Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Without speaking, Loman walked off the road and across a small area of short springy turf sprinkled with bright flowers, to a jagged rocky outcrop. Standing on it, he could see the stream that bubbled out of Anderras Darion, cascading white and silver towards the river below. Beyond lay the village and the familiar country-side, small patches now scarred brown where fallow areas had been used for cavalry and infantry training.

Gulda had told him nothing he did not already know, but the speaking of it had changed it in some subtle way. He was at once profoundly free and profoundly pinioned.

He looked to the north and the habitual thought came amp;mdashwhere are you, Hawklan? Isloman? What are you doing? When are you coming back? But even as the thought occurred he knew that their return would make no difference to his burden. Indeed it might well presage events that could make that burden worse. No, his greatest solace would lie in Gulda’s last statement. ‘Our task is to make that few as small as possible.’ As small as possible! That was a practical problem and would have practical solutions. That, he could apply his every resource to willingly.

He turned away from the scene and returned to the road. Gulda had gone on ahead, leaving him to his reverie, and she was now a tiny black insignificance moving along at the foot of the towering splendour of Anderras Darion.

For several days, nothing untoward was reported from the mountains. The various camps were established without any serious difficulties, and training began almost immediately.

Visiting the central camp, Loman found Athyr well pleased. It seemed that an atmosphere almost of Festival had sprung up in the more spartan conditions of the camps, and training was being pursued more energeti-cally than ever. The Orthlundyn were tackling with some relish the problems of using infantry phalanxes and cavalry in the difficult terrain, and were proving inventive in the development of techniques for ambush and unarmed fighting skills.

Loman recalled Gulda’s comment that they might indeed be grateful to the Alphraan in the end. However, he detected a small note of reserve in Athyr’s report. ‘That’s far better than we could have hoped for,’ he said, when Athyr had finished talking. ‘But what’s bothering you? Injuries?’

Athyr shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Only a few cuts and bruises among the more boisterous. Nothing that needs any special attention.’

‘What then?’ Loman asked.

Athyr bent down and picked up a small rounded stone. ‘We made sure that no weapons were brought up here,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But… everyone’s suddenly practicing stone throwing and slinging.’ He raised his hands in premature denial. ‘Not my idea,’ he said, shaking his head.

Loman rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then the new spirit pervading the camp swept over him. ‘Good,’ he said, laughing. ‘Encourage it. It’s as effective as bowmanship in its place, and, round here at least, you’re not going to run out of ammunition.’

Athyr looked heartened by this response, but cast his eyes around the surrounding peaks significantly.

‘We told them we’d bring no weapons,’ he said.

‘We haven’t,’ Loman said. ‘Nor will we. We told them we were coming here to continue learning the skills we need.’ He waved his hand around the busy camp. ‘These people made this decision for themselves. Let the Alphraan see where these skills derive from amp;mdashfrom the hearts of ordinary people prepared to defend what they value. And let them realize truly what a weapon really is.’ Then he laughed again. ‘And you’d better start practicing yourself. As I remember, slinging’s not exactly your strong point.’

Loman was still in high spirits as he prepared to leave the camp, but he had only just mounted his horse when a distant but powerful whistle made him look up. It was followed immediately by a cry from someone in the camp.

‘Message.’

Athyr cast about for a moment and then directed Loman’s gaze to a crag high above them. There a figure was waving two signal flags frantically.

Loman narrowed his eyes in concentration as he read the signal. It was brief and to the point. ‘Fighting. Camp three,’ it said. Then, ‘Serious.’ The routine noise and clatter of the camp had stopped at the first cry. Now it was replaced by a buzz of concern.

Athyr ran towards a small platform that had been built at the centre of the camp. Loman swung down from his horse and handing it to a young woman nearby, ran after him.

Before he reached him however, Athyr was already on the platform and banging an alarm bell. Loman suddenly found himself part of a general convergence on the platform, and when he reached it he had to push his way through a growing crowd before he could clamber up to join Athyr.

Athyr was looking up at the signaller again, but the man was peering intently through his seeing stone.

‘The message is confirmed,’ said a young man, who was already on the platform. He was pointing towards a second signaller on a more distant hill. Athyr nodded. ‘Keep watching,’ he said. ‘Interrupt me if you see anything else.’

Then he spoke to the crowd. His voice was stilted because he duplicated his words in a version of the High Guards’ hand language. He was not proficient in it, nor were his audience, but it was adequate. Loman had ensured that the hand language was taught to everyone as part of their routine training, though it had never been popular. Now, however, in the mountains, with the risk that sounds could be used to mislead and deceive, he had insisted that it be used as much as possible, particularly for urgent orders.

Gulda had made a similar contribution by unearth-ing the flag language for signalling. Initially, for some reason, it had caused intense amusement among the Orthlundyn, and Loman took some delight in remarking that it was the first time he had ever seen Gulda looking bewildered. However, it had been learnt diligently enough and like the hand language its value was abundantly clear now.

‘Be alert, all of you,’ Athyr said. ‘Reinforcements for the signallers, up there straight away. Duty patrol, mount up, Loman and I will ride with you to camp three.’ He turned to the young man, ‘Send a signal to all camps. Tell them what we’re doing. They’re to reinforce their signallers and they’re to wait until they hear from us. No one,’ he emphasized, ‘ No one , is to leave any of the camps until we find out what’s happening.’

The young man picked up a pair of signalling flags but before he could begin his message, another whistle was heard. He looked up. ‘Fighting at camp six, also,’ he repeated slowly after a brief pause.

Athyr looked at Loman and then turned back to the now tense crowd. ‘First reserve patrol, mount up. I’ll come with you to camp six, Loman will go to camp three. Signaller, you send that as before. The rest of you amp;mdashbe alert,’ he repeated. He slapped his hands signifi-cantly. ‘And hand language ,’ he gestured.

Loman looked at the uncertain and concerned faces surrounding the platform, and felt very cold. We must keep the few as small as possible, he thought. Their needs come before mine.

Within minutes of Athyr ordering out the two patrols, the interlinked system of flag messengers that had been arranged because of the risk to oral signals presented by the Alphraan had brought in further confirmation of fighting at camps three and six.

Thus instead of wending a leisurely way back to Anderras Darion, Loman found himself trotting at the head of the duty patrol. Alongside him was Jenna, one of the members of the elite corps who had been dispersed through the camps as observers.