Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘Nothing we can’t cope with,’ Tirke said, part ques-tion, part statement.

Dacu smiled. ‘Something I’d rather we didn’t have to cope with if a little speed will see us clear,’ he said.

Tirke nodded, and dropped back a little way. The whiteness around him reminded him particularly of his family’s winter home in the northern mountains. He looked at the three men ahead of him and felt his spirits suddenly lift. He would be here only once. He would perhaps have such remarkable company only once in all his life. This indeed was a learning time.

As the day proceeded, Tirke’s observations about the snow proved to be correct and large untidy areas of brown and green began to show through the thin layer of snow that had fallen.

Dacu looked relieved, particularly when the sun began to shine in the late afternoon, but he kept the party moving forward as fast as the terrain would allow, until well past sunset. Periodically he looked back towards the north, where solid banks of cloud were gathering.

There was little conversation as they prepared their camp that night in the torchlight. All were tired, and anxious to eat and rest.

Over a frugal meal, Dacu outlined his intentions. ‘We’ve done well today, but from now on it’s strict routine all the way. We rise before dawn amp;mdash well before dawn amp;mdashand we travel as fast as is safe until the darkness stops us. There’s no chance of wearing the horses out over this kind of country.’ He looked significantly at Hawklan. ‘And if we meet any more strange happenings on the way, we note them and ride on.’ Hawklan inclined his head in agreement and Dacu continued. ‘This snow was too early and the sky to the north looks ominous to say the least. With hindsight, we may have dawdled too much, I don’t know. But we certainly daren’t risk any further delays. We’ll probably be up above the snowline tomorrow and heading towards the highest part of our journey. That’s going to be hard enough without having to deal with fresh snowfalls.’

He looked around at his weary listeners and invited alternatives to this strategy, but none were forthcoming.

‘Good,’ he said, dousing his torch, and lying down. ‘First awake, wakes the others.’

The next day, after a dark and cold awakening, the party set off in the greying dawn to the accompaniment of a blustery wind and intermittent blasts of cold, driving rain.

Dacu glanced at Tirke and noted that despite the uncomfortable conditions, the young man seemed to be riding more easily. ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked.

Tirke looked at him a little uncertainly. ‘Well, I’ll have to admit that this wouldn’t have been my choice of day for a canter,’ he said, pursing his lips. Then, acidly, ‘But if you old folks can manage it, I’ll do my best.’

Dacu laughed explosively, causing the others to turn to see what could cause him so much amusement in such circumstances.

‘Ah, you do speak a little of our language, Goraidin,’ said the Alphraan’s voice unexpectedly.

Still buoyed up by Tirke’s remark and the manner of its delivery, Dacu laughed again at this unexpected interruption. ‘Possibly, Alphraan,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll tell me what I said.’

For an instant the air around them was alive with a sound like shimmering silver bells, and each of the men seemed to feel the seeping coldness of the day retreat a little.

‘Perhaps we have more than patience in common,’ said the voice. There was humour in the voice, but also another note that caught Hawklan’s attention.

‘What’s the matter, Alphraan?’ he asked.

There was a pause, then, ‘You cannot help us, Hawk-lan. And we do not wish to burden you.’

‘Speak,’ said Hawklan abruptly, his voice an odd mixture of impatience and gentle encouragement. ‘Let us be the judge of what we can and cannot do.’

Briefly it seemed to the riders that the sound of the wind became a whispered and secret debate, until the voice formed itself again.

‘In the highest part of the mountains lies our own greatest trial, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Just as does yours. Already we are travelling along strange ways, where the song has not been heard for generations. Soon we will be at… ’ The speech faltered and sounds came that formed complex images of fear and destruction and bleakness interwoven with longing; longing for lost kin, longing for more hopeful times, for… the felci? And… the Song?

Gradually the sounds and the images faded, merging imperceptibly into the voice again.

‘We are sorry,’ it said. ‘We forget that you do not speak properly.’

Despite the pain in what he had just heard, Hawklan smiled to himself at this comment.

‘Our trial will be the weather and the mountains and the weakness of our spirits,’ he said. ‘Perhaps also ill-fortune, looking at the weather. Share your trial with us.’

There was a long silence. The four men moved steadily forward into the lee of a large outcrop and gained a little respite from the constant shaking of the wind.

The voice returned suddenly. ‘We are coming near to that which was the… Heartplace… of the southern Alphraan… where the ways ran wide and long, and all could sing to all… and the felci kept alive the lesser ways.’

The voice was faint and hesitant and many of the words were ringed about by elusive subtleties of meaning. There was also a sense of discomfort, distaste even. Isloman bent forward, listening intently, then he rode alongside Hawklan. ‘Help them if you can,’ he said anxiously. ‘They’re struggling to tell us something precious to them that only their language can do justice to. It’s distressing them. They’re trying to carve in sand.’

‘Thank you, carver,’ said the voice, before Hawklan could speak. ‘In this, quite definitely, you cannot help. But your awareness eases our telling.’

‘What has happened to your Heartplace that you’re so afraid?’ Hawklan asked.

The voice burst out. ‘His creatures, Hawklan, His creatures.’ Hawklan turned his face to one side as if to avoid the blast of the terrible bitterness and anger that filled the words.

The voice continued, quieter now, but still pained. ‘When we fulfilled our bargain and the last of the Mandrassni were slain, we were a destroyed people, scattered and maimed terribly. But Ethriss had not forgotten us, even though his every moment was given to fighting His dreadful power. He sent us the felci and they spread his blessing through the ways. And over many generations, scattered families slowly came together to start anew, building our second… nation.’

The voice faltered. ‘All through these mountains it was, Hawklan. Great and splendid. Halls and ways such as had never been known before, even in the old days. Such a song… ’ Again the voice faltered, and at the same time the riders found themselves moving from the lee of the rocks out once more into the full force of the wind.

When the voice spoke again, the bitter reverbera-tions in each word were almost palpable. ‘But in our folly we ignored the world and the wars of man, thinking amp;mdashknowing amp;mdashthat we had done all that could be asked of us to stem His corruption.’

Slowly and softly, as if to avoid disturbing this strange, disembodied telling, Dacu dismounted to begin leading his horse up a steep rocky slope. The others did the same.

‘And when He was defeated, and His Uhriel fell before the Guardians, the many creatures that He had made dread and powerful in His skills, fled into the depths of the mountains from where they had been taken.’ The voice was Gavor’s. All four of the men started in surprise.

‘Ah.’

A great sigh of gratitude surrounded them.

‘Thank you… ’ Sky prince? ‘… For all our skills, we had not the words for that. You have indeed studied the Great Gate.’