Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

Hawklan found his bleak tone almost unbearable. He did not speak.

‘And now we find that the cause of it all wasn’t destroyed after all? That it was all just a… temporary setback for Him? That He’s going to return – worse than ever!’ He struck the wall a shuddering blow with the edge of his clenched fist, then leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

‘I don’t think I’ve anything more in me, Hawklan,’ he said after a long silence. There was no hint of self-pity in his voice. ‘I can’t go through that again, or anything like it. I’m spent. Doing it once was asking too much.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Hawklan said. ‘But you don’t need me to tell you it wasn’t for nothing, or that there was nothing casual about the deaths of those who didn’t return, do you?’

Loman levered himself upright and began wandering about his forge, touching things.

‘No,’ he replied grimly, as he needlessly arranged some tools hanging from a rack. ‘We’ve all rehearsed our words – our excuses. No real choice – self-defence is an absolute right – evil prevails when good men lie abed – the consequences of not fighting would have been infinitely worse – our duty to those unborn. Not forgetting the soldier’s eternal solace – we did what we did because we were there.’

‘Reasons, not excuses.’

‘Reasons, excuses – I don’t know – I’m not sure I can tell the difference any more – if I ever could.’

‘They are reasons, Loman,’ Hawklan said. ‘As valid now as they were before we fought and didn’t have the benefit of knowing the outcome – when there was only darkness and terrible uncertainty ahead. And when the words aren’t enough we take what comfort we can from our actions. It’s the nature of war to plunge us into the depths of what we can do and, in the end, maybe the only difference between us and Him is that we laid down our arms when it was over and reached out to make some semblance of a just peace.’ He paused, watching his old friend intently. Then he pointed to the silent forge. ‘But it’s no small difference, is it? You’ve marred more than one piece of iron with a pinch too much of this or a pinch too much of that, haven’t you?’ He shrugged. ‘The fact is we’re all scarred in many ways. But then, I don’t think there’s a law somewhere that says doing the right thing has to be either easy or pleasant.’

Loman picked up a short-shafted hammer, spun it deftly, then laid it quietly on his anvil. ‘Hardly a new debate, is it?’ he said softly. His manner was resigned. ‘I’m sorry, inflicting it on you again, but this business seems to have hit me harder than I thought. It’s all come out of nowhere – and so quickly. I’m finding it hard to face up to. I can’t do what I did before. I…’

Hawklan laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Whatever else happens, that won’t be needed, I’m certain. There’ll be burdens of a different kind, and different people to carry them. You carried far more than anyone else then. Nothing’s expected of you now.’

Loman frowned. ‘It’s not enough,’ he said desperately. ‘I can’t walk away, but I can’t face it all again. What about you, Hawklan? How do you do it? How do you stay the way you are? You did no less than me, but you still seem to be able to stay calm in the face of what’s happening – to think, to plan.’

Hawklan gave him an arch look. ‘Don’t confuse composure with equanimity,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘I did a lot less than you in the war. You led an army. I just sneaked round the back.’ The touch of humour faded and a spasm of pain passed over his face. ‘My burden, to this day, is the feeling deep down that perhaps if I hadn’t been here the war wouldn’t have happened.’

Loman looked at him, startled. ‘No, no,’ he said, suddenly anxious. ‘Don’t think that. More likely Sumeral’s being here brought you.’

‘I didn’t say it made sense.’

Loman became the comforter. ‘You’ve been listening to too many of Andawyr’s wilder ramblings about cause and effect.’

‘It could be Andawyr’s ramblings that’ll find a way for us to oppose Sumeral again.’

‘You think that’s possible?’

Hawklan hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’

Loman nodded slowly. He picked up a small figurine standing in tidy isolation amid the chaos of the battered table he referred to as his ‘desk’. It was a likeness of his daughter, Tirilen, carved by Isloman. She was his only child from a long-dead wife. Like all Isloman’s work it expressed far more than a likeness. Its face seemed to move as Loman turned it in the evening light. Tirilen had fallen in love with a Fyordyn High Guard – one of many who had fallen in love with her as she had nursed them after the battle in Narsindal. Now she was his wife and they lived in Fyorlund. Loman missed her flying blonde hair and provoking manner far more than he ever owned to – many did – but he was genuinely happy that she was happy. For a while after her return from her terrible work in the battlefield healing tents, though outwardly her old self, she was changed. Loman had sensed a deep hurt in her that neither he nor Hawklan could reach. It had only passed, or perhaps been transformed, as her new love had slowly grown. Gently he brushed some dust from the figure. Hawklan watched him.

‘Go to her, Loman,’ he said. ‘Go and see your daughter and your grandchild.’

Loman was breathing heavily. ‘It’s what I want to do,’ he said. ‘But…’ He fell silent.

Hawklan came close to him. ‘When whatever’s going to happen, happens, maybe we’ll prevail, maybe we won’t,’ he said. ‘But as Yatsu said, one way or another, it’ll probably be the Power against the Power this time. Precious little for us to do with our kinds of fighting skills, I suspect.’

‘Even so, I still don’t know that I can just walk away,’ Loman said.

‘We’re spectators, Loman. Something that’s not easy for either of us. But all we can do is watch and hope – encourage and support those who’re doing the real fighting. Go to your daughter. They’re so clever, these women, making their babies. Go and bask in the light of the new life she’s created and show it the joys of your own.’ Loman returned the figurine to its small place of honour. Hawklan’s voice fell. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, where better could you be? And if we defeat Him, then the castle won’t suffer too much for your being away for a while.’

Thus it was that Loman was standing by his horse on the dew-damped grass in front of Anderras Darion at dawn the next morning. He was joined by Endryk. Hawklan had made to speak to him also, but the Goraidin had spoken to him first.

‘Go and find your family and your old friends, Endryk,’ Dacu had told him. ‘And take this letter of commendation to your Lord for the help you gave to Thyrn and his friends. It was bravely done. I’d have been honoured to fight by your side. Any of us would have been.’

To the High Guard, this praise was both considerable and unexpected and he coloured as he received it. His response, however, was the same as Loman’s. ‘I can’t just walk away.’

‘Take it as an order, then,’ Dacu replied gently. ‘Far more’s owed to you than you owe. We should have taken more time to seek out those who wandered away, lost, after that last battle. It’s a stain on us all and your returning will help ease more pains than just those of your family.’

The Goraidin each said their farewells to both Loman and Endryk, but the most difficult parting was Endryk’s from Thyrn. Despite his best efforts the young Caddoran was unable to suppress his tears as he embraced Endryk and uttered a hoarse ‘Thank you.’ Endryk, moved more than he had anticipated, returned his embrace but did not trust himself enough to speak.