Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

He lowered his head for a moment and when he looked up, his face was oddly sombre. ‘This is a sad, unnecessary skirmish in a battle against a far greater enemy than these… neighbours of ours. We’ll settle for peace with them, but I’d prefer their friendship and help. Sooner or later they’ll have to stand by our side or His. There’ll be no other place for them. Let us show them the value of our friendship and our ways, before He shows them the power of His shackles.’

The following day, the Orthlundyn quietly buried their dead, and three days later, the first of the three forces left the central camp in a loose and casual formation, with Loman and Jenna at its head. A watery sun shone through high thin clouds, and the mountains stood sharp and clear in the cool, moist air. But in that same air, rising and falling menacingly, rang also a faint but definite warning note.

Hawklan stared along the tunnel that stretched ahead of him. It went far beyond the light of the torch he was carrying. The walls were dry and smooth, and the floor was covered with dust much like that in the cave in which they first encountered the Alphraan.

The guiding sound was clearer here though, with increasing frequency, it wavered as if its source were wearying. Its urgency was now clearly audible.

Gavor tapped him with his wooden leg. ‘Come on, dear boy,’ he said, his curiosity overcoming his reservations.

Hawklan, however, needed no encouragement. He strode forward a few paces and then almost immediately broke into a run, obliging Gavor to extend a wing from time to time to steady himself.

As he ran, Hawklan felt the strange sound almost pulling him forward, although it was growing increas-ingly weaker. The tunnel twisted and turned and he found himself passing by side tunnels and through elaborate junctions where groups of tunnels met. Although he did not slacken his pace, part of him, hard and calculating, took note of these, telling him that this headlong dash was unwise and that he may yet have to return this way in flight.

Then suddenly, as if in confirmation of this counsel, everything was gone. The sound stopped abruptly and the walls and roof of the tunnel disappeared. The impetus of his chase, however, took Hawklan some way into the silence before he skidded to a halt, startled and alarmed. Gavor tumbled off his shoulder with an oath but, with a great flapping, just managed to regain his equilibrium before striking the ground.

He landed, flustered and indignant, just outside the circle of light cast by Hawklan’s torch. ‘Really, dear boy,’ he muttered irritably, moving quickly back into the light.

But Hawklan was not listening; he was gazing round into the darkness. Wherever he was, the light of his torch seemed at first to be insufficient to illuminate more than the ground beneath his feet.

Gradually, however, he began to detect faint shad-ings in the blackness. To one side at least, there were shapes that might be part of a wall, while overhead he sensed rather than saw a vast echoing roof-space hidden in the gloom. Behind him, his footprints in the dust led towards a deeper darkness that was presumably the mouth of the tunnel he had just run along.

He had come into a large cavern. Or was it a great hall of some kind? The vague images told him nothing further.

He stood uncertainly for a moment, then asked, ‘Where are you?’

His voice echoed distantly and gave him an impres-sion of the immensity of his surroundings far more vividly than his eyes were doing. For an instant, he felt more exposed and vulnerable than if he had suddenly found himself on a mountain top.

Then he repeated his inquiry, more forcefully.

‘We are here, here, here… ’ said countless voices all around him, echoing about the unseen chamber.

The suddenness of the sound and its confusion made him start and he raised his sword into a defensive position.

‘Trap,’ he mouthed softly, unconsciously voicing Dacu’s words as they came to mind again, though he felt no real menace. Gavor flicked the sheaths off his spurs and, extending his wings, floated off into the darkness and began circling just outside the dome of light-formed by Hawklan’s torch. Hawklan too began to turn round slowly in anticipation of some attack.

But nothing came. Nor did the aura that shimmered around the still echoing voices indicate any threat. They spoke again. ‘We are here, here, here… Help us, Hawklan, help, help, help… ’

Hawklan lowered his sword. ‘You startled me,’ he said, as if his action might have caused some offence. ‘You must guide us. Your voices are everywhere. We don’t know which way to go. We’re lost.’

As the last words left his mouth the voices began to cry out in fear and despair. Hawklan gazed around, seeking some guidance, but nothing stirred in the darkness and his inability to focus clearly on anything began to disorient him.

‘Stop it,’ he roared, swinging his right arm in a wide arc, making the black sword hiss menacingly. The sound rose up, cutting through the swirling pandemonium as if it were as sharp as the edge of the sword itself.

‘I can’t help you if I can’t see you,’ he shouted. ‘I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s happened. You must speak to me properly.’

The noise fragmented briefly then came together as a single voice again, though it was strained and fearful.

Near complete panic, Hawklan sensed.

‘Can you hear us now, Hawklan?’ said the voice. ‘To speak thus is difficult when… has happened.’ Hawklan turned away from the noises of death and horror that filled the darkness.

‘Stop it,’ he shouted again, though this time angrily. His voice boomed and echoed, and the noises stopped abruptly. ‘Tell me what has happened,’ he repeated into the silence, his voice still angry. ‘And tell me so that I can understand. Is it easier for you to face this amp;mdashthing amp;mdashthat has happened to you on your own than it is to talk simply to a human being?’

There was a brief silence, then, ‘Follow, Hawklan. We forget the inadequacy of your language. Violence is not our way. It has… ’ The voice struggled. ‘It has… unsettled… us.’

Hawklan was mollified by the effort in the voice. He moved cautiously towards it, still feeling disoriented by the darkness. Gavor floated down to land silently on his shoulder.

‘What is this place?’ Gavor asked.

‘One of the… Halls of the Song,’ replied the voice. ‘One of the Halls of the Great Song.’

The fear was still in the voice, but it was submerged for the moment under layers of excitement amp;mdashof awe and wonder.

‘This is your Heartplace?’ Hawklan said, still moving towards the voice.

‘No,’ said the voice. ‘But the Heartplace is near.’ A note in the voice made Hawklan pause. Anger? Distaste? Not quite either. Resentment? That was it: resentment.

‘But you asked me here,’ he said defensively, though no words had reproached him.

Sounds of surprise and contrition surrounded him briefly. ‘You hear more than you know, Hawklan,’ said the voice, this time very close. ‘We are sorry for what you heard.’

Hawklan peered in the direction of the voice but still he could see nothing. ‘It pains you that a human should come near your Heartplace?’ he said. ‘Even to help you?’

‘Yes,’ the voice replied simply. ‘We are sorry,’ it said again. ‘But you give us hope too. We have many things to learn. Help us, please.’

The voice moved on, and Hawklan followed it quickly, until he found himself at the foot of a broad flight of steps. They were small, as though they had been built for children, and, like the floor he was standing on, they were covered in dust.

‘Up,’ said the voice ahead of him. Hawklan hesitated and frowned slightly. There were no tiny footprints in the dust to indicate the previous passing of his guide.