Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

As they rose, the wind became stronger and more persistent and, when it shone, the sun less warm. Isloman became anxious about Hawklan. ‘It’s difficult to judge whether he’s hot or cold,’ he said, placing his hand on Hawklan’s forehead. ‘We’re moving and keeping warm, but he’s doing nothing. And this wind’s deceptive.’

Dacu examined Hawklan similarly. ‘He’s un-changed,’ was his conclusion. ‘Don’t fret, Isloman. if Hylland’s never seen anyone like this, then no one has. I think if he was going to die it would’ve happened at the Palace gate or on your way to Eldric’s. I doubt a little heat or cold is going to injure him.’

Isloman nodded his head, but seemed doubtful. ‘Don’t fret,’ Dacu repeated, earnestly. ‘You’re probably too close to him to see clearly.’ He blew out a noisy breath. ‘I haven’t mentioned this to anyone because… well, because it’s of no real value in terms of nursing him, but every time I look at him, my guts tell me he’s protecting himself in some way.’

He leaned forward and looked into Hawklan’s face. ‘I know I’ve said this before, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you were listening properly then, and you might be now. Thanks again for fixing my shoulder. It’s fine now, and you taught me a lot.’ He rotated his shoulder to demonstrate the point. ‘If it’s humanly possible, we’ll get you back to your home, you know that, don’t you? You can come back to us when you feel your friends and your own castle walls around you.’

Isloman listened in silence.

The next day, they came upon a broad valley, sunlit and sheltered. Across its floor, swathes of tiny white and yellow flowers decorated a soft springy turf. Wisps of grey cloud, like venerable, blowing manes, stretched out from the peaks of the mountains that shouldered into one another on either side to keep out the searching wind.

As they rode down into it, Dacu reined his horse to a halt. ‘This is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Last time I was here, it was winter and almost impassable. I never dreamt it would look like this in summer.’ He swung down from his horse. ‘We’ll walk,’ he announced. ‘Let the horses roam free. To burden another creature on a day like this would be an affront.’

Isloman laughed outright. ‘I don’t know about me being too close to Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But you sound exactly like him. I think you’ve been smitten with an attack of poetry. I hope it’s not contagious amp;mdashTirke might catch it.’

Tirke looked at the two laughing men, uncertain whether to be indignant or not, but their good nature and the quiet calm of the valley forbade any such rancour and he too dismounted.

Gavor said nothing, but took wing and soared up towards the protecting peaks. As the party wended its way along the valley, he flew high above them in wide graceful circles, resting on the warm flower-scented breezes that rose up to him. Occasionally, he tumbled over and over, falling precipitately out of the sky and laughing to himself.

The valley, however, was a brief interlude in what was proving, as expected, to be a relentless and hard journey. Tentatively, Tirke began to grumble. He wished it weren’t so hot amp;mdashor so cold. He fidgeted with his various jackets and tunics amp;mdashtook his gloves off amp;mdashput them back on amp;mdashwished the wind wouldn’t blow in his face amp;mdashor down his ear amp;mdashwished there weren’t so many flies amp;mdashwished they were back in the valley amp;mdashor in Orthlund amp;mdashwished…

Dacu had learnt early in their journey that this weed was well-rooted in Tirke’s personality, and he took the opportunity to grind a ruthless heel into it before it could blossom fully.

‘I’ve told you once, Tirke,’ he said, quietly, but very resolutely. ‘Don’t speak if you’ve nothing to contribute. The rule is, if you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it then try and get used to it. Above all, don’t fret about those things you can’t change, they’ll cloud your mind and get you killed one day. Just concentrate on being here, and on what’s going on around you.’

Stung, despite Dacu’s quiet manner, Tirke’s lip curled up and he opened his mouth to speak, but a brief conspiratorial shake of the head from Isloman changed his reply to a simple, if resentful, ‘Sorry, Dacu.’

Then the clouds closed in, obscuring the distant mountains and truncating those nearby. Occasionally it sank down into the valleys to transform great open vistas into grey, silent and damp caves.

And the rain began.

As he fastened his cloak about him and pulled up his hood, Dacu looked significantly at Tirke. The young man affected a calmness he did not feel and copied the Goraidin’s demeanour. Dacu winked at Isloman.

It rained intermittently for several days. Sometimes the rain would come down vertically through a thick obscuring mist, sometimes it would swirl and lash about as if it were trying to escape some driving demon. Small streams became fulsome and noisy, rushing underfoot or tumbling down from the heights above. The turf they walked on became sodden and clinging, and the rocks became blatantly treacherous.

Each night, after they had camped, they managed to cheer and warm themselves around the radiant stones that they had brought, and Dacu quietly instructed Tirke in the subtler arts of moving through the moun-tains in such conditions. Again, the man’s patience impressed Isloman as he watched him reaching through Tirke’s brittle facade to the truer man beneath. Each night also, Dacu made amendments to his map, which was becoming increasingly more inaccurate as they moved away from Fyorlund, and the three men wrote their journals of the day’s travelling. Hawklan sat as silent witness to these proceedings.

As the days passed, the small caravan moved stead-ily through the grey dampness, but it became increasingly difficult for them to keep dry and warm. Tirke descended into a surly, repressed silence, and Isloman became more anxious about Hawklan. Dacu too became concerned. The weather was worse than might have been expected but the effect on the morale of his charges seemed disproportionate. And these were early days yet. There was worse terrain to come and, almost certainly, worse weather.

‘We must try and find some proper shelter for a while,’ he said eventually. ‘Somewhere where we can dry off thoroughly and check the supplies. Keep your eyes open for any caves.’

The remark was addressed to both Isloman and Tirke, but it was directed primarily at Isloman, whose shadow vision was most likely to penetrate the shifting greyness that came and went around them.

Ironically, however, it was Tirke who spotted a shadow at the head of a scree slope towards the evening of the next day. Following his pointing finger, Isloman confirmed his discovery and the three men headed towards it as enthusiastically as the loose scree would allow. As they approached it, however, their euphoria faded. Apparently recently exposed by a rock fall, the cave seemed to be little more than a rather shallow alcove.

‘Still, it’s better than nothing,’ said Dacu, lighting a torch. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’

As he stepped inside he found that the shallow ap-pearance of the cave was caused by a large boulder near the entrance. Stepping around it he held out the torch to reveal a spacious chamber with a dusty floor and walls which, apart from a few damp cracks, were quite dry. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘In fact, excellent. Well done, young man. Come on in. And bring the horses.’

Isloman carried Hawklan in as bidden, but Tirke hesitated just inside the entrance, pretending to adjust his horse’s bridle. He peered into the darkness where the chamber narrowed into a tunnel at its far end. ‘Are you sure nothing lives in there?’ he asked, as casually as he could manage.