Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Having made the decision to form such a group, Loman had gathered together his most able ‘students’ and described to them as truthfully as he could his own experiences with the Fyordyn Goraidin during the Morlider War. All of his listeners had accepted the need for and value of such a group, but despite Loman’s stark telling, only a few of them had had the sight to realize that the cost of such service would be too high for them. Others were to learn later, as the relentless and severe nature of the training took its toll, though insofar as he was able, Loman ensured that none left the group feeling other than richer for the experience they had gained.

Eventually, he was able to leave much of this train-ing to others, but initially, as a matter both of necessity and of personal honour, and to some extent to salve his conscience in forging such a tool, Loman personally trained the groups, teaching everything by his own example.

‘You are too old for this, father,’ Tirilen growled emphatically each time he returned home from some protracted survival expedition into the mountains and, free from the gaze of his students, crashed down into a chair and gazed skywards. ‘Far too old,’ she would repeat. ‘I’ve got people who are really sick to attend to, you know. This… ’ She waved her hand over his collapsed remains in sweeping dismissal, ‘is self-inflicted.’

Her hands, however, belied her words, and she soothed his aches, eased the stiffness from reluctant joints, and repaired the damage that was incurred from time to time as he taught his students the skills needed for survival against both animate and inanimate enemies.

But she could not ease the pain that sometimes wracked his heart. Only Gulda could come towards that. Not that he ever approached her. She would appear as if in response to some silent call and, blue eyes looking deep into him, would say quite simply. ‘You know it’s necessary, don’t you?’ The words were trite enough, but her presence and the assurance of her own inner knowledge would lighten his burden in some way he could not define.

Occasionally as he stared back into her piercing eyes, the memory would return of the handsome and proud face he had glimpsed briefly when, running in terror from the labyrinth, he had burst suddenly into her room. At such times, Gulda’s eyes would narrow, then she would lower her gaze, pull her hood forward and stump off, more stooped than ever.

It was in his elite group, however, that Loman found other problems multiplying. By its nature, their training took each individual to some extremity and exposed flaws in their characters that, left unseen, might have destroyed them at some future time, or worse, destroyed others they were responsible for. Angry outbursts were not uncommon and sometimes, of necessity, discipline was both severe and delivered summarily. But there’ve been too many such, Loman thought one night, sitting alone on a small balcony which faced up through the valley that Anderras Darion’s builders had sealed; up into the mountains. Too many.

Gulda had said, ‘I think we too are assailed. Ponder your anger of late and that of your people.’ It was an enigmatic remark and she had offered no explanation nor mentioned it again, but he knew that that was because she was uncertain. She had spoken only the words she could, and he realized abruptly that in so doing she was asking for his help.

Ponder your anger…?

A bright full moon had swept the stars from the sky, and under it the rooftops and courtyards of the Castle sprawling out before Loman’s high vantage glistened damply. Ahead of him the black shadow of the moun-tains was broken by washes of silver brightness.

Slowly, he brought to mind the various violent inci-dents that had occurred over the past few weeks. Superficially, all of them were provoked by some trivial act, but there was nothing mysterious in that. The real cause could usually be identified as an accumulating series of similarly trivial acts, each one unrelieved until finally catharsis had been sought in a blow, sometimes delivered, sometimes threatened and restrained. He himself had offended; delivered summary punishment with his fist or his hand when, even as he struck, he knew words would have sufficed.

But too often, he thought again. Too often.

And in the wake of this came a newer realization. Not only were there too many such incidents, they were getting worse. If it continued, it was only a matter of time before someone was killed. His stomach suddenly became leaden and icy. It would happen! And how could he face that? Three men and one woman had already died in training accidents and he had had precious little real comfort to offer their grieving parents. How then could he answer for the murder of one of his charges by their own?

He could not.

We must be eternally watchful with these old skills we’re re-learning, Gulda had said. But it was more than that, Loman thought. He knew the dangers amp;mdashthe Orthlundyn knew them. Indeed, in some strange way, they had not been re-learning old skills, they had merely been discarding the dust and clutter that had been hiding them for generations. They would not be so careless, so unaware, as to be so easily used by their darker natures.

The word, careless, however, hung in Loman’s mind. He stood up and stared intently at the mountains, the memories of the four deaths returning to him vividly.

Memories of saying, ‘I don’t understand. It was such an odd thing to do. So out of character.’

His hands tightened around the moon-sheened rail that edged the balcony. The mountains, still and silent, watched and waited.

So out of character…

Gulda was sitting on a long stone bench in a quiet sunny courtyard that she seemed to have made her own. The book lying open across her knees was a treatise on siege warfare though she seemed to be paying scant attention to it. Rather, she was watching a group of small birds bobbing to and fro across the close-cropped lawn in search of food.

Loman closed the door behind himself very gently, but the birds were gone in a sudden flurry. Gulda looked up at him as he approached. No haughty presence there, he thought, just a strange, probably lonely old woman. Where did she come from? And how did she know so much about so many things? He smiled and she nodded.

Crouching down in front of her, knees cracking slightly, he came straight to the point. ‘What’s happen-ing in these mountains, Memsa?’ he said, his eyes indicating the surrounding peaks.

Gulda’s eyes went to her book. ‘Only what’s hap-pened for generations,’ she said off-handedly. ‘The mists come and go. The birds and the animals… ’

Loman placed a hand over the book. ‘Memsa,’ he said almost angrily. ‘Don’t be obtuse. You asked me to think about my anger. I’ve thought. All last night I thought. And the morning’s brought no change. There’s a pattern of violent behaviour occurring within our special group when they’re in the mountains that I can’t explain. Something is affecting them.’

Gulda looked down at the smith’s powerful hand and with a delicate thumb and forefinger removed it from her book. Her mouth curled impatiently. ‘Be specific,’ she said.

Loman was. He detailed the deaths and injuries caused by unexpected lapses of concentration; the violence provoked by incidents which should have passed unnoticed. It took him some time. Gulda affected to read while he spoke, but Loman knew she was listening intently.

‘It’s a problem inherent in this kind of training,’ she said when he had finished.

‘Some of it, yes,’ Loman replied. ‘But not this much. And it’s getting worse. And there are other things. Not serious, but odd, untypical.’

Gulda looked at him.