Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

Andawyr laughed at his mannerism. ‘Very meta-phorical, Muster rider,’ he said. ‘Very metaphorical. I see you’ve a flair for the broad sweep.’

‘I’ve painted a few house ends in my time,’ Agreth said drily.

Andawyr laughed again, then he too lay down. The tent was warm now and he dimmed the glow of the stones. ‘Better if the enemy doesn’t see us coming too soon,’ he said, still chuckling.

Agreth grunted amiably.

Soon the two were sleeping soundly, oblivious to the moaning wind that twisted and swirled the snow around their small shelter, streaking black-shadowed and white across the bold unwavering light thrown by the beacon torch.

A figure stepped cautiously to the edge of the light, and two more, swords drawn, moved silently to either side of its entrance.

Something nudged Andawyr gently into silent wake-fulness. It was Dar-volci. ‘Visitors, Andy,’ he said. ‘Very quiet, too.’

‘Stay out of sight, and watch,’ Andawyr whispered. Then, giving Dar-volci the lie, a voice cried out above the wind.

‘Ho, the camp!’

‘Look,’ said Loman, pointing up at the four figures on the skyline. ‘That’ll be them. Fyndal’s post rider said they’d be here soon.’

Hawklan followed Loman’s gaze and smiled. He reached up and touched Gavor’s black beak. ‘Go and show them the way home,’ he said. ‘They’ll be frightened to death by all this. We’ll join you as soon as we can.’

The raven chuckled, then stretched out his great wings and floated up into the air.

Hawklan’s comment was accurate; the scene around them was indeed intimidating. A great host of people was strung out in a long winding line that disappeared into the woods fringing the nearby hills to the east. Some were riding, some were walking, and some were riding on the equally long line of wagons that was threading its way through the centre of the crowd.

Even as Hawklan was speaking, the head of the pro-cession was spreading out like a great delta, and as the crowd reached the road it divided into two separate streams, one moving southwards, the other northwards.

Gavor circled high and wide, and glided silently down on to the watching group from behind.

He landed abruptly on Jaldaric’s shoulder, startling him violently.

‘So glad you’ve come, dear boy,’ he said with huge menace. ‘We’ve gathered a few interested souls to hear your accounting .’

He drew out the last word malevolently and then laughed raucously.

‘Isn’t it marvellous to be back home, dear boy?’ he continued, jumping up and down excitedly on his reluctant perch.

‘I’m not ,’ Jaldaric offered as he gathered his scat-tered wits, but Gavor ploughed on, oblivious.

‘It was very pleasant in the mountains, but one gets so weary of camp cooking and frozen extremities. I can’t wait to get back to a little decent food, some warmth and, of course, my friends. And it’s so nice to see you all again. Come along, hurry up, hurry up, everyone’s waiting for you. You can tell me what’s been happening as we go.’

Berryn and Tel-Mindor looked on wide-eyed at this apparition, then with a little, ‘Hup,’ Gavor hopped up on to Jaldaric’s head and, tapping his wooden leg in time to the rhythms pulsing around them, focused beadily on the two Fyordyn.

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, as if reading their names from some terrible register of his own, ‘You’ll be Tel-Mindor and Rede Berryn.’ Both opened their mouths to speak, but Gavor rattled on jovially. ‘How are you? Welcome to Orthlund. Isn’t the music fine? Rather a lot of it, I’m afraid, but they’re celebrating, you see. How’s Uskal, these days? In pain I trust? Never mind, tell me later, I always prefer the good news to be last.’

‘What’s happening, Gavor? And where’s Hawklan?’ Arinndier managed to find a momentary opening in this barrage.

Gavor’s response was to click loudly. Jaldaric’s horse started forward under the command, and Arinndier could not stop himself from smiling at the young High Guard’s continuing discomfiture. Then he moved after him, motioning the others to follow.

As they neared the approaching throng they saw that the predominant emotion was happiness. Some of the people were dancing impromptu steps to the music, others were clapping, some were singing, and overall there was a great deal of laughing and talking. The four men found themselves recipients of many friendly gestures and comments.

Nonetheless, Rede Berryn could not forbear saying to Arinndier, very softly, ‘This is Orthlund’s army, Lord? It’s more like a Festival Tournament crowd.’

‘Steady on, Rede,’ Gavor interposed. ‘You’re not the only one who can hear a smart-alec whisper from eight ranks back.’

Berryn looked at the bird suspiciously and tried to recall when he had last used the phrase.

Before the Rede came to any conclusion, however, Arinndier had taken hold of his arm excitedly.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s Hawklan. He’s well again.’ He raised his arm in a frantic salute, and called out Hawklan’s name, but his voice was lost completely in the all-pervading clamour.

The distant figure was looking at them, however, and raised his own hand in reply, before turning and trotting his horse back along the line to attend to some matter.

Arinndier made to urge his horse forward, but the press of the crowd prohibited anything other than a very leisurely walk and with a slight frown he let the reins fall idly on the horse’s neck.

‘Hawklan’s well, then, Gavor?’ he asked.

Gavor nodded. ‘He’s well, Lord,’ he replied. ‘We’re all well, and all anxious to be back home.’

‘Your army’s in good voice, Gavor, but seems to have precious few weapons.’ Jaldaric said, his face puzzled.

‘That’s the Alphraan making all the noise,’ Gavor replied, slightly less enthusiastically than before. ‘The rest of us are just trying to make ourselves heard.’ He looked towards the mountains. ‘One can have too much of a good thing, can’t one?’ he added, very loudly.

Jaldaric’s bewilderment merely increased. ‘But why no weapons?’ he persisted, clinging to the same question in the hope that one strand of clarity might lead to others. ‘We heard your army was in the mountains facing an unexpected foe. What’s happened? These people don’t look as if they’ve been defeated and disarmed.’

Gavor fidgeted restively. ‘It’s unbelievably compli-cated, young Jal,’ he said patronizingly. ‘As, I’ve no doubt, is your own tale. I can’t begin to explain everything in the middle of all this. Let’s get to Anderras Darion, take the weight off our feathers and have a talk at our leisure.’ He paused and nodded to himself, well satisfied at this suggestion. ‘I seem to remember that you Fyordyn are very good at talking,’ he added with a laugh, and then he launched himself forward and soared up into the air to avoid any further questions.

Arinndier too, laughed and, patting Jaldaric’s arm, said, ‘That’s the best we’re going to get. Let’s take the bird’s advice and get to Hawklan’s castle. It’s good enough news now just to see him up and riding again.’

Gradually, the four Fyordyn eased their way through the crowd until eventually they were clear of it and cantering along the empty road. Gavor circled high above them, occasionally swooping upwards steeply and then, with an uproarious laugh, tumbling back down precipitately like a tangled black bundle.

As they moved further from the following army, the pervasive music faded and eventually it could hardly be heard above the clatter of hooves on the intricately paved road.

The daylight was fading rapidly when they eventu-ally came into Pedhavin but, high above the village, light streamed out through the Great Gate of Anderras Darion which stood wide and welcoming. It had been visible to the four riders long before they had seen the village and had drawn them forward like a bright guiding star.