KOREAEBOOKDOCUMENT1.3.0Into NarsindalTaylor, RogerMushroom eBooksMushroom eBooksq~ч=para.xmlRTITN_cover_kml.pngnormal.styџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџџ‹ŠЛpara.xmlЪы smaller.styжы small.styысы normal.styжэы large.styСљы larger.styЌ‡RTITN_cover_kml.png3"[˜image01.png     Into Narsindal   Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan         Roger Taylor             a Mushroom eBooks sampler       Copyright © 1990, Roger Taylor   Roger Taylor has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.   First published in United Kingdom in 1990 by Headline Book Publishing.   This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom www.mushroom-ebooks.com   All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.   ISBN of complete edition: 1843191490       This is a sampler of Into Narsindal by Roger Taylor. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.     Contents   Map of Hawklan’s Land Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor     Map of Hawklan’s Land               “The time of Hawklan is so far in the past that it could be the distant future”     Prologue Hawklan’s face was desolate. ‘I remember the enemy falling back and standing silently watching us. I remember the sky, black with smoke, and flickering with fighting birds. There was a raucous command from somewhere and the enemy lowered their long pikes – they were not going to close with us again. Then the figure next to me shouted defiance at them, hurled its shield into their midst and reached up to tear away its helm.’ Hawklan paused and his eyes glistened as he relived the moment. ‘Long blonde hair tumbled out like a sudden ray of sunlight in that terrible gloom.’ He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t realized who it was. A great roar went up from the circling army. I called out her name . . .’ He opened his mouth to call again. Both Gulda and Andawyr watched, lips parted, as if willing him this release, but no sound came from either of them. ‘Without taking her eyes from the approaching enemy, she reached back and her hand touched my face briefly. “I am here,” its touch said. “I am with you to the end.” I threw away my own helm and shield and took my sword two-handed as she had. Then the figure at my back cried out in recognition. He too I had not recognized in the press. Thus by some strange chance, we three childhood friends formed the last remnant of our great army.’ He paused again and clenched his fist, as if around his sword hilt. ‘A group of the enemy threw down their pikes and rushed forward to take . . . the girl. She killed three of them with terrible skull-splitting blows, but . . . ‘So I slew her. I slew my friend. With a single stroke. I saw her head tumbling red and gold down the slope and into the darkness under those countless trampling feet.’ He shook his head. ‘Better that than that she be taken alive. ‘The rest of her attackers fled back to their pikes and the enemy began its final slow advance. Back to back we held. Pushed aside and broke their long spears. Killed several. Then my last friend and ally fell and I . . .’ He faltered. ‘He said “I’m sorry,” even as he fell . . . ‘That last burden was my end and I too sank to my knees . . .’     Chapter 1 Startled, Jaldaric spun round as the rider appeared suddenly out of the trees and galloped to his side. His right hand began moving reflexively towards his sword, but a cautionary hiss from Tel-Mindor stopped it. Abruptly, a second rider appeared on the other side of the road and moved to flank Arinndier. Tel-Mindor looked behind. Three more riders were following. Despite himself, his concern showed briefly on his face. Not because the five men seemed to offer any immediate menace, though they were armed, but because he had not seen them, and that indicated both wilful concealment and no small skill on their part. However, his Goraidin nature did not allow the concern to persist. Instead he began to feel a little easier; the actual appearance of the men confirmed the unease he had felt growing for some time. ‘Hello,’ said the first new arrival to Jaldaric, his face unexpectedly friendly. ‘I’m sorry I startled you. We’ve been following you since you came out of the mountains, but your friend here,’ – he nodded towards Tel-Mindor – ‘was on the point of spotting us, so I thought it would save problems if we approached you directly.’ His manner was pleasant enough but, still unsettled by the man’s abrupt arrival, Jaldaric’s reply was harsher than he had intended. ‘Following?’ he said. ‘Do the Orthlundyn always follow visitors to their country?’ ‘No, no,’ the man replied with a smile. ‘You’re the first.’ His smile turned into a laugh. ‘In fact you’re the only people who’ve come out of Fyorlund since we started border duty. It was good practice for us.’ He extended his hand. ‘My name’s Fyndal, and this is my brother Isvyndal.’ Jaldaric’s natural courtesy made him take the hand, though part of him remembered Aelang, and was alert for a sudden attack. ‘This is the Lord Arinndier, the Rede Berryn and his aide Tel-Mindor,’ he said, indicating his three companions. ‘I’m Jaldaric, son of the Lord Eldric.’ This time it was Fyndal who started. ‘Jaldaric,’ he echoed, his eyes widening. Then, as if uncertain how to phrase the question, ‘Jaldaric who came with Dan-Tor and kidnapped Tirilen?’ Jaldaric’s face coloured at the reminder of his previous visit to Orthlund. ‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly, looking down at his hands briefly. ‘To my shame.’ ‘And was taken by Mandrocs?’ Fyndal continued. Jaldaric looked puzzled, but nodded. Fyndal reined his horse to a halt, as if he needed a moment’s stillness to assimilate this information. His brother too seemed to be affected. The three riders behind them also stopped. Then Fyndal clicked his horse forward again. ‘Why have you returned?’ he asked, his manner still uncertain. ‘You not only follow, you interrogate,’ Jaldaric began, but Arinndier leaned forward and interrupted him. ‘We’re representatives of the Geadrol,’ he said. ‘We’ve important news for all the Orthlundyn, and Isloman told us that we should seek out his brother Loman and the Memsa Gulda at Anderras Darion.’ Again Fyndal showed surprise. ‘You’ve spoken to Isloman?’ he said. ‘Where is he? Was Hawklan with him?’ He gestured to the following riders, who spurred forward to join the group. Jaldaric and the others exchanged glances. ‘Who taught you the High Guards’ hand language, Fyndal?’ Jaldaric asked. ‘Loman,’ Fyndal answered. ‘He taught it to all of us.’ ‘Us?’ queried Arinndier. ‘The Helyadin,’ Fyndal replied. All Fyndal’s answers were uttered straightforwardly and in the manner of someone stating the obvious. Arinndier opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but Fyndal repeated his inquiry. ‘When did you see Hawklan and Isloman?’ he said, concern beginning to show through his affability. ‘Where are they? Are they safe?’ Arinndier shook his head. ‘We don’t know where they are,’ he said, then pausing thoughtfully he added, ‘They left Fyorlund some time ago with two of our men to return to Anderras Darion. I’d hoped they’d be in Orthlund by now.’ Fyndal frowned unhappily and made to speak again, but this time Arinndier took the initiative. ‘What we do know about Isloman and Hawklan we’ll tell to Loman and Memsa Gulda when we meet, Fyndal,’ he said. ‘That and a great many other things. Then it’s up to them what they choose to tell you. You understand, I’m sure. In the meantime, perhaps you could tell us who you are. And what the Helyadin are, and why you follow and question visitors to Orthlund. And why this man Loman should see fit to teach you our High Guards’ hand language.’ ‘We’re just . . . soldiers,’ Fyndal answered, with a slight hesitation. ‘We’re on border patrol, making sure that nothing . . . unpleasant . . . comes into our land unchallenged again. Loman taught us the hand language because he said it was a good one’ – he gave a subdued laugh – ‘and it was the only one he knew. He’s taught us a lot of other things as well.’ ‘Soldiers, eh? So the Orthlundyn have been preparing for war.’ It was Rede Berryn and his tone was ironic. ‘How typical of Dan-Tor to tell the truth and make it sound like a lie.’ Then he looked at the young Orthlundyn again. ‘Who are you preparing for war against, Helyadin?’ he asked. Fyndal looked at the old man. ‘Sumeral, Rede,’ he said simply. ‘Sumeral. And all who stand by His side.’ The Rede met his gaze and idly rubbed a scar on his forehead. Since Hawklan and Isloman had left his village with their Mathidrin escort he had heard only rumours and gossip about what was happening in Vakloss and the rest of the country. Such instructions as he had received told him nothing, and such inquiries as he made were ignored. The local Mathidrin company was suddenly greatly strengthened and the patrolling of the Orthlund border increased dramatically. Then a ban they imposed – and enforced – on virtually all travelling ended any hope he had of obtaining accurate information from such friends as he had in the capital. Throughout these happenings Berryn had followed the ancient survival technique of the trained soldier and kept himself inconspicuous while clinging to what he knew to be right and true. In his darker moments, he tried to console himself with the thought that this madness must pass; the spirit of the Fyordyn surely could not be so easily crushed. And the memory of his brief encounter with Hawklan and Isloman persisted in returning like some kind of reproach. Hawklan, the strange healer from wherever it was down there, looking every inch the warrior, yet playing the coward before the crowd until his horse laid Uskal out. And Isloman, revealed suddenly as one of the Orthlundyn Goraidin. The two of them, alone, seeking out Dan-Tor to demand an accounting for an incident that could not possibly have happened. Armed Mandrocs marching through Fyorlund to commit atrocities in Orthlund? Yet the two men had patently been telling the truth. The paradox had cost him sleepless nights. He, who could sleep in his saddle in the middle of a forced march. Then it was over. First, a flurry of increasingly improbable rumours: Dan-Tor attacked? The King slain? Rebellion? Then, a dreadful silent lull and, as abruptly as they had come, the Mathidrin had left; the whole complement riding off secretly one night without a word of explanation. The villagers had scarcely had time to assimilate this change when Jaldaric and Arinndier had ridden in with a good old-fashioned High Guard escort, and announced the defeat and flight of Dan-Tor and the Mathidrin. But they had brought worse news. Ludicrous news. Dan-Tor was Oklar, the Uhriel. Sumeral had come again and raised Derras Ustramel in Narsindal. No, Berryn had thought, rebelliously. Lord or no, Arinndier, you’re wrong. Dan-Tor was a bad old devil, but I can’t accept that kind of nonsense. And he had resolved to bring himself nearer the heart of this turmoil. Someone had to start talking sense. Thus when Arinndier had dismissed his escort, fearing that such a patrol might be none too popular in Orthlund, Rede Berryn had offered the services of himself and Tel-Mindor as guides. ‘We know the border area well, Lord,’ he had said. ‘Tel-Mindor doesn’t look like much, but he’s worth the three of us put together. And no one’s going to be upset by a limping old duffer like me.’ On the journey, however, Arinndier had talked quite freely of all the events that had happened since the Geadrol had been suspended, and Berryn had found the threads binding him to his old commonsense reality were stretched to breaking point. Now, in his simple statement, the young Orthlundyn had severed them utterly. Oddly, the Rede felt more at ease, as many past events took on a new perspective. Battle nerves, he thought suddenly. Just battle nerves. All that furious turmoil before you finally turn round and face the truth. The realization made him smile. ‘You find the idea amusing,’ Fyndal said, misinterpreting the smile and uncertain whether to be indignant or reproachful. The Rede looked at him intently. Young men preparing for war again, and doubtless old men encouraging them. Well he’d be damned if he’d play that game! ‘No,’ he said, his voice stern but sad. ‘I’ve ridden the Watch and done my time in Narsindal.’ He tapped the scar on his head. ‘I’m only sorry I stopped watching too soon. Sorry for my sake, sorry for your sake.’ Something in the man’s voice made Arinndier look at him. ‘Don’t reproach yourself, Rede,’ he said. ‘You weren’t alone. And at least we can see more clearly now. We’ve no time for self-indulgence. You ensured that Hawklan reached Vakloss. Without that, all could well have been lost.’ He turned back to Fyndal. ‘We need to bring our news to Loman and the Memsa as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Have you made your judgement about us yet, soldier?’ ‘Yes,’ Fyndal replied, taken unawares by his kindly bluntness. ‘Some time ago.’ Then his youth showed on his face. ‘Can you tell us nothing about Hawklan?’ he asked, almost plaintively. Arinndier shook his head regretfully and repeated his previous reply. ‘At Anderras Darion, soldier,’ he replied. ‘And only then as determined by Loman and Memsa Gulda.’ For a moment, Fyndal seemed inclined to pursue the matter, but then with a resigned nod of his head, he let it go. ‘I’ll ensure that you’re not delayed then,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the post riders send news of your arrival ahead. That will save you a great deal of time, though I fear you may find Loman and Memsa away with the army in the mountains still.’ ‘You have an army mobilized?’ Arinndier asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. Fyndal nodded. Arinndier pulled his cloak around himself as a sudden gust of the cold raw wind that had been blowing in their faces all day buffeted them. ‘There’s winter in the wind,’ he said. ‘I don’t envy anyone doing a mountain exercise in this.’ ‘It’s no exercise, Lord,’ Fyndal said, his face suddenly grim. ‘They’re out trying to deal with an unexpected foe.’ Arinndier raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but a brief knowing smile from Fyndal stopped him. ‘I’ll find out at Anderras Darion?’ he suggested. Fyndal’s smile broadened, though it did not outshine the concern in his face. ‘Indeed, Lord,’ he said. Arinndier accepted the gentle rebuke at his own secrecy with good grace. ‘You won’t be accompanying us yourselves?’ Fyndal shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We have to finish our tour of duty here first.’ ‘I doubt you’ll see any more travellers from Fyorlund,’ Arinndier said. ‘If you feel you’ll be needed with your army.’ Fyndal bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said. ‘But had we been needed, we’d have been sent for. Our orders were to watch, and watch we must.’ Berryn nodded in approval. Then Fyndal glanced at his brother and the three others, and they were gone, disappearing silently back into the noisy trees. ‘Just stay on this road,’ he said, turning back to the Fyordyn. ‘It’ll carry you straight to Anderras Darion. And don’t hesitate to ask for food or shelter at any of the villages. They’ll be expecting you by the time you arrive.’ And, with a brief farewell, he too was gone. As the sound of hoof-beats dwindled, Tel-Mindor rode alongside Arinndier. ‘I didn’t see them following us, Lord,’ he admitted. ‘Whoever they were, they weren’t ordinary soldiers. And it almost defies belief to think that anyone could have been trained so well in just a few months.’ Arinndier nodded. ‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think that whatever problems the Orthlundyn are having in the mountains, they’re still keeping a very strict watch on their border with us, and, frankly, I don’t blame them. As for the training . . .’ He shrugged. ‘The past months have reminded me of the service they gave against the Morlider, and it was considerable. The Orthlundyn are a strange people. I’ve heard them referred to as a remnant people at times. Not a phrase I’d care to use myself, but there aren’t many of them, for sure, and it does prompt the question: remnant of what?’   * * * *   As the day progressed, the quartet trotted steadily south through the cold damp wind. At the top of a long hill, Arinndier grimaced. ‘It’s neither mellow like autumn, nor sharp like winter,’ he said, reining his horse to a halt. ‘Let’s walk awhile, give the horses a rest.’ Then he looked around at the countryside they had just ridden through. After a moment, he nodded reflectively to himself. Despite the unwelcoming wind and the dull hues of the dying vegetation, the place had its own strange peace. A sudden intake of breath cut across his reverie. Turning, he saw that it was Jaldaric, and even as he looked at him, he saw the young man’s face, already pale with cold, blanching further until it was almost white. ‘What is it, Jal?’ he asked anxiously. Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came. ‘It was here,’ he managed eventually, gazing around. ‘I didn’t recognize it until I turned round and looked back down the hill. It was here. The Mandrocs.’ Arinndier’s eyes narrowed at Jaldaric’s patent distress. Tel-Mindor caught Arinndier’s eye and drew his gaze to the bushes and shrubs that lined the road. They still bore signs of the damage where the Mandrocs had crashed through in pursuit of the High Guards. ‘Would you like to be alone?’ Arinndier asked. Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stand here alone every night as it is. Watching . . . Aelang . . . struggling with his cloak and then smiling.’ He put his hand to his face involuntarily as if to block Aelang’s swift and savage blow. It was a well-rehearsed movement. As Arinndier watched him he noted with regret the grimness in his face and abruptly he was reminded of Eldric’s ferocious father. Tel-Mindor stepped forward and took Jaldaric’s arm. ‘Say farewell to your friends now, Jal,’ he said gently. ‘Leave them here. There are no good places to die violently, but there are worse than here.’ Jaldaric clenched his teeth. ‘I will stay a moment,’ he said. ‘You carry on. I’ll join you shortly.’ The three men were silent after they walked away from the young man. Each knew that there was little they could do to ease Jaldaric’s burden, and while grief is a rending emotion, watching it in someone else is precious little easier. Eventually Jaldaric rejoined them, his face set and emotionless. No one spoke and, mounting up, the party set off again. As Fyndal had promised, the villagers they encountered had been told of their coming and they found themselves being offered an abundance of food and drink. Having brought adequate supplies with them, they tried to decline this generosity, only to find that Fyndal had laid gentle traps for them. ‘Yes, we know you’re in a hurry with your news, but you can eat this while you ride,’ was the comment that invariably ended their hesitant refusals. Jaldaric in particular was visibly moved by the warmth of the greeting he received. After passing through Little Hapter, Arinndier carefully stowed a large pie in his saddlebag and looked at the others a little shamefacedly. ‘I couldn’t refuse the woman, could I?’ he asked. ‘They must think we’ve had a famine at home, not a war. Are there many more villages between here and Anderras Darion, Jal?’ ‘I’m afraid so,’ Jaldaric replied, now much more relaxed, and smiling broadly. ‘We should’ve brought another pack-horse,’ Tel-Mindor said, chuckling. Jaldaric nodded. ‘They do take some pride in their hospitality,’ he said. ‘But if you want the benefit of my local knowledge, whatever you do, don’t start admiring their carving, or we’ll never reach Anderras Darion.’ Their first encounters with the Orthlundyn however, whilst burdening their packs, had eased their unspoken concerns greatly. The people apparently held no ill-will towards the Fyordyn who had inadvertently brought such trouble to their land. Even the chill wind seemed to lose some of its edge. After they had passed through Perato, Berryn remarked on the absence of young people from the villages. ‘They must all be with this army of theirs in the mountains. It must be a civilian militia,’ he said. No one disputed this conclusion and the Rede nodded to himself. ‘I know there aren’t many Orthlundyn,’ he went on, ‘but if those villages are typical, then they’ve got a big army, and if they’re all in the mountains, then they’re having to deal with a big problem.’ Arinndier looked at him. It was a valid deduction, but still it made no sense. Who could threaten the Orthlundyn from the east? The chilling thought occurred to him that while Fyordyn had been looking towards Vakloss, some army had swept down the Pass of Elewart to overwhelm Riddin and was now moving against Orthlund prior to attacking Fyorlund’s southern border. And we sent Sylvriss there! The panic-stricken thought nearly made him voice his fear, but it was followed immediately by the memory of the faces of the villagers they had met. These were not the faces of a people facing imminent destruction at the hands of an army powerful enough to have overcome the Riddin Muster. Nonetheless, the Rede’s comments had given him a problem that would not be set lightly aside, and at the next village he asked directly what the army was doing. The villagers made reassuring noises. ‘Don’t you worry yourself about that, young man,’ came the reply from a man whom Arinndier judged to be somewhat younger than himself. ‘It’s just a little trouble with the Alphraan. I’m sure Loman and Memsa Gulda will sort it out soon. Not many things argue with Memsa Gulda for long.’ This last remark brought some general laughter from the group that had gathered around the new arrivals, but Arinndier sensed an undertow of concern that was more serious than the levity indicated. ‘Who in the world are the Alphraan?’ he asked his companions as they continued on their way. The name was vaguely familiar but he had been loath to show his ignorance to the villagers. Jaldaric was frowning. ‘The only Alphraan I’ve ever heard of are in . . . children’s tales,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Little people . . . who live underground and . . . sing.’ Rede Berryn and Tel-Mindor both nodded. Arinndier looked at them sternly, then his own memory produced the same image from somewhere in his childhood. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps the word means something different down here,’ he said. Tel-Mindor laughed softly. ‘Perhaps Fyndal’s sent more than one message to the villagers,’ he said significantly. The following day the wind had eased, but it was still cold, and the winter chill in the air was unequivocal. And as if to emphasize this, many of the already snow-capped mountains to the east were whiter than they had been on the previous day. Looking at them, the thought of Sylvriss, Hawklan and Isloman came inexorably to Arinndier’s mind. They should be through the mountains by now . . . But the route taken by Sylvriss’s party was little used, and that taken by Isloman’s was virtually unexplored. And as far as could be seen from Eldric’s stronghold, snow had come to the higher, inner mountains unexpectedly early. Of course there was nothing he could do, but it took some effort to remind himself of that. ‘What’s that?’ Tel-Mindor’s voice interrupted Arinndier’s brooding. The Goraidin was holding his hand up for silence and craning forward intently. Unconsciously, the others imitated him. Faintly, the sound of distant singing reached them. It came and went, carried on the slight breeze. ‘I hope it’s not some kind of celebration for us,’ Arinndier said, patting his stomach. The remark brought back to Jaldaric his tormented evening at Pedhavin when the villagers had held an impromptu feast for them before he had had to return silently on his treacherous errand to snatch away Tirilen. Several times during that evening he had forgotten utterly why he was there in the whirl of the music and the dancing. Then his purpose would return to chill him to the heart like a mountain wind striking through a sun-baked and sweltering walker breasting a ridge. Since his welcome by the Orthlundyn however, this sad, dark thread running though his memory had faded a little, and the happiness he had felt had become more dominant. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Lord,’ he said. ‘If it’s a celebration, they’ll soon dance the food off us.’ When they reached the next village however, despite the fact that there was quite a large crowd of villagers on the small central green, there was no special celebration awaiting them. In fact, though they were again offered food and drink, the attention that was paid to them was markedly less than that they had received hitherto. The main topic of interest was the distant singing. For distant it still was. As the Fyordyn had neared the village, the singing had grown a little louder and clearer, but its source was obviously not near at hand. ‘What is it?’ Arinndier asked, but the villagers did not know and with polite head shaking declined to be drawn into conjecture by these outlanders. Pausing by the village leaving-stone, Arinndier turned to the others. ‘Something strange is happening,’ he said. ‘Whether it’s bad or good I don’t know, but I think we should move a little faster.’ No one disagreed. Over the next few hours, the singing grew louder and, despite their concern, the four men could not be other than swept up in its elaborate pulsing rhythms and joyous melodies. ‘Somebody, somewhere, is celebrating without a doubt,’ Berryn said. ‘That is amazing singing.’ But Arinndier frowned slightly. ‘Amazing indeed,’ he said. ‘But who could sing so long and so well, and with such power that it carries so far and so clearly?’ As the question left his lips, the four riders, line abreast, clattered over the top of a small rise. Arinndier gasped at the sight before them, and signalled to the group to halt. For a time they were motionless and the singing rose around them to fill the air so that it seemed to be coming from every conceivable direction.     Chapter 2 Andawyr dived into his small tent, sealed the entrance and, rubbing his hands together ferociously, swore roundly, in a manner most unbecoming in the chosen leader of the ancient Order of the Cadwanol. It was bitterly cold in the tent and his breath steamed out in great clouds, but at least he was now out of that merciless wind. Gathering his cloak tight about him, he crouched down and fumbled in his pack. After some muttering he produced a small bag and immediately began to struggle with its tightly laced mouth. It took him some minutes of finger blowing and further profanity, together with judicious use of his incisors, to release the leather thong, but eventually he succeeded and with some relief emptied the contents on to a small tray. He looked at the radiant stones dubiously. He’d never been any good at striking these damned things. And they didn’t look very good either. He’d bought them very cheaply from a shifty-eyed blighter at the Gretmearc. Rubbing his still frozen hands together again, he decided now that that might have been a mistake – a very false economy. The wind buffeted the tent to remind him where he was and he shrugged his self-recriminations aside; good or bad, there’d be something in these things and he must get them lit quickly. Delving into his pack again, he retrieved the striker and, tongue protruding slightly, scraped it along one of the stones. Somewhat to his surprise a glowing white line appeared and spread out across the surface of the stone. Less to his surprise, it faded almost immediately into a dull red. He eyed the stone malevolently and struck it again, but the result was the same. Turning his attention to the striker he adjusted it and tried again, but still the stone refused to ignite satisfactorily. Several minutes later he had made little further progress, though he was a good deal warmer by then, and his face was redder by far than most of the stones he had managed to strike into some semblance of life. He threw the striker down irritably. There was a soft, deep chuckle. ‘I can do without any of your comments, thank you, Dar,’ Andawyr said testily. ‘It’s all right for you, snug in your own place. I’m freezing to death here.’ ‘I never said a word,’ came the injured reply, radiating insincerity. ‘I told you that you should have brought a proper travelling tent, bu . . .’ ‘Don’t say that again,’ Andawyr said warningly. ‘It’s hard enough on foot through these mountains without struggling with a pack-horse.’ He held out his hands over the dull red stones. ‘And these things are useless as well,’ he added. ‘You bought them,’ came Dar-volci’s unsympathetic voice. ‘These were matured stones when I bought them,’ Andawyr protested unconvincingly. ‘I’ll lay odds that that beggar at the Gretmearc switched them when he bagged them.’ He turned one of the unstruck stones over with an expert expression on his face. ‘I’ll report him to the Market Senate next time I’m there.’ ‘Matured,’ Dar-volci was scornful. ‘You couldn’t tell a matured stone from a potato. They were baked. I told you that, but you wouldn’t listen.’ Andawyr grunted sulkily and muttered something about the Market Senate again. ‘The Senate would throw them at your silly head,’ Dar-volci said. ‘You’re so naive. Why don’t you listen to someone who knows, once in a while?’ ‘They were a bargain,’ Andawyr said indignantly. Dar-volci made a disparaging noise. ‘Well, warm yourself on your cheery profit then,’ he scoffed. ‘You and your bargains. They see you coming, great leader. You shouldn’t try to horse-trade; you’ve neither the eye, the ear nor the wit for it. You should know that by now. Do you remember that bargain cooking pot you bought – very cheap . . .’ ‘Dar!’ Andawyr’s eyes narrowed menacingly, but Dar-volci continued, warming to his theme. ‘Genuine Harntor smithing . . . where the Riddinvolk get their precious horseshoes from.’ His deep laugh filled the tent. ‘Backside melted out of it the first time you used it. What a stink! Then there was tha . . .’ ‘That’s enough,’ Andawyr snapped. ‘Go to sleep.’ Dar-volci chuckled maliciously. ‘Good night then, old fellow,’ he said. ‘Sleep snug.’ Andawyr ignored the taunt and turned his attention back to the sulky radiant stones, struggling fitfully to shed their red warmth. Unnecessarily, he glanced from side to side, as if someone might be watching, then, muttering to himself, ‘Well, just a smidgeon,’ he brought his thumb and first two fingers together, and with a flick of his wrist, nodded them at the stones. There was a faint hiss, and a white light spread over the reluctant stones. ‘I heard that,’ Dar-volci said, knowingly. ‘Shut up,’ Andawyr said peevishly. The heat from stones filled the tent almost immediately and Andawyr removed his cloak and loosened some of the outer layers of the clothes he had hastily donned at the sudden onset of the snow storm. He had always been reluctant to use the Old Power for simple creature comforts, sensing that in some way it would weaken, even demean his humanity. And since his ordeal in Narsindal and his flight along the Pass of Elewart, this reluctance was even stronger. Still, the others did twit him gently about his excessive concern . . . and this was an emergency, he reassured himself faintly. The wind rattled the tent again as if in confirmation of this convenient rationalization. After a little while, he reached out and dimmed the bright glow of the stones. Then he lay down and, staring up at the roof of the tent, listened to the howling wind. What would tomorrow bring? When he had set off for Orthlund he had expected a cold, perhaps dismal, journey through the mountains, and had equipped himself accordingly. But this . . .? This was winter. Granted he was at the highest point of his journey, but such a storm was still unexpected, and he hadn’t the supplies to sit for the days it might take to blow itself out; the journey had already taken him longer than he had anticipated. He would have to move on tomorrow, and would probably have to use the Old Power both to guide himself and to survive. He frowned as he realized just how deep was his reluctance to use this skill that he had struggled so long to master. He recalled a comment his old teacher had made many years earlier. ‘I sometimes wonder whether we use it, or it uses us,’ he had said. ‘It’s so beyond our real understanding.’ It had been a passing comment, lightly made, but it had stuck like a barbed dart in his young acolyte’s mind, subsequently making him work as hard at being able to sustain himself without the Power as he was skilled in using it. When later he had become head of the Order, this attitude had inevitably percolated down to permeate all its members. ‘We’re teachers,’ he would say. ‘We can’t teach people anything if we can’t live as they live, strive as they strive.’ But he knew that his real motivation was deeper than that and not accessible to such simple logic. The Old Power was the power of the Great Searing, from which and by which all things were formed, and from whose terrible heat had walked Ethriss and the Guardians, followed silently by Sumeral with lesser banes at His heels. Faced with the terrible dilemma that Sumeral’s teaching of war had presented him, Ethriss had given the Cadwanol the knowledge of how to use the Old Power so that they might aid both the Guardians and the mortal armies of the Great Alliance of Kings and Peoples against the Uhriel and His vast and terrible hordes. However, as his teacher had said, to understand its use was not necessarily to understand its true nature. Andawyr turned on his side and gazed at the stones, glowing even now with this very power. ‘How can we understand the true nature of such a thing?’ he muttered softly. Even Ethriss himself may not have understood it. According to the most ancient documents in the vast archives of the Cadwanol, when questioned by his first pupils, all he had said, with a smile, was, ‘It is .’ ‘It is ,’ Andawyr echoed softly into the still air of his tent. He was right, he knew. While skill in the use of the Old Power must be studied and practiced and improved, it should be used by humans only where all human skills had failed and great harm threatened. Its use was not part of the gift that Ethriss had given to humanity. ‘I created you to go beyond it,’ he had also said; an enigmatic phrase that had taxed minds ever since. It was a knowledge that he had reluctantly thrust into the hands of men for use as a weapon only when their very existence and that of all things wrought by himself and the Guardians were threatened. Its inherent dangers were demonstrated all too clearly by Sumeral’s use of it to corrupt the three rulers who were to become His Uhriel. ‘Some part of all of us is Uhriel.’ Andawyr’s eyes widened. That phrase too, was one his teacher had used, but it was one he had not recalled for a long time. He closed his eyes and tried to let the topic go. The debate was an old one amongst the Cadwanwr, and none disagreed in principle with Andawyr’s thinking, though the consensus was that the revered Head of the Order was a little over-zealous in his reluctance to use the Power for minor matters. Andawyr smiled to himself as he felt the warmth of the stones on his face. He had seen the unsuccessfully hidden looks of patient tolerance, not to say irritation, as he had scratched vainly at stones in the past, or struggled with some heavy burden – and made others struggle with him – instead of lifting it the easy way! Yet they too were right. It was a mistake to be too zealous in avoiding the use of the Old Power. Why should he have even hesitated here in this biting cold, where failure to ignite the stones might have proved fatal for him? Balance, he thought. That’s all it is. Balance. Too much either way is wrong. But where was the balance? Only one thing was certain: the route to it lay along no easy path. Always judgement had to be used, and always judgement was flawed in some degree. His thoughts began to wander as the day’s walking and the last hours’ increasingly anxious toiling began to take their toll. ‘G’night, Dar,’ he muttered faintly, but there was no reply. Twice he jerked awake suddenly as the dark horror of his journey out of Narsindal came briefly and vividly into his deepening sleep. This happened almost every night, though much less so now than when he had first returned. He bore it with a snarl. ‘I survived the deed, I refuse to fear its shadow’, was the sword and buckler he reached for whenever he found himself hesitating to close his eyes. The third time, however, it was no fearful memory that awoke him. It was the entrance to his tent being torn open and a body crashing in, accompanied by whirling flurries of snow and the icy blast of the storm. Instantly bolt upright, his heart racing, Andawyr raised his hand to defend himself against this apparition. No hesitation to use the Old Power when it mattered, he noted briefly. However, a mere glance showed that the intruder not only held no weapon, but was exhausted. Not a threat, he realized. ‘Unless it’s to freeze me to death,’ he muttered out loud. Hastily he seized the body and, with a great effort, dragged it into the tent, nearly upsetting the radiant stones in the process. As he sealed the entrance again, a hand clutched at him. He turned with a start, ready again to defend himself. ‘My horse,’ said the new arrival, his voice very weak. ‘My horse.’ Andawyr looked at the snow-covered figure and the few small flakes still whirling around the tent in the light of the glowing stones. ‘Please,’ said the figure, weakly but urgently. Andawyr gave a resigned sigh. ‘Riddinvolk I presume,’ he said and, without waiting for an answer, he gathered his cloak about himself tightly and, with an ill grace, stepped out into the howling darkness. Fortunately the horse was nearby, standing at the edge of the circle of light cast by the tent’s beacon torch. Andawyr suddenly felt his irritation and concern pushed aside by a feeling of humility at the sight of the animal standing patiently in the snow-streaked light, head bowed against the storm. Few travelled these mountains at any time, and none would normally be travelling at this time of year, yet, on an impulse he had lit his beacon torch; and now it had drawn this lone traveller and his mount here and undoubtedly saved his life. He struck his hand torch and walked over to the horse, staggering a little as the powerful wind drove into him. ‘Come on, Muster horse,’ he said, taking the animal’s bridle. ‘It’s a little more sheltered over here. Your duties are over for the night. I’ll look after your charge.’ The horse looked at him soulfully for a moment, then yielded to the gentle pressure. Returning to the tent, Andawyr found the new arrival’s concern unchanged. ‘My horse?’ he asked, his voice still weak. ‘I’ve thrown a couple of your blankets over him and put him in the lee of some rocks,’ Andawyr said. ‘It’s not ideal, but he should be all right. I’ve given him a fodder bag as well.’ The man relaxed visibly and Andawyr shook his head. ‘You people and your horses,’ he said. ‘You’re incredible. Now let’s have a look at you.’ The man offered no resistance to Andawyr’s examination. ‘You’re lucky,’ Andawyr said when he had finished. ‘There’s no frost damage to your hands and face, and judging from your boots I presume you can still feel all your toes?’ The man nodded. ‘I should have stopped sooner,’ he said, still weak. ‘I misjudged the storm.’ ‘You’re not alone,’ Andawyr said. ‘Luckily you’re only chilled and exhausted, but it’s a good job you saw my light. You wouldn’t have made it through the night.’ He moved the tray of radiant stones as far away from the man as he could, then with a flick of his fingers he made them a little brighter. ‘Keep away from the stones,’ he said. ‘Just lie still and rest. You’ll soon warm up in here, it’s a well-sealed tent: airy and snug.’ The man nodded again, sleepily. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed softly. He made an attempt to say something else but it turned into an incomprehensible mumble as he succumbed to his fatigue. Andawyr looked at him closely. He was a heavily built man, in late middle age, he judged, and from the quality of his clothes, wealthy; definitely not a man one might expect to find roaming the mountains, especially at this time of year. Nodding to himself thoughtfully, he lay down again. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to find out who the man was and why he was there. Another flick of his fingers dimmed the radiant stones to their original redness. No point using the Old Power too much. He smiled as he caught the almost reflexive thought. The tent would retain the heat, and the stones, baked or not, would take back any excess and mature a little. ‘I’ll keep out of sight until we’re sure of this one,’ came Dar-volci’s deep voice softly. Andawyr muttered his approval, then allowed himself a brief smugness as he closed his eyes; it had been a good day. The next morning he was wakened by a gentle shaking. He sat up jerkily, scratching himself and yawning. His guest was holding a bowl of food out to him. ‘I took the liberty of making some breakfast for you,’ he said. His voice was quite deep, and rich with the sing-song Riddin lilt. ‘It’s from my own supplies,’ he added hastily. Andawyr squeezed the remains of his broken nose. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘That was kind of you. I’m afraid it’s a meal I’m apt to neglect.’ ‘No, no,’ the stranger said. ‘It’s I who must thank you for looking after my horse and taking me in.’ Andawyr smiled behind his bowl and paused. Typical Riddinvolk, he thought. Horse first, rider second. Without asking, he knew that the man would have been out to check on the animal before attending to his own needs. The man misunderstood Andawyr’s hesitation. ‘Is the food not warm enough?’ he asked, his voice concerned. ‘I had a little difficulty with your stones; they’re not very good, I’m afraid. They look as if they’ve been baked to me.’ Andawyr shot the stones an evil glance then returned to his guest. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The stones could be better – bad bargain I’m afraid. But the food’s fine.’ ‘My name’s Agreth,’ the man said, sitting down heavily and extending his hand. ‘Don’t do the travelling I used to,’ he added, then flicking a thumb upwards, ‘This lot wouldn’t have caught me out once. Judgement’s going, I’m afraid,’ he added. ‘I’m not so sure,’ Andawyr said. ‘It’s unseasonal to say the least, and it came on very suddenly.’ His face became intent. ‘Agreth?’ he said, testing the name until its familiarity brought it into place. ‘You’re one of Ffyrst Urthryn’s advisers aren’t you?’ He was about to name Agreth’s House and Decmill by way of a brief cadenza, but he remembered in time that the Riddinvolk enthusiasm for lineage and family was not something to be lightly released, and he held his tongue. Agreth smiled. ‘Indeed I am,’ he said. ‘Though when he finds out I nearly froze to death like some apprentice stable lad, he might be looking elsewhere for advice.’ Andawyr laughed and, laying his bowl down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And what’s one of the Ffyrst’s advisers doing alone in the middle of the mountains, halfway to Orthlund, if I might ask?’ he asked jovially. ‘Morlider come back again?’ He noted the flicker of reaction in Agreth, though it barely reached the man’s eyes before he had it under control. ‘No, no,’ the man replied, with a hint of surprised amusement. ‘Just some private business in Orthlund.’ Andawyr nodded, and waited for the counter-attack. ‘And may I know the name of my rescuer?’ Agreth asked. Andawyr teased him a little. ‘Ah,’ he said smiling broadly. ‘That’s the name of your horse. I’m only your host. But my name’s Andawyr.’ This revelation produced a reaction that he had not expected. Agreth frowned briefly then, as recognition came into them, his eyes widened and, reaching forward he seized Andawyr’s wrists. ‘From the Caves of Cadwanen,’ he said almost breathlessly. ‘Oslang’s leader. On your way, as I am, to Anderras Darion to spread your news and to see what’s happened to this man Hawklan.’ Despite himself, Andawyr’s mouth fell open. ‘Yes,’ he managed to stammer. ‘But . . .’ Agreth raised a hand. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and unsealing the entrance he thrust his head outside. Drawing back, he said, ‘The wind’s dropped, but it’s still snowing. Let’s get moving while we can still see. With luck the travelling should get easier as we move down.’ Andawyr opened his mouth to speak again, but Agreth was taking charge. ‘I know Oslang’s tale, and therefore yours,’ he said, cutting ruthlessly through all discussion as he quickly fastened his cloak about him. ‘Let me tell you mine as we travel.’ Andawyr looked through the open entrance. Agreth’s advice was sound. Visibility was reasonable, but the sky was leaden and the snow was falling heavily. Nothing was to be gained except danger by staying here to relate histories. ‘Very well, Line Leader,’ he said with a smile. ‘We’ll walk and talk awhile.’ It took the two men only minutes to dismantle and stow the tent and soon they were strapping their packs on to Agreth’s horse. As he secured the load, Agreth looked around, his face anxious. ‘What’s the matter?’ Andawyr asked. ‘I’ve never travelled these mountains before,’ Agreth replied. ‘I’ve a map, but it’s hard to read and I’ve been relying on the path to a large extent. Now . . .’ He shrugged and gestured at the snow-covered landscape. Andawyr looked at him and then followed his gaze, trying to view this cold, beautiful terrain with the eyes of a man brought up on the broad, rolling plains of Riddin. The Riddinvolk loved the mountains that bordered their land – but only to look at. ‘Give me your map,’ he said simply. Agreth fumbled underneath his cloak and eventually produced the document. Andawyr pulled the Riddinwr towards him and, with their two bodies sheltering the map from the falling snow, carefully unfolded the map. ‘It’s a long time since I travelled this route, myself,’ he said. ‘But I can remember it quite well. However, there’s no point in you just following me. If I get hurt or if we get separated, you’ll have to lead, so, with respect, adviser to the Ffyrst, I’ll spend a portion of our journey showing you how to read this.’ He tapped the map gently. Agreth seemed doubtful, and anxious to be on his way, but Andawyr was insistent. ‘This is not bad,’ he said after a moment. ‘There’s some very good detail. See, we’re here.’ Agreth screwed his eyes up in earnest concentration. Andawyr’s finger jabbed at the map and then out into the greyness. ‘That is that small peak over there, and that is the larger one next to it.’ For a few minutes, for the benefit of his reluctant pupil, Andawyr identified on the map such of their surroundings as could be seen, then the two men set off slowly and cautiously through the deepening snow. As they walked, Agreth told Andawyr of Sylvriss’s unexpected arrival in Riddin, and of her strange tale of the corruption and decay of Fyorlund. He concluded with the interrogation of Drago, and the news that the Morlider were preparing to attack Riddin, united now by a leader that was presumed to be the Uhriel, Creost. Andawyr stopped walking and looked round at the mountains, grey and ominous in the dull wintry light. Not a sound was to be heard except the soft hiss of the falling snow. Oklar ruling a divided Fyorlund, Creost uniting and guiding the Morlider, Rgoric murdered, Vakloss torn apart, Hawklan struck down and perhaps even now lost in these snow-shrouded hills. He put his hand to his head. ‘Are you all right?’ Agreth asked anxiously. No, Andawyr cried out to himself in self-disgust. No. How can I be all right? Me, leader of the Cadwanol, Ethriss’s chosen watchers and seekers after knowledge, who slept when all the demons of the ages were waking and running amok! I just want to lie down in this cold grey silence and become part of it – free from all this horror forever. ‘Yes,’ he said out loud, letting the now familiar reproaches rage unhindered and unspoken. ‘It’s just that so many things seem to be moving against us.’ He looked up at the snowflakes spearing down into his face, grey and black against the dull sky. ‘Even the weather’s moving against us,’ he said as his distress slowly began to fade away. It would return many times yet, he knew. Agreth looked on, uncertain what to say. Andawyr gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Still, all we can do is walk forward, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping out again. ‘And we find help in the strangest places, don’t we?’ He looked at his companion. ‘In the midst of this lonely and ancient place, you find a cosy billet for the night, and I find someone to carry my pack.’ He laughed suddenly, and held out his arms wide. ‘I used to love this weather when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘Sledging, snowballing. How can this be against me?’ Impulsively he walked over to a nearby rock and scooped the snow on top of it into a single heap. Then he began compacting and shaping it. Watching him, Agreth’s uncertainty returned. This was the man that Oslang called his leader? What was he doing? Finally, Andawyr bent down, made a snowball, placed it carefully on top of his handiwork and stood back to admire the result – a tiny snowman. ‘There,’ he said, beaming. ‘Isn’t that splendid?’ He saluted the small figure. ‘Enjoy the view little fellow. Enjoy the peace and quiet. No one will disturb you when we’ve gone. Have a happy winter. Light be with you.’ Brushing the caked snow from his arms, he turned to Agreth who was struggling to keep his doubts from his face. Andawyr laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m still here. But the day I can’t appreciate being eight years old, will be a sad one for me.’ Then he was off again, as briskly as the snow would allow. ‘Come on,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We’ve a long way to go yet.’ Agreth patted his horse hesitantly, as if for reassurance, then set off after him. Later in the day, the snow stopped falling and the sky lightened a little, bringing more distant peaks into view, which Andawyr dutifully identified for Agreth on his map. They walked on slowly and carefully, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence, sometimes just concentrating where they were putting their feet as they negotiated steep and treacherous slopes. As they walked, however, they moved gradually downwards, away from the colder heights, and the snow became less deep. Eventually, reaching the valley floor, Agreth announced that they could ride for a spell, and Andawyr found himself astride the horse in front of the Muster rider. ‘Feel like an eight-year-old again?’ Agreth asked, laughing. Andawyr looked down nervously at the snow-covered ground passing underneath his dangling feet. It was much further below than he had imagined when he had been looking up at the horse. ‘It’ll take me a little time,’ he said dubiously. Agreth laughed again. Being able to ride from time to time enabled them to make good progress, and late in the afternoon Andawyr professed himself well pleased. Towards nightfall, however, the snow started to fall again, and the wind rose suddenly, obliging the two men to make their camp in some haste. As they pitched Andawyr’s tent, the landscape around them slowly began to disappear in a whirling haze. At last, Andawyr ushered Agreth into the tent and then struck the beacon torch with some relish. As he joined him inside he found that the Muster rider was examining one of the radiant stones. ‘These have been baked, without a doubt,’ he said in a tone of irritated regret, throwing the stone back with the others. ‘You should have a word with whoever does your buying.’ ‘I will,’ Andawyr replied, a little more tersely than he had intended, then without hesitation he ignited the stones as he had the previous night. Agreth started at the sudden flare of light, his face suddenly fearful. ‘I’m sorry,’ Andawyr said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just . . .’ ‘I know what it is,’ Agreth interrupted. ‘It’s the same power that Oslang knocked Drago down with. The same power that Oklar used on Vakloss.’ He looked distressed. ‘You saved my life and I feel no harm in you – nor does my horse, and he’s a far better judge than I am – but I am afraid of that.’ He pointed to the stones. ‘It’s terrifying.’ Andawyr stared into the warm comfort of the stones. The sudden tension inside the tent was almost palpable. Only the truth could ease it, he knew. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said after a long silence. ‘It is terrifying. But not here, not in this tent. Here it’s warmth and light. You don’t need to be told that the essence of a weapon lies in the intention of the user, do you?’ He looked up at Agreth, his face stern. ‘We’ve hard times ahead of us, Muster rider,’ he said. ‘We must learn to see things the way they are, with our fear acknowledged, but bound by our judgement. Fear this power as you would any other weapon; when it’s used against you by your enemies, not when it brings you aid and comfort in the darkness.’ Agreth was unconvinced. ‘My head accepts what you say, but here . . .’ He patted his stomach and shook his head. His face contorted unhappily as he searched for an explanation. ‘I don’t understand what it is,’ he said finally. ‘And how can I defend myself against such a power when it is used as a weapon?’ Andawyr looked into his eyes, and then returned his gaze to the stones. Again, only the truth was safe. ‘You can’t, Agreth,’ he said quietly after another long silence. ‘You can’t. Only I and my brothers can protect you.’ Agreth stared at the prosaic little man with the squashed nose; the little man who made snowmen in the middle of nowhere and who was nervous on a horse. ‘Are you enough?’ Agreth said after a brief hesitation. Andawyr shrugged. ‘Who can say?’ he replied. ‘But that’s a two-edged question. Are you enough in the Muster to protect us against the swords and arrows of Sumeral’s mortal army, when we’re extended to our full protecting you against His Power and that of His Uhriel?’ Agreth looked at him intently, then he too shrugged. Andawyr leaned forward. ‘We’ll all have our separate parts to play,’ he said. ‘And we’ll all be dependent on one another as well. We must learn each others’ strengths and weaknesses – what we each can and can’t do – and we must learn to trust where full understanding is not always possible. What else do we have?’ Agreth nodded pensively and the tension seemed to ease. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Oslang said more or less the same.’ Despite himself, Andawyr chuckled. ‘I should imagine he did,’ he said. ‘A Goraidin’s knife at your throat could breed great eloquence, I’m sure. Poor Oslang.’ Agreth stared thoughtfully at the radiant stones. ‘It’ll take some getting used to,’ he said. ‘But you are right. Without your power, we’d be having a very uncomfortable night tonight, even maybe at risk of dying. And what would be the consequences of that? I’d probably be no great loss, but the leader of the Cadwanol . . .?’ He let the question hang. ‘So just keeping us warm here is using this terrible power of yours – whatever it is, or whoever’s it is – to oppose Him already.’ He lay down and gazed up at the roof of the tent. ‘These flickering stones are the lights of the vanguard of the army that will come forth to meet the Great Corrupter,’ he said with mock rhetoric. Andawyr laughed at his mannerism. ‘Very metaphorical, Muster rider,’ he said. ‘Very metaphorical. I see you’ve a flair for the broad sweep.’ ‘I’ve painted a few house ends in my time,’ Agreth said drily. Andawyr laughed again, then he too lay down. The tent was warm now and he dimmed the glow of the stones. ‘Better if the enemy doesn’t see us coming too soon,’ he said, still chuckling. Agreth grunted amiably. Soon the two were sleeping soundly, oblivious to the moaning wind that twisted and swirled the snow around their small shelter, streaking black-shadowed and white across the bold unwavering light thrown by the beacon torch. A figure stepped cautiously to the edge of the light, and two more, swords drawn, moved silently to either side of its entrance. Something nudged Andawyr gently into silent wakefulness. It was Dar-volci. ‘Visitors, Andy,’ he said. ‘Very quiet, too.’ ‘Stay out of sight, and watch,’ Andawyr whispered. Then, giving Dar-volci the lie, a voice cried out above the wind. ‘Ho, the camp!’     Chapter 3 ‘Look,’ said Loman, pointing up at the four figures on the skyline. ‘That’ll be them. Fyndal’s post rider said they’d be here soon.’ Hawklan followed Loman’s gaze and smiled. He reached up and touched Gavor’s black beak. ‘Go and show them the way home,’ he said. ‘They’ll be frightened to death by all this. We’ll join you as soon as we can.’ The raven chuckled, then stretched out his great wings and floated up into the air. Hawklan’s comment was accurate; the scene around them was indeed intimidating. A great host of people was strung out in a long winding line that disappeared into the woods fringing the nearby hills to the east. Some were riding, some were walking, and some were riding on the equally long line of wagons that was threading its way through the centre of the crowd. Even as Hawklan was speaking, the head of the procession was spreading out like a great delta, and as the crowd reached the road it divided into two separate streams, one moving southwards, the other northwards. Gavor circled high and wide, and glided silently down on to the watching group from behind. He landed abruptly on Jaldaric’s shoulder, startling him violently. ‘So glad you’ve come, dear boy,’ he said with huge menace. ‘We’ve gathered a few interested souls to hear your accounting .’ He drew out the last word malevolently and then laughed raucously. ‘Isn’t it marvellous to be back home, dear boy?’ he continued, jumping up and down excitedly on his reluctant perch. ‘I’m not ,’ Jaldaric offered as he gathered his scattered wits, but Gavor ploughed on, oblivious. ‘It was very pleasant in the mountains, but one gets so weary of camp cooking and frozen extremities. I can’t wait to get back to a little decent food, some warmth and, of course, my friends. And it’s so nice to see you all again. Come along, hurry up, hurry up, everyone’s waiting for you. You can tell me what’s been happening as we go.’ Berryn and Tel-Mindor looked on wide-eyed at this apparition, then with a little, ‘Hup,’ Gavor hopped up on to Jaldaric’s head and, tapping his wooden leg in time to the rhythms pulsing around them, focused beadily on the two Fyordyn. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, as if reading their names from some terrible register of his own, ‘You’ll be Tel-Mindor and Rede Berryn.’ Both opened their mouths to speak, but Gavor rattled on jovially. ‘How are you? Welcome to Orthlund. Isn’t the music fine? Rather a lot of it, I’m afraid, but they’re celebrating, you see. How’s Uskal, these days? In pain I trust? Never mind, tell me later, I always prefer the good news to be last.’ ‘What’s happening, Gavor? And where’s Hawklan?’ Arinndier managed to find a momentary opening in this barrage. Gavor’s response was to click loudly. Jaldaric’s horse started forward under the command, and Arinndier could not stop himself from smiling at the young High Guard’s continuing discomfiture. Then he moved after him, motioning the others to follow. As they neared the approaching throng they saw that the predominant emotion was happiness. Some of the people were dancing impromptu steps to the music, others were clapping, some were singing, and overall there was a great deal of laughing and talking. The four men found themselves recipients of many friendly gestures and comments. Nonetheless, Rede Berryn could not forbear saying to Arinndier, very softly, ‘This is Orthlund’s army, Lord? It’s more like a Festival Tournament crowd.’ ‘Steady on, Rede,’ Gavor interposed. ‘You’re not the only one who can hear a smart-alec whisper from eight ranks back.’ Berryn looked at the bird suspiciously and tried to recall when he had last used the phrase. Before the Rede came to any conclusion, however, Arinndier had taken hold of his arm excitedly. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s Hawklan. He’s well again.’ He raised his arm in a frantic salute, and called out Hawklan’s name, but his voice was lost completely in the all-pervading clamour. The distant figure was looking at them, however, and raised his own hand in reply, before turning and trotting his horse back along the line to attend to some matter. Arinndier made to urge his horse forward, but the press of the crowd prohibited anything other than a very leisurely walk and with a slight frown he let the reins fall idly on the horse’s neck. ‘Hawklan’s well, then, Gavor?’ he asked. Gavor nodded. ‘He’s well, Lord,’ he replied. ‘We’re all well, and all anxious to be back home.’ ‘Your army’s in good voice, Gavor, but seems to have precious few weapons.’ Jaldaric said, his face puzzled. ‘That’s the Alphraan making all the noise,’ Gavor replied, slightly less enthusiastically than before. ‘The rest of us are just trying to make ourselves heard.’ He looked towards the mountains. ‘One can have too much of a good thing, can’t one?’ he added, very loudly. Jaldaric’s bewilderment merely increased. ‘But why no weapons?’ he persisted, clinging to the same question in the hope that one strand of clarity might lead to others. ‘We heard your army was in the mountains facing an unexpected foe. What’s happened? These people don’t look as if they’ve been defeated and disarmed.’ Gavor fidgeted restively. ‘It’s unbelievably complicated, young Jal,’ he said patronizingly. ‘As, I’ve no doubt, is your own tale. I can’t begin to explain everything in the middle of all this. Let’s get to Anderras Darion, take the weight off our feathers and have a talk at our leisure.’ He paused and nodded to himself, well satisfied at this suggestion. ‘I seem to remember that you Fyordyn are very good at talking,’ he added with a laugh, and then he launched himself forward and soared up into the air to avoid any further questions. Arinndier too, laughed and, patting Jaldaric’s arm, said, ‘That’s the best we’re going to get. Let’s take the bird’s advice and get to Hawklan’s castle. It’s good enough news now just to see him up and riding again.’ Gradually, the four Fyordyn eased their way through the crowd until eventually they were clear of it and cantering along the empty road. Gavor circled high above them, occasionally swooping upwards steeply and then, with an uproarious laugh, tumbling back down precipitately like a tangled black bundle. As they moved further from the following army, the pervasive music faded and eventually it could hardly be heard above the clatter of hooves on the intricately paved road. The daylight was fading rapidly when they eventually came into Pedhavin but, high above the village, light streamed out through the Great Gate of Anderras Darion which stood wide and welcoming. It had been visible to the four riders long before they had seen the village and had drawn them forward like a bright guiding star. As the Fyordyn passed the leaving stone and the small sorry heap of Dan-Tor’s decaying wares, Gavor flew past them noisily. ‘Up the hill, up the hill,’ he shouted. ‘Door’s open, and Gulda will be back by now. I’ll join you later!’ Then he was gone, into the deepening darkness. As the four men peered after him, the sound of a rather hoarse nightingale drifted down to them, followed by a fit of coughing. The village itself was alive with torches and bustling activity, with people running hither and thither through its rambling maze of streets in happy confusion. Most of those that the Fyordyn encountered acknowledged them, and once again Jaldaric found himself moved as apparent strangers came up to him and took his hand sympathetically. Arinndier gazed around, and then shook his head. ‘This is a bewildering little place,’ he said. ‘Everything’s covered in carvings and they all seem to be moving.’ ‘Amazing,’ said Rede Berryn, gazing around in awe. ‘I knew the Orthlundyn were carvers, but this . . .’ He fell silent as his eye caught a small plaque on which was carved what seemed to be a field of wheat. Under the touch of the torchlight, shadows rippled across it as though it were being stirred by a warm summer breeze. Berryn sat motionless, spellbound, while the others waited for him patiently. ‘Up the hill, up the hill.’ A friendly voice broke into their calm as a passer-by, thinking that the four outlanders were lost, pointed in the direction they should take. Arinndier thanked him, and the group moved off again. ‘What do you think of their communications, Goraidin?’ Arinndier asked Tel-Mindor with some amusement. The Goraidin raised his eyebrows. ‘Widespread,’ he replied enigmatically. The Goraidin’s manner made Arinndier’s amusement billow out into a great laugh which rang around the small square they were crossing. ‘Very true,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But they’ve not told us anything, you’ll note.’ Tel-Mindor nodded his head in acknowledgement. Then they were out of the village and heading up the steep road towards the castle. The activity was still continuing however, a small but steady stream of torch-bearing villagers moving slowly up and down the slope like a trail of tardy glow-worms. As the four riders neared the top of the slope, two figures came into sight. One was tall and straight and wearing a green robe decorated with a single black feather. The other was short and squat and leaning on a stick. Even though the light from the courtyard fell on her, she seemed to be as black as a silhouette. Reaching the Gate, all four men dismounted to find themselves submitting to Gulda’s inspection. Tirilen smiled slightly at the sight, though her eyes narrowed a little when she looked at Jaldaric and saw the subtle changes that the ordeals of the past months had wrought on his round, innocent face. Gulda saw it too even though she had never seen him before. ‘You’ll be Jaldaric, young man,’ she told him. ‘I hear you’ve had troubles of late.’ Jaldaric met her piercing gaze, but seemed uncertain how to reply. After a moment, she nodded. ‘You’ll live, Jaldaric, son of Eldric. You’ll live,’ she said, a gentleness in her voice and manner belying the seemingly harsh words. Then, Jaldaric released, she raised her stick horizontally and pointed to each of the others in turn as she pronounced her conclusions. ‘Your names have come before you as well,’ she said. ‘Rede Berryn, an old High Guard if ever I saw one. You’ve ridden the Watch, haven’t you?’ She did not wait for an answer, but moved on. ‘Tel-Mindor.’ She looked at him intently. ‘Special,’ she concluded after a moment. ‘Goraidin, probably. Fine men.’ Then, ‘And last, as is the protocol of the Geadrol, I believe: Lord Arinndier.’ She inclined her head slightly to Arinndier, who bowed his in reply. ‘Don’t be too distressed, Lord,’ she went on. ‘You’re not the first to have been quietly led astray by Sumeral and his agents.’ ‘You must be Memsa Gulda,’ Arinndier said as courteously as he could. But Gulda, her inspection complete, was gracious. ‘I am indeed,’ she said. ‘And this is Tirilen, a healer, and daughter to Loman, Hawklan’s castellan. Welcome to Anderras Darion, all of you. We’re honoured to have you here and you come at a propitious time . . .’ Unexpectedly, she chuckled. ‘We’ve just routed an ally.’ Then, without offering any explanation for this remark, she turned and stumped off through the Gate, beckoning the men to follow. ‘You’ll want to tend your own horses, I presume,’ she said as they strode out to keep up with her. ‘I’ll show you to the stables, then’ – she signalled to a young apprentice who had been hovering like a tiny planet some way from this weighty group – ‘this young man will show you to your rooms. You’ll be able to bathe and change out of your travelling clothes. Then we can eat and talk.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Considerable talkers, you Fyordyn, as I remember. I’ll look forward to it. I’ve no doubt we’ve a great deal of news for one another.’ ‘That would be most welcome, Memsa,’ Arinndier said. ‘But we need nothing to eat at the moment. The villagers on the way have been more than generous.’ Gulda nodded again. ‘That’s as may be, young man,’ she said. ‘But I’m ravenous. It’s been a long walk today and I’ve had nothing but camp fodder for the past few days.’ And without further comment she walked off into the Castle. Some while later the Fyordyn were ushered into a large room. A blaze of glowing radiant stones formed a focus for the warmth that filled it and a bright but mellow torchlight brought alive the carvings of rural scenes which decorated the walls. The ceiling was a great skyscape in which huge heavily laden clouds seemed to make a slow, endlessly changing progress. The four men were soon lounging luxuriously in the long-stored sunlight being released by the torches and the fire. For the most part, they were silent; even Jaldaric, who had seen the Castle before, was awed by the craftsmanship and beauty that he found surrounding him once again. Of the four, Rede Berryn was the most vocal, moving from carving to carving like an excited child examining his Winter Festival gifts. ‘This place is amazing,’ he said finally, flopping down noisily on to a long, accommodating settle, and carefully straightening his stiff leg. ‘Look at those torches. And those radiant stones. They splutter and crackle like burning logs. This room, this whole building, must catch and return every spark of their warmth for them to have matured like that. Marvellous, I haven’t seen anything like them in years, if ever. And these carvings defy description. I must get my old wood chisels out when I get home. I’d almost forgotten about them, there’s been so much sourness in the air these last few years, but at the first opportunity . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished, but beamed a great smile and waved his clenched fist as a token of his resolution. Arinndier and Tel-Mindor smiled in return, though Jaldaric seemed a little uncertain about how to handle this sudden onset of childlike enthusiasm. As they rested, each felt the calm of the room beginning to unravel the tangles of dire concerns that had grown over the past months to cloud their hearts and minds. Gradually they all became both silent and still, until eventually the only sounds in the room were the occasional murmur of the radiant stones and the muffled echoes of the activities outside as the Castle prepared to receive again its key-bearer and the many others for whom it was now home. But neither these nor the various people who came in from time to time to inquire solicitously about their comfort, offered any disturbance to the calm of the four men. Slowly but perceptibly the noises from outside changed in character, becoming more intense and purposeful, like a distant wind gathering energy. Then, abruptly, Hawklan was there. The large doors of the room flew open and a clatter of laughter and noise cascaded over the four Fyordyn, swirling the warmth around them, and lifting them out of their reveries. They all stood up expectantly. For a moment Hawklan stood motionless, framed in the doorway and gazing around the room. It seemed to Arinndier that the dancing music that had flooded through the land earlier that day was still washing around the feet of this strange, powerful man. Then the lean face split into a broad smile and Hawklan strode forward to greet his guests affectionately. Behind him came Loman and Isloman, followed in turn by Tirke and Dacu and several others, including Athyr and Yrain. Following them all, like a dour and watchful shepherdess herding her sheep, came Gulda. There was a great flurry of introductions and greetings including an alarming bear-hug of forgiveness and welcome for Jaldaric from Loman. Then the questions that both parties had been quietly fretting over for the past hours began to burst out, and very soon there was uproar, with everyone talking at once. Arinndier looked plaintively at Hawklan, who smiled and brought his hands together in a resounding clap. ‘Friends,’ he said loudly into the surprised silence. ‘We all have too much to tell for us to learn anything like this.’ He affected a great sternness. ‘We must therefore comport ourselves in the Fyordyn manner, so I shall put our meeting in the hands of the Lord Arinndier. No one may now speak without his permission.’ There was a little spatter of ironic applause, but the clamour did not return and as the company settled itself about the room, some on chairs and settles, some on the floor by the flickering fire, Arinndier rather self-consciously began relating the events that had occurred in Fyorlund since Rgoric had suspended the Geadrol. As if listening themselves, the torches dimmed a little, and the yellow glow of the radiant stones became tinged with red and orange. Despite Arinndier’s succinctness, it proved to be a long telling, and the bringing of food and drink for the latest arrivals proved a timely interruption. At the end there was a murmur of general satisfaction at the news of the defeat and flight of Dan-Tor, but it was Tirke who yielded to temptation. ‘He’s really gone?’ he exclaimed, unable to restrain himself. ‘We’re free of him? That’s . . .’ He clenched his fists and looked upwards for inspiration. ‘Incredible . . . marvellous,’ he produced, rather inadequately. ‘I’m only sorry I missed the battle.’ Arinndier gave him a stern look for this breach of etiquette. ‘Don’t be, Fyordyn,’ he said grimly, pulling his rebuke into the last word. ‘There was no joy in it, and there’ll be others that you won’t miss, I fear. That’s why we’re here. We’re not truly free of him. He’s alive and unhurt and ensconced in Narsindalvak with a large part of his Mathidrin intact. I doubt he intends to stay there long, and I doubt it’s in our interests to leave him there unhindered too long, though what we should do remains to be decided.’ Hawklan lifted his hand to speak. Arinndier acknowledged him. ‘We must talk further about these blazing wagons that Dan-Tor used,’ Hawklan said thoughtfully. ‘And the materials that were in the warehouse that Yatsu fired.’ ‘Indeed we must,’ Arinndier said. ‘They were terrifying. With a little more thought, he could have destroyed us.’ He frowned as he tried to set the thought aside. ‘Still, there are many things we need to discuss in due time, but tell us of your journey now, Hawklan, and your illness and your apparently miraculous recovery.’ Hawklan shrugged apologetically. ‘What happened to me after I struck Oklar and until I was awakened, I haven’t the words to tell. I’m sorry,’ he said, holding out his hands towards Dacu. It was thus the Goraidin who told the tale of their journey from Eldric’s stronghold and of their strange encounter with the Alphraan and the mysterious awakening of Hawklan. His spare, unadorned, Fyordyn telling forbade interruption, but a deep, almost fearful, silence fell over his audience as he described Hawklan’s brief but terrible battle with the monstrous remnant of Sumeral’s First Coming. Then he was concluding his tale. Telling how, after leaving the Alphraan’s strange caverns, they had found the gully that had led them safely across the shoulder of the mountain, and how their journey thereafter, though slow, had become gradually easier as they moved south and away from the premature snowfalls. ‘We have the route well mapped now,’ he said casually to Arinndier. ‘But it’ll need a lot of work – roads, bridges and so on – to make it suitable for use by a force of any size.’ He finished his telling with the mysterious and sudden disappearance of the Alphraan in the last part of the journey – if, as he wondered, disappearance were the correct word for the sudden absence of beings they had never actually seen. ‘They used to join in our conversations, just as if they were with us,’ he said. ‘Then’ – he snapped his fingers – ‘they were gone. Silent. It was very strange. We’d grown used to this disembodied voice talking to us, but there was nothing until we walked into your . . . army and that . . . whatever it was . . . that great clamour.’ ‘It was an ousting of the old, the inflexible, by the new.’ Unbidden, Gulda interrupted the proceedings, though she threw an apologetic glance at Arinndier. ‘Or perhaps, more correctly, it was the ousting of the old by the very ancient.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re a people . . . a race . . . almost beyond our understanding. We’ll probably never know what happened. In fact I doubt they’d even be able to explain it to us. Suffice it that in some way they’re now whole again and our friends, or at least our allies. Something that hasn’t happened since the beginning of the First Coming.’ ‘Hence the singing, the . . . celebrations . . . we heard, several hours ride away?’ Arinndier said. Gulda nodded and Arinndier motioned her to continue. ‘Geadrol protocol demands that the first shall be last, Memsa,’ he said wryly, twitting her gently for her own remark earlier. Gulda looked at him sideways and the Orthlundyn waited expectantly. But no barb was launched at the Fyordyn lord. Instead, it was launched at them as, very graciously, Gulda said, ‘Thank you, Lord. It’s a refreshing change to be amongst people who know how to discourse in an orderly and rational manner.’ Her own telling however, was almost breathtakingly brief: the Orthlundyn had been made ready for war; the Alphraan had interfered, first by causing accidents and then by stealing the labyrinth that guarded the Armoury. They had been contacted and confronted. ‘The rest you know,’ she concluded. ‘And the details we can discuss later.’ She ended abruptly and there was a long silence in the room. ‘They sealed the labyrinth?’ Hawklan asked eventually, almost in disbelief. Gulda nodded. ‘It’s open again now,’ she said almost off-handedly. ‘First thing I checked when I got back. To be honest I’m surprised they’re not here, but . . .’ She shrugged, reluctant to speculate on the behaviour of these strange people. ‘The whole thing was very worrying, but it’s been a useful exercise and we’ve learned . . .’ She pulled a rueful face. ‘ Re-learned , a great deal about our command structures and the logistics involved in moving so many people about.’ ‘And your verdict?’ Hawklan asked. Gulda paused thoughtfully. Loman found his eyes narrowing in anticipation of some caustic reply, but Gulda just nodded and said, ‘Not bad. There’s plenty of room for improvement, but I think they’ve got the wit to see that for themselves now. Not bad at all.’ ‘Good,’ Hawklan acknowledged, smiling at the confusion of relief and surprise that Loman was struggling to keep off his face. Arinndier looked round at the others. Several wanted to speak, but many were also showing distinct signs of weariness. He glanced quickly at Hawklan for approval. ‘We’ve heard enough for tonight, I think,’ he said firmly, pulling himself upright in his chair. ‘Even though we’ve raised more questions than we’ve heard answers. I think it’s going to take us some time to acquaint one another thoroughly with what’s been happening and I see no benefit in going without sleep while we’re doing it.’ Gulda grunted approvingly and soon the group was breaking up noisily. Hawklan took Arinndier’s arm as he rose to leave. ‘First light tomorrow, Arin, we’ll send messengers to Riddin to find out what’s happened to your Queen,’ he said. Arinndier bowed. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘She’s probably all right. She had a good escort and she’s not without resource as you know, but these early snows . . .’ He shrugged helplessly. Hawklan walked with him to the door. ‘Your people did well, but I grieve for your losses,’ he said. Arinndier nodded. ‘Your arrow bound him, Hawklan, and gave us the chance. Without that . . .’ ‘It’s of no relevance now,’ Hawklan said, raising a hand. ‘Loman’s arrow. Ethriss’s bow, my . . .’ he smiled self-deprecatingly, ‘marksmanship. Many things made the whole, not least the courage and discipline of your men, and it was the whole that tilted the balance and gave us all a little more time. What’s important now is that we use it to the full.’ He motioned to Tirilen, standing nearby. ‘We’ve a great deal to talk about yet. I’m glad you’re here. Tirilen will show you and the others back to your rooms. We’ll talk further tomorrow.’ As he closed the door behind them softly, Hawklan paused. Then he turned and with a gesture further dimmed the torches. Only Gulda remained in the room. She was sitting by the radiant stones which were now glowing red and, in the reduced light, casting her shadow on to the walls and ceiling like a great, dominating presence. In her characteristic pose, resting her chin on her hands folded over the top of her stick, she seemed the stillest thing in the room. Hawklan sat down opposite her quietly. Gulda looked up at him and, for an instant, in the light of the dimmed torches and the glowing fire, he saw again a fleeting vision of a powerful woman of great and proud beauty. But as quickly as it had come the image was gone and she was an old woman again. ‘You knew that Dan-Tor was Oklar and didn’t tell me,’ Hawklan said, his voice even. ‘I thought . . .’ Gulda began. ‘You knew ,’ Hawklan insisted, before she could continue. Gulda lowered her eyes. ‘You reproach me,’ she said into the firelight. ‘Should I not?’ Hawklan replied. Gulda was silent for a long time, then, ‘You had Ethriss’s sword and bow, arrows as good as could be made in this time, a fine horse, a stalwart friend . . .’ ‘Yes, you let Isloman go too,’ Hawklan interrupted. ‘Two men against an elemental force.’ Gulda looked up, her face scornful. ‘Don’t whine, Hawklan,’ she said. Her anger carried through into her voice all the more powerfully because it was commanding in tone and quite free of the rasping irritation that normally laced her more severe rebukes. ‘Oklar is no elemental force, he’s a mortal man as you are. A flawed mortal man, corrupted by being given too great a power, as perhaps you might have been had you stood too close to Sumeral with your whingeing begging bowl of desires.’ Hawklan’s eyes narrowed in response to Gulda’s biting anger. ‘Don’t quibble, Memsa,’ he said, almost savagely. ‘You understand my meaning well enough. You knew who he was and you let me – us – go without any warning.’ Gulda turned her face towards the glowing stones again. ‘And you’d have me explain?’ she said. There was a strange helplessness in her voice. Hawklan stared at her, his anger fading. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d have you explain that and many other things as well. Who you are? How you come to be here? How you know so many things about this Castle, about wars and armies? The list is long.’ Gulda nodded slowly but did not speak for some time. When she did, her voice was quiet. ‘I am what I am, Hawklan,’ she said simply. ‘And I am here because of what I was.’ She looked at him. ‘As are you. As are we all. And how I came to know what I know, you don’t need to know.’ ‘Gulda!’ Hawklan made no effort to the keep the exasperation out of his voice. She held his gaze. ‘Had I told you that Dan-Tor, that dancing twisting tinker who came to torment your little village with his corrupt wares, was Oklar the Uhriel, Sumeral’s first and greatest servant, with power to lift up whole mountain ranges or hurl them beneath the ocean, would you have believed me? And would you have done anything other than go and see for yourself in your doubts? And Isloman with you?’ Hawklan did not reply. Gulda continued, ‘And had you believed me, would you still have done anything other?’ Hawklan lowered his eyes. ‘Damn you,’ he said after a long silence. ‘We had choice and no choice, Hawklan,’ Gulda said softly. ‘Both of us were free to walk away, but both of us were bound to our paths. It was ever thus for people such as you and I, people with the wit to see. And it ever will be.’ A faint reproach still flickered in Hawklan’s voice. ‘Perhaps had we known, we mightn’t have confronted him so recklessly,’ he said. Gulda turned back to the softly whispering stones. Idly she prodded them with her stick, making a small flurry of cached sunlight spark upwards. Unexpectedly, she chuckled. ‘What would you have done to meet such a foe, assassin?’ she said mockingly. ‘Crept into his room at night to smother him or stab him? Bribed the Palace servants to poison his food?’ Hawklan frowned uncertainly. ‘No,’ Gulda went on. ‘You’d still have had to see first. Then having seen and decided, I suspect you’d have shot an arrow into his malevolent heart, wouldn’t you?’ Despite himself, Hawklan smiled ruefully at this cruelly perceptive analysis. ‘I was no different, Hawklan.’ Abruptly Gulda was explaining. ‘I could see no other way than to wait and see what would be. I could not face him myself . . . not yet. I was a spectator whether I wished it or not. All I could do was arm you with weapons of some worth, and have faith in the resources I saw within you.’ ‘And had we died?’ ‘You didn’t,’ Gulda’s reply was immediate. ‘But . . .’ ‘You didn’t,’ she repeated. ‘We might have!’ Hawklan insisted through her denial. ‘You might indeed,’ Gulda replied passionately. ‘But you still know I could have done nothing about it. I knew that you had to see him for what he truly was, and both my heart and my head told me that even if I could have given you a measure of the man – which I couldn’t, as you know now, he’s beyond description – it would have hindered you more than helped you. Clouded your vision with fear. Marred the true strength that only your . . . innocence . . . could take you to.’ Gulda turned again to her contemplation of the radiant stones. Hawklan leaned back into the comfort of his chair and looked at her stern profile, red in the firelight. ‘You were so certain of the outcome?’ he said after a while. Gulda smiled ruefully. ‘Certain?’ she said. ‘Certainty’s a rare luxury, Hawklan. The butterfly beats its wings and stirs the dust, which moves the grain, which moves the pebble, which . . .’ ‘Moves the stone, the rock, the boulder, etc., etc., and down comes the mountain.’ Hawklan finished the child’s lay impatiently, though as he did so, the memory returned to him of colourful wings stretching luxuriously on the toe of his boot as he had sat shocked and bewildered in the spring sunshine after he and Isloman had fled from Jaldaric’s doomed patrol. He recalled that the butterfly too had fled at the approach of a shadow. Gulda’s voice returned him to the present again. ‘I went as far as my reason and my intuition could go, Hawklan,’ she was saying. ‘After that all I had was faith and hope.’ ‘Faith and hope in what?’ Hawklan asked. Gulda shook her head and, after a moment, began to smile broadly. ‘Just faith and hope that my reason and my intuition were right.’ Her smile abruptly turned into a ringing laugh that rose to fill the room. ‘Have you finished my trial, judge?’ she said, turning to Hawklan, still laughing. ‘Me, who gave you Ethriss’s bow and made Loman forge those splendid arrows for it? Me, who you would have brushed aside if I’d fallen weeping at your knees imploring you not to go. Me who, above all, told you to be careful .’ She drew out her last words and, despite himself, Hawklan fell victim to her mirth. Yet even as he began to smile, the thought came to him that he had done right to make Gulda release her doubts and fears; she would be less impaired now. It was a cold and sudden thought, and as such thoughts had done before, it repelled him, for all its truth. I had the same need, for the same reason, he thought in hasty mitigation of this unwonted harshness. Gulda’s laughter gradually subsided and she took out a kerchief and began to wipe her eyes. ‘Who knows what butterfly blew us all here, Hawklan?’ she said, still chuckling. ‘And who knows where it’ll blow us next. Let’s take some joy in the fact that what happened, happened as it did and that Oklar’s hand is stayed for the moment. And that you and Isloman and all the others are alive, and unhurt, and wiser, and here.’ Abruptly she jerked her chair nearer to Hawklan and, reaching forward, seized his wrists affectionately. Once again Hawklan was surprised by her grip. It did not crush or hurt, but he knew that it was more powerful even than Loman’s or Isloman’s. ‘Now I must interrogate you ,’ she said, releasing him, but still staring at him intently. ‘What has Oklar’s touch taught you, key-bearer?’ Hawklan turned away from her gaze. ‘His touch on Fyorlund and its people taught me that there’s no end to his corruption; it’s unfettered, without restraint of any kind,’ he said. ‘It taught me that I must seek him out again, and his Master, and . . . destroy . . . them both, and the others, wherever they be.’ ‘Has Hawklan the warrior slain Hawklan the healer then?’ Gulda demanded. Hawklan looked at her, unsure of her tone. ‘There’s no warrior in this room, unless it’s you, swordswoman,’ he said after a moment. Gulda looked at him enigmatically and, sitting back in her chair, placed her stick across her knees. Confused by his own strange remark, Hawklan glanced awkwardly round the darkened room, his huge shadow seeming to turn to listen to him. ‘I doubt there’s any real difference between warrior and healer here anyway,’ he said diffidently. ‘Oklar is a disease beyond help; his Master, more so. Excision is probably the only treatment.’ ‘You already knew that,’ Gulda retorted, leaning forward. ‘Any half-baked stitcher of gashes could have told you that. Now answer the question you know I was asking. What has Oklar’s touch taught you?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Hawklan replied after a brief silence. Gulda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go back to the source, Hawklan,’ she said purposefully, leaning back in her chair again. Hawklan looked into the fire and welcomed its warmth on his face. The terrible confrontation at the Palace Gate came to him again as it did every day, as did all his doubts and questions. ‘I was frozen with terror after my arrow hit him,’ he began. ‘I felt his malevolence overwhelming me before I could even reach for a second one. Then Andawyr’s voice came from somewhere, very weak and distant. “The sword,” he said. “Ethriss’s sword.”’ Hawklan’s eyes widened as the scene unfolded before him inexorably, their green eerie in the red firelight. ‘But I didn’t know how to use it against such a foe – no part of me knew how to use it – no dormant Guardian rose up from within to protect me when his power struck me – nothing. I did what I could. I tried to heal. I felt the sword severing his dreadful destruction but still it came on, pushing me deeper into . . . darkness.’ He stopped and looked at Gulda. ‘Perhaps if I’d not used the sword . . . not cleaved his power . . . those two great swathes of destruction wouldn’t have been cut across Vakloss. Perhaps all those people would have been spared.’ Gulda shrugged, though in helplessness, not callousness. ‘They would have been spared had you kept to your bed that day,’ she said relentlessly. ‘But a thousand times their number would have died the sooner if you hadn’t defied him.’ ‘It’s a bitter consolation,’ Hawklan said. ‘There’s none other,’ Gulda replied gently. ‘Finish your tale.’ His doubt not eased, Hawklan hesitated, then his face darkened. ‘As I fell, I felt His presence . . . icy . . . terrible.’ Gulda leaned forward, her face urgent and intent. ‘ He came there?’ Her voice was the merest whisper. ‘He reached out from Narsindal?’ Abruptly her face was alive with pain and uncertainty. Hawklan reached out and took her hands. She was trembling and her pulse was racing as if with passion. For a moment she did not respond, then with a casual gesture she freed herself from his grip and motioned him back to his chair. ‘How did you know it was Him?’ she said stonily. ‘How could I not,’ Hawklan replied. ‘And He spoke.’ Gulda sank back into the shade of her chair. ‘He called me . . . the Keeper of Ethriss’s Lair.’ Hawklan wrapped his arms about himself and shuddered. As if in response, the radiant stones flared up brightly, throwing up a brilliant cascade of sparks and sending a myriad subtle shadows dancing through all the ancient carvings. For a long time, the two sat silent, and the fire subsided, clucking and spluttering to itself unheeded. ‘Only the pain and terror of His Uhriel could have lured His spirit from Narsindal,’ Gulda said eventually, her voice low as if fearful that her very words could bring Him forth again. ‘Only that could have enabled it to happen. I think Loman’s arrow was truer than even I thought. And perhaps you too, wielded the sword better than you knew. Perhaps you did not divide Oklar’s power, but cut the heart out of it and returned it whence it came, as Ethriss himself might have done.’ Hawklan looked at her. ‘I am not Ethriss,’ he said. ‘Perhaps,’ Gulda said, ‘perhaps not. You’re certainly Hawklan the healer, as you ever were, though more knowledgeable, as I fancy you’ll tell me in a moment. But you’re something else as well.’ Hawklan scowled, but Gulda dismissed his denial. ‘Sumeral’s Will reached out to His Uhriel, but He didn’t destroy you, as He could have done, protected though you were by Ethriss’s sword. He let you be.’ Hawklan shook his head and wrapped his arms about himself again. ‘I felt Him,’ he said. Gulda shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He didn’t touch you. His voice alone would have shrivelled you. You caught the edge of His merest whisper. He let you be, and He bound His Uhriel to ensure that he too would not assail you further.’ ‘He bound His own?’ Hawklan repeated surprised. ‘None other could,’ Gulda replied. ̵