Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Then they were moving again, Tarrian leading the way up the sweeping steps that led to the top of the castle wall. Puffing a little as he reached the top, Andawyr saw Hawklan and Gulda standing with Antyr. They were looking out over the countryside. The sun was low and very bright, hiding much of the landscape under an elaborate patchwork of long, gold-flecked shadows.

‘Fine evening,’ Andawyr said as he joined the others. The bland courtesy emerged unbidden and sounded empty in the face of the sun’s splendour. Tarrian jumped up on to one of the embrasures. Grayle and Dar-volci were already there, sprawled out luxuriously. Tarrian dropped down beside them. The eyes of the two wolves glinted yellow in the sunlight.

Andawyr looked at Gulda and then at Hawklan. Both of them returned his inquiring gaze.

‘We thought you needed to talk,’ Dar-volci said.

‘We?’ Gulda asked, turning to him darkly.

‘Me, Tarrian, Grayle, Gavor.’

‘We’ve been talking for days, or hadn’t you noticed?’ Andawyr said with some impatience.

‘Oh yes, we noticed. You made quite a reasonable job of it, too,’ Tarrian intruded, addressing all of them.

Andawyr gave Antyr a world-weary look. ‘It’s hard enough having patronizing felcis all over the place without the wolves joining in.’

Antyr gave a disclaiming shrug.

‘Just sit quietly for a little while,’ Tarrian said, conspicuously ignoring the sarcasm. ‘Watch the sun go down and Anderras Darion’s stars rise.’

Radiant-stone lanterns were already releasing their sun-stored light into parts of the castle that were deep in shade. They changed in intensity as need arose, casting a gentle light that eased the darkness aside rather than slashing through it as though it were an enemy.

A black shape, flickering shadows in the gloaming, landed on top of the wall and then hopped on to Hawklan’s shoulder.

‘Sorry I’m late, dear boys, Memsa,’ Gavor said. ‘Just talking to a friend.’

Gulda reached up and tapped his beak, then chuckled and sat down by the wolves, motioning the others to do the same.

They sat in silence for a long time, watching the sun sink slowly beyond the horizon, returning the landscape to them for a little while before the darkness finally enfolded it. Evening was a time when the Orthlundyn tended to wander their streets, watching what the changing shadows did to their carvings. Orthlundyn carving frequently produced results that its creators had not intended. In so doing, it asked questions and opened ways, and the Orthlundyn relished it.

As the western sky dimmed and stars began to appear, so more lights began to bloom into life about the castle. Occasionally, sounds drifted to the watchers, deepening the silence: voices, distant and indistinct; laughter; a closing door; the cry of a nightbird or an animal.

‘Excuse us,’ Tarrian said, as he and Grayle scrambled to their feet and jumped down from the embrasure.

‘Patronizing they might be when it suits them,’ Gulda said as the two wolves trotted off along the wall. ‘But they have a sureness of touch that we have to work hard to attain and even harder to keep.’

‘I thought it was a good Accounting,’ Andawyr said in a slightly injured tone.

‘It was,’ Gulda replied. ‘An excellent one, insofar as excellent is a word to be used for what we’ve learned. But a little silence, a little stillness, a little freedom doesn’t go amiss, does it? Let the castle soak into us, as it were.’

She looked upwards. Where lights decked the towers they had an intensity and were arranged in such a way that it was often difficult to distinguish them from the stars.

‘It seems that Ethriss’s patterns stretch out, into the very heavens,’ Gulda said softly. ‘Vying with the constellations.’

‘Like those in the hilt of the Black Sword,’ Hawklan said, equally softly.

Andawyr looked at him. ‘What did you make of the appearance of yourself and the Sword in my dream?’ The question was more abrupt than he had intended. ‘The one I had back at the Cadwanen when I hustled Antyr into demonstrating his art on me.’

Hawklan did not answer immediately. His thoughts had drifted back to the mountain camp when he and Dar-volci had discussed the loss of the Sword and when Dar-volci had so casually announced his belief that Sumeral was whole again and bent on returning. He voiced the thoughts he had had then.

‘I don’t know. I’ve no conceivable need for a sword, yet it haunts me still that I let it slip so easily from my hand.’

‘Don’t underestimate the power of even the voice of Sumeral,’ Gulda said. ‘Had I been a little wiser, perhaps I might have prepared you better.’

Hawklan shook his head and affected a casualness he did not feel. ‘I doubt it. But it’s of no account. The deed’s done and the Sword lost.’

‘But it still troubles you?’

‘“Troubles” is too strong a word. But the recollection comes to me from time to time and there’s always a wrongness about the memory. I can’t do other than reproach myself for what happened.’

‘Time to time?’ Andawyr’s voice was shrewd. ‘Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that scarcely a day passes without you thinking about it?’

Hawklan grimaced and avoided his gaze. ‘I suppose so, yes,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Particularly lately – since I discussed it with Dar… but…’

‘No buts,’ Andawyr said. ‘It mightn’t be giving you sleepless nights, but it’s troubling you all right. And, to be honest, it troubles me too, though, like you, I don’t know why. You and it are joined in some way. It almost literally fell into your hand when it was needed. How did it come to be in the Armoury? It couldn’t have been there before. A smith like Loman would have sensed its presence years earlier. And on the few occasions you used it, it was like a trumpet call. It rang out, clarity and truth swirling in its wake.’ He became very still, then pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. ‘How couldn’t I have seen it before?’ he said, his eyes suddenly wide and intense. ‘It’s so obvious. He was afraid of it. Afraid of it.’

‘As you said yourself, a treacherous word, “obvious”,’ Gulda said quietly. ‘ Who was afraid of it?’

‘Him! Sumeral!’ Andawyr replied, swinging his still wide-eyed gaze round to her. ‘The Sword’s some kind of extraordinary artefact of the Power, but if He’d been able to use it, He’d simply have taken it. Hawklan can’t use the Power himself – he was running towards Derras Ustramel in faith and with the vainest of hopes. Sumeral’s least effort could have bound him there and taken the Sword.’ He turned to Hawklan and prodded a satisfied finger into his chest. ‘But instead, He stopped you, long before you reached the castle – before you could even see it through the mist. And He made you drop the Sword into the lake.’

‘No, not into the lake,’ Hawklan said. ‘Somewhere else.’

Andawyr bared his teeth in a moue of annoyance and his elation faltered. He sagged a little. ‘Well, that’s as maybe. It’s still lost, isn’t it? As you said, the deed’s done, there’s no point fretting about it.’

‘There’s rarely any point about fretting over anything,’ Gulda said sharply. ‘But given that our healer still feels the absence of it after so long – increasingly so, it would seem – and the venerable leader of the Cadwanol sees it in his dreams, and even now is still standing on that misty causeway where it was lost, I think it would be worth bringing a little purposeful thought to it.’

As she looked significantly at the two men, a low moaning cry came out of the darkness. Another followed it. All of them turned towards the sound.