Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, partly from concern, partly to lead the woman away from this oddly disturb-ing topic.

The woman shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just men-tioning Rgoric reminded me of Urthryn’s lass, Sylvriss. I was at their wedding, you know. Head over heels with Rgoric she was, and he with her. They were so happy. But… ’

Her reminiscence was interrupted by Gavor who dropped out of the sky onto Hawklan’s shoulder, making her start.

‘There’s some kind of commotion along the road behind us,’ he said softly.

‘Commotion…?’ began Hawklan, but before he could continue, he caught a distant sound. It was peculiar-like a single word being shouted by different people one after the other. He turned to the old woman to ask her what it might be, but she too was craning her head to catch the faint sound.

Then, abruptly, she turned away from the sound and roared, ‘Muster!’ in the opposite direction. Hawklan winced at the force of her voice, but noted that the call was immediately taken up by others. It was soon echoing faintly along the road ahead of them.

‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ the woman said, smiling broadly, and before Hawklan could ask what was happening she clicked at the horse and it negotiated its way over to the side of the road and stopped.

‘Come along young man, down you get, and sharp about it,’ she said briskly, and with remarkable sprightliness she jumped down from the cart and signalled Hawklan to join her.

‘What’s happening?’ he managed eventually, as the woman positioned herself in front of him and gazed back along the road, screwing up her eyes in an attempt to see further.

‘Muster,’ she said, without elaboration. No wiser, Hawklan looked around and noticed that the road had been almost completely cleared. What had been a busy, rambling crowd seemed to have been swept to the sides of the road as if by a great brush. It needed no height-ened perception to see now who were Riddinvolk and who were strangers, for the crowd fell clearly into two parts. Those, like the old woman, standing purposefully at the front, forming a friendly but complete barricade, and those like himself, standing somewhat bewildered at the rear. For all its informality, it was an impressive display of discipline.

‘Muster?’ Hawklan inquired.

‘It’ll be here soon,’ she said with a beaming smile of pride lighting up her round red face. ‘Won’t be long. Ever seen it before?’

Hawklan shook his head.

‘Most strangers find it very exciting,’ the old woman continued. She rubbed her hands together gleefully. ‘I do. Even now, after all this time.’ She patted her horse’s nose. ‘Not as good as riding in it though, is it, old friend?’ she said quietly.

The good-natured firmness of the Riddinvolk, to-gether with natural curiosity, silenced any reproaches from visitors about this unexpected interruption to their progress, and an unsought stillness fell over the waiting crowd. It was punctuated only by the odd figure scuttling rapidly across the road to seek a better vantage point.

Then the sound of cheering and shouting reached them and, presaged by a fearful rumbling which grew in intensity until many of the strangers began to look alarmed, the Muster burst upon them.

Hawklan estimated there must have been about sixty riders, although he had little time to do more than gasp and take an involuntary step backwards. He had an impression of crouched bodies-men and women both-urging themselves forward, of long heads and necks reaching out, of flying hair and manes, of gleaming eyes and elated and determined faces. And of noise: the noise of hooves striking the hard ground, of riders shouting, tackle rattling, and the crowd shouting and cheering. He noted that even the old lady was bobbing up and down with excitement, and clapping her hands.

Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone, and a shuffling silence descended on the watchers as they stood uncertainly in the settling dust. For a moment it was as if the force that had just swept through them had taken their will to move for its own need.

The old lady turned round. ‘There you are, young man,’ she said. ‘Only a small group, but at full gallop on a training run. And going well too,’ she added with a knowing condescension. ‘What did you think of that?’ She did not wait for an answer, but dug her elbow in his ribs. ‘Something to tell the folks back home, eh?’

Hawklan agreed readily. The whole thing had made a deep impression on him. The skill of the riders in travelling at such a speed along the comparatively narrow road, so close to onlookers. And the discipline and speed of the locals in clearing the busy road ahead. He found that his heart was beating rapidly and powerfully, and his breath was fast and shallow.

What a formidable fighting force, he thought. They must be able to handle all but the most highly disci-plined infantry. Then almost immediately he wondered where such a thought could have come from. He had an unnerving sensation that, more and more, such dark and strange images were gathering at the edges of his mind.

Who am I? he thought, unexpectedly.

In a small clearing in a wood about a day’s ride to the north of Pedhavin, the bright spring sunshine shone down on a group of young men. Some of them were cleaning weapons or tackle, and one or two were reading, but the majority were lounging about idly.

Their camp was clean and orderly as were the men themselves, but from their various postures and the vigour, or lack of it, with which those working pursued their tasks, it was apparent that they had been there for some time and, despite the spring weather and the pleasant ease of their location, they were ceasing to relish an enforced leisure.

‘Has he told you when we’re going to move yet, Jal?’ one of them asked, brushing an insect off his nose as he stared straight up into the blue sky.

The recipient of this question was a well-built indi-vidual sitting on a grassy knoll and leaning against a tree. He had fair curly hair and a round, rather innocent face. Looking up, he eyed his questioner narrowly and then furrowed his brow as if searching his memory.

‘I make that the… twenty-fourth time you’ve asked that question in two days, Idrace,’ he said after a while.

‘Twenty-fifth,’ came a voice from somewhere. Someone else clapped leisurely and Jaldaric raised an acknowledging hand.

‘It could well be,’ he conceded wearily. ‘It could well be. But the answer’s still the same.’

The questioner levered himself up and leaned on one elbow. He was dark-haired, with a hooked nose and powerful deep-set eyes. ‘Well then,’ he said, with exaggerated shrewdness, ‘that means it must be at least two days since you asked him about it, mustn’t it, Captain?’

Jaldaric looked round idly for something to throw at his tormentor, but finding nothing suitable, he stood up awkwardly and stretched. Orthlund was a beautiful place, but this inaction was beginning to be soul-destroying.

‘Thank you, Idrace,’ he said, with mock formality. ‘I shall attend to my lack of diligence immediately. I shall also retail your anxiousness faithfully to the Lord Dan-Tor. I’m sure he’ll be most impressed by your eager zeal.’

‘No, no,’ Idrace replied magnanimously. ‘I insist you retain the credit for yourself, Captain.’

Jaldaric dropped grass on his friend’s head. ‘Where is he then?’ he asked.

‘Usual place,’ said Idrace, shaking his head and indicating the direction with a flick of his thumb as he resumed his supine vigil under the spring sky.

Jaldaric brushed the grass and leaves from his tunic and, circling his shoulders to relieve their stiffness, set off down a narrow winding track.