Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Outside the meeting hall, Isloman’s helpers came to take Hawklan from him, but he waved them away with a friendly gesture. Now he would have to ponder his own future plans. He could sit Hawklan on the balcony to his room and talk to him about them.

As he walked through the castle, he realized he had few alternatives. Without Hawklan, he was little use to the Fyordyn, except as an extra sword hand, or perhaps a training officer. And if he stayed, what of Hawklan? He was beyond Hylland’s help. He would be a burden. And what of Loman and Tirilen? What of all Orthlund?

In his mind he saw the future rough-formed by broad cleaving strokes such as he might use at the beginning of a large carving. The Fyordyn would have to fight just to regain their own country but, that done, they were worldly-wise enough to know that they would then have to look north to Narsindal and move against the cause of their plight if they were to be safe in the future.

As the Riddinvolk had turned to their neighbours for help against the suddenly dangerous Morlider, so the Fyordyn would need help for such a venture. But what kind of help? Men and materials of course. But to counter the likes of Dan-Tor? The Uhriel? This was beyond the province of ordinary men.

He looked down at Hawklan.

A group of High Guard cadets ran past him, laugh-ing, the sound forming golden chains which offered to bind him to the solid reality of Eldric and the Goraidin.

They would guide the Fyordyn as well as any men might. But, he realized quite suddenly, they could not guide him. He had to bear a different burden and travel a different path.

He must return to Anderras Darion. There might be the knowledge to waken Hawklan. There might be the knowledge of where to find aid to oppose the power of the Uhriel.

More people passed by, as the many inhabitants of the castle began to converge on the courtyard. One of them was the Goraidin Olvric who, with Yengar, had observed Eldric’s confrontation with Dan-Tor and his subsequent treacherous arrest. Isloman acknowledged the man’s passing salute with a smile, but it faded quickly as he continued on his way.

Olvric made him uneasy. In some subtle way he radiated a darkness that Isloman did not find in the other Goraidin. He had met similar men during the Morlider War. Trustworthy and loyal, men to be turned to in extremity, but different. Either lacking or possess-ing a quality that demanded they seek out just such extremities. Demanded that they pit themselves against other men.

‘We’ll have to approach him by stealth and assassi-nate him.’ Eldric’s words returned to him abruptly. Already the grim logic of war was working. Silent, personal, murder. To kill the one to save the many. Necessary, but…

He reached Hawklan’s room and, briefly, the thoughts left him as he struggled awkwardly with the handle. But as it clicked open, the dark images returned; murdered guards, soft footfalls whispering along still passageways, blackened faces and black-bladed knives; Olvric’s work. He shook his head irritably at the injustice of this last thought as he shouldered the door open.

A hooded figure rose up suddenly from the bed, and moved towards him.

The name of Elewart is written deep into many of the legends of the First Coming, though perhaps in none so deeply as those of the Riddinvolk, who claim him for their first true king and the creator of the Muster.

It is said that he was a great and beloved ruler of the people who were to become the Riddinvolk, at a time in the earliest days of the rise of Sumeral when the Guardians slept but were still remembered, and His beauty and will could be seen truly by only a few: a few who dared not raise their voices against the clamorous worship that He drew to Himself.

Elewart, among many, fell to His will, but alone among many, rose high in His favour, leading his people to His service so that they too were bound by Him and, unknowing, spread His subtle corruptions far and wide in the guise of light and hope. But there came a time, when, in the anguish of his love for the foully betrayed Gwelayne, the darkness fell from Elewart’s eyes, and he too understood the truth of his Master, and sought to lead his people away.

And, say the Riddinvolk, Sumeral in His rage and shame at His own treachery, cursed Elewart with a great deformity and banished him for his temerity. But such was the spirit that fired Elewart that he raised an army of horse warriors so great and powerful that Sumeral fled before him in great fear, taking refuge deep in the mountains to the north.

There, fate decreed that He should come upon Elewart alone, rapt in thought and sad memories in a soft and fertile valley where he and his Gwelayne had first sworn their love. And there in His terror and anger Sumeral unleashed such power that Elewart was destroyed utterly, and the entire valley with him, from end to end.

Others tell a different tale, saying that Elewart was treacherously slain while Sumeral spoke words of forgiveness and friendship under a flag of peace; while others again say that Sumeral had not then given man the gift of war, and that He destroyed Elewart not in fear but in hatred and envy of the love that Elewart and Gwelayne had had and that He must ever be denied.

But all agree that He used the Old Power from the Great Searing and that the valley became a dead and barren place, beyond all hope of redemption, to be ever haunted by the voices of Elewart and Sumeral as they discoursed before His treacherous blow, and the tragic sighs of the beautiful Gwelayne.

The wind sang its perpetual, low, echoing song along the Pass of Elewart. Bleak and weather-blasted peaks stood dark and brooding under a sullen, slow-moving, grey sky, but nothing stirred except the occasional flurry of dust along the wide pathway that wound its uneven way along the valley floor. No trees or grasses bent gracefully before the wind, for no vegetation grew there except tight-clinging lichen, patching the rocks yellow and brown. And other than the sound of the wind, nothing could be heard except the occasional distant clatter of some rocky fragment loosing its ancient grip on a high crag and tumbling down to join its countless fellows below.

Slowly into the moaning stillness, from a dark cleft in the rock, the figure of a man emerged hesitantly, eyes screwed tight against the sudden daylight, gloomy though it was. Then, hurriedly, he stepped back a pace into the shade and, for a long time, stood there mo-tionless, searching painstakingly into the sky and over the watching peaks and along the crumpled valley floor.

Seemingly satisfied, he emerged once again and began moving slowly over the shattered rocks that lay between him and the path some way below. His appearance was that of a wretched old man, with bushy grey hair and beard and a tattered filthy gown held together by a length of equally tattered cord. His gait, however, belied his appearance, and while he was patently exhausted, he would occasionally leap almost nimbly from rock to rock as if he were nearing a long-sought destination.

Once on the path, he strode out boldly for a little way, until the bleak immensity of his surroundings gave him a measure of his dwindling strength and reduced him to a slow, meandering shuffle.

Frequently he paused and turned, and his worn but oddly youthful face peered intently into the distance to the north, then up into the sky and over the nearby peaks.

Eventually he staggered to his knees and with an effort managed to crawl over to the side of the path and prop himself against a rock. Taking out a small flask from a pocket hidden somewhere in the folds of his robe, he shook it. There was the gurgling swish of a small amount of water and he let the flask fall into his lap.