Roger Taylor: The call of the sword

Anderras Darion gave a benign security to the vil-lage of Pedhavin. Its occupant was known and loved; the wicket in the Great Gate was always open, and the Gate alone was a joy and a wonder and a point of proud gossip in villages all around. And yet the Castle stood immovable and solid, its walls seeming to hold the mountains apart: unassailable by stone and ladder, fire and iron. Not even treachery would open the Great Gate once sealed, while the only other entrance was filled with churning, rushing water and who knew what else under the Castle’s deep foundations. The valley beyond was lush and fertile, and surrounded by high crags, made sheer and impregnable by the same skills that had made the Castle itself. Anderras Darion was a comfort-ing place, nestling in the mountains, like an old matriarch who radiated security, but whose merest glance could scatter her towering offspring.

Hawklan sat alone at a table in one of the smaller dining halls. Size, of course, is relative, and even though the hall was indeed smaller than many in the Castle, it would have comfortably accommodated several hundred diners and attendants. In the past it probably had. Hawklan however, was unaffected by his inappro-priate scale in this echoing room. He was slouched back in a carved chair and gazing idly at a splash of multi-coloured light making its leisurely but inexorable way across the table as the sun shone through a round window above. Cutting through the dust motes, the yellow ray left the scene enshrined in the glass resting uncertainly and inaccurately on the heavily grained table.

The window showed a warrior bidding farewell to his wife and child. Hawklan could see the red of the warrior’s cloak and the blue of his wife’s gown, but the green of the fields in the background did not survive the sun-carried journey, and the gold of the warrior’s sword mingled with the yellow of the child’s tunic. Hawklan turned and looked up at the original. He knew that if he walked across the room and gazed up at the scene he would see that the artist had caught the distress and conflict in the warrior’s face as his child shied away from his fearsome armour. It was a masterly piece of work that always made Hawklan want to reach up and embrace the three and comfort them. It also made him thankful that he had no such conflict to face. He returned his gaze to the tabletop and breathed a sigh.

High in the beams above a feathered ear caught the sound, and a single shiny black eye opened and turned a gimlet gaze onto the figure below with a businesslike twist of the head. The owner of the eye was a raven. He was called Gavor.

Spreading his wings he craned forward and, resting on the warm air that filled the cavernous roof, he floated silently into the void. With barely a twitch of his delicate feathers he spiralled gracefully down through the sun-striped air and came to rest a little way in front of Hawklan. The landing was not quite as graceful as the flight, and certainly not as quiet, for Gavor’s wooden leg was apt to give him trouble from time to time. Not least when he wished it to.

The hollow thud of Gavor’s landing and the regular clunk of his wooden leg made Hawklan lift his head to look at the approaching bird. It stopped in front of him and returned his gaze.

‘Rrrukk,’ it said. Hawklan did not speak.

‘Rrrukk,’ it repeated. A slight smile flickered in Hawklan’s eyes and spread reluctantly across his face.

‘Very good, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Very good. Your bird impressions are coming on very nicely. You will be in demand at the next village fair. How’s the nightingale coming along? Is your throat still sore?’

Gavor raised his head with regal disdain.

‘Dear boy,’ came his cultured tones. ‘Such irony doesn’t become you. It really isn’t your style.’

‘I do apologize,’ said Hawklan with patent insincer-ity, laying a hand on his chest. ‘Please accept my humblest apologies. I was overwhelmed by the sight of you. May I ask to what do we owe the pleasure of your august presence at our repast?’

Gavor maintained his hauteur. ‘You sighed, dear boy. You sighed.’

Hawklan looked at the bird quizzically and suspi-ciously.

Gavor shrugged. ‘You sighed,’ he repeated. ‘There I was. Up in the rafters. Brooding, as it were. Contemplat-ing the mysteries of the universe. When my reverie was shattered by this heart-rending sigh soaring up through the hall. "Ah, such pain," I thought. "My friend and saviour is being crushed under some unbearable burden. I must help him." And down I come. And what do I get? Sarcasm-base ingratitude. There’s friendship for you.’

‘I’m touched by your concern, Gavor,’ said Hawklan. ‘But I didn’t sigh.’

Gavor turned away and started clunking up and down the table, pecking at various morsels left in the silver dishes. He paused to swallow something.

‘Ah yes you did, my friend. Most distinctly. Mind you, I will admit I’ve never actually heard anyone sigh before, but I know what one sounds like. I’ve read about them on the Gate.’ He levelled a wing at Hawklan. ‘And what you produced was a sigh. Quite unequivocally. A sigh.’

He paused and rooted out a piece of meat.

‘Mm. Delicious,’ he said. ‘My compliments to the cook. Loman’s cooking is improving noticeably-for a castellan.’

‘If Loman hears you calling him a cook, we’ll be eating raven pie for a week,’ said Hawklan.

Gavor ignored the comment. ‘As I was saying,’ he continued. ‘You sighed, Hawklan. A great heaving outpouring of despair. Almost knocked me off my perch. So I’ve come to see what’s wrong, dear boy. If I allow you to get away with sighing, you’ll be groaning next, and you’ve no idea how it echoes up there. I really can’t preen myself if you’re going to assail me with such a tragic cacophony.’

Hawklan laughed. ‘I may concede that perhaps I breathed out rather heavily, but I give you my solemn promise that I will not allow it to degenerate into groaning. I’ve far too much respect for your feathers.’

‘Huh,’ Gavor grunted, cracking a nut with a shud-dering blow of his great black beak. ‘You’ve been very quiet recently. Not that you were ever particularly raucous. But you’ve been… solemn. Sad almost.’ Gavor’s tone had changed. ‘What’s the matter, Hawk-lan?’ he asked suddenly, with concern.

Hawklan stood up, pushing the heavy chair back as he did. He was a tall man, but lean and spare. His face looked weathered, yet ageless and relaxed, its dominant feature being bright green penetrating eyes. It was the combination of these eyes with the angular, high cheek-boned face and prominent nose that had prompted Gavor to call him ‘Hawklan’ when they first met, twenty years ago, in the snow-filled valleys to the north. He, Gavor, dying, with his leg caught in an old, forgotten trap, and the strange quiet man with no memory, who freed him and nursed him to health with magical hands.

Hawklan shrugged his shoulders as he walked away from the table. Gavor, partly mistaking the gesture and partly to be nearer his friend, glided after him with an imperceptible movement of his wings. There was no graceless landing here, as his good foot closed gently on Hawklan’s shoulder and his wings folded to avoid Hawklan’s head.

Hawklan tapped the black beak gently with his fin-ger. ‘You’ve known me too long, Gavor,’ he said.

Gavor cocked his head on one side. ‘As long as you’ve known yourself, dear boy. Now tell all, do.’

Hawklan’s eyes flitted briefly to the round window with its coloured glass picture.

‘Ah,’ said Gavor, catching the movement. ‘A sensi-tive artist and a sad tale from harsher times. But their pain is long over, and would ever have been beyond your powers.’