Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

It was subdued and dull and the horizon merged uncertainly with the grey sky in a vague mistiness. Coupled with the cold, raw weather, it was the very opposite of the rich, vigorous landscape he had left in the spring. Yet there was still a calmness about it: a calmness that said that all was as it should be, that this was the preparation for the long winter resting that would see the land renewed again in its due time. And even as he looked at it, Hawklan realized that this was where some part of him had been aching to be ever since he had left; this was where he belonged, for all his strange knowledge of other places and for all the strange compulsions that had drawn him to the Gretmearc and thence to and fro across Fyorlund. This was his home.

He wrapped his warm cloak about himself and slowly drew in a long, cold breath. Then, equally slowly, he released it again, relaxing as he did so into the deep truth of his surroundings, into the Great Harmony of Orthlund.

Isloman, standing next to him, watched the slight movement silently. He laid his hand on the finely crafted stone of the wall.

‘If we don’t destroy Him, He will strike to our very heart,’ he said.

The remark bore no relation to anything they had been discussing, but it chimed with Hawklan’s mood, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

Why? he asked himself briefly. Why could not he and the Orthlundyn and the Fyordyn be left in peace? Why should Sumeral so seek to dominate them? What was to be gained by it? What creation could Sumeral offer that would match the harmonies of these lands and these peoples? And what others would He assail should these obstacles to His Will be swept aside?

Ethriss had given the joy of being. What would Sumeral give? Not being? A great barren stillness in which He alone was ?

Hawklan did not pursue the questions. They had come before and he had failed to find answers to them. Perhaps, he thought, such questions could not be answered, any more than could, ‘Why the mountains? Why the sea?’ They were . Sumeral was. They should be accepted. That was sufficient answer for the needs of the times.

Hawklan smiled gently to himself. Whether a ques-tion could be answered or not was irrelevant. While there were minds to inquire, there would always be more questions and always further striving for answers; those same needs of the times would always set aside too idle a speculation.

It came to him suddenly that, whatever His motiva-tion, Sumeral would not merely dominate the peoples He conquered, He would destroy them, and their lands, and everything else that the Guardians had created.

It was a chilling revelation, but Hawklan knew that it was true beyond all doubting. What he had learned from his studies at Anderras Darion had told him of a foe who had left a trail of every form of treachery, deceit and savagery; treaties broken, people enslaved, lands ravaged. Yet these were the words of men; men long dead and beyond questioning; men who too could lie and deceive; men who could make honest mistakes as time stretched between the deeds and the writing of them. The inner knowledge that welded these words into the truth which now stood before him, stark and clear, he had gained from the horror around Lord Evison’s castle, from the downing of Isloman near the mines, from the countless tiny cries of all the living things around Vakloss that had reached out to him as he neared his goal, but, above all, from the naked fury of Oklar and the icy whispered touch of his Master.

Hawklan knew that he could not have such knowl-edge and turn away from it. He must become a greater healer yet, and a greater warrior, and each must accept the other without rancour or confusion.

A movement caught his eye.

‘Who’s that?’ he said, pointing to a small group of riders far below.

Isloman peered forward intently. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘I think it’s that group that Loman packed off into the mountains on an exercise when the rest of us were leaving the main camp.’

Hawklan recalled the incident. ‘Tybek and Jenna were in charge, weren’t they?’ he said.

‘There’s no point trailing back to the Castle and then trailing out again, is there?’ Loman had replied to Tybek’s injured protest. ‘We’re far enough behind with our training as it is, thanks to our new friends. Take your winter gear. Cut a broad circuit round those peaks and come down on to the Riddin path. I’ll send Jenna out in an hour or so with a hunting group. It’ll be excellent practice for you both.’

Subsequently Loman had become concerned when snowstorms were seen on the distant peaks.

‘Don’t worry about them until they’re overdue,’ Gulda had said, less than sympathetically. ‘They’re as good as you could have made them. An experience like that will make or mar them.’

‘And if they’re marred?’ Loman had queried angrily.

‘Then they’d have been no good as Helyadin, would they?’ Gulda replied sharply. ‘Better fail now than when others’ lives depend on them.’

Hawklan smiled as he remembered Loman’s frus-trated scowl.

‘They’ve got someone with them.’ Isloman broke into his reverie. ‘And it looks as if there are two riding the one horse.’ He screwed his eyes up. ‘Yes, there are,’ he added. ‘And it’s a fine horse too.’

Hawklan leaned forward on the parapet wall and watched the approaching group patiently. After a few minutes he began to make out the details that Isloman had described. That horse had to be a Muster horse, and that tiny passenger…?

He was familiar.

He started, as a bedraggled Gavor bounced down on to the wall beside him, flapping excitedly and staggering alarmingly.

‘Come on, dear boy,’ the raven said, jumping up and down and at the same time trying to preen himself. ‘Shift yourself.’

Hawklan looked at him. ‘Ah, good of you to join us again, Gavor,’ he said. ‘I presume all your friends were at home, by the look of you. Are you sure you can remember how to fly?’

‘Very droll, dear boy,’ Gavor replied, with great dignity, still struggling with his more recalcitrant feathers. ‘Like you, I have a wide circle of affectionate friends and acquaintances who’ve been most anxious about me in my absence. It would have been churlish in the extreme not to accept their hospitality.’

‘Yes, I didn’t think you’d been refusing anything, judging from the way you landed,’ Hawklan said, and both he and Isloman laughed.

Still dignified, Gavor walked to the edge of the wall and peered over cautiously. ‘Well, I’m going to join our friend Andawyr,’ he said. ‘Do feel free to join us if you can spare a moment from your gossiping.’ And with an alarmed, ‘Whoops!’ he launched himself unsteadily into the cold wind.

Andawyr watched as the black dot tumbled precipitately through the air then suddenly swooped up and round in a great majestic arc. As it neared, his face broke into a smile. ‘Gavor?’ he inquired of Tybek who was riding alongside him.

Tybek nodded, but before he could speak, Gavor had landed on Andawyr’s outstretched hand. Agreth started at this unexpected arrival and his horse reared a little, causing Andawyr to seize its mane hastily and Gavor to extend his wings to preserve his balance.

‘Steady, horse,’ Gavor said sternly.

Agreth’s look of surprise turned to mild indignation at this usurpation of his authority.

Gavor turned and looked at him. ‘So sorry, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Quite forgot who was in charge. Do carry on.’

Agreth had heard about Gavor from Sylvriss and the Fyordyn but, expecting an amusing pet, he was quite unprepared for the piercing black-eyed gaze and the forceful presence.

‘Ah,’ Gavor said, raising his wooden leg by way of a salute. ‘I thought it was a Muster nag, quite handsome in a horsy kind of way.’ Then, staring at Agreth, he asked abruptly, ‘Is the Queen safe and well?’