Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Rather self-consciously Farnor did as he was told, Marna following him. As he came closer to the Gate, however, he saw that the shimmering he had seen from a distance was caused by elaborate and intricate patterns cut into its metal surface. He saw too that they were sharp-edged and clear and quite unaffected by the summers and winters of what must have been many generations.

‘This is incredible,’ he said, talking to himself as much as to Marna. ‘Gryss would have loved this place so.’ Then, like the people he had been looking at but minutes previously, he was gently running his hands over the Gate. Scenes and text seemed to come and go, forming and reforming through the whirling complexity of the carving. Here was a chariot, with white-eyed, foam-flecked horses, manes streaming wildly as they strained to the will of their furious driver. So vivid was it that Farnor thought he could hear the gasping breath, the pounding hooves, the rattle and creak of axles and tackle. But was it near or far? Then he realized that chariot, horses and driver were formed from countless other smaller scenes, each as detailed. He blinked to clear his vision, then saw that these were formed in turn from the overlapping features of yet other, larger carvings. A thin cloud drifted over the sun, sending a faint shadow dancing across the Gate. He gasped and stepped back as the whole Gate seemed to come alive with movement. His gaze was drawn inexorably upwards to the wall towering high above him.

‘Careful.’ A powerful hand between his shoulder blades prevented what would have been an inglorious tumble as he leaned ever further backwards.

He turned to thank his saviour but it took him a moment to focus properly. Then he found himself looking at a tall figure in a simple black robe. He was about the same height as Isloman but, though not as powerfully built, he gave the impression of being far stronger and, even though he was standing still, Farnor could sense an economy of movement in him that he knew would be the envy of the likes of Olvric and the others. In an instant he knew too who served as their example.

‘You’re Hawklan, aren’t you?’ he said, looking into a lean, weathered, yet strangely ageless face. Angular, with high cheek-bones and a prominent nose, it was dominated by bright green eyes.

‘I am,’ Hawklan admitted with a slight bow. ‘And you are Farnor, I presume, if Gavor’s description is to be trusted.’ He extended a hand toward Marna. ‘And you’ll be Marna, the young woman who rides with the Goraidin and who quite definitely isn’t Farnor’s mate. You made an impression on our bird.’

Marna nodded, untypically overawed by this new arrival.

‘You like the Gate?’

‘I don’t think I can say anything without stammering,’ Farnor said.

Hawklan looked up at it. ‘Not an inappropriate response by any means,’ he said. ‘People have made a lifetime’s work of studying it, but no one has even managed to draw it in its entirety. Not even Orthlund’s finest carvers seem to have the eye for it. You ran your hands over it, I noticed.’ Farnor guiltily wiped his hands on his trousers and surreptitiously put them behind his back. ‘Had you been blind, you’d have seen pictures and read tales quite different from those that we can see. At least, so I’m told. And if you have the ears for it, it sings at the touch of the least breeze.’

Farnor looked at him uncertainly. Hawklan laughed gently. ‘You, above all, shouldn’t doubt that, Farnor. You who can Hear the Great Forest.’

Before Farnor could reply he and Marna were being shepherded back to the others. There was a brief interlude as Hawklan greeted the four Goraidin. His greeting was not as raucous as Loman’s and Isloman’s but just as heartfelt, if not more so.

Some time later they were all together in a bright, airy room that overlooked an expansive garden area, one of many such within the confines of the castle. Both Farnor and Marna were oscillating between excitement and a numb bewilderment as a result of discovery after discovery. Loman had taken them to the quarters he had prepared. Large, elegantly furnished and bedecked with the elaborate carvings that seemed to be everywhere, the rooms, like so much else they were encountering, were quite unlike anything either of them had ever known. It had taken Loman some time to assure the two young people that the rooms were indeed theirs while they remained in the castle. Now, bathed, changed into clean clothes, and replete with a substantial if simple meal, they were sitting in well-upholstered chairs and awaiting events.

They were not long in unfolding. Farnor was trying to tell Loman that he could not accept such lavish hospitality without offering some form of payment – ‘I’d be happy to work on one of the farms. Or repair things. Or just sweep the floor. Anything’ – and Loman was trying to assure him that it was unnecessary when a commotion in the doorway interrupted them.

Andawyr staggered into the room with an oath, having been unbalanced by Tarrian and Grayle as they pushed roughly past him. The four Goraidin were on their feet immediately, all of them reaching for knives at the sight of the two wolves.

‘It’s all right,’ Hawklan shouted hastily. ‘There’s no danger. Please. Sit down.’

It was with the utmost reluctance that they did as he asked and all of them were sitting on the edge of their chairs as the two animals moved around the room unceremoniously sniffing at everything and everyone. Andawyr was followed by Antyr, Oslang, Usche and an uncomfortable looking Ar-Billan.

After a plethora of introductions and chair-moving, Andawyr took charge of the gathering.

‘This is difficult. I’ve no beginning to what I want to say, because I’m far from clear about what seems to be happening. However, suffice it that I came here with my colleagues because Yatsu and Jaldaric came to the Cadwanen with Antyr and a very disturbing tale.’

‘Where are those two?’ Gulda demanded curtly.

‘They’ll be here shortly,’ Loman said.

‘As I was saying,’ Andawyr went on pointedly. ‘Antyr has a very disturbing tale. One that coincides in its details with other matters that I…’ He extended a hand towards Oslang. ‘That we, at the Cadwanol, have been growing increasingly concerned about for some time. Now, from what I’ve heard from Gavor, it seems that our new guest, Farnor, also has a disconcerting tale for us. As we’ve none of us had much of a chance to talk so far, may I suggest we start now?’

The door opened and Yatsu and Jaldaric entered. Under Gulda’s beady gaze they sat down sheepishly.

‘We should start with the Goraidins’ Accounting,’ Gulda said. ‘Then, if they feel up to it, Antyr and Farnor can make their own contribution.’

The various tellings took a long time, not least because both Gulda and Andawyr asked a great many questions. However, so thorough were the Goraidin in their reporting of events that both Antyr and Farnor had little to do other than explain their own parts in the events that had been described; Antyr telling of Ivaroth and the blind man who had controlled him, and Farnor telling of Rannick and the Sierwolf.

When all was finished the room was silent. It was dark outside, the sun having dropped behind the castle wall. As the light had faded, so lamps around the room had slowly blossomed into life.

‘Strange, strange, tales,’ Gulda said, tapping her stick absently on the floor. ‘And disturbing, as you say.’

‘You haven’t told us why you came back, Memsa,’ Hawklan said, asking the question that Andawyr had been wanting to ask throughout.

Gulda shrugged. ‘I was drawn here,’ she said simply and in a tone that indicated no further explanation would be forthcoming.

Hawklan looked at Andawyr. ‘Any conclusions?’