Roger Taylor: Into Narsindal

As the day progressed, the quartet trotted steadily south through the cold damp wind.

At the top of a long hill, Arinndier grimaced. ‘It’s neither mellow like autumn, nor sharp like winter,’ he said, reining his horse to a halt. ‘Let’s walk awhile, give the horses a rest.’ Then he looked around at the countryside they had just ridden through. After a moment, he nodded reflectively to himself. Despite the unwelcoming wind and the dull hues of the dying vegetation, the place had its own strange peace.

A sudden intake of breath cut across his reverie.

Turning, he saw that it was Jaldaric, and even as he looked at him, he saw the young man’s face, already pale with cold, blanching further until it was almost white.

‘What is it, Jal?’ he asked anxiously.

Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came. ‘It was here,’ he managed eventually, gazing around. ‘I didn’t recognize it until I turned round and looked back down the hill. It was here. The Mandrocs.’

Arinndier’s eyes narrowed at Jaldaric’s patent dis-tress.

Tel-Mindor caught Arinndier’s eye and drew his gaze to the bushes and shrubs that lined the road. They still bore signs of the damage where the Mandrocs had crashed through in pursuit of the High Guards.

‘Would you like to be alone?’ Arinndier asked.

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stand here alone every night as it is. Watching… Aelang… struggling with his cloak and then smiling.’ He put his hand to his face involuntarily as if to block Aelang’s swift and savage blow. It was a well-rehearsed move-ment. As Arinndier watched him he noted with regret the grimness in his face and abruptly he was reminded of Eldric’s ferocious father.

Tel-Mindor stepped forward and took Jaldaric’s arm. ‘Say farewell to your friends now, Jal,’ he said gently. ‘Leave them here. There are no good places to die violently, but there are worse than here.’

Jaldaric clenched his teeth. ‘I will stay a moment,’ he said. ‘You carry on. I’ll join you shortly.’

The three men were silent after they walked away from the young man. Each knew that there was little they could do to ease Jaldaric’s burden, and while grief is a rending emotion, watching it in someone else is precious little easier.

Eventually Jaldaric rejoined them, his face set and emotionless. No one spoke and, mounting up, the party set off again.

As Fyndal had promised, the villagers they encoun-tered had been told of their coming and they found themselves being offered an abundance of food and drink. Having brought adequate supplies with them, they tried to decline this generosity, only to find that Fyndal had laid gentle traps for them.

‘Yes, we know you’re in a hurry with your news, but you can eat this while you ride,’ was the comment that invariably ended their hesitant refusals.

Jaldaric in particular was visibly moved by the warmth of the greeting he received.

After passing through Little Hapter, Arinndier care-fully stowed a large pie in his saddlebag and looked at the others a little shamefacedly. ‘I couldn’t refuse the woman, could I?’ he asked. ‘They must think we’ve had a famine at home, not a war. Are there many more villages between here and Anderras Darion, Jal?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Jaldaric replied, now much more relaxed, and smiling broadly.

‘We should’ve brought another pack-horse,’ Tel-Mindor said, chuckling.

Jaldaric nodded. ‘They do take some pride in their hospitality,’ he said. ‘But if you want the benefit of my local knowledge, whatever you do, don’t start admiring their carving, or we’ll never reach Anderras Darion.’

Their first encounters with the Orthlundyn however, whilst burdening their packs, had eased their unspoken concerns greatly. The people apparently held no ill-will towards the Fyordyn who had inadvertently brought such trouble to their land. Even the chill wind seemed to lose some of its edge.

After they had passed through Perato, Berryn re-marked on the absence of young people from the villages.

‘They must all be with this army of theirs in the mountains. It must be a civilian militia,’ he said. No one disputed this conclusion and the Rede nodded to himself. ‘I know there aren’t many Orthlundyn,’ he went on, ‘but if those villages are typical, then they’ve got a big army, and if they’re all in the mountains, then they’re having to deal with a big problem.’

Arinndier looked at him. It was a valid deduction, but still it made no sense. Who could threaten the Orthlundyn from the east? The chilling thought occurred to him that while Fyordyn had been looking towards Vakloss, some army had swept down the Pass of Elewart to overwhelm Riddin and was now moving against Orthlund prior to attacking Fyorlund’s southern border.

And we sent Sylvriss there!

The panic-stricken thought nearly made him voice his fear, but it was followed immediately by the memory of the faces of the villagers they had met. These were not the faces of a people facing imminent destruction at the hands of an army powerful enough to have overcome the Riddin Muster.

Nonetheless, the Rede’s comments had given him a problem that would not be set lightly aside, and at the next village he asked directly what the army was doing.

The villagers made reassuring noises. ‘Don’t you worry yourself about that, young man,’ came the reply from a man whom Arinndier judged to be somewhat younger than himself. ‘It’s just a little trouble with the Alphraan. I’m sure Loman and Memsa Gulda will sort it out soon. Not many things argue with Memsa Gulda for long.’

This last remark brought some general laughter from the group that had gathered around the new arrivals, but Arinndier sensed an undertow of concern that was more serious than the levity indicated.

‘Who in the world are the Alphraan?’ he asked his companions as they continued on their way. The name was vaguely familiar but he had been loath to show his ignorance to the villagers.

Jaldaric was frowning. ‘The only Alphraan I’ve ever heard of are in… children’s tales,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Little people… who live underground and… sing.’ Rede Berryn and Tel-Mindor both nodded.

Arinndier looked at them sternly, then his own memory produced the same image from somewhere in his childhood. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps the word means something different down here,’ he said.

Tel-Mindor laughed softly. ‘Perhaps Fyndal’s sent more than one message to the villagers,’ he said significantly.

The following day the wind had eased, but it was still cold, and the winter chill in the air was unequivocal. And as if to emphasize this, many of the already snow-capped mountains to the east were whiter than they had been on the previous day.

Looking at them, the thought of Sylvriss, Hawklan and Isloman came inexorably to Arinndier’s mind. They should be through the mountains by now…

But the route taken by Sylvriss’s party was little used, and that taken by Isloman’s was virtually unexplored. And as far as could be seen from Eldric’s stronghold, snow had come to the higher, inner mountains unexpectedly early. Of course there was nothing he could do, but it took some effort to remind himself of that.

‘What’s that?’ Tel-Mindor’s voice interrupted Arinndier’s brooding.

The Goraidin was holding his hand up for silence and craning forward intently. Unconsciously, the others imitated him.

Faintly, the sound of distant singing reached them. It came and went, carried on the slight breeze.

‘I hope it’s not some kind of celebration for us,’ Arinndier said, patting his stomach.

The remark brought back to Jaldaric his tormented evening at Pedhavin when the villagers had held an impromptu feast for them before he had had to return silently on his treacherous errand to snatch away Tirilen. Several times during that evening he had forgotten utterly why he was there in the whirl of the music and the dancing. Then his purpose would return to chill him to the heart like a mountain wind striking through a sun-baked and sweltering walker breasting a ridge.