Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘I keep expecting them to interrupt at any minute,’ Tirke said, breaking a brief silence in the conversation.

Hawklan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s very strange. An entire people living as our neighbours for so long, and no one knowing anything about them.’

Gavor coughed.

‘Except the "Sky Prince" here, of course,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Or whatever it is they call you.’

Gavor was haughty. ‘I can quite see why they kept themselves to themselves, dear boy,’ he said. ‘They’re obviously people of considerable refinement and good taste. Unlike certain parties around here.’

‘Of course, your highness,’ Tirke said, fluttering his elbows and bowing.

Gavor looked at him balefully. ‘Would you like some more help with your journal, dear boy,’ he said loudly. ‘You seem to have forgotten it tonight.’ Dacu raised his eyebrows and Tirke glowered at his betrayer. ‘Oh, and don’t forget, there are two Ls in valley,’ Gavor added.

Hawklan called a truce, and a companionable si-lence descended on the group as Tirke dutifully worked on his journal.

After a while Hawklan yawned and lay down to stare contentedly at the roof of the shelter as it moved gently to and fro in the still boisterous wind. Occasional flurries of rain rattled against it, and each time Dacu inclined his head slightly, unconsciously listening for the change in tone that would indicate a change from rain to snow.

Catching himself at it, he smiled and shook his head. Then he pulled out the map and began studying it pensively. Isloman leaned across and peered over his shoulder. Dacu eyed him uncertainly, like a school-teacher expecting an impertinent question.

‘We’re about here, I presume,’ Isloman said, after a moment’s consideration. His large finger tapped the map gently.

‘Yes,’ Dacu replied. He made a small cross where Isloman had indicated, and wrote a number by it. Then, with a slow steady stroke of his pen, he joined the cross to another at the end of a line which wound down through the mountains from Fyorlund. It was a small, complete, and relaxed gesture that, to an eye like Isloman’s, told of years of discipline and practice.

Isloman smiled. ‘I’d forgotten how precise you all were,’ he said reflectively. ‘Except when it got really… grim… Commander Dirfrin kept his journal meticu-lously, just like you do. And he made the others keep theirs. They were works of art. I even used some of your drawing techniques in my carving plans.’

Dacu glanced at him without lifting his head. ‘Really?’ he said in soft and genuine surprise. ‘You surprise me.’ He waved a hand over the map. ‘This is just routine information recording.’

‘You misjudge yourself, Goraidin,’ Isloman said, leaning back. ‘It’s far more than that. It’s artistry amp;mdasha kind of perfection.’

Dacu looked at his handiwork and then at Isloman to see if the carver was teasing him. But Isloman was quite serious.

‘Others depend on our precision,’ Dacu said, slightly embarrassed. ‘We can always yarn to each other about our exploits and our terrible sufferings.’ He laid his hand on his chest in self-mockery. ‘But these’ amp;mdashhe tapped the map and the journal amp;mdash‘must show only what is relevant to the needs of other people in other times.’ He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is like your carving. When it’s done well it shows none of the pain of its making.’

Isloman nodded appreciatively and looked again at the map.

‘Where’s this route around the mountain?’ he asked.

Dacu indicated a short broken line on the map. ‘It’s a narrow gully, apparently.’

‘Not far,’ Isloman said.

Dacu raised his eyebrows. ‘Not on the map,’ he said, reaching up to increase the brightness of his torch. Immediately, under the touch of the torchlight, the subtle colouring and shading of the map gave a look of solidity and depth to the mountains. The spur could be seen rising up steadily out of the green of the valley, tapering gradually into a narrow ridge that buttressed the peak. Other ridges and peaks in the vicinity also seemed to stand sharply out of the map.

Isloman was admiring. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘That’s very good. Whoever drew that knew his shadow lore. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t studied in Orthlund. The depth expression is remarkable.’

Dacu nodded. ‘It’s an old map,’ he said with a touch of sadness. ‘I doubt anyone knows how to draw them like this these days.’

The image of Dan-Tor, slowly, methodically, de-stroying the old ways of the Fyordyn, came to Isloman. ‘They will again,’ he said. ‘Your map shows the way back to those times just as it shows a way through the mountains.’ He smiled. ‘Providing we use our wits,’ he added, mimicking Dacu’s earlier reproach.

A gust of wind shook the shelter and, with a yawn-stifled, ‘Good-night,’ Tirke doused his torch and lay down. Isloman looked again at the map. The difference in heights between Dacu’s latest cross and the broken line was now clearly visible.

‘It’s a lot higher up, isn’t it?’ he said.

Dacu nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Almost as high again as we’ve travelled today. Well into the snow, and probably the mist.’ He looked at Isloman. ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

‘I’ll manage,’ Isloman replied. ‘It was just a shock coming on it so suddenly. It just… ’ His voice tailed off.

‘We’ve all got old wounds, Isloman,’ Dacu said qui-etly. ‘We know Dirfrin’s group had a bad time that winter. But better to admit the fear than let it fester.’

‘I know. But it’s never easy, is it?’ Isloman doused his own torch and lay down. ‘I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’

Dacu opened his journal and, dimming his torch a little, began writing.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t think this gully’s going to be easy to find. Unless visibility’s good I think we’re going to need your eyes.’

Visibility the next day, however, was not good. During the night the wind dropped, and when they woke it was to a motionless mist, tinted grey by the pending dawn. It had a characteristic chill.

Dacu allowed no time for conjecture. Rapidly he stripped the shelter to galvanize his charges, then issued a swift series of orders for the harnessing and loading of the horses.

‘What about something to eat?’ Tirke pleaded, struggling with his pack. Gavor anxiously added his own concern to the request.

‘You can eat as you ride,’ Dacu said, his breath steaming. ‘It’s going to snow today, beyond a doubt, and I’ll be surprised if this mist lifts much. We must move while we can.’

‘Which way?’ Hawklan said, when they were all mounted.

Dacu pointed a finger upwards. ‘For at least four or five hours, I should say, then we’ll have to move more carefully. We could have problems if we wander past the gully.’

They were able to ride for quite some distance and gradually the mist brightened and thinned as the unseen sun rose and reached out with its warming touch. The group’s unease lightened with it, but the chill remained.

Perched on Hawklan’s shoulder, Gavor looked at the silver droplets decorating his iridescent feathers. He shook himself, wreathing Hawklan’s head in fine spray.

‘Thank you, Gavor,’ Hawklan said with heavy irony, hunting for a kerchief.

‘It’ll freshen you up, dear boy,’ the raven replied, only mildly repentant.

‘Go and see what the weather’s doing,’ Hawklan said, casting a glance upwards. ‘See if you can get over this mist.’

‘Dear boy, I might get lost,’ Gavor protested.

‘Not while we’re carrying food, you won’t,’ Hawklan said unsympathetically. ‘Go on.’