Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Dacu chuckled to himself and increased the light of his torch. The darkness receded along the tunnel a little. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The horses wouldn’t have come anywhere near it if there’s been anything wild here. Besides, look.’ He pointed to the dusty floor. ‘No signs of tracks, or of bedding or nesting materials. Nothing lives here.’ A small beetle scuttled away from the torchlight. ‘Nothing big anyway. Come on in.’

Still uncertain, Tirke led the horses into the cave and began unharnessing them. Dacu joined him, while Isloman began removing Hawklan’s wet cloak and checking to see how much water had soaked through to him. After a moment he pulled a face of appreciative surprise. ‘I wish my cloak was this good,’ he said. ‘He’s bone dry. Not even clammy.’

Dacu, occupied with the horses, grunted an offhand acknowledgement.

Isloman looked at the cloak he was holding and rubbed the material inquisitively between his fingers. It seemed in no way exceptional, and he wondered briefly where Tirilen had found it when she had searched for suitable clothes for Hawklan’s unexpected journey to the Gretmearc.

Later, dried, rested and fed, the three men sat in companionable silence around the radiant stones. Arranged round a separate pile of stones some distance away were their drying clothes, and the characteristic smell of these mingled with the smell of the horses to permeate the cave.

Gavor was perched on a rock near to Hawklan, and was sleeping soundly, emitting an occasional low whistle.

After a while, Dacu’s face became pensive.

‘Is anything the matter?’ Isloman asked.

‘No,’ Dacu replied doubtfully. ‘Just thinking that we’ve a long way to go, and there’ll probably not be many billets like this on the way.’

Isloman’s eyes narrowed slightly. The comment was unlike Dacu. All in all they’d come through fairly well. The weather had been atrocious, but while the three of them had been soaked, their supplies had been unaf-fected, and Hawklan’s remarkable clothes had kept him both dry and warm. There was enough sunlight locked in the radiant stones to see them some considerable way yet and this weather couldn’t hold forever.

Or could it?

The thought came to him unexpectedly like a chill draught, and a small knot of black depression formed deep inside him.

Serian whinnied noisily.

‘What!’ Gavor woke suddenly. Looking from side to side, he flapped his wings urgently. ‘Did somebody say something?’ he asked.

The darkness in Isloman vanished as suddenly as it had come, and Dacu, too, smiled as if a burden had just been lifted from him. ‘Yes,’ Isloman replied. ‘But not to you.’

Gavor floated down from his perch to land by the carver. ‘Are you sure, dear boy?’ he said. ‘I could’ve sworn I heard someone calling out. Several people, in fact.’

Isloman was about to make a comment to the effect that it was probably Gavor’s friends at Anderras Darion bewailing his protracted absence, but before he could speak the bird stumped off towards the rear of the cave.

‘How far does this go?’ Gavor asked, his neck cran-ing forward as he peered into the darkness.

Dacu shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Quite possi-bly for miles. There aren’t many exposed entrances like this, but they say the mountains around here are riddled with tunnels, and the few I’ve ever found went further than I felt inclined to explore.’

Tirke looked at Gavor prowling the outer edge of the torchlight. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing living in here?’ he whispered to Dacu, only half-jokingly.

The Goraidin’s response was unexpectedly irritable. ‘What, for pity’s sake, Tirke? Some sierwolf the Cad-wanol forgot to lock up? Don’t be so stupid. You’re making me angry.’ There was a menace in the man’s voice that made Isloman look up. Tirke edged away from him nervously.

Serian whinnied again uncertainly, and Gavor cocked his head on one side. ‘There’re some very strange echoes in this place,’ he muttered to himself, returning to his vigil by Hawklan. ‘Don’t let me go to sleep again.’

A few minutes later, Dacu stood up and went to the cave entrance. Isloman joined him, pausing only to lay a reassuring hand on Tirke’s shoulder.

‘What’s the matter, Dacu?’ he said. ‘The lad was only joking.’

Dacu nodded. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’ll apologize to him. I don’t know why I did that.’ His face became anxious. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m up to this, Isloman, if I’m going to go over the edge like that at the first bit of bad weather we run into.’

Isloman had little advice to offer. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said. ‘There’s something odd about this place. Gavor doesn’t normally hear things that aren’t there, and Serian’s uneasy.’

‘Dangerous?’ queried the Goraidin, old reflexes dis-placing his new doubts.

Isloman looked out into the darkness. Even his shadow vision could not penetrate far into the damp starless night, but he could hear the rain still falling steadily. ‘Not that I can sense,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But… ’ He shrugged.

Dacu turned back to the heartening warmth of the radiant stones. Tirke eyed him unsurely as he ap-proached.

Dacu met his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, Tirke,’ he said without any preamble. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was wrong of me.’ Then, before Tirke could comment: ‘Isloman feels there’s something strange about this place, and I’m inclined to agree with him. Nothing dangerous, I think, but odd. It could be no more than the echoes you get in a place like this after we’ve been so long outdoors, but I’d like you to split the horses. Serian and mine at the entrance, the others at the back. They’ll serve us well enough as sentries. And we can keep the torches on low.’

‘I’ll sleep with my sword out,’ Tirke said, clambering to his feet to execute Dacu’s order. Once again, Dacu felt a bubble of irritation rising within him, but he caught it and crushed it.

‘If it’ll make you feel better,’ he said, forcing a mildly concerned acquiescence into his voice. Then, smiling, ‘But make sure you don’t roll over on it.’

Later, Isloman found himself leaning back on the rock wall, looking at the others, now all sleeping. Tirke was a little restless, but Dacu was as motionless as Hawklan.

He felt very relaxed and rested. Whatever tensions had mysteriously built up between Dacu and Tirke seemed to have evaporated and he was looking forward to the morning when they could all continue their long journey back to his home.

The cave was now illuminated only gently by the reduced torches and, as he gazed around idly, he began to work out plans for a wall carving which would use the subtle shading that the torchlight produced on this long hidden rock. Then, realizing what he was doing, he smiled and looked down at his hands.

The scar caused by his accident with Dan-Tor’s chisel was clearly visible. Probably always will be, he thought. But it had a healthier appearance now, and the stiffness that the injury had caused was long passed. The sight of it reminded him of the many strange and tragic events that had brought him to this place, but he was too at ease for the memories to offer him any burden. On an impulse, he took out his knife and, twisting round, began scratching softly into the rock.

When he lay down to sleep some while later, he was still smiling. As with the making of the gifts he had given to Sylvriss and Eldric, he had found the brief return to his craft profoundly satisfying. Drifting into sleep, his last thought was of Varak and the solace that he too said he had found in his wood carving. On the wall he had left a small intricate sketch showing Hawklan listening to the stooped and crooked form that Dan-Tor had adopted when he arrived at Pedhavin. Behind the figures was a hazy but powerful representa-tion of Anderras Darion.