Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

‘This is a beautiful land,’ Farnor said to Olvric as they left the farmhouse and went to their tents. ‘There’s something special about it. I’ve felt it more and more since we crossed the bridge.’

‘You’re right,’ Olvric replied. ‘Orthlund’s a very special place.’

‘And are all the people like him – the farmer – and his family?’

‘People are people,’ Olvric replied unhelpfully. ‘No two are alike, you should know that by now. But, yes, generally speaking, the Orthlundyn will offer you trust and hospitality.’

‘Yet they’ve a Threshold Sword hanging by the door.’

‘That’s a Fyordyn tradition we seem to be exporting. They’ve only been doing it here since the war.’ Unexpectedly Olvric gave a sad smile. ‘Part of me thinks I should be unhappy about that but it’s difficult to be unhappy about anything the Orthlundyn do, they bring such qualities to their actions. I could be sad about your people – they took to the Threshold Sword because the darker realities of the world beyond their valley had impinged on them. It’s something they did with regret and they’d happily be without it. In a way, they lost their innocence. I could even perhaps be sad about my own people – we maintained the tradition religiously – had the symbol constantly before us – yet didn’t see what it meant – not even us, the Goraidin, the elite of the High Guards, Morlider War veterans, who, above all, should have seen clearly.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Farnor said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Olvric was offhand. ‘Don’t worry, you didn’t. A day doesn’t pass when some memory of the war doesn’t intrude. It can’t be avoided, but it’s no burden. It’s just one of the differences between you and me, that’s all.’

Farnor made to enter his tent but he paused. ‘What did you mean, the Orthlundyn bring such qualities to their actions?’

‘Just that.’ Olvric stood a few paces away from him now, shadowy in the light that shone from the farmhouse windows. ‘Even in a simple thing like adopting the Threshold Sword, they did it not as an unfortunate necessity, like your people, but almost as if they were renewing some ancient pledge. Yet, at the same time, they did it… lightly.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t worry, neither do I. As individuals they’re like you and me. As a people, they’re deep.’

‘Why?’

There was an untypical hint of exasperation in Olvric’s reply. ‘Farnor, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. You pick a rare time to ask questions like that.’

‘Sorry.’

Olvric half turned to continue to his tent, then he stopped. He spoke into the darkness.

‘The Orthlundyn are the remains of the people who stood first and longest against Sumeral at the time of the First Coming. They were Ethriss’s firmest allies. They paid a terrible price. Their innocence has long been lost.’ He turned to Farnor. ‘Unlike my people and the Riddinvolk, they’ve no military tradition. All they’re interested in is their farming and their carving. If we ever thought about them at all, it was with amused affection, I suppose. Not that we ever thought about them much. But when He returned, they mustered an army out of nothing, moved it across the mountains and fought battles as if they’d been trained to it not only from birth but through countless generations.’ Farnor could not see Olvric’s face, but he saw his clenched fist raised in emphasis. ‘And you should’ve seen them fight, Farnor. Such courage, discipline. Incredible. A match for the finest we had. Even their elite, the Helyadin, their Goraidin. That’s what Yrain and Jenna were, Helyadin – that’s Gulda’s influence for you.’ The fist was lowered. ‘And when everything was over, they…’ He shrugged. ‘Disbanded. Went back to their homes, their farming, their carving.’

‘As if nothing had happened?’

‘Oh no. No one could do that. Too many were too cruelly hurt, in every way. They’re changed, as are we all. But where we and the Riddinvolk have been moved to a different awareness of our lives and our history, it’s as though the Orthlundyn were simply awakening – becoming something that they used to be – but still at ease with it.’

He fell silent.

A door closed in the farmhouse, and somewhere a dog barked.

‘Good night, Farnor.’

‘Good night, Olvric.’

The following morning it was raining and a strong breeze was blowing, but Farnor, first awake as always, found he could do no other than join the farmer with his daily tasks. Apart from an initial, surprised greeting, the farmer accepted his help in companionable and appreciative silence.

When they had finished, Farnor stood looking at the farmhouse, inevitably contrasting it with the memory of his own home, both as it had been and as it had become. The memory distressed him and for a while there were more than raindrops running down his face.

After they had breakfasted with the farmer and his wife, the party set off again, though, to both Farnor’s and Marna’s relief, not at the pace they had maintained for the previous days. Soon they were moving through hedged and cultivated land along metalled roads and encountering a modest amount of traffic. Each person they met offered them a greeting, which they returned, and there were one or two more prolonged intervals as old friends were occasionally recognized.

Farnor began to feel nervous. The memories stirred by his brief stay at the farm had disturbed him. What was he doing in this place, so far from his home and friends? Why was he learning these dark Goraidin ways? What was it inside him that could reach out and touch the Great Forest and the ways to these worlds beyond? And what was Marna doing here, dark-haired and contrary Marna who had leapt into the blazing castle to rescue the four Goraidin? But there was his answer, he knew. Both he and the Marna he had known were changed, and that change had set them both on this journey and to whatever followed. His thoughts slipped back momentarily to the help he had given the farmer that morning. That had been good. That would always be good. That would always be there.

Almost without realizing it, he was listening to the voice of the Great Forest within him. He had not consciously done that for some time.

‘You must keep in touch with them,’ Gavor had said. ‘Don’t let their voice be drowned by the clamour that your own kind makes.’

‘I am here,’ Farnor said inwardly. ‘All is well. This is a place of light.’

And even as the words formed, his unease slipped away. Orthlund was indeed a place of light. He could feel it all around him. His nervousness became anticipation.

‘Are you all right?’

He jumped as Marna seemed to bellow her concern at him.

‘Yes,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just thinking about something.’

They were walking up a small rise.

Marna turned to Yengar. ‘How much further…?’

Yengar lifted his hand for silence and they stopped at the top of the rise. As they stood there, the only sounds to be heard were the soft creak of the horses’ tackle and the flapping of Farnor’s cloak, flying loose in the blustering wind.

Yengar pointed to the horizon. The rain had stopped and the clouds had been scattered. In the distance ran a long range of sunlit mountains and between two of the peaks the sun was reflecting off something with diamond brightness.

‘That’s the Gate to Anderras Darion,’ he said.

Farnor found his nervousness returning. It alternated with an increasing excitement. What was this place going to be like? And what were its people going to be like? Gulda he knew, or at least had met, albeit only briefly, though while she had made a powerful impression on him he could not fathom why she was held almost in awe by his otherwise commanding and apparently fearless companions. What would Andawyr be like? The descriptions he had been given did not seem to fit the leader of what was apparently an ancient and wise Order. And, not least, what would this great leader, the owner of Anderras Darion, Hawklan, be like? Old? Young? Ferocious and grim? Massively strong? Battle-scarred? Clad in heroic armour, sitting on a great throne with an armed retinue about him?