself.

‘Always allowing the urgent to displace the important,’ he said, repeating the reproach he frequently gave to others. Well, not this time. This time he would go and see his old friend – and talk – and talk – and talk. And prowl around that marvellous old citadel.

He nodded to himself, well satisfied.

Then, suddenly, he started, alarmed.

Something had touched him – touched his mind. Something feather-light and cautious – but strange… and disturbingly feral.

There were no dangers around here, a faint breath of reason whispered to him. Not of any kind. But his older senses gave the assurance the lie. And it was a very alert leader of the Cadwanol who slowly turned round to see silhouetted on an outcrop above him, and watching him intently, a large grey wolf.

Andawyr started violently and only just managed to prevent himself from lashing out with the Power to defend himself. The effort left him breathing heavily but with icy control.

Too quick, he reproached himself savagely. Too quick to reach for the easy way. Angrily he forced reason to take control of his fear. The animal had not menaced him, he told himself slowly. Nor was it likely to. There was plenty of food around here so it could not be hungry, and, besides, wolves were far from being stupid; they rarely attacked people. It was probably as startled as he was.

Nevertheless, it was still watching him and it had not moved. And its hackles were raised, albeit only slightly.

Probably in response to his own initial reaction, Andawyr decided uneasily. Either that, or it was sensing his own anger at himself. He would have to take the initiative.

He made himself relax. Then, briefly, he met the animal’s gaze and turned his head away slowly and deliberately.

As he did so, he found himself looking into the eyes of another wolf, crouching low on the ground barely five paces from him. Despite the fact that he was counselling himself to move carefully and slowly, Andawyr jumped back. The wolf did not move.

‘Very thoughtful, old man. A nice gesture.’

The voice filled Andawyr’s head, further unbalancing him and making him stagger backwards. Still the watching wolf did not move, though it continued to stare at him fixedly.

‘Don’t be alarmed. We didn’t mean to startle you.’

There was reassurance in the voice, but it resonated with strange, wild overtones unlike anything Andawyr had ever heard. It took him a moment to realize that he was not actually hearing it, but that it was really in his mind. He had no time to ponder this discovery.

‘But you’re unusual, aren’t you? We felt you some way away, and there was a control, a refinement, in your manner that’s rare in humans. We thought we’d see who it was.’

Was there a hint of mockery in the words?

Andawyr’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he cast a quick glance at each of the wolves in turn. What was happening here? Carefully he tested his responses. It was deep in the nature of his training to see things as they were, not as others or perhaps his own errant mind might wish them to appear. It occurred to him that perhaps one of his colleagues was playing a joke on him – they were not above such antics from time to time when life in the Cadwanen became boring or fraught. But how could they be doing this? There was no hint of the Power being used and even he had not known where he was going to walk when he set out. It was not a prank. And he was definitely not hallucinating. The voice in his head was unequivocally real. It left him with a bizarre conclusion. Somehow these creatures were talking to him!

‘Creatures, indeed. How churlish.’

Mockery, without a doubt.

‘Wh – what are you? Who are you?’ Andawyr stammered, his voice sounding harsh and awkward in his own ears.

Surprise washed over him. ‘You are a Cadwanwr, aren’t you?’ came the reply, full of sudden realization and no small amount of excitement. ‘Just wait there a moment.’

And, in a flurry of grey urgency, both wolves were gone. Andawyr shook his head as if to reassure himself that, notwithstanding his vaunted clarity of vision, what he had just seen and ‘heard’ had actually happened. It helped him that he could hear occasional barking in the distance.

Wolves that spoke directly into his mind! He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand. But he had heard what he had heard. Then the memory of Hawklan returned to him again. Hawklan could both hear and speak to most animals. But then, Hawklan was Hawklan and an exception to many rules.

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. He was still who he was, leader of the Cadwanol, much respected counsellor to the wise, learned in the ways of the Power, blah blah – and he couldn’t hear or speak to animals. Nor did he have any idea how Hawklan did, despite lengthy discussions with him.

All of which left him no alternative but to investigate the matter.

Straightening his scruffy grey robe Andawyr set off quickly up the steep grassy bank in the direction the second wolf had taken. Briefly it occurred to him that not being unreasonably afraid of wolves was one thing, chasing after them quite another, but the thought was lost amid the curiosity that was now powering him forward. He stood for a moment on the rocky outcrop that the first wolf had chosen for a vantage and looked down at where he had been sitting.

Crafty devils, he thought. Pack hunters. If they had been inclined to attack him he would have had precious little chance. Even though he had sensed the one above him, the other could have seized him effortlessly. Tactics, tactics, he mused. And where was your awareness, your sensitivity to the nuances of your surroundings, great leader? As scattered and disordered as that damned stream, he concluded, with a scowl. He stooped down to examine the immediate terrain.

A dark stain of dampness on a small stone showed that it had been turned over recently and some scuffing of the grass bounding the merging rock indicated which way the animals had gone. It was not up the hill but along the contour towards the shoulder of the mountain to his right. Andawyr sniffed thoughtfully and massaged his squat nose. A little caution managed to force its way into his thoughts again.