Roger Taylor: The call of the sword

His face was torn with anger and fear and he was muttering to himself. ‘Ethriss give me strength. I’m not ready for this.’

‘Hawklan.’ A soft soothing voice sounded in Hawk-lan’s mind. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ The voice carried the memory of some long-forgotten sweetness. ‘This turmoil is but a dream. Set it aside. Journeying so far from your home has wearied your very spirit. Come and rest. Come and be easy. Hawklan felt a warm restfulness pervading him again, and slowly started to turn back towards the pavilion.

‘No.’ A harsh, angry voice rent through his peace. It was distorted and ugly but it tore away Hawklan’s euphoria as if it had been a suffocating veil. He was again in the cold night air, but his movements were still clogged by the eerie green light. Andawyr was speaking, his voice still distorted and oddly distant.

‘Fight, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Fight your way to the darkness and then flee for your life.’

Hawklan opened his mouth to speak. He would not leave the old man, but he could not form the words of refusal he wished to use. Andawyr’s eyes showed understanding.

‘No. Go, now,’ came his voice. ‘I must face this one. He’s far beyond any skill you’ve yet mastered.’

Then he staggered as if struck, and Hawklan felt as though the green light around him was solidifying, so difficult was it to move. A small spark of his recent frenzy flared briefly, and he tightened his grip on his sword. The greenness wavered and his movements became a little easier.

Slowly he turned round. The pavilion was now a blur of insanely dancing light. It seemed to exist in some other place, the entrance to which was like a jagged tear in the fabric of reality and from which emanated the baleful glare now sweeping over the three escapees.

Silhouetted black against this light was a single figure. Hawklan could not make out its shape clearly nor distinguish any details of its appearance except for its eyes which seemed to be like holes through which the green depths behind it were pouring.

‘Hawklan, lay down your sword, and rest,’ came the voice again, soothingly. Hawklan hesitated and the green light glowed welcomingly.

Then again Andawyr was by his side, leaning heavily on him for support, as if he were being assailed, though Hawklan could see nothing. The old man’s face was damp with effort and only a grim determination was keeping some fear at bay.

‘Obscenity,’ he gasped at the waiting figure. ‘Who taught you thus? Where did you find what was needed for… that?’ Andawyr’s finger jabbed through the green light towards the interior of the pavilion.

Hawklan sensed uncertainty in the ominous figure, but it made no sound.

‘You’ll gain scant thanks from your teacher for this night’s work, apprentice,’ said Andawyr. ‘Others can use the Old Power. And without this corruption. Go your way. Leave us.’ Then, almost pleadingly. ‘There are other, wiser ways. Seek them while you have the chance. Repent your folly.’

The green light dimmed perceptibly, and the figure moved. Then the light flared again and Hawklan heard a hissing breath exuding rage and frustration. A wave of appalling malice swept over him and he felt his own face contorting into a wide-eyed snarl in response. Slowly he began to raise his sword to strike down the menacing figure.

‘No,’ cried Andawyr desperately. ‘He’s corrupted the Old Power and his failure to bind you has unhinged him. He’s beyond all control now, don’t add your own darker nature to his madness, you’ll destroy us all.’

The words rolled off Hawklan unheard as he felt his anger lock with the figure’s.

‘Healer, he’s too frail for his burden.’ Andawyr’s voice rang out powerfully. The compassion in the words cut through the swirling malice and hatred and dispelled Hawklan’s rage as if it had been no more than autumn smoke. Turning, he saw the old man unwind the waist cord from his stained smock.

‘Ethriss and my teachers help and forgive me,’ An-dawyr said to himself, then taking the cord in his right hand, he flicked it towards the figure. It shone, white and dazzling, and Hawklan felt the myriad tiny ties release him. The figure seemed to struggle against an unseen force, but Hawklan could feel its rage and malice growing for some terrible blow.

‘No,’ cried Andawyr, his voice alive with concern. ‘I beg you. There is always another path. Even for you.’

The figure’s eyes flared briefly, and abruptly it re-leased its blow. It seemed to Hawklan that someone else was looking through his own eyes. Someone who saw a wave of wrongness surge from the figure to envelop the waiting Andawyr.

With an unexpected calmness and grace, the little man gently opened his arms as if to welcome the assault, and Hawklan felt the wrongness surge around the motionless figure then, subtly changed-righted-return to its creator.

Abruptly the inner watcher was gone from him, and Hawklan watched as, with a terrible cry, the figure in the gaping green doorway staggered backwards and disappeared from view. He had a brief glimpse of a hand vainly trying to protect a tormented and all too human face from some blinding light.

Hawklan turned to Andawyr. The little man’s face was both regretful and triumphant. ‘One more thing,’ he said anxiously, twirling his cord. ‘It’ll give us a little more time.’ He edged Hawklan to one side and, with his tongue protruding slightly, he flicked the cord. A ring of white flame sprang from it and floated across the clearing, growing in size and intensity as it did. Andawyr nodded with workmanlike satisfaction.

The glittering ring hit the pavilion and started to spread over it. As it approached the lights, they danced frantically as if to avoid its enveloping whiteness, but its progress was relentless and each light in turn crackled and sighed into extinction as it reached them. Slowly the whole structure sank silently to the ground and faded into nothingness.

Hawklan became aware of a cool night breeze on his face and moonlight filling the strangely misty clearing. Then the distant sounds of the Gretmearc impinged. He turned to his rescuer, once again a little old man in a stained smock fastened by an old cord.

A thousand questions burst over him, but Andawyr cut across them. ‘Come on,’ he hissed urgently. ‘We must get away. Follow me. Quickly.’

Hawklan strode out to keep up with Andawyr’s trotting gait as they moved through the darkness that fringed the edge of the Gretmearc. They passed a bewildering array of rest areas, store-houses, dwellings, and closed stalls before finally reaching Andawyr’s tent.

Once inside, the little man made a pass with his hands over the threshold of the entrance and then relaxed visibly. He patted his hands on his chest as if to dust something off them.

‘It should be a little while before they recover, he said. ‘But I fear we’ve not got a great deal of time. Anyway that will keep most prying eyes out.’ He took hold of Hawklan’s right hand. ‘Come along, we must attend to that right away, whatever else we manage to do.’

Hawklan looked down at the hand and saw that it and a portion of his forearm had turned white. Not just pale, but an appalling deathly white as if the flesh had been under water for a long time and was just about to start putrefying. He flexed it and found no pain or stiffness, but the sight of it moving made him feel nauseous and dizzy. Andawyr’s unexpectedly strong grip prevented him from falling, but he sat down heavily on a chair by the table.

‘Sorry, young fellow,’ said Andawyr gently. ‘I’ve never seen this before, but I know what it is. I can tend it for you.’

‘What’s happened to it?’ asked Hawklan, recovering himself slightly, and being heartened by Andawyr’s confidence. Andawyr did not reply immediately. He was busy examining the arm in great detail, and muttering to himself. Then he stood up and started bustling round the tent, still muttering.