Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘We will guide you at least to there,’ said the voice, friendly, but brooking no debate. ‘We have found a swifter way to the gate through which you entered.’

Hawklan looked at Dacu. The Goraidin nodded, and between thumb and forefinger delicately held up the small spike he had used to mark the rock on their journey through the tunnels.

‘We should prefer you to continue to make your marks in the dust, Goraidin,’ said the voice, mildly reproachful. Dacu raised his hands in acknowledgement and the voice dwindled again into a single guiding tone.

As they followed it along another wide tunnel, Hawklan noted that all around them gentle sounds were growing. Shifting and changing, they built and inter-mingled until they were like a warm and welcome summer breeze enveloping the four men.

‘They’re coming from some of these,’ Tirke said, running a finger around the edge of one of the circular openings that decorated the walls.

‘A small gift to thank you,’ said the voice, riding on the breeze. ‘And perhaps to sustain you until we speak again.’ Strange sounds permeated the voice. It was struggling with its true language. ‘But we shall be ever in your debt, for what you have returned to us,’ it managed eventually.

None of the men spoke, each sensing that their speech would jar and rend the calm that was pervading them.

A tiny worm of doubt wriggled inside Hawklan, however. Something about the ancient bones they had found amp;mdashand the remains of the old nest.

He frowned. There were many mysteries about this place and its history. For the time being he should act as Dacu would and confine himself to what was immedi-ately relevant; to what would bring them to Anderras Darion safely and open up a route from Orthlund direct into Darek’s estate and thence to the other eastern Lords.

‘What’s the matter, dear boy?’ Gavor said softly.

Hawklan shook his head. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

‘Let it go then,’ Gavor said bluntly. ‘It’ll come when it’s ready.’

Hawklan nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

The tunnel eventually opened into a wide stepped balcony that took them downwards and wound round almost a full circle until it became another arched bridge to carry the four over some unknown depth.

Tirke looked tentatively over the low balustrade into the darkness below.

‘Ancient rocks down there,’ Isloman said casually, following Tirke’s gaze.

Ancient! The word acted like a focus and Hawklan found himself looking again at the bones of Sumeral’s long-dead creation lying amidst the wreckage of its nest. He stopped.

‘They weren’t that old,’ he said out loud, making the others start. They looked at him, puzzled. ‘The bones,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘They were very old. But not ancient. Not going back millennia, to whenever… ’

Abruptly the silver tone that had guided them stopped, leaving a strange gap in the still-flowing stream of sound that pervaded them.

A pulse replaced it; an ominous pulse. Hawklan strained forward. It was the sound of heavy running feet.

Suddenly a wave of horror washed over him and he felt his flesh crawl as every hair on his body stood erect. Both his eyes and his mouth opened wide. One to peer deeper into the darkness beyond the torchlight, the other to shout a warning. But the warning never formed. Before it could, a stooping figure surged into the light. Powerful legs drove it forward, straight towards the motionless men, large taloned hands reached out to grip and tear, and glittering teeth framed a red maw from which an appalling scream began to sound.

Hawklan watched in horror as the creature came straight and purposefully towards him.

In an instant he saw that it was thin and weak and old, but he saw also that under its long fur rippled muscles and sinews more than powerful enough to dispatch him and the others with little or no effort. And its age too seemed only to have heightened the malevo-lence that shone red and bloody in its eyes.

In the same instant he saw also that the bridge was too narrow and crowded for him to side-step and that in any event it was too late amp;mdashthe creature was too near and moving too fast.

Suddenly, without breaking its headlong charge, the creature stood up fully on its hind legs and raised a terrible clawed hand. It was a head taller than Hawklan.

Gavor leapt off Hawklan’s shoulder powerfully. Not in fear, but to leave his friend free to move. Catching the driving impetus of this movement, Hawklan stepped back and, turning, drew his sword. It swung up in a glittering black arc as he took another step, then down and up again as he turned to face the creature. The upward stroke cut a great diagonal gash across its torso.

Without pause, Hawklan stepped back again and, spinning round, brought the sword down to cut a second gash across the first one.

Despite these two desperate wounds however, the creature came relentlessly forward, carried by its own momentum and intent, but, clear now of his friends, Hawklan suddenly stepped sideways and drove the sword into the creature’s flank as it passed by him.

The impact of the blow sent the creature staggering over the low balustrade. Still screaming in rage, it twisted as it fell and the clawed hands lunged out to seize the coping of the balustrade.

So fast had Hawklan’s three blows been, that even Dacu had scarcely been able to draw his own sword before the battle was finished. He came to Hawklan’s side as the healer stepped forward, raising the black sword to deliver a final blow that would send this abomination into whatever depths lay below.

The creature’s scream had become a strange whim-per and its claws were scraping desperately across the stone coping as it struggled to save itself.

‘Kill it, man,’ Dacu said desperately, his eyes wide with horror as he looked in disbelief from the creature to Hawklan.

Then Isloman and Tirke were there, white-faced and stunned.

Hawklan looked down at the creature. He could see the two terrible wounds he had cut beginning to open and disgorge the creature’s entrails. The creature looked at him, then, releasing the coping with one hand, held it out to him, its eyes full of fear.

Hawklan watched, unable to move, as the other hand screeched across the coping and, with a brief choking mewl, the creature disappeared into the darkness without a sound.

Slowly he lowered the sword and then slithered to the floor. He was trembling. His hand involuntarily began to nurse his damaged arm again.

The balmy sounds that had been bathing them since they left the Alphraan’s Heartplace were silent, and all that could be heard was the hoarse breathing of the four men. Gavor dropped silently on to Hawklan’s shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ Hawklan said, softly, reaching up and touching his friend’s beak. Gavor did not reply.

‘What was it?’ Tirke asked shakily after a long, un-steady silence.

Hawklan lowered his head. ‘The last of its breed,’ he said quietly.

He looked at his sword, gored and steaming from his last dreadful thrust. He turned away as the smell wafted in his face.

‘Clean it in the snow,’ Dacu said, looking at the sword then at an inadequate kerchief he had pulled from his pocket.

Hawklan nodded. ‘I wonder how many other rem-nants of the First Coming are still with us?’

No one spoke.

‘The last of its breed?’ The Alphraan’s voice was soft and hesitant.

Hawklan nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said sadly. ‘With-out doubt. No great victory there, just a pathetic end to a grim song, as you might say.’ He looked up. ‘You’ve lost another, have you?’ he asked.

‘Your guide,’ the voice replied.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hawklan said.