The Return of the Sword Read online

  ‘Show these young people their quarters, Loman, get them settled in, then bring them to the small dining hall. You are hungry, aren’t you?’ she asked over her shoulder, answering, ‘Good, good,’ before anyone could reply.

  There was a small group of people standing very close to the Gate, apparently examining it in great detail. Some were talking excitedly, others were running their hands over the Gate, absorbed in thought, still others were making copious notes and sketches.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Farnor whispered to Gulda.

  ‘They’re studying the Gate.’

  Farnor frowned, puzzled. He was about to emit an incredulous ‘What?’ but changed it instead to ‘Why?’

  Gulda halted the procession. ‘Go and look at it,’ she said. ‘You too, Marna.’

  Rather self-consciously Farnor did as he was told, Marna following him. As he came closer to the Gate, however, he saw that the shimmering he had seen from a distance was caused by elaborate and intricate patterns cut into its metal surface. He saw too that they were sharp-edged and clear and quite unaffected by the summers and winters of what must have been many generations.

  ‘This is incredible,’ he said, talking to himself as much as to Marna. ‘Gryss would have loved this place so.’ Then, like the people he had been looking at but minutes previously, he was gently running his hands over the Gate. Scenes and text seemed to come and go, forming and reforming through the whirling complexity of the carving. Here was a chariot, with white-eyed, foam-flecked horses, manes streaming wildly as they strained to the will of their furious driver. So vivid was it that Farnor thought he could hear the gasping breath, the pounding hooves, the rattle and creak of axles and tackle. But was it near or far? Then he realized that chariot, horses and driver were formed from countless other smaller scenes, each as detailed. He blinked to clear his vision, then saw that these were formed in turn from the overlapping features of yet other, larger carvings. A thin cloud drifted over the sun, sending a faint shadow dancing across the Gate. He gasped and stepped back as the whole Gate seemed to come alive with movement. His gaze was drawn inexorably upwards to the wall towering high above him.

  ‘Careful.’ A powerful hand between his shoulder blades prevented what would have been an inglorious tumble as he leaned ever further backwards.

  He turned to thank his saviour but it took him a moment to focus properly. Then he found himself looking at a tall figure in a simple black robe. He was about the same height as Isloman but, though not as powerfully built, he gave the impression of being far stronger and, even though he was standing still, Farnor could sense an economy of movement in him that he knew would be the envy of the likes of Olvric and the others. In an instant he knew too who served as their example.

  ‘You’re Hawklan, aren’t you?’ he said, looking into a lean, weathered, yet strangely ageless face. Angular, with high cheek-bones and a prominent nose, it was dominated by bright green eyes.

  ‘I am,’ Hawklan admitted with a slight bow. ‘And you are Farnor, I presume, if Gavor’s description is to be trusted.’ He extended a hand toward Marna. ‘And you’ll be Marna, the young woman who rides with the Goraidin and who quite definitely isn’t Farnor’s mate. You made an impression on our bird.’

  Marna nodded, untypically overawed by this new arrival.

  ‘You like the Gate?’

  ‘I don’t think I can say anything without stammering,’ Farnor said.

  Hawklan looked up at it. ‘Not an inappropriate response by any means,’ he said. ‘People have made a lifetime’s work of studying it, but no one has even managed to draw it in its entirety. Not even Orthlund’s finest carvers seem to have the eye for it. You ran your hands over it, I noticed.’ Farnor guiltily wiped his hands on his trousers and surreptitiously put them behind his back. ‘Had you been blind, you’d have seen pictures and read tales quite different from those that we can see. At least, so I’m told. And if you have the ears for it, it sings at the touch of the least breeze.’

  Farnor looked at him uncertainly. Hawklan laughed gently. ‘You, above all, shouldn’t doubt that, Farnor. You who can Hear the Great Forest.’

  Before Farnor could reply he and Marna were being shepherded back to the others. There was a brief interlude as Hawklan greeted the four Goraidin. His greeting was not as raucous as Loman’s and Isloman’s but just as heartfelt, if not more so.

  Some time later they were all together in a bright, airy room that overlooked an expansive garden area, one of many such within the confines of the castle. Both Farnor and Marna were oscillating between excitement and a numb bewilderment as a result of discovery after discovery. Loman had taken them to the quarters he had prepared. Large, elegantly furnished and bedecked with the elaborate carvings that seemed to be everywhere, the rooms, like so much else they were encountering, were quite unlike anything either of them had ever known. It had taken Loman some time to assure the two young people that the rooms were indeed theirs while they remained in the castle. Now, bathed, changed into clean clothes, and replete with a substantial if simple meal, they were sitting in well-upholstered chairs and awaiting events.

  They were not long in unfolding. Farnor was trying to tell Loman that he could not accept such lavish hospitality without offering some form of payment – ‘I’d be happy to work on one of the farms. Or repair things. Or just sweep the floor. Anything’ – and Loman was trying to assure him that it was unnecessary when a commotion in the doorway interrupted them.

  Andawyr staggered into the room with an oath, having been unbalanced by Tarrian and Grayle as they pushed roughly past him. The four Goraidin were on their feet immediately, all of them reaching for knives at the sight of the two wolves.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Hawklan shouted hastily. ‘There’s no danger. Please. Sit down.’

  It was with the utmost reluctance that they did as he asked and all of them were sitting on the edge of their chairs as the two animals moved around the room unceremoniously sniffing at everything and everyone. Andawyr was followed by Antyr, Oslang, Usche and an uncomfortable looking Ar-Billan.

  After a plethora of introductions and chair-moving, Andawyr took charge of the gathering.

  ‘This is difficult. I’ve no beginning to what I want to say, because I’m far from clear about what seems to be happening. However, suffice it that I came here with my colleagues because Yatsu and Jaldaric came to the Cadwanen with Antyr and a very disturbing tale.’

  ‘Where are those two?’ Gulda demanded curtly.

  ‘They’ll be here shortly,’ Loman said.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Andawyr went on pointedly. ‘Antyr has a very disturbing tale. One that coincides in its details with other matters that I . . .’ He extended a hand towards Oslang. ‘That we, at the Cadwanol, have been growing increasingly concerned about for some time. Now, from what I’ve heard from Gavor, it seems that our new guest, Farnor, also has a disconcerting tale for us. As we’ve none of us had much of a chance to talk so far, may I suggest we start now?’

  The door opened and Yatsu and Jaldaric entered. Under Gulda’s beady gaze they sat down sheepishly.

  ‘We should start with the Goraidins’ Accounting,’ Gulda said. ‘Then, if they feel up to it, Antyr and Farnor can make their own contribution.’

  The various tellings took a long time, not least because both Gulda and Andawyr asked a great many questions. However, so thorough were the Goraidin in their reporting of events that both Antyr and Farnor had little to do other than explain their own parts in the events that had been described; Antyr telling of Ivaroth and the blind man who had controlled him, and Farnor telling of Rannick and the Sierwolf.

  When all was finished the room was silent. It was dark outside, the sun having dropped behind the castle wall. As the light had faded, so lamps around the room had slowly blossomed into life.

  ‘Strange, strange, tales,’ Gulda said, tapping her stick absently on the floor. ‘And disturbing, as you say.’

  ‘You haven’t told
us why you came back, Memsa,’ Hawklan said, asking the question that Andawyr had been wanting to ask throughout.

  Gulda shrugged. ‘I was drawn here,’ she said simply and in a tone that indicated no further explanation would be forthcoming.

  Hawklan looked at Andawyr. ‘Any conclusions?’

  Andawyr shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Only a lot more questions. Though I’m even more concerned than I was. Something bad’s afoot, but . . .’

  ‘No buts, Andawyr,’ Gulda said firmly, banging her stick on the floor, startling everyone. ‘Something bad is indeed afoot. You and I need to address these questions now, and at length. There’s nothing to be gained by delay.’ She stood up. ‘I’ve no doubt the vulgar soldiery here want to get down to some serious reminiscing, and our guests have done all they can for the moment. Loman, could you . . .’

  The door opened and a red-faced boy barged into the room. He wove a nimble if breathless way through the seated figures, heading straight to Loman and oblivious of Gulda’s basilisk glare.

  ‘The Watch say there are riders coming from the south, Castellan, coming fast.’

  Chapter 20

  Long-shadowed in the light of the setting sun, a small, shifting crowd stood in front of the castle, waiting for the approaching riders. When they arrived, it was immediately apparent that they had been riding hard for some distance. The horses were exhausted and the riders were in little better shape. Hawklan was at the forefront of the group that ran forward to meet them. Surprise heightened the concern on his face as he recognized the riders.

  ‘Dacu, Tirke! What’s the matter?’

  The two Goraidin declined help as they dismounted wearily but they gratefully accepted the removal of their steaming horses. Dacu wasted no time in greetings, delivering his message to Hawklan immediately. It was as clear and straightforward as it was urgent.

  ‘You’re needed. We have two men down.’

  Only after a brief explanation did he notice the presence of Andawyr and Gulda. Though obviously surprised to see them, he made no pause for inquiry, merely bowing respectfully to them both and saying to Andawyr, ‘Come yourself, if you can.’

  Thus it was that, shortly after their arrival, the two Goraidin, mounted on fresh horses, were moving back down the steep road towards the village. They were accompanied by Hawklan and followed at a distance by Andawyr and Isloman driving a soft-wheeled cart. Despite their fatigue, Dacu and Tirke had restricted their rest and refreshment to the brief interlude while the new horses were saddled and a plunging of their travel-grimed faces into the icy stream that surged up by the Great Gate after an uncharted passage deep beneath the castle.

  Passing through Pedhavin, the group turned south and began to ride faster. As they travelled, Dacu and Tirke told Hawklan of all that had happened on their journey through Canol Madreth and Arvenstaat and of their meeting with Atelon. Hawklan listened impassively as the strange tales of Vredech, Thyrn and Pinnatte unfolded.

  Though they had powerful Riddin horse lanterns to light their way, they were not able to ride as quickly as the Goraidin had dashed to the castle and it was the middle of the night before a swinging light signalled them into the camp that was their destination.

  They were greeted warmly by a fretful Atelon.

  ‘Nertha’s with her husband and Pinnatte,’ Atelon told Hawklan, speaking softly as if to avoid disturbing anyone. ‘Thyrn and Endryk are asleep – they’re exhausted. Come to that, so is Nertha, but . . .’ He gave a disclaiming shrug.

  ‘She’s a healer as well as a wife, Dacu tells me,’ Hawklan said. ‘Doubly blessed with insomnia, under the circumstances.’ He turned to Dacu and Tirke. ‘Speaking of which, you two must rest now. You’ve done well and there’s nothing else you can do, at least not until Andawyr and Isloman arrive. Get what sleep you can. Atelon will tend the horses, then he’ll sleep too.’ Tirke seemed inclined to protest, but Hawklan’s raised eyebrow coupled with a nudge from Dacu kept him silent. Atelon bowed slightly, then took the horses.

  Nertha emerged from one of the tents. Her face was drawn and anxious in the dancing shadows that an unsettling mixture of flickering firelight and staring lantern light was casting about the camp. Seeing Hawklan, she straightened her jacket, pulled herself erect and came towards him briskly, her hand extended. Hawklan took it and felt immediately the strength of her healer’s will vying with the weakness and doubt that were an inevitable consequence of tending someone close.

  ‘Dacu’s told me what he knows about your husband and Pinnatte,’ he said, leading her back to the tent. ‘Which is both a great deal and very little. Has anything changed while they’ve been away?’

  ‘No,’ Nertha replied, her consciously adopted physician’s manner barely managing to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘They’re still . . . asleep.’

  There had been considerable alarm in the camp when they had been unable to rouse Vredech and Pinnatte. It had been eased more by Nertha’s sternly controlled manner than by her diagnosis after she had examined them.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened, but the last time my husband was like this – seemingly asleep, but unwakeable – he, or some part of him, was alive and conscious in another place, perhaps another time.’ She ruthlessly crushed any debate. ‘He told you about it. Now I am. A similar thing’s happened to you, Thyrn, hasn’t it?’ Thyrn nodded but did not speak. He was clutching Endryk’s arm like a child. ‘I’ve no explanation,’ Nertha went on as if fearful of stopping. ‘Seeking reasons is why we’re here. When it happened before, he just woke up. I think all we can do now is keep them comfortable and . . . wait.’

  Dacu looked at the two apparently sleeping figures and frowned. ‘Hearing about such a thing around the camp-fire is one thing, seeing it is unsettling, to say the least.’ He took refuge in practicalities. Looking around at the camp he said, ‘We can’t wait here. These mountains are hardly formidable but they’re more than enough to kill us. Our supplies won’t last indefinitely and if the weather changes we’ll be in serious trouble.’

  Thus it was that they had spent the day and much of the night continuing their journey, carrying the two prostrated men. The terrain for the most part was too uneven and difficult for the use of horse-drawn litters and it proved necessary to carry Vredech and Pinnatte on hastily rigged stretchers. Though neither man was particularly heavy, it was nevertheless desperate and wearying work. Throughout, their condition did not change, and when the group finally stopped and made camp, Dacu decided that after a few hours’ sleep he and Tirke should head for Anderras Darion as quickly as they could to bring help. Atelon and the others were to stay where they were but, as it transpired, they ignored this injunction and, at no small cost to themselves, had made useful further progress northwards by the time the Goraidin returned with Hawklan.

  Nertha turned up the light of the lantern as Hawklan examined the two men. Routinely he checked their pulses and various other vital signs, though he judged from what he had both heard about Nertha and concluded from his brief acquaintance with her that nothing untoward would be found.

  ‘They seem simply to be asleep,’ he confirmed. ‘I can’t find anything other than the normal stresses and strains I’d expect to find in people who’ve been travelling for a long time. In fact, they’re so relaxed I’d say they were dreaming, except their eyes aren’t moving.’

  ‘My husband says he doesn’t dream,’ Nertha said absently. Hawklan took Pinnatte’s injured hand. ‘This is peculiar, though. It’s almost as if it’s part of something else, something . . . beyond him.’ He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Still, they don’t seem to be in any danger.’

  ‘Not here, anyway,’ Nertha said, watching Hawklan’s face intently. ‘They are somewhere else, though, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes. So Dacu’s told me,’ Hawklan replied. He saw her eyes testing his doubt. ‘I’m a healer, like you,’ he said. ‘There are a great many things I don’t understand, but I’ve learned to accept what is, however odd or frighteni
ng. It’s a strange tale, I’ll admit, but I’ve heard stranger.’ He gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh that seemed to warm the tent. ‘In fact, I’ve been in stranger.’

  His brow furrowed, then, on an impulse, he knelt down between the two bodies and placed his hands on their foreheads. ‘You are safe and watched over here,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid. All is well. All will be well.’

  Then he stood up. ‘There’s nothing we can do now that you haven’t already done. There’s a cart following behind us. We’ll get them to Anderras Darion as quickly as we can. There’re more facilities, more knowledge, more everything there. In the meantime, you should sleep.’

  Nertha shook her head. ‘I belong here.’

  ‘You’ve done all you can, you know that,’ Hawklan said. ‘I’ll be here and I’ll wake you if anything happens.’ Nertha’s face became uncertain.

  ‘If you’re needed you’ll be needed rested and strong,’ Hawklan insisted.

  Nertha looked at him earnestly, then came a little nearer to the point of capitulation. ‘You’re probably right,’ she admitted. ‘But I may as well stay with you. Needing sleep and being able to are two different matters.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Allow me.’

  Without waiting for permission and with a movement that was as swift as it was easy, he passed his hand slowly over Nertha’s face, then caught her as she fell.

  ‘You always did have a way with women, didn’t you?’

  It was Dar-volci, greeting Hawklan as he carried Nertha out of the tent, her head cradled on his shoulder.

  ‘Good to see you, rock eater,’ Hawklan acknowledged. ‘Though it seems I can’t let you wander off on your own for more than a few days without you turning the world upside down. Which is her tent?’

  Settling Nertha and checking that everyone else in the camp was asleep, Hawklan placed a signal lantern to guide Isloman and Andawyr, then sat down by the fire. He threw a handful of small branches onto it and watched the sparks scurrying up into the night sky. Dar-volci curled up opposite him.