Roger Taylor: Into Narsindal

Since his welcome by the Orthlundyn however, this sad, dark thread running though his memory had faded a little, and the happiness he had felt had become more dominant.

He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Lord,’ he said. ‘If it’s a celebration, they’ll soon dance the food off us.’

When they reached the next village however, despite the fact that there was quite a large crowd of villagers on the small central green, there was no special celebration awaiting them. In fact, though they were again offered food and drink, the attention that was paid to them was markedly less than that they had received hitherto. The main topic of interest was the distant singing.

For distant it still was. As the Fyordyn had neared the village, the singing had grown a little louder and clearer, but its source was obviously not near at hand.

‘What is it?’ Arinndier asked, but the villagers did not know and with polite head shaking declined to be drawn into conjecture by these outlanders.

Pausing by the village leaving-stone, Arinndier turned to the others. ‘Something strange is happening,’ he said. ‘Whether it’s bad or good I don’t know, but I think we should move a little faster.’ No one disagreed.

Over the next few hours, the singing grew louder and, despite their concern, the four men could not be other than swept up in its elaborate pulsing rhythms and joyous melodies.

‘Somebody, somewhere, is celebrating without a doubt,’ Berryn said. ‘That is amazing singing.’

But Arinndier frowned slightly. ‘Amazing indeed,’ he said. ‘But who could sing so long and so well, and with such power that it carries so far and so clearly?’

As the question left his lips, the four riders, line abreast, clattered over the top of a small rise. Arinndier gasped at the sight before them, and signalled to the group to halt. For a time they were motionless and the singing rose around them to fill the air so that it seemed to be coming from every conceivable direction.

Andawyr dived into his small tent, sealed the entrance and, rubbing his hands together ferociously, swore roundly, in a manner most unbecoming in the chosen leader of the ancient Order of the Cadwanol.

It was bitterly cold in the tent and his breath steamed out in great clouds, but at least he was now out of that merciless wind.

Gathering his cloak tight about him, he crouched down and fumbled in his pack. After some muttering he produced a small bag and immediately began to struggle with its tightly laced mouth. It took him some minutes of finger blowing and further profanity, together with judicious use of his incisors, to release the leather thong, but eventually he succeeded and with some relief emptied the contents on to a small tray.

He looked at the radiant stones dubiously. He’d never been any good at striking these damned things. And they didn’t look very good either. He’d bought them very cheaply from a shifty-eyed blighter at the Gretmearc. Rubbing his still frozen hands together again, he decided now that that might have been a mistake-a very false economy.

The wind buffeted the tent to remind him where he was and he shrugged his self-recriminations aside; good or bad, there’d be something in these things and he must get them lit quickly. Delving into his pack again, he retrieved the striker and, tongue protruding slightly, scraped it along one of the stones. Somewhat to his surprise a glowing white line appeared and spread out across the surface of the stone. Less to his surprise, it faded almost immediately into a dull red. He eyed the stone malevolently and struck it again, but the result was the same. Turning his attention to the striker he adjusted it and tried again, but still the stone refused to ignite satisfactorily.

Several minutes later he had made little further progress, though he was a good deal warmer by then, and his face was redder by far than most of the stones he had managed to strike into some semblance of life.

He threw the striker down irritably. There was a soft, deep chuckle.

‘I can do without any of your comments, thank you, Dar,’ Andawyr said testily. ‘It’s all right for you, snug in your own place. I’m freezing to death here.’

‘I never said a word,’ came the injured reply, radiat-ing insincerity. ‘I told you that you should have brought a proper travelling tent, bu… ’

‘Don’t say that again,’ Andawyr said warningly. ‘It’s hard enough on foot through these mountains without struggling with a pack-horse.’ He held out his hands over the dull red stones. ‘And these things are useless as well,’ he added.

‘You bought them,’ came Dar-volci’s unsympathetic voice. ‘These were matured stones when I bought them,’ Andawyr protested unconvincingly. ‘I’ll lay odds that that beggar at the Gretmearc switched them when he bagged them.’ He turned one of the unstruck stones over with an expert expression on his face. ‘I’ll report him to the Market Senate next time I’m there.’

‘Matured,’ Dar-volci was scornful. ‘You couldn’t tell a matured stone from a potato. They were baked. I told you that, but you wouldn’t listen.’

Andawyr grunted sulkily and muttered something about the Market Senate again.

‘The Senate would throw them at your silly head,’ Dar-volci said. ‘You’re so naive. Why don’t you listen to someone who knows, once in a while?’

‘They were a bargain,’ Andawyr said indignantly. Dar-volci made a disparaging noise. ‘Well, warm yourself on your cheery profit then,’ he scoffed. ‘You and your bargains. They see you coming, great leader. You shouldn’t try to horse-trade; you’ve neither the eye, the ear nor the wit for it. You should know that by now. Do you remember that bargain cooking pot you bought-very cheap… ’

‘Dar!’ Andawyr’s eyes narrowed menacingly, but Dar-volci continued, warming to his theme. ‘Genuine Harntor smithing… where the Riddinvolk get their precious horseshoes from.’ His deep laugh filled the tent. ‘Backside melted out of it the first time you used it. What a stink! Then there was tha… ’

‘That’s enough,’ Andawyr snapped. ‘Go to sleep.’

Dar-volci chuckled maliciously. ‘Good night then, old fellow,’ he said. ‘Sleep snug.’

Andawyr ignored the taunt and turned his attention back to the sulky radiant stones, struggling fitfully to shed their red warmth. Unnecessarily, he glanced from side to side, as if someone might be watching, then, muttering to himself, ‘Well, just a smidgeon,’ he brought his thumb and first two fingers together, and with a flick of his wrist, nodded them at the stones.

There was a faint hiss, and a white light spread over the reluctant stones.

‘I heard that,’ Dar-volci said, knowingly.

‘Shut up,’ Andawyr said peevishly.

The heat from stones filled the tent almost immedi-ately and Andawyr removed his cloak and loosened some of the outer layers of the clothes he had hastily donned at the sudden onset of the snow storm.

He had always been reluctant to use the Old Power for simple creature comforts, sensing that in some way it would weaken, even demean his humanity. And since his ordeal in Narsindal and his flight along the Pass of Elewart, this reluctance was even stronger. Still, the others did twit him gently about his excessive concern… and this was an emergency, he reassured himself faintly.

The wind rattled the tent again as if in confirmation of this convenient rationalization.

After a little while, he reached out and dimmed the bright glow of the stones. Then he lay down and, staring up at the roof of the tent, listened to the howling wind.

What would tomorrow bring? When he had set off for Orthlund he had expected a cold, perhaps dismal, journey through the mountains, and had equipped himself accordingly. But this…? This was winter. Granted he was at the highest point of his journey, but such a storm was still unexpected, and he hadn’t the supplies to sit for the days it might take to blow itself out; the journey had already taken him longer than he had anticipated. He would have to move on tomorrow, and would probably have to use the Old Power both to guide himself and to survive.