Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

Heaving himself up out of his chair he walked, a little shakily, across to the shrine. Then crouching down as he used to, he brought his face close to it and peered in at the scene. Apart from the warmth of the nearby candles on his cheek nothing from the outside world impinged on his senses.

As was traditional, three of the Guardians, Sphaeera, Enartion and Theowart had their backs to the watcher, and were gazing out across the black waters of Lake Kedrieth, where Sumeral, the Enemy of Life, had sunk from this world of men after a terrible battle with the Kings and Peoples of the Great Alliance. Somewhere hidden in the shrine, Eldric knew, would be a figure representing the fourth Guardian, Ethriss, the Guardian of Life who vanished from the field at the very moment of victory. It would be well hidden by the makers of the shrine because to find it would be a bad omen, a sign of the Second Coming of Sumeral.

The saga of the defeat of Sumeral was a stirring allegory of the conflict between evil and good that must be fought continually in all men. No one knew the real, time-shrouded, origins of this myth, or why it should hold such strong sway in the minds of the Fyordyn. Nor why it should be celebrated with yearly revels leading up to the Grand Festival every sixth year, with its intangible but powerful sense of reaffirmation. That it was the relic of ancient celebrations of thanksgiving for the passing of winter seemed to Eldric to be a peculiarly vapid explanation.

Eldric looked past the Guardians into the inky depths of Lake Kedrieth, and felt again his childhood wonder at the skill of the artist in the sinister quality imbued in its dark, glistening surface.

He smiled, a little ruefully. That had been a long time ago. Times were simpler then. Now, Fyorlund’s King was weak and ailing. There was no heir from his lovely queen to continue the royal line that had been unbroken for centuries. Lords on the northern borders had been declared rebels simply for opposing his will in the matter of quite reasonably extending their High Guards. And now this-the suspension of the Geadrol-an almost unbelievable act. And over all stretched the gaunt, enigmatic figure of the King’s personal adviser and physician, Dan-Tor.

Eldric looked deep into the little model of Lake Kedrieth. Its lifeless surface seemed to ripple slowly and ominously, as if something far below it were stirring. He shuddered and stood up, resting his weight on his cracking knees. He grunted at the sound. He did not like becoming old. Its sole consolation was that it had given him the experience to better use the wits it had left him. And he would need them. People would be looking to him for some response to Rgoric’s action.

He turned and beckoned Varak, the Commander of his High Guard.

Hawklan was distressed when he heard Gavor’s tale of the happenings at the village since his departure-Isloman damaging his hand, the tinker’s wares being cast out of the village. Strange and worrying events. He nodded his satisfaction at Gavor’s account of the villagers’ actions and of Tirilen’s treatment of Isloman’s injury and her laying words over the abandoned wares, but the healer in him was not moved to return. Still he felt himself impelled away from Anderras Darion, or rather, drawn by some force towards the Gretmearc; a force that became stronger as he moved further from the village.

He was quite proud of the progress he was making. This was due in part to the good weather, but also to the fact that he knew where he was going. Not once did he need to consult the elaborate instructions that Isloman had painstakingly written for him in the florid script and formal grammar of the Carver’s writing.

This knowledge was a phenomenon with which he had been familiar ever since he had walked out of the snow-blocked mountains to open the Great Gate of Anderras Darion. He had recognized each thing as he came to it, but it was a recognition without memory. None of the castle’s countless rooms were strange to him, nor any of the miles of corridors. Even the mysteries of the terrifying labyrinth that guarded the Armoury became familiar as he moved into it. But nothing carried so much as a wisp of the past in its wake.

So it was now in the mountains. He knew the route as he took it. He knew mountain lore when he needed it-more even than Isloman had told him-how to read the weather signs, how to pace his walking, how to travel on the treacherous snow he might reach at the height of his journey, where and how to shelter-all were familiar.

And yet, he was not curious except insofar as he was intrigued by his own lack of curiosity. He had treated people who had lost their memories and he knew he exhibited none of their symptoms; no shapeless distress, no fretful questioning, no haunting elusive familiarity in the things around him, no sudden flashes of recollection that gradually became longer and longer. It was like nothing he had ever seen in anyone else. The knowledge was there. It always had been. But it did not announce its coming or its arrival in any way. He felt no more reaction to the unending revelations than he would if he looked at a chair and knew it for a chair. It puzzled him a little-but only a little. Something in his makeup was above such concerns.

On the fifth day out from the village, Hawklan woke and crawled out of his small shelter into a cold mist that obliterated the view in every direction, reducing visibility to a small circle of snow-covered earth of which he was the centre. He stretched and took a deep cold breath then wrapped his cloak tight around himself and drew its hood over his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw glistening pearls of moisture forming on the edges of the fabric.

He ate a little food and dismantled and packed his shelter, the snow crunching under his feet as he moved around. The sound made him pause. The mountains were normally quiet, but there was always a background murmur echoing around the valleys: a mixture of wind on the rocks and in the sparse vegetation, distant streams starting their busy journeys to the sea, count-less tiny birds, insects and other creatures pursuing their daily rounds. Now, in the mist, however, there was a different silence. Standing very still as he gazed into the greyness and watched his cloudy breath, the only thing that Hawklan could hear was the sound of his own pulse gently throbbing in his head. He found it pecu-liarly restful, and stood for quite a time before breaking the self-induced spell.

He looked round for Gavor. There in the snow were his characteristic footprints-one claw mark and one small hole. He was about to call out when a sudden cry startled him. It came from the direction in which Gavor had gone. Hawklan called out his friend’s name, but his voice fell dead in the damp mist, and seemed hardly to leave his mouth. An equally muffled reply returned to him.

‘Here, dear boy.’

Hawklan walked along the trail of tiny prints to-wards the voice and soon reached Gavor, looking a little the worse for wear and walking unsteadily round the motionless body of a small dead bird.

‘Gavor,’ he said in some annoyance, ‘I wish you wouldn’t kill things when I’ve food enough for both of us.’

‘Dear boy,’ said Gavor, ‘I’m well aware of your die-tary eccentricities. You know I wouldn’t dream of offending your delicate sensibilities. This one wasn’t on my breakfast menu I can assure you.’

Hawklan looked at him suspiciously. ‘What was that noise then?’ he asked.

Gavor cleared his throat.

‘Me, dear boy, I must confess. Me. Crying out in some considerable alarm.’

Hawklan waited, expecting some elaborate rigma-role to excuse this gratuitous killing, but Gavor offered none.

‘I was pottering around, looking for some tasty… er… leaf, to start the day, when this thing fell out of the sky.’