Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

In more peaceful times, its meetings were full of ceremony, hectic merrymaking, and displays of horsemanship, but never at the cost of basic effective-ness. The down-to-earth Riddinvolk always assumed that the Muster had been formed to deal with the Morlider in the distant past and never lost sight of that fact. Folklore however, took its formation back into legend and a myth, and linked it with great wars in times beyond remembering, when a terrible evil had arisen and had been defeated only after many years of bitter and bloody strife.

The quality of Muster horses was legendary. Hawk-lan nodded. ‘It certainly seems to be in excellent condition,’ he said, as he walked quietly around the horse, stroking it soothingly and feeling its responses under his hands. ‘Yes. Excellent. But… ’

He stepped back, his face furrowed into an unchar-acteristic frown. Healing involved, amongst other things, entering into the pain of the sufferer, and when Hawklan felt a sinister, strangling, restraint deep within him, he recognized it as belonging to the horse. His green eyes narrowed.

‘I thought it was just shocked in some way,’ he said thoughtfully, as if to himself. ‘But it feels as if someone has laid a stifling hand on its heart to silence it.’

He seemed puzzled by his own words. The idea was horrific and a spasm of pain passed over his face as he turned away from the horse. ‘Yes. That’s what’s happened,’ he said, laying a hand on the horse again. ‘There’s something deep inside it that I can barely reach, let alone move. Who would do such a thing? And how?’

A cloud passed over the sun briefly, echoing the feeling of darkness that Hawklan’s concern had brought to the group.

Hawklan reached up and, putting his arms about the horse’s neck, rested his forehead against it and closed his eyes. For seemingly endless minutes, the group stood still and silent, like the mountains themselves. Slowly the horse’s great head sank lower and lower, and it began to breath noisily, in unison with Hawklan’s own breathing. Then, abruptly, it jerked upright and whinnied slightly. Hawklan stepped back, his eyes wide and watering tearfully, his forehead glistening.

‘What have you done?’ said Jareg anxiously.

Hawklan shook his head, and wiped his eyes with a kerchief offered to him by Jareg’s wife. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I might have helped it. It don’t think it’ll get any worse, and it may be better able to help itself now; it’s a powerful animal in every way.’

‘What should I do with it?’ Jareg asked. Hawklan smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

‘Just look after it as you have been doing. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks or so and I’ll look at it again. I’m sure I’ll be able to help it some more. Don’t worry. It’s a fine animal.’

His reassurance restored everyone’s good spirits and they spent some time showing him their gifts and purchases and talking about the excitement and wonders of the Gretmearc, before eventually continuing on their way.

Hawklan watched them thoughtfully as they left.

Gavor spoke. ‘What did you see in the horse, Hawk-lan?’ he asked.

Hawklan shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never felt the like. But it was nothing natural, that’s for sure. It felt primitive-very old. It was horrible.’ He shuddered.

Gavor cocked his head to one side at this untypical response. ‘If it wasn’t natural then it was unnatural,’ he said. ‘Who would do such a thing, dear boy? Come to that, who could do it?’

Hawklan pondered. Isloman, a First Carver, slipping with a chisel. A tinker with unclean wares that deceived the sight of the Orthlundyn-and disturbed his own equilibrium. A fine animal ruthlessly invaded. He stood silent for a moment, then he smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t know that either, Gavor, but I fear we’re being manipu-lated and that we’re destined to find out why at the Gretmearc.’

Gavor nodded. Hawklan had told him all that words could offer. ‘Very well, dear boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll continue to watch your back.’

Hawklan turned round to look at the departing family. They were on the skyline and they turned to wave before dropping out of sight. He saw the horse throw its head back, and he bent forward to catch the faint, distant sound.

‘What did it say?’ Gavor asked.

Hawklan frowned as if in pain. ‘It said, "Take care at the Gretmearc-old enemies are abroad." ’

Gavor turned a beady eye on him. ‘That’s not much use,’ he said.

Hawklan looked at him crossly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But it cost that horse dear to say it.’

He rested his hand on the pommel of the black sword, and the spring sun sparkled in a tear than ran down his face in memory of the pain he had felt in the horse.

Old enemies, he thought. And I’m walking-being drawn?-towards them. I wonder if I’ll know them when I see them?

It was with some relief that Eldric welcomed the last of the three Lords he had summoned following Hrostir’s news of the suspension of the Geadrol.

Lord Darek rode into the courtyard with his small, yellow-liveried escort, and dismounted stiffly.

‘I’m sorry,’ were his first words to Eldric. ‘I came as quickly as I could, but I don’t ride like I used to.’

Eldric smiled warmly and took his hand. ‘Nonsense. You’re here a good day earlier than I thought you’d be,’ he said. ‘It’s a long journey. I’m only sorry you’ve had to make it under such circumstances, and at this time of all times. You must rest a while before we talk.’

Darek shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me attend to my men and then we’ll talk right away. I couldn’t begin to rest with all the hares your news set running around in my head, and I presume you’ve all been pacing the floor for at least two days waiting for me. And being none too charitable about the delay.’

Eldric raised his hands and shrugged in mute con-fession and apology. ‘You always were too sharp, Darek,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come inside. My men will attend to your escort and the horses, and we’ll join Hreldar and Arinndier straight away.’

Leading his guest through a blossom-decorated doorway, he added wryly, ‘You’ll not decline a little Festival fare while you’re talking, I trust?’ Darek allowed a brief smile of acknowledgement to light up his thin, dour face.

Within minutes they had joined the others in one of the rooms of Eldric’s private quarters. It was simply decorated and well-lit with ample comfortable furniture, and Darek sat down in a capacious chair with an aura of considerable relief.

The four Lords presented a considerable contrast. Eldric, bluff, solid and open-countenanced; by a month or so the senior in years, but by far the most senior in the eyes of the people and his peers. Arinndier, some five years younger, but bigger and stronger and with the demeanour of a much younger man. Darek, thin and wiry, with a quiet, rather scholarly manner. And finally Hreldar. A real Festival Lord, as Eldric described him. Round faced and jolly. A man much given to easy and infectious laughter.

For all their contrasts however, they were bound by long ties of affection and loyalty. Ties forged mainly during the years they spent fighting shoulder to shoulder in the Morlider War, and subsequently tested and tempered by their long service together in the Geadrol.

Ironically, for four Geadrol Lords, their conference was remarkably brief.

Hrostir had little to add to the news he had brought. Leaving Vakloss at the end of his routine secondment to the Palace, he had come across the edict almost by accident, so quietly had it been posted. It came as no great surprise to any of the Lords that there had been no public outcry at such an edict. For all its virtues, there was no widespread interest in the affairs of the Geadrol and, at that time, the Grand Festival dominated all horizons. Few things were deemed so serious that they could not be left until ‘after the Festival’. Taking a copy of the edict, Hrostir had ridden post-haste to Eldric with the news rather than to his father because his estate was the nearer and because of his seniority.