Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘Memsa,’ Loman prompted her gently with a glance at the book.

Gulda nodded, and with a little sigh, returned to the present. ‘It’s a poem,’ she said.

‘A poem,’ Loman echoed, rather more coldly than he had intended.

Gulda eyed him. ‘An epic, historical poem,’ she added sternly. ‘It’s a record of an old oral tradition, and it’s probably the nearest thing we’ve got to an accurate source for information about the Alphraan.’

Loman jabbed a finger out into the void of the li-brary and whispered heatedly. ‘You’ve just spent a considerable time rejecting endless books of history and reference. What’s so special about this… poem, that you couldn’t find in them?’ He braced himself for a blistering reply.

Gulda, however, let the comment pass. ‘If you search those books diligently, Loman,’ she said, ‘you’ll find most of them refer back to such works as this for their commentaries on the Alphraan. Those that don’t quote their sources are patently worthless.’ She looked at the small book. ‘There may be better than this, but it’s unlikely, and we haven’t the time to search anymore.’

There was a hint of urgency in her tone that again surprised Loman. ‘Whatever you say, Memsa,’ he said. ‘But I’m still utterly lost. What have you found?’

She inclined her head to indicate a door opposite where they were sitting. As they stepped through it, they entered one of the broad corridors that circled the library tower at each tier level. Large continuous windows filled the corridor with sunlight, and offered the two arrivals the familiar view of the village far below, and the rolling Orthlund countryside.

As they walked slowly round the corridor, they gradually exchanged this view for one of the mountains.

‘None of this is certain, Loman,’ Gulda began. ‘As I said, there may be other books in there, but this one chimes with my memory and no one knows much about the Alphraan except that they definitely did exist once.’

Loman prepared to listen reluctantly. Again he felt the strange disorientation that he experienced when thinking of Hawklan’s experiences at the Gretmearc. It was ever thus when Gulda spoke so rationally of ancient times.

Fear, he realized unexpectedly. Brutal and cruel men, training and fighting, hardship and suffering, all these he could face if need arose, but these ancient things… people amp;mdashthe name Sumeral came hesitantly forward amp;mdashwith their mysterious powers? That was different. What defence could he have against such creatures? The image of Hawklan came to him, amused and mildly reproachful. Just because you can’t answer a question doesn’t mean it can’t be answered, does it? You’re frightened because you’re ignorant. If you’re ignorant, then learn. Same old lesson yet again.

‘Loman, pay attention.’ Gulda’s voice cut across his renewed revelation.

‘I’m sorry, Memsa,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking about… Hawklan… Sumeral… everything.’

Gulda stepped in front of him and examined him intently. ‘Good,’ she said after a moment. ‘You should. And you’re right to be frightened when you do. That way we’ll be prepared, and we’ll stand a chance.’ She gave a satisfied grunt and slapped his arm briskly with the book, like an old comrade. ‘Now, pay attention.’

Steering him over to the window she pointed her stick up into the mountains. ‘Some tales say the Alphraan were created by Ethriss, like we were. Others say that they came about through some foul experiment by Sumeral but that He erred and they escaped His bondage and fled underground in search of their own peaceful destiny.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. Suffice it to say that they existed and that they so angered Him that He sent the Mandrassni against them.’

She caught Loman’s look. ‘The Mandrassni were one of His experiments, beyond a doubt,’ she said, her mouth wrinkling in distaste. ‘They were about so high.’ She held out a hand to indicate the height of a small child. Loman noticed it was shaking slightly. ‘Like tiny Mandrocs only worse by far. Demented and wild. Hordes of them, skipping, bounding, clambering everywhere with their terrible screaming and those glittering short blades amp;mdashdouble-edged amp;mdashone in each hand… it didn’t matter how many you killed… ’ Gulda turned away from him abruptly and fell silent.

When she spoke again, her voice was cold with con-trol. ‘Some say that the Alphraan appealed to men for help but were refused and thence fled in bitterness. Others say that they allied themselves with Ethriss and promised to destroy the Mandrassni which were taking a dreadful toll of Ethriss’s armies.’ She paused. ‘A dreadful toll,’ she repeated softly. Then, brusquely, ‘Anyway, whatever the truth, the tale is that both they and the Mandrassni were destroyed utterly in a terrible battle deep below ground.’ Gulda fell silent again.

Loman was unaffected. ‘That’s a sad little story, Memsa,’ he offered casually. ‘But no different from countless other old tales, and what’s it got to do with our present problems?’

Gulda pursed her lips. ‘Loman, what does "phar’n" mean in the High Guard’s battle language?’ she asked.

Loman shrugged. ‘Sound… song, maybe.’

Gulda nodded. ‘The word "Alphraan" is derived from the ancient Fyordyn language this book is written in.’ She tapped the book against his chest by way of emphasis. ‘The same language that forms the basis of the battle language. "Alphraan" means people, or warriors, of sound. Perhaps even carvers of sound.’

Loman looked blank.

‘The Alphraan were apparently a gentle, peaceful people, Loman,’ Gulda continued. ‘All they had was Ethriss’s, or Sumeral’s, gift. The gift to use and shape sound.’

‘Music?’ queried Loman.

Gulda shook her head. ‘More than just music. It’s said that the last remnants of them, fleeing before the Mandrassni, deep into the roots of the mountains, learned to use their gift as a terrible weapon, and sent sounds echoing through their warrens that caused the Mandrassni not only to become lost and bewildered, but so enraged them that they fought and destroyed each other as they destroyed the last of the Alphraan.’

Loman had a momentary vision of dark winding tunnels choked with bodies, seething and struggling in a screaming tide of sound.

‘The labyrinth,’ he muttered softly to himself, sud-denly chilled by Gulda’s seemingly innocuous tale.

Gulda caught the remark and looked at him uncer-tainly. Then she looked down at the book. ‘This telling ends poetically as you might expect,’ she said. ‘The last survivor of the Mandrassni wandered howling and lost through endless echoing tunnels until he came upon the last Alphraan dying silently in what had been their holy place. Filled with bloodlust, the demented creature leapt forward to strike this last victim, but the Alphraan, at the moment of dying learned the truth of his race’s gift and with a silent word shattered the Mandrassni into a myriad tiny sounds that would fly forever through the rocky heart of the mountains to tell all who could hear of the evil of Sumeral and the futility of his ways.’

Loman’s memory of the labyrinth welled up sud-denly with Gulda’s last words as if her tale had caused some deep resonance.

‘You’ve gone pale,’ Gulda said.

‘It’s wandering all round that library, looking for fairy stories,’ Loman blustered in spite of himself.

‘No it’s not,’ said Gulda bluntly but with a hint of sympathy. ‘This tale has struck a chord somehow amp;mdashalmost literally amp;mdashhasn’t it, Castellan? Traveller through the labyrinth.’

Loman did not reply.

Gulda looked at the book again, and then out at the mountains. ‘With your knowledge, it’s as well you can’t feel the language of the original,’ she said grimly.