Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Chasing wolves across the mountain. Is this a good idea?

He rationalized. They’d run away once, they’d probably run away again. Besides, he had the Power if he really needed it, and he wasn’t going to be taken unawares again. And why not go this way, anyway? It was still early, the weather promised to be marvellous for the rest of the day, and while this was not the way he had originally intended to go, it was as good as any. He quickly ran mentally through a route back to the Cadwanen to confirm to himself that he was not being recklessly impulsive, then he dismissed the caution completely and strode off towards the distant skyline.

Questions bubbled through him, matching the rhythm of his steps. These animals had touched his mind! How could that be? Had he suddenly, unknowingly acquired Hawklan’s gift? Was it some inadvertent consequence of his latest studies into the Power? And if so, would there be others? And would they all be so benign? It was not a particularly welcome idea. He stopped the self-interrogation abruptly. It was going nowhere and it was serving only to cloud his thoughts. He went over what had happened again, capturing his reactions after the strange first touch he had felt. He had sensed nothing new in himself and such a change in his ability could not have happened without some prior indication even if it only became apparent in retrospect. And it did not. There was nothing. The contact – the voice – had come from outside. It had definitely been initiated by the wolves; or at least by one of them.

Then he remembered their parting remark.

‘Just wait there a moment.’

What had that meant?

Perhaps they’ve gone for their friends, declared part of him malevolently. He ignored it. But he stopped. As he did so, he realized he had been walking too quickly, and that a combination of the sun and his excitement had conspired to make him feel unpleasantly warm.

Calm down, he instructed himself, flapping his robe indecorously. They were running when they left, you’re not going to catch them unless they’ve stopped.

He took a drink from his water bottle. He had filled it at the stream and the water was still very cold.

‘Simple pleasures,’ he reminded himself with a chuckle as he wiped some across his face. ‘But what about complicated ones – like talking wolves? Just as good!’ And he was off again, his pace unchanged.

As he rounded the broad shoulder of the hill a cool breeze greeted him. It was drifting up from the shallow valley now spread out before him. Green and lush, the valley was hemmed protectively by rugged peaks and ridges, bright and clear in the sunlight. Cattle and sheep were reduced to tiny dots by the distance and the small orderliness of a few cultivated fields marked some of the farms that served the Cadwanen.

‘You really should get out more often, Andawyr,’ he said as he took in the sight.

Then he felt again the soft touch in his mind that had heralded the arrival of the wolves. There was the same wildness about it and, though it carried no menace, it nevertheless startled him. He looked around anxiously, screwing up his eyes to peer through the brightness. Almost immediately, he saw horses in the distance. Three riders and a pack horse, he judged after a moment.

And two dogs…?

But that question was set aside by others. From the direction the riders were moving in, it seemed they had dropped down from a col between two all-too-familiar peaks. Andawyr frowned. That meant that at some point they must have travelled along, or at least crossed, the bleak Pass of Elewart. The thought brought a momentary darkness to him. Even on a day like this, the Pass of Elewart was barren and inhospitable. The only people who travelled it were those who had to, and they were mainly Cadwanwr and others who studied the land of Narsindal to the north. And, whatever else they were, these riders did not look like Cadwanwr.

They were heading directly towards him, the dogs, if dogs they were, trotting ahead of them. He half expected to hear the wolf’s voice ringing through his head again. But there was nothing other than the soft wind-carried sounds of the valley. He sat down on a rock and waited.

The two ‘dogs’ were indeed the wolves, he decided as the small group drew nearer. Strange companions for men, he thought. So wild, so shy, so free. Not tame, surely? No one could tame a wolf. Train it, perhaps, but never tame.

Other impressions began to displace his thoughts about the wolves and he leaned forward intently as if that might bring the riders closer. Then he stood up and began walking towards them, every now and then breaking into a little run. In their turn the riders urged their horses to the trot.

‘It is you,’ Andawyr cried out as they reined in alongside him. The first two riders dismounted excitedly. ‘Yatsu, Jaldaric…’ Andawyr extended his arms wide as if to encompass the entire group, horses and all. His face was beaming and his mouth for some time was shaping unvoiced greetings as he embraced each of the men in turn.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ he managed eventually. ‘Where have you been? What have you been doing? What…’ His voice fell. ‘What in the name of all that’s merciful are you doing coming back this way? Did you come through the Pass?’

‘We crossed it,’ said the elder of the two. ‘We didn’t mean to return this way, but…’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’

Andawyr made a gesture that indicated they had all the time in the world, then impatiently seized the hand of the second rider. Taller and younger than his companion, he had fair, curly hair and a round face which, for all it was weather-worn and had lines of strain about it beyond his age, had also an unexpected hint of innocence.

‘Jaldaric. You’re getting more like your father every day,’ Andawyr advised him, as much for want of something to say as anything else. He clapped his hands excitedly, then put his arms around both of them again. Yatsu disentangled himself and indicated the third rider, who was still mounted.

Andawyr looked up at him. In age, he was perhaps between his two companions but, though he sat straight and upright, he had the aura of someone much older. And he had black-irised eyes that returned Andawyr’s gaze disconcertingly.

‘This is Antyr,’ Yatsu said. ‘A valued friend. He’s been travelling with us and I think, like us, he’d value some simple hospitality – or at least a soft bed.’

Antyr dismounted and offered his hand to Andawyr who clasped it with both of his own. ‘Welcome to Riddin, Antyr, valued friend of Yatsu and Jaldaric. Welcome to the Cadwanen and to whatever hospitality we can offer you.’

‘Thank you,’ Antyr replied, bowing slightly.

‘Remarkable.’

The voice filled Andawyr’s head causing him to look around quickly. The two wolves moved to his side and began sniffing him energetically. He decided to stand very still for a little while.

‘This is Tarrian and this is his brother, Grayle,’ Antyr said, touching the heads of the wolves gently as if to restrain them. ‘Grayle doesn’t say much, and Tarrian usually says too much. They’re my Earth Holders, my Companions. They’re also very impolite,’ he added sharply, looking down at them. The two wolves ignored the rebuke and continued sniffing.

Questions lit Andawyr’s face.

‘We’ll explain it to you later,’ Yatsu said, not without some amusement. ‘Or at least Antyr will try. But I have to warn you, he’s not managed to make either of us understand so far.’

The wolves finally retreated. Andawyr pointed at them and then lifted his hand to his head vaguely as he looked inquiringly at Antyr. ‘Did one of them actually… say something?’

‘Later,’ Yatsu said. ‘Antyr’s story’s even longer than our journey. But he’s come with us because he needs help and guidance. He’s special – very special – and he needs to speak to you – or Hawklan – or both.’