Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

Dan-Tor drew in a long hissing breath of rage as his thoughts took him on a seemingly perpetual and unbreakable cycle of elation and terror. What rewards would come to him who bound Ethriss for His pleasure? What horrors would be bestowed on him who jeopard-ized His intent through an impulsive whim?

The Lord gazed steadily northward, but his eyes were unseeing. His every fibre listened for the approach of his sinister flying messengers.

Then they were there. Altfarran, where three rivers ended their tumultuous journeys from the mountains and formed the swirling head of the River Endamar. And there was the Gretmearc; the massive, rambling market that sprawled either side of the river, its two halves joined by a huge, many levelled and ramshackle bridge which seemed to be permanently full of people, animals, and vehicles travelling in both directions.

It was a brilliant spring morning when Hawklan parted from the old woman but it was late afternoon by the time he arrived at the Gretmearc. He was quite tired, having tried to walk too quickly through the increasing crowds, but his heart lightened at the sight that greeted him. The Gretmearc was a blaze of colour and move-ment. Its tents and stalls and booths, its rambling buildings, its people, everything, flickering and shining in the sunshine. Its noises rose and fell like the sound of waves on a shore, and everywhere there were pennants and bunting and flags, countless flags. The flags of countries, of towns and cities and villages, of great houses and of individuals and companies, all cracking and fluttering noisily in the brisk breeze.

Although he had grown used to crowds and bustle on his journey after leaving the mountains, Hawklan found that the presence of so many people and so much noise and activity disorientated him a little at first. Gavor however, kept laughing raucously and flapping his wings.

‘Look at all those trees,’ he cried, indicating the forests fringing the market on the far side of the river. Hawklan did not understand immediately.

Gavor explained. ‘Where there are trees, dear boy, there are nests. Where there are nests, there are… ’

‘… friends.’

Hawklan finished his sentence resignedly.

‘Exactly,’ confirmed Gavor, tapping his wooden leg in emphasis and anticipation.

Hawklan shook his head. ‘I should have recognized the tone of voice by now,’ he said. Then, sternly: ‘I haven’t come all this way to end up treating your deservedly pecked behind, Gavor. Just concentrate on looking for anything like that tinker brought with him.’ Gavor slumped sulkily.

Despite his tiredness, Hawklan began his search immediately, though as he began walking around the Gretmearc’s many aisles and walkways, he realized that his strange prior familiarity with places had been fading since he left the mountains and was now apparently gone. For a moment he felt uneasy, but his alarm soon passed in the bright sunshine and happy crowds.

All around him, people were shouting and peddling their wares.

‘Now, ladies, ladies. You know me. I’m always here. I wouldn’t… ’

‘I’m not asking twenty for this. Not eighteen. Not even sixteen… ’

‘Trust me. No, no. Don’t. Go and see for yourself. If you can’t find these same up the posh end at twice the price, I’ll… ’

Jewellery shone and glittered; dishes and plates, apparently unbreakable, were rattled and clattered casually from skilled hand to skilled hand; clothes and ribbons were waved and flourished, held out into the sunlight and against bosoms for critical inspection.

Then, out of the din, ‘… the very finest crafted toys… ’

Nearly dislodging Gavor, Hawklan looked round hastily for the owner of the voice. His eye lit on a small, round ball of a man with a laughing face. He was behind a stall overflowing with all manner of children’s toys on the far side of a crowded aisle on the level below where Hawklan was standing.

Not seeing a stairway near at hand, Hawklan fol-lowed what seemed to be the common practice and, climbing over the guard rail, swung down to the lower level.

As he reached the stall, the little man craned his head back and looked up at him with mock exaggera-tion. ‘Yes, young man,’ he began, a peculiar though not unpleasant nasal rasp in his friendly voice. ‘Looking for presents for your children?’

‘I’ve no children,’ said Hawklan unthinkingly, caught by the little man’s familiarity.

‘Never mind, sir. A well set up lad like you, plenty of time. Perhaps something for the nephews and nieces?’ He rolled round and riffled hastily through a mound of toys at the back of the stall. Turning back he brandished two ornate toy swords under Hawklan’s nose and made a ferocious face. ‘Morlider and Muster sets, sir. Always popular.’ Then, prodding himself with one of the swords, ‘Guaranteed harmless, sir. Gretmearc guaran-teed,’ he added significantly.

Hawklan, laughing at the man’s antics, shook his head and looked at the bewildering array of toys displayed before him.

‘Do you have any tiny dolls?’ he asked. ‘Walking dolls-soldiers perhaps?’

The little man’s arms opened to indicate the miracu-lous justice of a fate that had brought Hawklan to this very stall, and rolling round once more to his multi-coloured stockpile he emerged with a small box.

Opening it delicately, he reached inside and pro-duced a tiny figurine. Placing it on the wide counter he snapped his fingers, and the figure started to march.

‘Expensive, sir,’ came the little man’s voice. ‘I’ll not deny that. But marvellous work, sir.’

Hawklan bent down and watched the tiny figure carefully. It was indeed a marvellous piece of work-walking up and down, as the tinker’s had, even execut-ing a little sword drill. But it was sincerely made, and without corruption. With mixed feelings he stood up and, thanking the stallholder, rejoined the crowd.

As the afternoon wore on he examined many arti-cles on many stalls, but he found no hint of the corruption that the tinker’s doll had borne. He soon learned that the toy seller’s nasal accent was that of the permanent inhabitants of the Gretmearc. It stood out distinctly among the wide range of accents and dialects that filled the air incessantly. He noticed too that the locals talked louder and faster than anyone else, with a sharp and ready wit which could be very abrasive if they thought they were being trifled with. It surprised him a little at first that this accent should be so different from the singsong lilt of the Riddinvolk; then he remembered the old woman telling him that the Gretmearc itself was not technically part of Riddin but a separate, self-governing enclave.

He was a little disconcerted by the attention he him-self attracted, with his commanding presence, his Black Sword and, not least, the still sulking Gavor on his shoulder. Only one person really troubled him however, a weasel-faced man who latched onto him as he was passing a weapons stall, and who kept making ludicrous offers for the sword.

Hawklan refused the man politely several times while Gavor slowly emerged from his sulk to watch the man’s antics. Finally he whispered in Hawklan’s ear, and at the man’s next approach, Hawklan spun round, his cloak billowing, his green eyes blazing, and his hand on his sword hilt.

‘I’ll give you this sword where you’d least appreciate it if you don’t go away,’ he thundered.

Gavor, with his sense of the theatrical, hopped on to Hawklan’s head and spreading his wings wide so that he looked like some ferocious helm, hissed menacingly at the man, his black eyes glinting and his black mouth gaping wide.

The man stumbled backwards and fell over under the impact of this assault, then scrambling to his feet he fled into the crowd. There was laughter and scattered applause from nearby stallholders, and some jeering after the fleeing man.