The Fall of Fyorlund [Book Two of The Chronicles of Hawklan] Page 16

  He stood up and looked at the slumbering Darek. Sleep had softened the Lord's lean face and he looked slightly incongruous.

  Eldric smiled. ‘You remember my father, don't you?'

  Arinndier nodded. ‘Indeed I do,’ he said. ‘I always did my best to avoid him.'

  Eldric laughed. ‘He was all right really. But that's what he used to roar at me if I took a tumble. “Get up, boy! You'll get killed lying there. Get up, or I'll leave you!” And he would have done too, if I hadn't made the effort.’ He shook his head and chuckled warmly. ‘He loved me too much to offer me a hand when it wasn't needed, Arin. I didn't realize how hard that was until I'd a son of my own.'

  The mood darkened a little at the mention of his son. None of them had heard anything of their families and estates and, though not much dwelled on, it was a greater strain to bear than the captivity itself.

  Eldric moved back to his bunk and his topic. ‘I think it was probably the suddenness of the change as much as the violence, Arin. Winded me, as it were. We've been too still too long. Maybe the whole country has. Grown stiff and unresponsive. Perhaps we couldn't have anticipated what might happen, but we should've been able to accept the reality more quickly when it did, instead of...’ He left the sentence unfinished and shrugged. ‘Anyway, we got knocked down for our pains so we must learn our lessons all over again—and that's an old lesson in itself.'

  * * * *

  The advantage of moving through life one step at a time is that the worries and doubts of detailed long-term planning are avoided. All that is necessary is a careful probing of the ground immediately ahead, and considerable trust in one's own ability and that of one's companions to move quickly as need arises.

  The disadvantage, of course, is that while such probing may prevent a fall into a precipice or a collision with a cliff face, it cannot prevent the return journey that meeting such obstacles entails.

  The Lords, however, accepted that they had no alternative, and that their first step was to find out where they were. After some lengthy and fruitless debate about how this was to be achieved, Eldric abruptly gave a frustrated and angry snarl and opted for action. With some truthfulness, but perhaps a little too much bluntness, he gave the first order of his campaign.

  'Hreldar, you look the sickest. Lie down and start moaning—quickly.’ Before Hreldar could speak, Eldric took his elbow and escorted him briskly to the bunk.

  'Just moan,’ Eldric said, sitting the open-mouthed Lord down unceremoniously. Then, striding across the room, he banged his fist on the door.

  'What are you doing?’ cried Arinndier and Darek simultaneously in alarmed chorus.

  Eldric turned impatiently to Hreldar. ‘Moan!’ he said, authoritatively. Then to the others, equally firmly, ‘Follow my lead.’ He renewed his assault on the door powerfully. Fists and feet.

  'Open this damned door,’ he roared.

  Arinndier and Darek looked at one another briefly and shrugged. This was Eldric, their old commander, and they had not seen him for many years.

  Eventually they heard the bolts being drawn and the rattle of keys in the lock. Hreldar leaned forward to see what was happening, but Eldric waved him down again. ‘Moan,’ he mouthed silently.

  The door opened slowly and Arinndier quailed inwardly at the sight of the black-clad Mathidrin trooper standing there. He gave the impression of having been carved out of one solid piece of black stone. Tall and heavily built, he exuded a bull-like solidity. Not a man to be tackled lightly, thought Arinndier, or at all, preferably. He also exuded a certain oafish brutality and his fists were clenched at the ends of massive arms that hung in a curve away from his body, indicating that his normal gait was a swagger.

  'The Lord Hreldar's ill, guard,’ began Eldric. ‘We must...'

  'Less noise, prisoners,’ said the guard in a harsh, unfamiliar accent, cutting across Eldric's outburst.

  Eldric, however, was riding high. He stood up, straight and relaxed in front of the guard, his very posture making him seem at least as tall as the man.

  'Pending the Lord Dan-Tor's review of our case, you'll address us as Lords, guard, and you'll stand to attention when so doing. Is that clear?’ His voice was quiet but very deliberate and its tone indicated it would brook no debate.

  The guard seemed to swell visibly and, for a moment, it looked as if he were considering knocking Eldric down. But Eldric held the man's gaze with an icy unwavering stare, behind which were all his years as a commander of men. It was a crucial moment, and the three other Lords watched with some trepidation. They were about to have a measure of their worth as prisoners.

  After several seconds, Arinndier felt the guard's resolve falter slightly. With impeccable timing, Eldric leaned forward and brought his face close to the guard's. ‘Is that clear?’ he repeated, almost whispering. ‘Or are you deaf as well as improperly dressed?'

  Involuntarily, the guard dropped his gaze briefly to examine his uniform.

  'Eyes front!’ thundered Eldric as if he were in the middle of a large and noisy parade ground. The three Lords jumped as the powerful voice filled the tiny room and the guard snapped reflexively to attention. There's nothing like military reflexes, thought Arinndier, recovering, and casually putting his hand over his mouth to cover a smile. Darek too turned away and, moving to Hreldar, bent over as if tending him. Eldric continued his initiative before the guard had a chance to recover his wits properly.

  'The Lord Hreldar's ill. He collapsed without warning. Get a healer immediately.'

  The guard dithered. ‘I don't know...’ he stammered.

  'Well I do,’ shouted Eldric. ‘Get a healer. Now!'

  The man still hesitated.

  'Do you want to answer to Lord Dan-Tor if the Lord Hreldar dies in your care?'

  The mention of Dan-Tor galvanized the man, and he turned towards the door. As he did so Hreldar let out a gasping cry and sat up, his hand to his throat as if choking.

  'Wait,’ cried Darek to the departing guard. ‘He's having some kind of a fit. He must have air. He's choking to death.'

  Again the man faltered, caught between Eldric and Darek's commands and the apparent distress of Hreldar.

  'Quickly, man,’ said Arinndier, striding over to help Darek with the gasping Hreldar. Eldric gave the guard an imperative flick of the head to propel him away from the door and over to the struggling trio. ‘Hurry, he's heavy. I'll get the other guards.’ And before the guard had time to consider what was happening, he stepped out into the passage.

  It was no frightened, struggling old man who walked through that door, it was a battle-tried and determined Lord who had clung to old ways and old disciplines when others around him were drifting into idleness and hedonism. He knew he could have only a few minutes’ freedom at the most and in that time he had to gather as much information as he could about their location.

  The passage was unfamiliar but he allowed himself no time for disappointment. To his right it ended in an old and very solid door. He ran to it and lifting the heavy latch pulled it urgently. The door opened surprisingly easily and almost threw him off balance. He noted that though it was old, the hinges and the latch had all recently been greased. This must have been sealed for years, he thought. Who's opened it now and why? Then he dismissed the question for future consideration and peered through the doorway. A spiralling flight of steps disappeared down into the darkness.

  'Guards,’ he shouted loudly for the benefit of the guard in the room. His voice sank dully into the dark stairwell in front of him. Faint noises and a dank unpleasant smell rose up to meet him. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and closed the door.

  Two figures appeared along the passage. Eldric ran towards them, crying out, ‘Guards, guards, come quickly,’ before they could speak. Babbling loudly about Hreldar's fit he ushered them urgently towards his cell. Arinndier and the first guard were manoeuvring the now almost dead-weight Hreldar through the door and Darek was flitting around looking concerned.

  'He mus
t have air quickly,’ said Darek. ‘I've seen him in these attacks before. It's the confinement, it happened in...'

  'No,’ interrupted Arinndier angrily, hitching Hreldar's arm around his shoulder. ‘He's been poisoned.’ And he glowered at the guards. ‘We'll find out who's responsible for this, have no fear.'

  Good, Arin, thought Eldric. That'll start rumours flying.

  'Which way, man?’ he snapped at the nearby guard. The man pointed vaguely up the passage. Eldric knew they had only seconds now before the guards took control so, unhooking Hreldar's arm from Arinndier, he unceremoniously thrust Hreldar into the arms of the two guards and started urging the whole group along the passage towards the first junction.

  When they reached it, the first guard found his tongue. ‘Pris ... Lords,’ he said. ‘We'll look after the Lord Hreldar now. You must return to your ... room.'

  Eldric gave Hreldar a concerned look and then, with heavy reluctance, turned back down the passage. Arinndier caught his quick gesture and joined him. Darek picked up a hand signal. ‘Let me go with him,’ he said to the guard. ‘I've seen these attacks before.'

  The guard looked at Eldric as if for guidance, but Eldric, now backing slowly and dutifully towards the cell, shrugged as if to disown responsibility for everything that would happen from here on.

  'Very well,’ said the guard, and he nodded to his companions.

  Eldric and Arinndier turned and entered their cell quickly, both anxious that the guard should not see the triumph on their faces.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Hawklan pushed the books away from him and rubbed his eyes with his forefingers. ‘Learn your lore,’ Gulda had said, in her capacity as self-appointed adviser, adding in her inimitable manner, ‘There's no point in you asking me any questions until you know what you're talking about.’ She had marched Hawklan straight to the Castle's massive Library and he had looked in dismay at the endless rows and stacks of books and scrolls. It was not a room he was overly familiar with.

  'Where in pity's name do I start?’ he had asked plaintively, forgetting the nature of his companion until too late.

  'Good grief, man!’ had come the explosion. ‘Anywhere.’ And the stick had banged on a desk prior to being waved round her head at the circular tiers of book-lined balconies looming over them. Then, uncharacteristically showing a little pity, she had gone straight to a shelf and picked out a large red-bound tome. She studied the title pensively and a small spasm of pain passed briefly across her face.

  'A fine writer,’ she said with a strained casualness. ‘This will do to start with.’ And she dropped the book on a nearby table with a dull thud. ‘Read it carefully.'

  It occurred to Hawklan to ask her how she knew her way round the Castle so well, but, before he could speak, she was stumping her way out of the Library with the parting shot, ‘Very carefully now. There'll be questions later.'

  Now, a week later, Hawklan was more weary and stiff than he had ever been in his entire life. His head whirled with myths and stories, epic sagas, tales of heroism and cowardice, of loves lost and won, of terrible armies and evil warlords, and of the great heroes who conquered them, peoples enslaved and peoples freed, lands cursed and lands blessed. And then the histories, vague and uncertain, so that for most of the time he could not tell whether the myths derived from the histories or the histories from the myths, so alike were they, and so unlikely, so alien to everything he had known—or could remember. More than once, in some despair, he had pushed them all aside and sat glowering at the rows of shelves waiting so patiently. But not too long. Memsa Gulda was well acquainted with the idle and shiftless ways of men, and set him a merciless pace.

  'I'll make that tangled piece of string you call a mind work again, young man, have no fear,’ she said repeatedly and pitilessly.

  He could not help but begin to like her though. On the one occasion when his patience had reached its limit, and to his considerable surprise, he had felt sorely tempted to use his fist on the old crone, she was through his guard and into a soft spot like an assassin.

  'I know it's hard for you, Hawklan,’ she said gently. ‘And you must get resentful at times, but these are a fine people, perhaps still the finest in the world. They wouldn't have turned to you even though the Castle has chosen you if they hadn't felt some deeper purpose. We must both persist. They're worth our best efforts.’ And that was that. End of rebellion.

  Gavor was an amazing help, with a tremendous fund of information drawn from his long study of the Great Gate and the many carvings and pictures that filled the Castle. He shared most of Hawklan's long vigils in the Library, flicking over pages with his wooden leg, and occasionally asking Hawklan to lift down another volume. Never having studied before, Hawklan had found to his own surprise that he was a quick and retentive reader. Gavor, however, was even quicker.

  'How did you learn to read so quickly, Gavor?’ he asked eventually, after watching him intermittently for several days.

  'Dear boy,’ was the reply. ‘I study the Gate.'

  'Well?'

  'The well, dear boy,’ Gavor began patiently, ‘is that I'm not a humming bird. I can't hover. I have to read things on my way past. I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to sit here and read without fear of crash landing.'

  Not everything was harmonious, however, a certain tension having developed between Gavor and Gulda. Somewhat injudiciously she referred to Gavor as a ‘damned crow', to which Gavor responded by saying that if she shortened her nose by a stride or two, she'd be passing fair—for a pelican.

  Fortunately, before this theme could be developed further, others valiantly intervened to patch up a makeshift peace, and now the two maintained a stony truce, generally avoiding each other and eyeing one another suspiciously when circumstances dictated that they co-operate in helping Hawklan.

  'It's all too much, Gavor,’ said Hawklan, still rubbing his eyes. ‘I can't make out truth from fiction, and there's just too much of everything. I feel I'm losing knowledge not gaining it.'

  No reply.

  Hawklan leaned back in his chair and looked across at his friend. Gavor was sound asleep, his foot clutching the top rail of a chair he had commandeered as his perch, and his wooden leg sticking out horizontally, steadying him against an open book propped up in front of him.

  Hawklan smiled. ‘Very wise,’ he yawned, pushing the books he had been reading to one side. He leaned forward and, cushioning his head on his arms, fell fast asleep without the slightest twinge of conscience.

  When he opened his eyes, he found it difficult to focus. Sitting opposite him, next to the sleeping Gavor, was Andawyr, his oval punch-bag face looking gaunt and haggard and very old in the soft light of the now darkened Library.

  Hawklan smiled and opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell Andawyr that his arm was better, but the words would not form properly.

  'Listen to me, Hawklan.’ The voice was faint and distant. ‘I can speak to you only because of my extremity. We've bound the birds ... I'm held in Narsindal, I may be destroyed at any moment. Go to the Cadwanol ... in the Caves of Cadwanen at the Pass of Elewart.'

  Hawklan felt pain and fear now in the old man's presence, but still could not speak.

  'They know of you. Tell them I reached out to you when all hope was gone. Tell them the Uhriel are indeed abroad—Oklar, Creost and Dar Hastuin.'

  Darkness came into Hawklan's mind from some unknown source. Andawyr's voice became weaker.

  'Tell them that they've raised and awakened...’ The image faltered. ‘Raised and awakened their old Master. I've felt His presence and, I fear, He mine.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Hawklan, the Second Coming of Sumeral is upon us. Sphaeera, Theowart and Enartion must be roused.’ His hands came in front of his face as if fending off an attack.

  Hawklan tried to tell him he was safe; this was only a library. Everything was safe in Anderras Darion. But still he could not speak and his eyes were becoming heavier and heavier. Fading in t
he distance he heard, ‘They need you and you they. Ethriss must be found and awakened or all will be lost, and Sumeral's power will stretch across the stars. He's wiser by far now...'

  An ominous chilling blackness rolled over Hawklan as the voice dwindled into nothingness, and Hawklan felt a cold malevolent presence before drifting into forgetfulness.

  Slowly, out of the infinite darkness came a tiny bright dancing spark calling his name. Calling it repeatedly, and laughing at him. As it grew, it twinkled and shifted, moving as the sound moved until finally it burst into a myriad sparks and he opened his eyes to a blaze of light and laughter.

  He sat up, bleary-eyed. The Library was bright with daylight carried into the innermost reaches of the Castle by the mirror stones. Tirilen's laughter was ringing in his ears, and the cause of it was dancing up and down frantically in front of him.

  'Ah, ah, ah. Ooh, ooh. Do something,’ cried Gavor.

  'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked sleepily.

  'Pins and needles,’ Tirilen announced, still laughing.

  'Where?’ said Hawklan, flexing the stiffness out of his own muscles.

  Gavor proffered his wooden leg and Tirilen flopped into a chair, wiping tears from her eyes. Hawklan looked at her reproachfully.

  'Not a good attitude for a healer, my girl,’ he said, trying not to smile. Gavor, however, continued his plaint until he was suddenly and miraculously cured by the abrupt entrance of Gulda.

  'Well, I can see you've slept, young man,’ she said. ‘I suppose you'll want to eat now will you?'

  'Solicitous as ever, dear lady,’ muttered Gavor loudly to no one in particular.

  Gulda glowered at him. Gavor raised his beak into the air with great dignity and, walking over to a conspicuous patch of sunshine, began to preen himself vigorously, scattering dust and fragments of iridescent feathers into the broad shaft of sunlight that fell on him like a great finger.

  Hawklan looked at Gulda and then at Tirilen, who was tossing her shining blonde hair to cut a golden swathe through the sunlight. Suddenly, the memory of Andawyr and the strange horror that had surrounded him, returned with an appalling vividness.