Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘It was not your fault,’ the voice said. ‘But we will lose no more.’ There was a new note in the reply; one of determination. It continued. ‘We sink ever deeper into your debt, Hawklan. It is not possible for us to repay you in like manner, but we are with you now, utterly… ’ The voice slipped into its own language and the four men were surrounded by sounds which told them of past doubts set aside and the pledged and immutable allegiance of an entire race.

Hawklan stood up amp;mdashhe was still shaking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, simply. ‘But there is no debt, just a common need. Pledge yourself to facing that by our side.’

The guiding sound returned, its note now ringing and purposeful.

Once or twice as they followed it, Isloman thought he glimpsed a tiny figure in the distance, but none of the others saw it, and even his shadow vision did not enable him to see any detail.

Then they were at the mouth of the tunnel that had first led them into the mountain.

‘We will be with you,’ said the voice. The guiding note faded until it became the low moaning of the wind in the narrow cleft.

‘Storm’s getting worse,’ Dacu said briskly, anxious to get back to some semblance of normality and watching the light flurries of blown snow floating past them. The four men paused briefly to fasten their cloaks before stepping out of the tunnel and heading back towards their camp.

As they moved along the narrow cleft, the wind strengthened and its low moaning changed gradually into a buffeting, echoing reflection of the storm raging outside.

Eventually they found themselves walking through drifting snow and then at the foot of the rocks that had sealed the cleft. Hawklan bent down and cleaned the blade of the black sword with handfuls of snow. It gleamed in the torchlight, but Hawklan looked in distaste at the despoiled snow lying at his feet.

Dacu pulled them all together.

‘Turn your torches up and hold on to one another tightly,’ he shouted, struggling to make himself heard above the noise. ‘It’s not far to the shelter and its beacon’s lit, but we can still miss it in this weather. I don’t particularly want to spend the rest of the night huddled behind a rock in a snow shelter. And be careful where you tread,’ he emphasized. ‘The rocks on the far side will be well covered by now.’

His comment proved timely as they rose up over the top of the rocks; hooded figures, eerie in the flowing torchlight, stumbling awkwardly through the screaming wind, and whitening rapidly in the driving snow.

Gavor thrust his head out from Hawklan’s cloak, muttered, ‘Good grief!’ and withdrew quickly.

Feeling cautiously for each foothold, the group slowly struggled down the slope.

When they were all safely down, Dacu peered into the snow-streaked gloom beyond the torchlight.

‘Douse your torches,’ he said after a moment. ‘And don’t move, whatever you do.’

The blackness closed around them, leaving each alone and isolated in the screaming wind, clinging to Dacu’s last command and trying to set aside the memory of the creature that had surged out of the darkness to be slain by Hawklan scarcely an hour past.

Gradually a faint unfocussed glow began to form, at some indeterminate, swirling distance. It was the beacon torch on their shelter.

As soon as they were back inside, Isloman struck the radiant stones and the four men sat in a strange unreal silence until the warmth and the familiarity of their surroundings seeped into their unease.

‘There’s precious little left of the night,’ Dacu said eventually. ‘But I suggest we get what sleep we can. We’ve still got to get over this mountain.’

Tirke pulled a sour face. ‘Why can’t we go through the tunnels like the Alphraan suggested?’ he asked.

Dacu was conspicuously patient with him. ‘You heard, Tirke,’ he said. ‘We need a surface route that anyone can travel. Not one that needs others to guide them through underground chambers and passage-ways.’

Tirke looked unconvinced.

‘We may have to bring an army into Fyorlund this way,’ Dacu went on, irritated slightly. ‘Can you see thousands of men, women, horses, tramping along those tunnels? Over those bridges, walkways… whatever they were? Not to mention pack animals, supply wagons, all the equipment that’s needed. I doubt the Alphraan would be our friends for long then.’

Tirke ran his hand down his face wearily and lay down. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’

‘Go to sleep,’ Dacu said, repenting his hasty tone. ‘You’re entitled not to think after a night like tonight.’

Tirke stared up at the roof of the shelter, moving as the wind shook it.

‘I don’t think I can go to sleep,’ he said. ‘And to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.’

Hawklan looked at him. ‘Talk about it, then,’ he said encouragingly.

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Tirke said. ‘Every time I shut my eyes, I see that amp;mdashthing amp;mdashroaring and screaming out of the blackness. I see myself paralysed amp;mdashwith surprise as much as fear. And you amp;mdashtwisting, turning amp;mdashno effort, no hesitation, as if it were all just part of… of… a Festival dance… ’

He lifted himself up and rested on one elbow. His eyes opened wide, surprised, and his words seemed to force themselves out as if against his will. ‘I don’t know which was the most frightening. It, or you,’ he said.

Dacu and Isloman turned abruptly to look at the young man and then at Hawklan. Dacu caught Hawk-lan’s eye and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. Hawklan nodded.

Tirke suddenly looked stricken, realizing what he had said. He began to stammer out an apology. Hawklan raised his hand to stop him. ‘No, Tirke,’ he said. ‘I understand. It was a perceptive remark. Trust me, you’ve no need to fear your dreams while you see that clearly.’

He lay back, nursing his still painful arm, and Gavor took up sentry duty by his head. ‘I did what I did because I’d no alternative,’ Hawklan said. ‘And I did what I did in great terror, but nevertheless wilfully and thoughtfully, to halt its attack as quickly as possible. It was old and demented, but even a passing blow from one of those hands would have killed. I had no alterna-tive,’ he repeated. ‘However, for what it’s worth, Tirke, it was no effortless ballet.’ He sat up slowly. ‘I remember years and years of relentless training to attain the understanding that would enable me amp;mdashmy body amp;mdashto face such a foe and to move thus.’

Isloman looked at Hawklan intently, and Gavor inclined his head.

‘You remember?’ Isloman said softly, his voice al-most awed.

Hawklan turned to him. ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, with a slight shrug, ‘No faces, names, places amp;mdashbut the toil? Yes, I remember that.’

Isloman was tempted to press the matter, but real-ized it would avail him nothing. Hawklan had told him all he could.

Dacu, on the other hand, seemed relieved that such a skill could be acquired by effort rather than the mysterious intervention of some ancient force. ‘I was going to ask you where you learned to use a sword like that,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen some fine swordsmanship but never the like of that. Perhaps when we reach Anderras Darion you’ll instruct me?’

Hawklan laughed a little at Dacu’s straightforward bluntness then bowed an acknowledgement. ‘I’d be honoured, Goraidin.’ He turned back to Tirke and said, ‘I’ll instruct you, too.’

Gavor chuckled ominously.

The following day Dacu, as usual, awoke first. There was an odd quality about the light, and the shelter was very warm even though Isloman had extinguished the radiant stones before they had all finally retired.