Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Hawklan watched the exchange in silence. Dacu was an astute and sensitive teacher. The combination of his reassuring manner and his few words had eased the young man’s mind without in any way demeaning him. He remembered Lorac and Tel-Odrel consoling Ordan in the midst of the appalling wreck of Lord Evison’s High Guard. He wrinkled his nose as the stench of that field returned with the memory. Realizing what he was doing he lifted his hand to disguise the movement as a yawn.

Were all the Goraidin like this? he thought. Certainly all those he had met showed that same astuteness and sensitivity, but these were attributes that could be put to many purposes. Attributes common to the teacher and the torturer.

So who guided these men, and how?

They guided themselves, came the answer, as far as they were able. Just as the Orthlundyn must now be doing under the tutelage of Gulda and Loman. They saw into themselves, and chose their path. They looked squarely at the desperate, dark parts of their nature and determined to forge them into a tool subservient to their will amp;mdashthe only tool that could stand against the desperate and dark natures of others less disciplined or more malevolent.

Ethriss’s teaching. Ethriss guided them yet. Even after countless millennia the great momentum of his teaching carried it forward still.

He looked around the compact shelter. Dacu was writing diligently, occasionally making sketches, or referring to his map and adding notes to it in a small, very legible hand. Tirke seemed to have taken Dacu’s advice and was also immersed in his writing. He was assisted by Gavor, who, stationed by his left arm, was peering intently at the journal and giving occasional, unsought advice about spelling, which the High Guard took with a remarkably good grace.

Isloman was fighting a losing battle against sleep. After two abrupt and mildly explosive awakenings, he gave up, and with a brief ‘good night,’ lay down.

Hawklan looked at the carver. How many would have borne me the way you did, old friend? he thought. Or sat and talked to me, and taken me riding into the mountains when for all you knew I was utterly oblivious to everything?

Guilt formed like a jagged, painful crystal in his mind. Isloman had even tried to carry for him his responsibility for the decisions that had led to the disastrous confrontation with Dan-Tor.

A final, monumental yawn from the carver, how-ever, interrupted his mounting introspection. It spread relentlessly round the shelter. First to him, then to Tirke and finally Dacu. With an effort, Gavor fought off the infection, but abandoned his pupil and, with great dignity, moved over to Hawklan to take up his custom-ary guard position.

Hawklan lay down and, staring at the torchlit roof of the shelter, briefly reviewed the new knowledge of himself that had gradually been revealed during his eerie disembodiment. It offered him more questions than it gave answers, but he refused the lure, knowing that inquiry could only lead him into futile, endless searching.

Dominating all his thoughts was the simple knowl-edge that he was whole again. Back in a real and solid world where he must help in the preparation of the awful battle lines that were being drawn. And his contribution was clear. He must search for his true self and all the other knowledge that lay somewhere hidden inside him. Sumeral could not be fought by men alone. Other, older, powers were needed, and in some way he was the key to their release.

Only one way seemed to be open to him. After they had reached Anderras Darion, then, circumstances allowing, he would go where perhaps he should have gone at first. He would go to the Caves of Cadwanen and seek out Andawyr. Andawyr, who, in some extremity of his own, had twice reached out and sought help from him, and then had reached out a third and final time to support him as he had quailed before the terrible vision of Oklar unleashed.

This decision stood out in his mind like a thread of light disappearing into a forbidding future, like a familiar road wending ahead into the winter mist. Gradually, however, his thoughts became scattered and incoherent and, to the occasional rustling of Dacu’s map, he drifted into sleep.

He seemed to wake almost immediately, refreshed and relaxed, and vividly appreciative of his new condition. It’s good to be back, he thought again, immediately his eyes opened. He smiled to himself. This simple paean of praise would fade in time, he knew, as the memory of his strange… absence… receded. But for now, let it sing!

A small cautionary grunt reached him.

‘Uh, uh.’

It was Dacu. Hawklan looked at him. The Goraidin, sleepy eyed, was running a hand through his tousled hair and gazing around the shelter, his face concerned. Hawklan followed his gaze and picked up his concern. The light was different.

He caught Hawklan’s gaze and nodded. ‘Not good, I think,’ he said, and crawling to the entrance he opened it slightly and peered out.

A characteristic brightness shone in through the small opening. He opened it wider and thrust his head out.

‘Not good, definitely,’ he said, as he withdrew his head and closed the entrance. He puffed his cheeks out and blew a long pensive breath, as if it were to be his last opportunity for relaxation before a long and arduous ordeal. Then, indicating the two sleepers, he said, ‘Wake the logs up, Hawklan. I’ll go check on the horses and see how bad it is.’

A few minutes later he returned to find that Hawk-lan was having only limited success with his allotted task. He smiled maliciously, ‘Come on, you two,’ he said with blood-chilling cheeriness. ‘You’re going to miss the Winter Festival at this rate.’

Before either of the wakening men could reply, Dacu bent down, and with the same practiced skill that he had shown on every other morning, he began dismantling the shelter. It was the work virtually of seconds, and when it was finished, Tirke and Isloman found them-selves obliged to complete the rest of their journey into consciousness as uncertain smudges in a bright white snowscape.

Isloman levelled a finger at Dacu and then drew it across his throat. The Goraidin clapped his gloved hands together and laughed, his breath steaming in the cold air.

Within the hour, the group had breakfasted and broken camp and were preparing to set off across the transformed landscape.

Hawklan cast about for signs of the Alphraan but, as on the previous day, nothing was to be seen. He called out.

‘We are here, Hawklan,’ came a reply, faint at first and then abruptly quite loud, as if the speaker were standing nearby.

Dacu’s brow furrowed, ‘How do they do that?’ he said. ‘And where are they?’

‘I told you, dear boy, they’re probably underground somewhere,’ Gavor said. ‘That’s were they live, accord-ing to the Gate at Anderras Darion. And for what it’s worth, the Gate refers to them as Carvers of Sound.’

‘Meaning what?’ Dacu asked.

‘I haven’t the faintest notion, dear boy,’ Gavor re-plied. ‘And I wouldn’t bother asking them. I don’t imagine we’d understand their explanation, even if they felt inclined to give us one.’

‘You’ve studied the Great Gate?’ The Alphraan’s voice cut across the conversation. It was excited, and sounded like several people speaking at once.

Before Gavor could reply however, Dacu gave the order to move out. ‘Talk while you’re flying, Gavor,’ he said. ‘We have to make progress as quickly as we can now.’

As Gavor flapped off into the grey sky and the party started to move off, Tirke looked around at the nearby mountains. ‘It’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘It’s only a light fall, and fairly local. It’ll probably thaw before the day’s out.’

Dacu nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s not a good sign. It’s early, and we’ve the highest part of the mountains to pass yet. If there’s any chance of it setting in before we reach them, we’re going to have severe problems.’