Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

He began his familiar journey. Around him rose the mounting hiss of anticipation, as if some strange slithering presence was spilling onto the path to entangle his feet and make him stumble. That too was recent, as though the labyrinth were aware that its charge was being assailed. Loman paused; there was another feeling around him, one he had never felt before. Had his concentration lapsed? Dwelling on the summer sun outside? No, without a doubt, no. As always, he could remember his every step. Uneasily he looked around, but there was no visible sign of any change.

Then, through his feet, he felt a slight tremor. The columns around him seemed to draw breath. It was almost a human noise amp;mdashshock, surprise, fear, and then anger.

Loman’s legs started to run before the thought came into his mind, his bundle of weapons clanking and clattering. He felt the will of the labyrinth turning towards him, drawn by the noise like a predatory animal. Now his mind raced ahead of his too-slow legs as he sensed the malign purpose of the labyrinth racing through the gloom behind him.

Then at last there was the end of the path, only a few paces away. Only! The tumult broke over him like a roaring flood, a nail-tearing screeching rending him raw, an earth-shaking rumbling pounding him to his very heart, thunder so intense that it must soon crush him into tortured dust. Somewhere he heard his own voice feeding the turmoil with its screaming.

He was falling, falling, falling into a terrible pit of his own creating. Here was death, sudden and unex-pected, with no time to quieten the mind or ease the soul…

Then everything was solid again and he was rolling over and over on the stone floor until he came to a thudding stop and the wind was knocked out of him. Rolling painfully on to his side, he realized that the dominant sound in his ears now was his own gasping breath. Underneath it he could hear the sound of the labyrinth’s screaming and bellowing fading slowly in the distance.

As his head cleared, the entrance columns of the labyrinth came into focus. He was outside it! Sitting up unsteadily, he found he was leaning against the wall. It must have been that that he struck with such force. But how did he come to be here? Apart from his heart racing and his body trembling, he noted that his legs were aching. Was that the sudden strain of his desperate flight? Or had he leapt reflexively those last few paces that remained when the noise overwhelmed him?

His ear caught the dying strains of the tumult inside the labyrinth. Was it his imagination or was there a note of regret in the sound? Apology, even?

Shakily, he stood up and walked over to the columns that marked its entrance, peering into the gloom ahead, his face furrowed. He had made no error, he was certain of that. The labyrinth had responded to something other than him. But what?

Impulsively, defiantly almost, he stepped inside. A low rumbling rose up to meet him, like the warning growl of a large animal. In the distance, he heard the rest of the pack stir and the rumbling grew. A wave of fear swept over him. He was on the correct path, but he could go no further. The labyrinth was closed to him.

Gulda raised her hand for silence as an agitated and alarmed Loman burst into her study unannounced. She was seated at a small table with an open book in front of her and her head was inclined slightly as if she had just heard some familiar but far distant noise. Her face was stern and ominous.

For an instant, Loman had the impression that he was looking at a tall and strikingly handsome woman, haughty and powerful. Despite his agitation, he felt long-forgotten reflexes tightening his chest and unmanning his legs at the sight. Then, just as suddenly, he was looking at old Memsa Gulda again and feeling slightly embarrassed at his body’s unexpected reaction. Slowly Gulda lowered her hand, then she looked at him sharply, and, almost wilfully, Loman thought, her stern face became irritable. ‘What’s the matter, young Loman?’ she said crossly, returning to her book. ‘Bursting in here like some spotty apprentice.’

The numbing physical effect of his flight and his impact with the wall was beginning to wear off and the terror of the incident overrode the reserve which he normally maintained with Gulda.

Unasked, he seized a nearby chair, sat down oppo-site her, and gabbled out his tale, almost incoherently. Gulda listened without comment, keeping her eyes fixed on her book.

‘I can’t get back into the Armoury, Memsa,’ he con-cluded with an anxious wave of his hand. ‘The labyrinth has closed itself in some way. I couldn’t step one pace into it without… ’ His voice tailed off.

Unexpectedly, Gulda reached out and laid her hand on his. He started at the touch, it seemed so vital and strong. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, her blue eyes search-ing into him.

‘A little battered,’ Loman replied. ‘And, to be honest, frightened and shaky now.’

Gulda nodded. ‘Good,’ she said, standing up and leaning on her stick. ‘You’re lucky.’

Loman’s eyebrows arched. ‘Lucky!’ he said indig-nantly. ‘It was a sprint the like of which I haven’t done in years got me out of that place, Gulda, never mind luck!’

Gulda glowered at him. He cleared his throat. ‘Memsa,’ he corrected apologetically.

‘It was luck, young Loman,’ Gulda stated defini-tively. ‘The labyrinth’s more dangerous than you can imagine. You were lucky it paused long enough to see you were a friend, or at worst, no foe, and simply threw you out.’

Loman recalled the force with which he had struck the wall.

‘Threw me out?’ he said softly. ‘I don’t understand. I must have jumped, surely.’

Gulda shook her head. ‘Nothing can escape the laby-rinth if it chooses to hold them,’ she said. ‘It could have trapped you there to starve to death, driven you mad, killed you outright before you could even sense the threat, even reached out and… ’ Loman went white, and Gulda stopped. A brief look of self-reproach passed over her face.

‘Hawklan didn’t tell you, did he?’ she said.

Loman shook his head. ‘He just showed me the path and helped me learn it. Perhaps he didn’t know what it could do. He wouldn’t ask me to face a danger I didn’t understand.’

Gulda nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, absently. ‘Who knows where his knowledge comes from? Or what fatal gaps it contains.’ Then she fell silent, staring pensively down at the floor.

‘But what happened, Memsa?’ Loman ventured after a while, adding, with increasing force: ‘I was on the path. I did nothing unusual. Why should it… attack me? Aren’t you concerned? We can’t get back into the Armoury now.’

Gulda remained motionless. ‘It heard something,’ she said faintly. ‘As did I. Something neither of us have heard for a long time. I trembled, it acted. My response was too slight, its perhaps too strong. I doubt either will happen again.’

Loman frowned and bit back his first response. ‘Memsa, I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ he managed.

Gulda turned to him slowly. ‘I think perhaps Hawk-lan has met Dan-Tor, Loman,’ she said. ‘And, I fear, has been assailed by him.’ She raised her hand to forestall any questions. ‘I know no more.’

Loman’s frustration burst out. He stood up, his chair scraping noisily across the floor. ‘How can you say something like that, Memsa, and then not expect me to ask about it?’ he said angrily.

Gulda winced briefly at the force of his appeal, then swinging her stick up, levelled it at his chest. ‘Lower your voice and lower your backside, young Loman,’ she said sternly. For an instant, Loman felt an urge to dash the stick to one side. Gulda’s eyes narrowed and her head tilted again as if she were listening for something. Then she lowered the stick and, stooping heavily, walked over to a large chair opposite the window.