Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

‘I need the mines if I’m to prosecute a war against my enemies. Lord Dan-Tor says… ’ He stopped. Eldric bowed his head and put his hands over his eyes.

‘Majesty.’ It was Hreldar. His voice was soft and considerate. ‘Majesty. Lord Eldric may not have been to Orthlund for many years, but I have. Not two years ago. The people are unchanged: gentle and kindly, well contented with their ways. They’re not preparing for war. They’re concerned only with their crops and their carvings. They’ve no use for our hard land. As the Lord Eldric said, most of their own lies fallow and resting.’ His voice became grimmer. ‘And no one has need for what might come out of those mines. Majesty, you’ve been grossly deceived.’

During this speech, the King shook his head from side to side repeatedly. At first slowly, then accelerating as if he were desperately trying not to hear Hreldar’s soft insistence.

‘No,’ he said, in a half-strangled voice, ‘I’m not de-ceived. It’s you who’ve been deceived. The Orthlundyn have laid traps for your unwary eye. They’re a subtle people. You lack the insight and vision to see into their hearts.’ He paused and a look of cunning came into his eyes.

‘Or,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re lying to me. You’re try-ing to deceive me. You’re in league with them. Traitors!’

Rgoric screamed this last word, but Hreldar did not flinch. Slowly he looked at each of his three friends in turn. As their eyes met, each nodded.

The King had not moved since his declamation. He sat frozen, his hands clutching the stone arms of the throne. But his eyes, staring wide, followed this silent exchange.

Of the many things the Lords had discussed, this was the one that had given them the greatest difficulty and pain. But, looking at the King, and weighing his words, there was no alternative.

Hreldar spoke. ‘Rgoric: by the authority of the Gead-rol under the Law, the Rights and Responsibilities of Kingship are hereby removed from you until such time as the Lords in Geadrol shall meet and decide.’

Still the King did not move, but his look changed to one of unhinged triumph.

‘Traitors,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll remove nothing. Did you think I was unaware of your treachery? Unprepared for you? Why else should I have my own High Guards?’ He raised his left hand. ‘Look to your backs, Lords. See my true friends.’

As the four Lords turned to follow his gaze, the watching Guards spilled out silently from the sides of the hall and surrounded them like a great black cloud.

Hawklan started at the sight of his own sleep-drawn face staring back at him out of the two yellow eyes and lifted his arm as if to protect himself from a blow. As he did so, the eyes moved away from him and he found himself focussing on their owner: a small brown bird, compan-ion to those that had followed him through the mountains and to the one that lay dead in his pocket.

It was hopping back in response to his sudden movement and its eyes were flaring with a yellow and unhealthy glow. In spite of this, Hawklan’s involuntary response was to reach out a hand in reassurance. He spoke softly to the bird to avoid disturbing his sleeping neighbours, but though it opened its beak it made no sound. Instead, Hawklan heard a confused whining jabber ring through his mind, as if many voices were speaking simultaneously in a strange and repellent tongue. He grimaced; the sensation was disturbing.

The eyes flared again briefly, and then became a vacant, unpleasant yellow. Levering himself up onto one elbow, Hawklan stared at the watching bird. Birds were never easy to communicate with, their language, like their lives, being short and frenetic, but he had never encountered anything as strange as this-or quite as unpleasant.

Abruptly the bird lifted its head twice in a clear message of invitation, and Hawklan heard the whining jabber again. He thought he felt a note of encourage-ment in it and, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he slowly sat up.

He made to waken Gavor, sound asleep on top of his pack, his good claw reflexively clutching its frame, and his wooden leg pushed into an eyelet for stability. But the raven was working steadily through a whole gamut of snores and whistles and Hawklan knew that to wake him now would be to waken the entire area. Nonethe-less, there might be danger in this strange little bird. He reached out again to waken Gavor, but an impatient whine from the bird made him move his hand instead to his own temple.

Almost against his will, he abandoned his idea of waking Gavor and, standing up, carefully made his way through the sleepers towards the waiting bird.

As he neared it, it hopped away again. Some part of Hawklan noted that it judged its distance nicely, keeping just beyond where he could reach it with a single step and a sword cut. It was a strange thought and reminded him of those he had had about the Muster, but he shrugged it aside and, wrapping his cloak around himself against the cold night air, he followed the bird out into the bustling Gretmearc crowds.

It became quickly obvious that the bird was indeed leading him somewhere, as its behaviour was gro-tesquely unnatural. It fluttered and hopped innocuously from stall to stall, but each time it landed it turned round, blank eyes wide, to check that Hawklan was still there.

Hawklan tried again to talk to it but received again only the whining jabber. It rang unpleasantly in his head still sounding like many voices speaking at once. It also had a distinctly unhealthy feel about it and, to his annoyance, Hawklan found that now he could not close his mind against it.

For a moment the noise seemed to become coher-ent, as if something deep inside him understood it and, without realizing what he was doing, Hawklan gripped his sword with his left hand. His face became grim and the lights of the Gretmearc cast harsh shadows over his lean features, turning it into the face of a terrible fighting man. The bird increased the distance between them and Hawklan felt people making way for him nervously.

Another harsh thought came unbidden into his mind-slay it now, it’s an abomination-but yet another stopped him. Somewhere behind this unpleas-ant little creature must presumably lie the source of the evil that had plagued the village of Pedhavin with its unclean wares, and had sent the devilish doll with its mocking corruption to horrify him. Evil came from a disturbance in the balance, in the harmony of things, and it had to be corrected. He was a healer. Who better suited to the task? Involuntarily, and in contrast to his healing thought, he gripped his sword harder, and his stride lengthened.

Gradually the bird led him away from the crowds and into darker, less frequented areas of the Gretmearc. But he did not notice. He had eyes only for the tiny hopping form, while his mind sought to deal with the persistent jabber that pervaded it. He did not pay attention to where he was going, nor look for the small landmarks by which he could find his way back from a strange place if need arose.

When eventually he looked around, he found he was completely alone in a part of the Gretmearc he had not visited during his long search. There were several large buildings that from the signs on them housed grain and foodstuffs, and timber and other building materials. They were all shuttered and dark however, there being little or no call to deal in these items during the night. There were a few small tents and booths, but these too were all sealed and almost all of them presented a dilapidated, deserted appearance.

The sudden awareness of his solitude startled Hawk-lan. He could not recall how he had come here, or when he had left the crowds behind. Occasionally an odd shadowy figure passed him muttering a muffled greeting, as if surprised to see anyone else there.