Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

Hawklan took the black sword in both hands and let go such ties of fear as bound him.

The two assailants faced each other.

Then two objects landed with a dull thud on the ground between them.

As they rolled to a standstill, Hawklan stepped back in horror. They were the heads of Creost and Dar Hastuin, gaping and awful.

‘Have you no word for the Lord Vanas and the Duke Irgoneth, mighty Lord?’ said a muffled voice above his head. ‘Your erstwhile comrades-in-arms, and bloody perpetrators of His will.’

A horse pushed gently past Hawklan. It was Serian, foam-covered and steaming. Riding him was a visored figure.

Oklar knelt down to examine the two heads, then stared up at the newcomer.

His face was alive with emotion.

‘It cannot be,’ he said. ‘No ordinary blade could hurt them, Cadwanwr or no. Who…?’

‘Look at me, Uhriel,’ the rider said.

Oklar stared up at the figure and his eyes opened in terror. ‘It cannot be,’ he began again. ‘You wear the armour of the Lords of the Iron Ring; the true armour forged by the Heretic’s smiths.’

‘Why should I not, Lord?’ said the rider. ‘Did you not see me that day? Or did the ravens mocking you from above dim your true vision?’ Oklar’s hand clawed at the ground as he stared transfixed at the figure. ‘Did you not see me stare into His eyes and show Him His own soul, so that even He faltered at the horror of it and fell before Ethriss’s pity, and the Fyordyn’s arrows?’

‘It cannot be,’ Oklar said again, like a soothing re-sponse in a dreadful litany. ‘Who…?’

The rider moved forward and reached up to remove the visor.

‘Do you not know me yet… father?’

Oklar staggered back; for the moment, Uhriel no more, but a man. ‘Gwelayne?’ he said softly. ‘My… ’ His voice faded and Hawklan turned away from the torment in his face. Then Oklar let out a demented cry. ‘No, no, no. Gwelayne is gone. Gone even before I became… Gone into… ’

‘Gone where, father?’ the rider said. ‘Gone into leg-end? Into some misty cloud at the edge of your conscience?’ She leaned forward and her voice hissed with hatred. ‘Know this, father. That I have the gift you sought. The gift you so lusted for that you betrayed and sold me in the hope it would be given to you. Knowing what he was you sold me! Innocent and trusting; who could not have loved you more. Now it is I who have His greatest gift. It was His scornful, dismissive, blessing at our parting. " Be forever," he said, and I have walked the world ever since.’

Oklar shook his head, transfixed by the image in front of him.

The rider spoke again. ‘Now He has struggled to rise again, I shall cast Him down again, as I have these creatures. And so utterly that there will be no further awakening. I will deny Him the gift he granted me.’

Oklar’s head shook more and more, as if the action would dash all the words from his ears. ‘You could be His again,’ he gasped. ‘Rule as you did. Powerful, haughty… ’

He flinched back at some expression in the rider’s face that Hawklan could not see. Man and Uhriel fought for possession of him, then suddenly, he let out a great scream and, plunging forward, seized the heads of his slain comrades. Hawklan started towards him, ready to strike, for he was Uhriel again, whole and terrible-more terrible even than before.

‘Cadwanwr,’ he said, rising to his feet holding a head in each hand. ‘I see your hand in this foul charade, and you will live long to regret it.’ Andawyr raised a hand towards him, then stepped as if held by some great force. ‘I own I misjudged your power,’ Oklar continued. ‘But so did you mine. For in slaying these you gave me their power, and I am His equal now. His Will shall be mine. All things shall be mine.’

‘No, father. Please… ’ The voice was pleading.

Oklar’s eyes blazed and with a raging cry he swung his sword back to strike down this fearful spectre from his long-buried humanity.

The rider did not move, and briefly Oklar faltered in his terrible intent. As he did so Hawklan drove the black sword of Ethriss towards the Uhriel’s heart with all the skill and power he possessed.

With effortless ease, Oklar knocked it from his grasp. It clattered to the ground and he stood astride it.

‘Now no weapon can injure me,’ he said.

Strangely calm, his hand came round to point at Andawyr. ‘Your suffering shall begin now.’

But as he spoke, a sinuous brown body slithered from between the Cadwanwr’s legs and ran towards him.

Oklar hesitated, and Dar-volci scrambled nimbly up his lank form until he was on his shoulder. A mailed hand moved to dislodge him, but Dar-volci reached out a powerful claw and slashed a great gash in it.

Then he whispered in Oklar’s ear. ‘Know this, cor-rupter. We are creatures of the deep rock. Here before your time and brought unwilling to this new world.’

Oklar stared at the welling blood, and terror sud-denly filled his face. Desperately he reached back to seize the felci, but Dar-volci’s claws were already about his throat and his formidable teeth were closing around the back of his neck.

‘Noooo!’

Oklar’s scream rose above the sound of the crushing bones. It reached a terrible climax then faded suddenly and his long frame fell to the ground almost silently.

Dar-volci jumped clear of the tumbling destruction, then scratched his stomach and spat something out distastefully. The rider pulled the visor back over her face and dismounted. She bent down and with great tenderness lifted the dead Uhriel’s head into her lap.

Hawklan knelt down beside her.

She turned to look at him. Hawklan could see no part of her face, but he could see tears shining in her eyes.

He touched her gently and she bowed her head gratefully.

Then she reached out and, picking up Ethriss’s sword, handed it to him. ‘Your people are dying, prince,’ she said. ‘All hangs at the point of balance and all His power is returned to Him. You must destroy Him.’

Hawklan took hold of the sword and, for the first time, felt its true power. He turned and looked at Andawyr. The little man nodded urgently, his eyes wide and desperate.

And then Hawklan was running along the broad causeway, the only sound his soft footsteps and the icy lapping of Lake Kedrieth.

He felt the warrior in him listening, peering into the subtle shadows within the dense mist, and preparing every part of him for combat against any foe. He felt the healer too, silent but acquiescent, waiting for the terrible healing work that was to be done.

But above all, he felt alone.

Then a great coldness spoke inside him, like that which had touched him as he had fallen before Oklar’s fury at the palace gate. But it was worse by far. And as beautiful as it was fearful.

‘Welcome, Hawklan, Prince of Orthlund, and great-est of My Uhriel.’

Sylvriss’s eyes opened in alarm and dismay as she looked at the group of men trudging wearily back into the camp. She wrapped her arms about her child protectively.

Since news had reached the camp that the battle had been joined, she had been pacing to and fro fretfully. Her responsibility to her child, and her deep need to be with her people, both Rgoric’s Fyordyn and the Muster, shifted and changed relentlessly, and like ill-matched horses yoked together they twisted and turned her as they rampaged through the day.

Tirilen, bloodstained and strangely vital, had dis-missed her from the groaning butchery of the Hospital Tent.

‘You can do nothing here,’ she had said without pausing in her work. ‘We were prepared and you are not. You’ll burden us.’ There was no reproach or bitterness in the remark, just a gentle certainty. Sylvriss’s baby cried out suddenly, the thin sound incongruous amid the inarticulate pain and the urgent tending that clamoured about them. Tirilen moved towards a young man standing nearby. His eyes were brave and afraid, and a portion of his upper arm had been hacked away to reveal torn muscles and white, splintered bone. Tirilen gave Sylvriss the healer’s portion that her wounds merited. ‘Look to your child and your army,’ she said. ‘The one needs you now, and as I read men’s eyes here, the other may need you before the day’s through.’