Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

‘Good.’ Eldric nodded gratefully. Then again, in the Battle Language. ‘I rely on you absolutely in this matter.’

Into our mountain strongholds like rebels, was Varak’s first thought, but it passed almost immediately, to be replaced with a genuine regret.

Eldric’s an old man, he thought reproachfully. He shouldn’t have to deal with things like this. And those other three aren’t much use. Well, Arinndier’s all right, but the other two… He made a contemptuous gesture with his right hand. Thank the Guardians this house kept the old values alive. Kept a proper High Guard, well trained and disciplined. True, Arinndier kept his up to scratch, but he could not understand how someone like Lord Darek, with his quiet shrewdness, could join in the current trend to turn High Guards into ceremonial rather than combat troops.

No one threatens us, went the specious wisdom. A bit of discipline’s good for the lads, but no need to risk them in mountain training, patrolling in Narsindal, doing endless tedious duties at the bleak fortress of Narsindalvak…

The arguments rattled irritably in his head. It was all wrong; he felt it in his bones. Darek’s High Guards in their yellow liveries looked like a bunch of spring flowers, and Hreldar’s beggared description with their multi-coloured liveries and braids and laces. A good breath of mountain air would blow them on their backs, let alone a real training exercise.

Then, the unusual introspection and his considera-tion of the inadequacy of the High Guards of two such important lords, seemed to shake loose many old thoughts, and stray pieces fell into place to give him a sudden fearful insight.

The King had long since stopped The Watch-the rotation of the various High Guards as duty garrison at the great tower fortress of Narsindalvak. For genera-tions they had maintained a continuous watch over Narsindal, both from the tower itself and through their regular patrols. Now that was no more! True, the conditions in Narsindal were invariably appalling, and no patrols in Varak’s memory had ever seen Lake Kedrieth because of the mists that surrounded it and the ever-changing shape of the marshes that marked its edges. However, the patrols had kept the men in good fettle and, although they had grumbled, it had given them a feeling of continuity with the great traditions of the past, and a certain dignity.

But Varak suddenly saw the end of The Watch and the deterioration of the High Guard as part of a corruption. No one these days could believe in Sumeral and his defeat by the four Guardians and the Great Alliance, or that he might one day rise again from the depths of Lake Kedrieth. That was foolish superstition. But Narsindal was indisputably a bad place. Men had been lost there regularly. Its predominant inhabitants, the Mandrocs, were bad enough: man-like, dog-snouted savages, but there were worse things lurking in those perpetual mists.

Varak shivered slightly. He had taken many patrols into Narsindal in the past and felt in his bones that myths or no, it was wrong not to keep watch on it. Somewhere in those old stories was a hard kernel of truth that was not wisely ignored.

The word corruption lingered in his mind, and Tirke’s outburst at the First Feast rose before him-Dan-Tor, that devil’s spawn out of Narsindal, has our King strung like a puppet.

Then old habits reasserted themselves. These were not problems he could do anything about other than speak his piece when the time came. He pushed them aside vigorously, straightened up, and strode off down the sun dappled corridor, the echoes of his clicking heels hanging in the air like dust motes.

Hawklan enjoyed the remainder of his long journey through the mountains, despite some of the leg-wrenching slopes he had to contend with. On more than one occasion he chose to leave the path to climb some nearby peak, just for the sake of sitting quietly in the rich stillness and calm that the ancient rocks exuded. Gavor too seemed to be in his natural habitat, spending most of his time gliding in wide circles high overhead.

They met no other travellers, but Hawklan gradually learned of the many plants and creatures that discreetly thrived there. Only the little brown birds occasionally disturbed their peace. Hawklan would see Gavor spiralling silently downwards towards some rocky slope or cluster of vegetation, then one of the birds would burst alarmingly from cover and fly rapidly into the distance, its wings whirring peculiarly.

‘I don’t know how they can fly so fast,’ was Gavor’s predominant comment. ‘Or how they know I’m coming.’

At such times, Hawklan felt impelled to look again at the small burden he was carrying. It was unchanged; no sign of either stiffness or decay. Dead and yet not dead. It felt almost as though the tiny body had been temporarily vacated-left empty for some reason. He shared Gavor’s puzzlement.

Before he left the mountains, they offered him one last gift, just as they had done at the beginning of his journey.

He was nearing the top of a long steep slope which led towards a high ridge. Perspiring freely in the warm spring sunshine, he sat down on a rock and looked back at the green valley he had spent the morning clambering out of.

I can see why so few Orthlundyn actually get round to making this trip, he thought ruefully, massaging his legs. But he still felt no urge to return, only the urge to continue moving forward.

Gavor’s fruity chuckle interrupted his reverie.

Turning, he saw that his friend was sitting on a small outcrop of rock at the top of the ridge. ‘Come on, dear boy, do hurry up,’ came the provocative cry. ‘My legs are getting tired standing waiting for you.’ He danced up and down waving his wooden leg as if to ease a cramp. Hawklan looked at him malevolently, but did not answer. Then, levering himself to his feet, he started up the last part of the slope. Gavor chuckled again.

When at last he reached the top of the ridge, Hawk-lan found it was broad and grassy, and he paused to revel for a moment in the cool breeze that was rising up from the other side. Gavor glided down to greet him.

‘Come along, dear boy, come along. Don’t dawdle. Come and see your first view of the Decmilloith of Riddin.’

Hawklan followed Gavor across the springy turf.

Just as, days ago, he had suddenly seen a great swathe of Orthlund spread out before him, now he saw Riddin. The view burst on him after he had walked a little way past the top of the grassy knoll. He continued forward until he came to the edge of a cliff which fell away suddenly in a sheer drop.

Riddin looked very different from Orthlund. It had forests and farmlands like Orthlund and it had a harmony of its own, but it was not the Great Harmony of Orthlund: it looked busier, more hectic. It was criss-crossed by hedges and ditches, and roads-so many roads and pathways that Hawklan could hardly believe his eyes. Then there were countless isolated houses and little villages, far more than in Orthlund. He felt vigour and excitement in the harmony of Riddin and wondered what its people would be like. He stood motionless for several minutes, then he opened his arms wide as if to embrace the whole country. Gavor spread his great shining wings in a similar gesture and, laughing out loud, launched himself into the void.

For the remainder of that day, the track they had been following led them down through softer, rolling countryside, becoming wider as they passed farms and the occasional small cluster of houses. Such few people as they saw looked at them uncertainly, but responded pleasantly to Hawklan’s smile and greetings.

Finally, rounding a bend at the top of a small slope, they found themselves looking down on the road that would lead them north to Altfarran and the Gretmearc. Hawklan hesitated.