Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

He could still see the bird faintly in the glow from the relatively distant Gretmearc, and its yellow eyes flashed as it turned round every few paces. For the first time since he left the rest area, he thought about the danger he might be courting. What did he expect to find? Certainly nothing good. And not all evils could be cured by all healers; some killed you first.

Hawklan stopped. It had been a mistake not to wake Gavor, but he had not anticipated such a wilful and winding luring-on, for that, he knew, was what was happening. Why should anyone want to lure him anywhere? Who would want to harm an innocent healer? He realized he was gripping the pommel of his sword violently in his left hand, and the thought of the sword brought Loman’s voice back to him. ‘This is something from your past-watch your back.’

He had an unpleasant sensation in his stomach and his mouth was dry. It came to him that this was fear: an emotion he could not remember having felt before. He had seen it in others and eased it away but, experiencing it for himself, he found it to be singularly wretched, and far less easily cured.

He turned round nervously. There was nothing there except the glow of the Gretmearc visible through the gaps between the hulking silhouettes of the tents and buildings. Silhouettes that seemed to be watching and waiting.

The whine inside his head made him turn back again. The bird had come close to him and was pacing up and down fretfully. Hawklan felt his fear ease a little. He had no idea how to use the sword he carried, but on the testimony of Loman and Isloman, it was a sword beyond compare and would play its part if required. Even so…?

‘Carry on,’ he said to the bird, his voice loud in the silence and rather hoarse. He could not see too well in the dark, but he had the distinct impression that the bird sneered at him.

The strange procession continued forward through the darkness, and Hawklan’s fear refused to abate any further. He found he was listening for sounds behind him, looking for darker shades within the shadows. Involuntarily his footfall became softer, and the bird turned round more frequently to see if he was still there. It too, seemed to be becoming more and more agitated.

Suddenly Hawklan found himself in an open space. The bird gave a little hop and, with a whirr of its wings, flew off at a tremendous speed. Hawklan lifted both hands to his temples as the incessant whining jabber stopped abruptly.

In its place came a low soothing hum and, for a moment, Hawklan felt a little dizzy. Before he could recover fully, the area was suddenly filled with light and he found himself staring at a strange pavilion in the middle of an open clearing between several large buildings.

He had grown quite used to unusual spectacle in his brief stay at the Gretmearc, but this was by far the most brilliant he had seen. All manner of lights shone from and around it. Every colour he had ever seen, and more. Some flickered rapidly, some slowly, merging, changing, separating, lingering briefly to make hauntingly beautiful tableaux. Some flowed sinuously around and over the building as if they alone carved it out of the night darkness. In and out of the haze they went, chasing and changing. Now the building was sharp, distinct and crystalline, now shining, shimmering and glistening uneasily like a child’s soap bubble, now a shapeless cloud of multi-coloured nothingness. Hawklan had never seen such a display.

After his anxious pursuit of the bird, the whole sight was warm and inviting, and relief flooded over him. No harm could come to him in this place, it felt too good. The bird must have abandoned its task as lure. Perhaps its increasing agitation had been at his own growing awareness of danger and finally the unexpected sight of this obviously new building had put it to flight.

He had to admit that his relief at the bird’s flight outweighed his curiosity to seek out what might have been the cause of his entire journey. He had not known what to expect, but he did not relish finding anything untoward in an area as dark and as peculiarly lonely as that he had just come through. Tomorrow he would return in the daylight with Gavor and they could search together. He swayed slightly, still dizzy. He must be tired. He would go back to the sleeping area… after he had looked at this wonderful pavilion that had so fortuitously interrupted his search.

Looking down, he saw at his feet a narrow stream of moving light which made a glittering flowing pathway that could carry him to the entrance of the building. It was enchanting.

Gently he stepped forward, and the lights surged up over his feet like the summer sun sparkling off an Orthlund stream. He could feel the warm, caressing urging of mountain-bred waters swirling around him and pushing him forward. He smiled.

As he moved along the path he could not lift his eyes from it, so fascinating was it. But he felt there were people coming out of the pavilion, laughing and shouting, some of them greeting him as they walked past.

Then, without realizing he had walked the full length of the path, he found himself in an entrance area lit even more brightly than the outside. The light was so intense that he could not focus properly and he still felt the need to keep his eyes lowered. He became aware of someone coming forward to greet him.

Before he could say anything, the individual had taken him gently by the arm and was speaking to him and leading him somewhere. Hawklan felt drowsiness overcoming him-waking up in the middle of night after walking round the Gretmearc all day, and then doing the same thing again, following that silly bird-small wonder he felt tired.

His friendly guide seemed to agree with him but Hawklan only caught snatches of what he was saying. His voice was at one moment distorted and distant, and at another, soft and comforting inside his head. He recognized words, but could not remember what many of them meant.

The intense light pressed down into him and he felt unable to lift his head to look at anyone or see what it was the place was selling or showing. The voice talked on and on, ebbing and flowing through his head like waves breaking on a shore. Hawklan knew he was being welcomed, although he did not know what he was supposed to do.

Gradually he gathered enough of his wits together to ask a question of his guide, but before he could, the hand on his arm turned him slightly, and, softly but quite clearly, the voice said, ‘You’re very tired. Sit down here. I’ll be back soon and then we can talk.’

Hawklan found himself sitting. It was a great relief. His feet and legs seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, and he knew in a moment he would drift off into sleep. The seat was indescribably comfortable, and everywhere was so warm after the cold moonlit spring night outside.

There was a strange, subtle fragrance in the air, and he became aware of a low, all-pervading humming. He had the impression that many people were making him welcome and were moving round him very quietly to avoid disturbing him. He tried to quieten his own breathing to match theirs.

‘You rest there quietly, you’ve had a long hard jour-ney, now you shall have some of the comforts of the Gretmearc,’ said the soft voice somewhere. ‘Here’s a drink to refresh you.’

Hawklan mumbled thanks and looked at the goblet that had appeared in his hand. Like the building-where was it he’d seen that building?-it swirled and flowed and welcomed him with a shifting kaleidoscope of colours. The soporific humming continued. It seemed to be right inside him now, like his own heart, and the fragrance was becoming stronger, heavier. He felt his hands sagging. A gentle grip took the hand holding the goblet and turned it upright maternally.

‘Not yet, Hawklan,’ the voice said, kindly. ‘Not yet. Look at your drink.’