Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

A voice reached him from the corridor. It was Urs-sain’s, raised in anger. ‘Keep searching. The body must be there. Nothing could have withstood the Lord’s power.’

Isloman reached forward and pressed his fingers against Hawklan’s throat again. Closing his eyes to shut out the relentless drumming of the horses’ hooves and the throbbing fatigue of his body, he waited. The pulse was still there. Not strong, but steady and unchanged.

It was a reassurance, but Isloman barely knew now why he sought it, so tired was he. It seemed as though he had never known anything but this bumping, pounding twilight world.

He became aware that Sylvriss was laughing at him. With an effort he looked across at her. She too looked tired, but she was still alert, and riding easily.

‘Let go, Isloman,’ she was saying. ‘Let go. Serian won’t let either you or Hawklan fall off. Just go to sleep.’

Isloman scowled and Sylvriss laughed again. It was strange, Isloman thought, how the riding calmed her, kept at bay the terrors of the day and the fears for her husband. On the rare occasions that they stopped she soon became fretful and anxious, her brow furrowing and her eyes becoming haunted, being drawn ever back towards Vakloss.

Not that they had stopped very often. By some in-stinct Isloman could not fathom, Sylvriss, like Hawklan before, had let Serian judge the pace, and the horse had shown little regard for either his or Sylvriss’s needs amp;mdashalthough Isloman felt that such stops as they did make were in some way for Hawklan’s benefit.

The road they were travelling had been selected by Dilrap when, at the Queen’s request, he had planned a route by which, together with the King, they might all escape Vakloss to seek help from the Lords in the east. It was a remnant of times long gone, passing now through only a few quiet villages, and its original purpose was long forgotten. For much of its length it was little more than a wide earth track, but it still bore some indications of having been a substantial highway as there were long stretches, particularly in the vicinity of the few villages it served, where its ancient paving was still intact. Isloman noticed that the construction of the paving was similar to that of the roads that criss-crossed Orthlund, though the workmanship was coarser. It had a worn and aged look but it was obvious that efforts were made to maintain it.

He found the sight and the tired song of the rock rather sad, particularly as the road was patently younger than those in Orthlund, and in his fatigue he found himself, head bent low, lovingly repairing and restoring the uneven and worn blocks, his chisel ringing clear and sweet with a pulsating, steady rhythm trimming and refitting rounded edges, lifting out cracked and broken blocks and replacing them with new ones, fitted true to add support to their neighbours.

Suddenly the chisel slipped from his hand, and he started violently. As the chisel struck the stones, its ringing rose up all around him and transformed itself into Sylvriss’s laughter as he found himself abruptly awake.

Serian had stopped.

Smiling, Sylvriss dismounted and walked over to him. She held out her hand to support him as he dismounted and unthinkingly he took it.

‘I’m sorry I laughed,’ she said, laughing again as he staggered stiffly, ‘but you looked so comical, trying so hard not to fall asleep.’

Isloman gave her a reproachful look.

‘Go and lie down and sleep properly,’ she said, still smiling, and nodding towards a nearby copse. ‘I’ll tend to the horses and I don’t suppose Serian will let us rest for long.’

‘What’s he stopped for?’ Isloman said.

Sylvriss shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s not tired. Neither’s my horse. Perhaps he’s concerned about us.’

Isloman doubted it. Looking round he realized that the wind had dropped and that the sky had cleared. In the west the sun was spreading large and red on the dusty horizon and overhead the sky was turning purple.

He nodded. ‘He wants my shadow sight to get us through the night,’ he said, carefully lifting Hawklan down. ‘Don’t you, Serian?’

Sylvriss did not understand the remark, but noted the horse’s response. Isloman laid his hand gently on its cheek. ‘Give me what time you can,’ he said. ‘I’m too tired to tell dream from reality at the moment, let alone shade from shade.’ The horse shook its head, and Isloman patted it. ‘You saved all our lives,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

Sylvriss watched the exchange. ‘You’re learning, Orthlundyn,’ she said. ‘You’re learning. Now go and rest.’

Isloman carried Hawklan over to the copse and, after a little searching, laid him down gently in the shade of an old, wide-canopied tree. Maternally he wrapped Hawklan’s cloak about his inert form, and pulled the hood forward to protect his face. Then he sat back, arms hugging his knees, and stared at his friend. As Serian’s driving pace had carried them relentlessly through the day, the feeling of pursuit by the power that the appallingly transformed Dan-Tor had released, had passed. But in its place had come equally dark emotions; regret, confusion and doubt coloured all his thoughts, and he became aware of a deeper, more abiding fear as visions of a grim, embattled future began to form. A future without Hawklan to guide and sustain him.

And questions came also. So many questions.

But they would all have to wait until he reached Eldric’s stronghold where Hawklan could perhaps be wakened. Now above all he must not allow the possible future to cloud the actual present. Now only the immediate concerns of the moment were important. He must take Sylvriss’s advice, and sleep until the horse decided they should move on.

Wrapping his own cloak about him, he lay down by his friend and closed his eyes.

‘Isloman, where are you?’

Looking up, he saw Sylvriss standing at the edge of the copse, silhouetted vividly against the darkening evening sky. Her head was bent forward and with her hands to her eyes she was peering intently into the gloom. Isloman smiled. ‘Come to my voice,’ he said, chuckling softly.

Tentatively Sylvriss moved forward into the shade, very discreetly checking the knife in her belt. Isloman chuckled again. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘Accept my knowledge of the shadows as I accept your knowledge of the horses, Muster lady.’

She faltered slightly, and Isloman could sense her blushing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just so dark in here… ooh!’ The cry was caused by Gavor, swooping purposefully through the trees and narrowly missing her. He landed by Isloman.

‘So sorry, dear girl,’ he said offhandedly, then to Isloman, ‘How is he?’

‘Still alive, Gavor,’ Isloman replied, ‘but no differ-ent.’

Gavor flapped his wings uneasily. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Isloman. ‘Nothing except travel as quickly as we can and hope for better guidance at Eldric’s.’

Gavor made a clucking noise and moved to take up sentry duty by Hawklan’s head. Isloman closed his eyes again.

Sylvriss reached them and, sitting down with her back to a tree, pulled her knees up to her chest. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, but even so she found it difficult to see the three figures beside her.

She too was burdened with questions; not least about her strange travelling companions. But overriding them all was concern for the fate of Rgoric. Away from the solace of her riding, her mind too was prey to darker thoughts. The memory of the frenzied activity that had started the day returned, together with all the aches and pains of her fall. She wriggled restlessly, unable to sit comfortably on the hard ground.