Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

He had set off from Pedhavin apparently on a whim. Not exactly a light-hearted one, but equally, not a doom-laden compulsion. Now, as he and Gavor paced out the long lonely miles through the mountains, he realized that what was moving him forward was not an idle whim, but a stern resolve.

He was surprised to encounter within himself both steel and flint and their sparks drove him on, though why he should be so driven he could not have said. He knew only that he must find the source of that appalling doll and perhaps now, since Gavor’s news, he must find also the source of all the tinker’s wares. It was his hope that in finding these, all questions would be answered.

Just as he had once awoken to find himself wander-ing in the mountains, unaware of who he was or how he came to be there, so he began to realize that he must be awakening again. But with this realization came the feeling that the past twenty years would prove to be but a short episode in his life-a brief respite. Twenty years in the Great Harmony of Orthlund and in the sanctuary of Anderras Darion. Twenty years of lightness of touch, of healing and bringing contentment to people. Twenty years-resting?-waiting?-preparing?

‘You’re looking very pensive, dear boy.’ Gavor inter-rupted his thoughts.

‘That will be because I’m thinking, Gavor,’ Hawklan replied, a little more tartly than he had intended.

Gavor drew in a long hissing breath and then clicked his black tongue reproachfully.

‘Not a good idea, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Humans don’t really have the brain for it. It’s a well-known fact. Wears it out, you know.’

He hopped onto Hawklan’s head and tapped the top of it lightly with his beak.

‘What are you doing?’ said Hawklan, waving his hand vaguely over his head to dislodge the bird.

‘Just checking, dear boy,’ replied Gavor, nimbly jumping up and down to avoid the flailing hand, and keeping his balance by spreading his wings a little, pinions gently flicking the air.

‘Yes, thought so,’ he said. ‘Distinctly hollow sound developing. And our normal placidity and equanimity aren’t what they could be, are they?’

‘Of course not,’ said Hawklan. ‘Nor would yours be if you’d some demented bird trying to peck its way into your skull.’

Gavor swooped off Hawklan’s head and then soared up into the air with a laugh. Hawklan ran his hands through his dishevelled hair.

‘I can live with most of your bird impressions, Gavor-just. But I’m not too keen on your woodpecker.’

Gavor turned over and over in a warm updraught. The joy of it made him laugh out loud in sheer delight.

‘A true artist must live his part you know, dear boy. It’s an endless struggle for perfection,’ he shouted. Then he performed his inadequate nightingale briefly, and cried, ‘Come on up. The air’s splendid.’

Hawklan shook his head and smiled broadly, his green eyes bright. There were times when Gavor seemed to have a boundless capacity for glee. Watching the black shape twisting and turning high above him in the blue sky, Hawklan admitted to himself a small twinge of envy. The slight taint of this emotion did not however, mar the enjoyment he felt in watching his friend’s happiness, but it brought to his mind the incident in the mist.

The inert body of the brown bird felt heavy and anxious in his pocket. ‘Don’t know how those wings could carry it,’ Gavor had said. And then the strange figures. He was as sure as Gavor that he had seen something, someone, two tiny figures. But he had not wanted to pursue them for some reason. His mind had seemed to be full of sounds urging him away from the mist and the high ground.

He was about to shout up to Gavor and ask him more about the Alphraan, when Gavor called out, ‘Visitors coming, Hawklan,’ and dropped down to perch on a nearby rock.

The ‘visitors’ proved to be villagers from Pedhavin returning from the Gretmearc: Jareg with his wife and children. Most of the Orthlundyn threatened to visit the Gretmearc at least once in their lifetime, but few actually got round to it; there was always some more pressing matter at home. Jareg however, was an exception. He was always thought of as being rather restless by his neighbours. ‘It shows in his work,’ they would say. ‘His father was the same. Hasty. Touch of Riddin blood in the whole family, if you ask me.’ And as if in confirma-tion, he had actually packed his bags and taken his family on this great adventure.

They all greeted Hawklan warmly as they came to-gether on the narrow path, the children embracing him, and the wife staring at him with open, laughing admiration.

‘Didn’t recognize you, Hawklan, dressed like that. Sword and all,’ she said with teasing irony. ‘You look like a great warrior, not our healer. What are you doing here?’ Hawklan kissed her on the forehead and, acknowledging her comment with an embarrassed smile, looked for something to deflect the conversation from both his appearance and the reason for his journey. It was not difficult, for Jareg had with him a large, black horse, walking listlessly behind his two packhorses. Hawklan felt the pain radiating from it.

‘Bought yourself a present I see,’ he said in some surprise, indicating the animal. The Orthlundyn rarely bought horses, usually being able to meet their few needs from their own stock.

‘Yes,’ said Jareg doubtfully. ‘But I’m not so sure it was a good idea. He looked all right at the market, and he’s a fine creature-Muster stock. I thought he’d be good to breed from. But something seems to be wrong with him.’

Hawklan took the horse’s handsome black head in his two hands, and spoke to it.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked it.

The horse made no reply, but showed the whites of its eyes and looked for a moment as if it might shy away from him. Hawklan spoke again, gently, laying his hand on its forehead. ‘Don’t be frightened. Tell me what’s the matter.’

The horse still looked fearful, and did not answer.

‘You bought this at the Gretmearc, you say?’ Hawk-lan asked. Jareg nodded.

Hawklan was puzzled. Animals were as subtle and sensitive in their feelings as humans, not infrequently more so, but they were usually much more straightfor-ward to deal with. He began to wonder if indeed a Riddin horse would speak a different language from an Orthlundyn horse, but that was nonsense. He was sure this one understood him and chose not to reply… or could not. And it was in some kind of pain. He tried again, but again there was no response.

‘What’s the matter with it?’ Jareg asked. Hawklan’s lean face showed his doubts.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It won’t talk to me.’

‘It’s a Muster horse, but that should act in its fa-vour,’ said Jareg. ‘They work them hard but they look after them very well.’ He patted the horse anxiously. ‘Thinking about it, there must be something wrong with it. I don’t think the Muster normally sell their horses. But… ’ he laughed good-naturedly. ‘Those Gretmearc people would sell you your own shirt, and send you away feeling you’ve got a bargain.’

Hawklan nodded. He had heard of the Riddin Mus-ter from Isloman and Loman. It was a relic of some ancient time but it was now deeply embedded in the culture and hearts of the Riddinvolk. At the appropriate command, an elaborate and rapid system of messengers could bring thousands of people riding to the defence of the land, working in highly organized and trained groups of anything up to twenty thousand riders.

The Muster always trained regularly, a strict rota of duty and work sharing ensuring that the disruption of the normal working lives of the people was minimal. And everyone-men, women, and even children-participated without exception. It was its continual state of readiness that enabled it to hold off the Morlider raiders until help came from Fyorlund and Orthlund some twenty years or so ago when the Morlider had attacked with such suddenness and such unprecedented viciousness.