Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

The Gretmearc held and sold many truths, but in its day-to-day intercourse it was not a place in which to seek out the literal truth. Its people thrived on gossip and rumour and wild fanciful tales which came and went as intangibly as midges on a summer’s evening. It was therefore some credit to Gavor that his antics on that night formed the main topic of conversation among the locals for almost a week and eventually took a small but interesting part in the Gretmearc’s folklore, to be brought out at festive moments and retold and embel-lished until they finally took their place as one of the Minor Tales of the Gretmearc.

‘Nearly had heart failure when that black bird came swooping down the passageway straight at me.’

‘Wings beating like a tent in a storm-blew two of my torches right out.’

‘Bowled Jearl right over just as he was coming out of the ale parlour. Right down the stairs he went-never touched a drop since.’ Laughter.

‘And your stall, Sarti. All those laces and ribbons and what-not. It flew out with half your stock around its neck-better dressed than your wife.’ More laughter, though not too much from Sarti.

‘And that woman’s fancy hat.’ Universal and loud laughter at this height of the telling. The discomfiture of an outsider always has that extra relish.

‘And not forgetting Pytr.’ Applause and mock cheers as Pytr stands and pushes back his hat to reveal the dark scar in the middle of his forehead made by Gavor’s beak when Pytr leapt high into the air and seized him by the leg.

‘I’d have wrung the beggar’s neck… ’

‘If I’d held him,’ comes the chorus, and Pytr grins and rubs his forehead ruefully.

‘Never came again though, did it?’ The mood begins to fade.

‘Wonder what it was after?’

‘Came with that queer fellow with the fancy black sword I heard tell. The one who saw old weasel-face off. Never saw him myself though.’

‘Probably left when he heard what his pet had done to Sarti’s stall. It would’ve taken Sumeral himself to frighten Sarti for a week after that, let alone a black sword.’

The remark is injudicious, and while there is some laughter, it is nervous. Narsindal, with its dark legends, is a mountain range away, but it is too close to the Gretmearc to be too ready a source of humour. One or two of the older ones reflexively circle their forefingers over their hearts in the Sign of the Ring, and look nervously towards the north. The spirit of the gathering has been destroyed by that name.

Gavor, flustered and exhausted, and still slightly beribboned, settled on a table outside a small tent near the edge of the Gretmearc, his heart pounding and his crop heaving.

‘Oh, Hawklan dear boy, where are you?’ he muttered. Then, in self-reproach, ‘Fine protector you are, you feathered clown.’

He felt as if he had flown down every aisle in the Gretmearc a hundred times, and peered into every conceivable cranny. Knots of desperation and anxiety balled up in him and threatened to choke him. His claw opened and closed fretfully, scarring the coarse grain of the wooden table.

‘Would you like something to drink?’

Gavor started and spread his wings in readiness for flight. He had had one of these yokels nearly pull his leg off tonight and had let him off lightly, but he was in no mood now for another. This one would get a right belt, as the locals would say.

He turned round and saw a little untidy old man with bushy grey hair and a beard to match. He had an oval, strangely youthful face made slightly disreputable by a broken nose. Looking at him with his head on one side, Gavor decided the youthful quality in his face came from the little bright eyes which gleamed like a baby’s. He was wearing a long, much-stained robe which was secured at the waist by an equally tired cord.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the old man quietly, ‘I’m afraid I startled you. My name’s Andawyr. I’m a healer, after my own fashion. You, I presume, are the gentleman who’s responsible for all that.’ He waved his hand in the direction from which Gavor had just arrived. A distinct uproar over and above the noise of the Gretmearc generally, marked where he pointed. Such a commotion had followed Gavor all that night.

‘I’ve been listening to your progress,’ he said, chuck-ling, then he pottered off into the tent to return after a moment with a bowl of water and some fruit which he placed on the table in front of Gavor. He stood well back. Gavor eyed him suspiciously and the old man returned his gaze with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

‘I’d consider it an honour if you’d join me in my modest meal,’ he said, sitting down. Gavor decided.

‘That’s most kind of you, dear… er… old… sir. Most kind. Thank you. I am rather jaded at the moment. Singularly humourless, some of these locals.’

He tugged at a small string of beads that had be-come entangled in his wing feathers, and the thread snapped, scattering the beads across the table: coloured dots each reflecting a tiny image of the tent’s flickering torchlight up from the streaked brown table.

‘Do excuse me,’ said the old man, and stepping for-ward cautiously, he reached out and pulled a length of ribbon off Gavor’s head. Laying it delicately on the table, he said, ‘Fine workmanship that. Marshlanders probably. But not really your colour.’ Then his chuckle broke into a laugh, and Gavor could not help himself but join in.

‘May I ask your name?’ said Andawyr.

‘Shertainly,’ said Gavor, who had begun to drink the water very noisily. ‘Itsh Gavor.’ And a fine spray of silver drops spread across the table to join the twinkling beads.

‘May I also ask the reason for your hectic journey across the Gretmearc?’

Somewhat to his own surprise, Gavor told him. The old man had an aura of trustworthiness about him, for all his shabby appearance. He could well be a healer. He had qualities about him not unlike Hawklan’s.

‘Ah,’ said Andawyr when he had finished. ‘Your loyalty and concern do you credit, but perhaps your friend has simply gone for a walk in the night air and lost his way. The Gretmearc at night can be very bewildering.’

Gavor shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘He’d been walking all day, he was very tired. Besides, he wouldn’t have left without waking me.’

‘Perhaps a lady?’ Andawyr volunteered tentatively.

Gavor croaked dismissively. ‘Definitely not. You really don’t understand my friend.’

Andawyr pondered for a moment. ‘The Gretmearc can be a wild place at times, at least parts of it, but it’s not normally dangerous for anyone who isn’t looking for trouble. Your friend will be all right, I’m sure.’

‘No, Andawyr.’ Gavor repeated his denial. ‘I can’t explain. Something’s wrong. I must look for him again. Thank you for your kindness, but I must go.’

Andawyr looked at him intently and then raised his hand. ‘A moment if you will, Gavor. It’s not often I meet someone as interesting as yourself, and you’ve given me great enjoyment listening to your progress through the night.’ He chuckled again. ‘Please let me help you look for your friend.’

His voice was unexpectedly deep and soothing, and Gavor felt the fatigue ease from his limbs as a warmth spread through them. The urgency of his concern lessened.

‘Tell me all about your friend,’ the voice continued. And Gavor did. All about Hawklan and his memory, and Anderras Darion, the tinker, the strange finding of the black sword, the trip across the mountains, and the birds and the figures in the mist.

The old man had pulled his hood up over his head and was sitting very still. Occasionally he asked a question in that same soft soothing voice, and occasion-ally Gavor saw his eyes catch the lights of the Gretmearc and flash brilliantly. He seemed to be very interested in the tinker and the birds.