Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Then, in their last extremity, their leader gave his life by using the fire of the Old Power.

For the close confined tunnels were choked with His creatures, and as he sent out the fire, it curled and flared around, and returning, consumed him. But as he perished he was transformed and he fell upon the enemy, sending a great light blazing through the ancient darkness, destroying those it fell upon and scattering the remnants, gibbering and blinded, into the darkness.

And as their leader’s lingering sacrifice faded, the Cadwanwr pursued the retreating creatures, slaying many, until silence filled the caves again.

Then, saddened, they returned to their Caves and began to seal them against the return of such horrors. It was no light task, and they were assailed many times before the work was completed, and though each time they were attacked with diminishing force, their losses were sore.

It was many years before the depths were deemed to be free of these grim remnants of Sumeral’s long reign.

Oslang frowned a little as with a pass of his hand he sealed the heavy door. Andawyr noted the expression but made no comment; no one liked wandering about so deep below the mountains. They were very nearly at the lowest habited level of the Caves, and though nothing had stirred in the outer depths for generations, the bitter aftermath of the Wars of the First Coming were etched deep into the lore of the Cadwanol.

No bright summer light was brought down here by mirror stones. Only torches lit the passages and rooms and, bright though they were, they seemed to struggle against the oppressive mass of the mountains above.

Yet, paradoxically, the sensation that Andawyr and many of the others felt at this depth was not one of being burdened from above, but of being exposed, as if at a great height above some strange mysterious world into which a careless step might plunge them.

The two men walked for some way along a bare passage. One day, Andawyr thought, as he invariably did on the rare occasions he came down so deep, we must face this strangeness and push out further and deeper. But at the same time he set the problem comfortably low on his list of priorities. Then they were at their destina-tion. Stopping outside a sealed door, Andawyr hesitated, but Oslang stepped forward purposefully and opened it.

The room was circular with a wide column at its centre. From the far side of the column, an uncertain blue radiance spilled round into the whiteness of the torchlight.

Andawyr grimaced and hesitated again. Oslang pushed him gently. Still reluctant, Andawyr moved round the column towards the source of the blue light.

It came from an alcove set into the column. Inside the alcove lay the sinister bird that Hawklan had inadvertently brought into Andawyr’s hidden quarters at the Gretmearc. One of the myriad eyes of the Vrwystin A Goleg amp;mdashOklar’s creature.

It was sitting motionless, but as Andawyr moved closer it burst abruptly into a frenzy of activity, its eyes and beak wide and its wing and claws beating frantic-ally. The blue light surrounding it swirled.

Though no sound came out of the blue depths, both Oslang and Andawyr stepped back involuntarily, Andawyr lifting his arm across his face as if for protection, his eyes wide with fear.

Then, like an echo of the bird’s reaction, Andawyr’s face twisted into an expression of seemingly uncontrol-lable rage and he levelled his hand at the demented creature. A stream of white light came from it, striking the bird and sending it crashing into the back of the alcove where it continued to struggle desperately. Light still streaming from his hands, Andawyr stepped forward as if to reach in and throttle the bird.

For a moment Oslang stood stunned, then he seized Andawyr’s arm powerfully. ‘What are you doing?’ he said, his voice hoarse with fear and disbelief.

The white light faltered, and Andawyr rounded on him angrily. But with a further effort, Oslang managed to drag the smaller man away. The light faded com-pletely and almost immediately Andawyr’s face became apologetic. He put his hand to his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That awful amp;mdashthing amp;mdashI just want to… ’ He drove his fist into his palm.

‘I understand,’ Oslang said. Then, with a faint smile: ‘You always were inclined to be a little physical.’

Most of the tension faded from Andawyr’s face and he too smiled, though sadly. ‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘And I pray you never do.’ He paused. ‘Why do you think I’ve put off coming down here so long?’ Oslang did not reply; Andawyr had made little or no effort to hide his fear. Andawyr’s expression became distant. ‘I’m afraid that the Slip from the Gretmearc will trouble my dreams for a long time yet,’ he said softly.

Oslang looked at his friend. This was the first time he had made any personal reference to his explosive and terrifying return journey from the Gretmearc. Without exception, the brothers of the Cadwanol had been concerned about his silence.

‘You faced the creature as it truly is, in the Slip?’ Oslang asked hesitantly.

Andawyr nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘For the heartbeat that took, but… ’

‘Some heartbeats can last a thousand years,’ Oslang offered.

Andawyr nodded again, his face distressed. Then his jaw became determined. ‘But I faced it. I was frightened beyond belief. I still am. But I didn’t flinch from it. I saw it, became it, and controlled it, until it too knew fear, I’m sure.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘The Slip seemed to last forever. Dreadful.’ He shuddered. ‘I felt I was becoming so weak. If it hadn’t been for Hawklan’s sustaining touch, I don’t… ’ He did not finish the sentence. ‘And then suddenly I was here.’

‘You were indeed,’ Oslang said, eyes wide and eye-brows high. ‘Every warning in the place screaming out.’ He lifted his hands protectively at the memory.

But Andawyr was not listening. ‘I became it,’ he repeated. ‘Saw what it saw. Heard what it heard. So much and in so many places amp;mdashI wonder… ’

The two men looked at one another silently. Slowly Oslang’s eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ he said softly, anticipating his leader’s thinking. ‘It’s a corruption. We can’t use it ourselves. That’s His way. A trap baited with the lure of power for a good cause. It would bind us in some way, you know that.’

Andawyr pulled a wry face. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But it sees and hears many things in many places and we’re woefully short of information. We’ve far greater knowledge of the Old Power than our forebears.’

‘True,’ Oslang said. ‘But that doesn’t mean we’re any wiser. He probably knows more as well. For all we know, you might have been allowed to capture this’ amp;mdashhe nodded towards the still struggling bird amp;mdash‘this thing, just so that you could be so tempted.’

The flickering blue light reflected on Andawyr’s face. He scowled. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I doubt it. Oklar wouldn’t sacrifice such sight for any prize.’

‘Oklar will do what He tells him,’ Oslang said, bluntly. ‘And the binding of the Cadwanol would be no small prize.’ He suddenly raised his voice. ‘Good grief, you yourself pointed out how we’ve grown inclined to sit and wait for news to be brought to us. Who knows how that came about? What would we become if we controlled or thought we controlled this ?’

‘Better informed,’ Andawyr said, his brow furrowed.

‘Stop it, you’re frightening me,’ Oslang said heat-edly. He jabbed his finger at the bird. ‘With this bound here, Oklar’s as blind as we are. And I’d rather us both be blind than risk sharing his sight.’ His voice fell. ‘Even if we could use it, it would be like a crutch. It would atrophy what’s left of our true inner sight, and it would fail us in the end. You know that, don’t you?’