Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Isloman’s brow mimicked Dacu’s. ‘The noise that just woke you up, presumably,’ he said.

‘You woke me up,’ Dacu retorted, defensively. ‘Thrashing about.’ He glanced around the cave. Then, satisfied, ‘You must’ve been dreaming.’

Isloman followed his gaze. Everything did indeed seem to be normal. Tirke was still sound asleep. Hawklan was silent and motionless though, at his head, Gavor was striving to open a bleary eye, and the horses were beginning to take an interest in the whispered conversation.

Gavor cleared his throat. ‘What’s the matter, dear boys?’ he managed.

Dacu rolled over and settled himself down again. ‘Nothing,’ he said, his voice sleepy. ‘Isloman was dreaming.’ Gavor grunted understandingly; his struggling eye gave up and fell shut again.

‘No,’ Isloman protested softly. ‘There was a child here, then a noise… ’

‘Go to sleep,’ said Gavor and Dacu simultaneously. Isloman shook his head. He was certain he had not been dreaming, though the disorienting memory of the tiny feet immediately in front of his face, and the deafening sound that had rung in his head, were beginning to assume an unreal quality.

Reluctantly, he accepted the verdict of his compan-ions and prepared to lie down again. As he did so, however, he looked once more at the place where he had seen the feet standing. It was immediately in front of the small carving sketch he had done before going to sleep. He himself had disturbed the dust that covered almost all of the cave floor, but running from the disturbed patch was a line of small footprints.

‘Dacu,’ he whispered urgently.

The Goraidin was awake immediately. Isloman pointed to the footprints. Dacu sat up and looked at them narrowly, without speaking. They were not particularly easy to see, but they were sufficient to confirm Isloman’s observation. They formed a clear path to the rear of the cave where they disappeared past the horses and into the blackness beyond.

Dacu pushed back his blanket and moved forward to examine the footprints more carefully.

‘Coming and going,’ he said. Lighting a torch, he moved carefully along the little pathway. Isloman joined him. ‘There are more here,’ Dacu said as the torch illuminated the darkness at the rear of the cave. ‘Three or four,’ he concluded.

Crouching down, the two men looked at one an-other. The footprints, though faint, were quite distinct, and in places passed over the disturbance that had been caused by the horses. There was no disputing either their existence or their recent origin.

‘But there can’t be any children around here,’ Dacu said, answering the unspoken question. ‘We’re well past the last of the hill farms.’

‘Hawklan said Yatsu told him about Morlider War veterans who went to live in the mountains,’ Isloman said tentatively. Dacu grimaced as if in pain.

‘Men, Isloman,’ he said briefly and dismissively. ‘Men our age. And men alone. Above all, alone.’

Isloman felt the need to apologize for some awk-wardness on his part but could not find the words. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Neither men nor children could have made the sound I heard.’ Abruptly, Gavor’s head came between the two men. He peered curiously at the little cluster of footprints. ‘A sound, you say?’ he asked Isloman. The carver nodded and Gavor returned to his scrutiny of the footprints.

Then, excitedly, ‘Alphraan, dear boys,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d seen them when they brought down that feathered brown lump on our way to the Gretmearc, but Hawklan would have none of it.’

The two men stared at him. ‘What are you talking about, Gavor?’ Isloman asked.

Gavor ignored the question. His excitement had been replaced almost immediately by an air of concern. He looked across at Hawklan’s silent form.

‘I think we’d better leave,’ he said anxiously. ‘I don’t know much about the Alphraan, but I know they’re not keen on humans amp;mdashand they can be very dangerous.’

Isloman looked sceptical. ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Gavor, but from what I could see of whatever stood next to me, it was only the size of a child. How could that be dangerous?’

But Gavor was half-flying, half-stumping back to Hawklan. Unceremoniously he bounced heavily on Tirke’s chest on the way, pausing only to bellow, ‘Get up, Tirke, you lazy sod,’ in the young man’s face, before passing on.

Tirke woke in a flurry of flailing arms and legs.

‘What about the noise you heard, dear boy?’ Gavor continued, ignoring the small eruption he had just caused.

‘What about it?’ Isloman replied, trying not to laugh at Tirke’s bewildered awakening.

Gavor began tugging the blankets that were covering Hawklan. ‘Well, what could you do except cover your ears?’ he said. ‘Could you fight? And how long could you have withstood such a noise?’

Isloman looked at him vacantly.

‘Will you please help me?’ Gavor asked in some exasperation, still struggling with the blankets.

Isloman stepped forward. ‘But… ’ he began.

‘But nothing,’ Gavor said, his voice suddenly very serious. He thrust his head towards the rear of the cave. ‘Those things killed that… bird… creature when we were on our way to the Gretmearc. Or nearly killed it anyway. They did it with a noise. A noise, Isloman. And it was no hatchling, believe me. I was on just the edge of their song and it was frightful.’ He flapped his wings anxiously. ‘And I’ve read enough about them to know they don’t like people. Let’s go. Now. While we can. It’s not safe for Hawklan.’

Isloman looked at Dacu. The Goraidin glanced at the cave entrance. A greying light there showed it would soon be dawn. He nodded. Gavor’s concern was almost palpable and even in their limited acquaintance he had found the bird to be a consistently reliable, if irreverent, witness. Whatever had visited them that night had been decidedly odd, and there would be ample time to discuss it later. Certainly, nothing was to be gained by plunging off into the darkness searching for strange, possibly dangerous visitors, who, finding them asleep, had at least left them unmolested.

‘What’s happening?’ Tirke said, staring at Gavor and then at the two men in turn.

‘We’ll tell you later,’ Isloman said. ‘When we’re away from here.’

Tirke looked at Dacu, who nodded his confirmation. For a moment, he considered inquiring about breakfast, but the urgency in the two men’s calm but swift actions swept the idea aside. Whatever was making them break camp so urgently was not something he had any desire to stay and face.

Within minutes, the group were ready to move out. Isloman bent down to pick up Hawklan.

‘Stay… carver.’

The voice was soft and slightly hesitant, but quite clear. Despite its softness, however, there was an almost physical quality in it that made the simple request more compelling than any roared command. For a moment, Isloman felt unable to move, as though the voice had entered and spoken directly to his very limbs.

‘What?’ he said with a struggle, turning round and looking at the others. Both returned his look blankly.

‘What what?’ Dacu said incongruously.

‘What did you say?’ Isloman amplified.

‘Nothing,’ Dacu said, shaking his head. ‘Neither of us spoke.’

Isloman gazed around the cave, puzzled. ‘Someone did,’ he said.

Gavor flapped his wings noisily. ‘Let’s go, dear boy,’ he said anxiously.

Isloman stood up and looked again around the cave. Somewhere, something was calling, like a myriad unheard whisperings. He looked down at Gavor, who was becoming increasingly restless. Impulsively he walked towards the darkness at the rear of the cave, and spoke into it.