Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘Not now, body,’ he said to himself desperately. ‘Not now. You can have that later. Keep moving. Just put one foot in front of the other.’ The wind gave a strange gasping sigh like someone making a great discovery, and he wrapped his arms about himself fearfully. ‘Each step takes us further away from Him, and nearer to home,’ he said slowly as if explaining to a stupid child. ‘Keep moving.’ Then, angrily. ‘Move, damn you.’

Still muttering to himself he struggled to his feet and set off again, an insignificant speck amongst a myriad such, distinguishable only by its almost imperceptible movement along the valley.

At one point he clutched at the cord securing his dirty, tattered robe, but even as he did so, his eyes opened in horror. ‘No,’ he said, releasing it fearfully. ‘What are you doing, you old fool, Andawyr. Fine Leader of the Cadwanol you are. Would you send Him a beacon? Bring Him down on us after all this time? Let all that terror and suffering be for naught?’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Just put one foot in front of the other,’ he repeated. ‘Forever. Until you arrive… or die. This body will do it. It needs no aid from… ’ He looked down again at the cord, his face tormented. Then closing his eyes, he shook his head. ‘It needs no aid.’

Gradually the day darkened, but Andawyr main-tained his painfully slow progress, head down, almost too exhausted to watch where he was going. Without looking up, he knew the grey opaque sky would blot out the moon and the stars when night arrived. No shred of light would illumine his way then and he would have to stop and rest where he could until dawn. But dare he stop and rest out in the open? Strange predatory creatures inhabited the Pass of Elewart; but worse than they, dare he risk falling asleep and have his weaker nature unleash the Power for its momentary comfort? Maybe just a little light, a little respite, a little easing of the pain and fatigue that wracked him. Increasingly the thoughts rose to tempt him, and increasingly it was becoming difficult to set them aside.

No, he dare not sleep. When the night came he would have to follow the path as well as he could, crawling if need arose. But he must not rest.

Slowly the darkness deepened around him and the wind became colder and louder. The Discourse of Elewart and Sumeral, he thought, wryly. Talk for ever and ever, you demon. We know You now. We have no words to measure You, but no words You can speak will ever again hide Your true self and Your treachery. I will die before You bind me again. I will walk until I die. My very death will announce Your presence to my kin. Knowledge of Your Coming will be abroad soon, whatever my fate.

The thoughts heartened him a little, grim though they were, but his more pragmatic nature sensed the onset of hallucination and his ultimate decline. He stopped. ‘In pity’s name, does this awful place have no end?’ he said hoarsely. The wind mocked him in reply, and without knowing how he came there, he found himself on his knees, his hands pressing into the dry dusty rock.

‘Stay here, my love,’ whispered Gwelayne softly. ‘Stay with me. Let us be forever in this place.’

Such sadness. Who could not resist such a plea?

‘Leave me,’ said Andawyr feebly.

Gwelayne brushed against him. ‘Come, my joy, my love, my light. Stay. We shall know such… ’

Andawyr bowed his head, opening and closing his hands to feel the real presence of the solid rock beneath his fingers. The words were gone, but how long ago? How did he come here? When he looked up he found that all was blackness now. His eyes opened wide, searching for the faintest glimmer that might tell him he was not utterly alone and lost, bound again in darkness by His will.

‘No,’ he cried out in fear and rage. ‘No.’ The wind took his voice and broke it against countless rock faces before returning it to him mockingly.

‘This is the Pass of Elewart,’ he intoned to himself. ‘I am Andawyr, Leader of the Cadwanol, the wind is howling through the rocks, and the rocks are echoing my voice. I am tired and frightened but I am on the path. Safety lies ahead of me. I mustn’t rest.’

But his words offered him little comfort, ringing oddly, meaninglessly, in his own head, and flickering like tiny lights in the distant blackness of his mind. Flickering…

He strained his eyes. Flickering. There were lights! But were they inside or outside his head? They blurred and danced, moving hither and thither. They were there! Outside. Not some creation of his fevered brain.

Panic surged over him. He was discovered! What had he done? Had he slept and betrayed himself? He tried to stand, but his legs would not obey him and he felt himself hit the ground with a winding impact. He tried to roll over, but where in this blackness was up and where down? The dancing lights were now ahead of him, now above, now to the side, now inside his head, now outside.

He would not be bound again, and his body must not be taken. His brothers must know what he knew now. He must use the Power to destroy himself. They would feel it and know it was his. Know that he had returned from his journey and that it was his one last message. Others must take up the struggle.

He was spent, and now utterly lost.

As the lights neared, he struggled to find his cord. It seemed he was like two separate people; the one with lost searching hands groping over an alien surface, the other fighting to escape some probing assault.

Then the lights were around him, bigger now. And voices crying out, blurred in his pulsing hearing. And shadows, strange fearful shadows.

Suddenly he knew he was on his back, the shadows circling him, tall and ominous. And here was the cord. Here would be a light to blind these creatures of His, to shine gloriously up out of this blighted place. A light to end his awful journeying and deliver his message to those who must now carry it.

He opened his mouth to speak, to shout a last mor-tal defiance, but some unexpected power interposed itself and the cord fell, or was taken, from his hand, and another voice sounded in his ears.

‘Brother Andawyr. It’s you. Ethriss be praised. I can’t believe it. We’ve kept watch, but we feared you long dead.’

The power was gone but, bewildered, he still could not speak. He tried to turn away from the painfully bright lights.

‘Shield his eyes, brothers,’ said the voice again. ‘He’s exhausted and he’s been too long in the darkness.’ Gentle hands touched him. ‘He’s barely with us. Take him up carefully, we must get him back quickly.’

Andawyr felt himself lifted and borne along rapidly. Occasionally the lights resolved themselves into hooded torches, and vaguely familiar faces drifted in and out of shadow as he drifted in and out of consciousness. One bent over him from time to time. A name formed in his mind; and his message.

‘Oslang,’ he said weakly. The face came forward again, its concern clear and focussed. Andawyr reached up and caught his friend’s robe. ‘Oslang. He is here. I have felt His presence. He’s come again. In our time. Tell… ’

He slipped away into unconsciousness.

‘Hurry, brothers,’ Oslang said urgently. ‘He’s been sorely tried. We may lose him if we delay.’

Andawyr awoke suddenly and gazed around in alarm. Everywhere was dark. His thoughts whirled in despair. Had his rescue been just a dream? Brother Oslang and the others? Was he still bound by Him, cowering fearful in the mountains of Narsindal? Hiding his body from His scouring patrols while his spirit and power were pinioned?

He started at a sudden sound nearby in the dark-ness. It came again. A grunt, then a splutter. Slowly a torch bloomed into life to reveal a familiar room and a familiar figure sprawled awkwardly on a short couch. Oslang. He was yawning ungraciously and rubbing his eyes.