The Call of the Sword Page 3

  An older man caught his eye. ‘We have no lords in Orthlund, tinker . . . Derimot,’ he said in a friendly, but firm tone. ‘No man holds sway over another here. Hawklan had the key to open Anderras Darion when he came, and he speaks nothing of his past, so we respect his wish. He’s a most exceptional healer. And much loved.’ He looked significantly at the tinker who was still for a moment before bowing his head and twisting it round to look up at the man.

  ‘Had the key when he arrived?’ he said quietly. The man nodded.

  Then, like a wave returning down the shore to the sea after lingering at the storm line, the tinker burst into movement again.

  ‘I meant no offence, sir. I’m much travelled, and not all healers are deserving of honours by any means. In other lands, such a castle would house a most mighty Lord, with many servants, and . . .’ he winked, ‘many needs.’

  So Derimot Findeel Dan-Tor flitted through the crowd gathered around his three cloths, gangling like a huge, amiable and multi-coloured spider. Chattering endlessly, bartering and bantering, as soft hands tested linens and silks, and soft eyes looked knowingly as rare perfumes were bought. Chattering, as brown, experienced hands examined chisels and sickles, and brown voices asked cautious questions, carefully trying to hide the desires bred from the love of the land and the love of the carving that saw fulfilment in the glitter of the shining tools.

  But nothing was hidden from Derimot Findeel Dan-Tor. Least of all the tall blonde girl who whispered something to her large, brawny companion and then ran off towards the Castle Road, clutching the tiny golden trinket she had just bought.

  Chapter 3

  Tirilen was the daughter of Loman, the castellan of Anderras Darion. She was born in the same year that Hawklan had come out of the wintry mountains with Gavor in his arms, and opened the long sealed castle.

  Not as tall as Hawklan, she was nonetheless tall for a woman, and tended to look even taller because she stood at once erect and relaxed. Her long blonde hair was normally bound by a single ribbon, but occasionally it would fly free, and then she would subject it to an endless sequence of unnecessary groomings, running it through her hands and teasing it this way and that, before sweeping the whole back with a toss of the head.

  Her eyes slanted slightly and their blue was like a reflection of the spring sky, while her straight and rather narrow nose overtopped a straight and rather narrow mouth. A mouth that could become tight and resolute with grim determination, or peevish and pouting if she were caught in some misdemeanour that perhaps provoked her father too far.

  Now she was a quiet, alert young woman, but for most of her young life she had behaved like a riotous twelve-year-old boy and had been the continual despair of the women of the village charged by Loman with her education into womanhood since the death of her mother. Tirilen looked and moved like thistledown in the breeze, but in her time she had hitched up her skirts and waded into the river to tease the slumbering fishermen, scrambled and run across the rocks like a rabbit in rowdy games, and routinely knocked the heads of any of the local boys who showed signs of becoming unusually tender. Generally she had shown little inclination to behave in anything approaching a ladylike manner.

  Loman was a stern and solid man, with a strong sense of justice and integrity which he shared with most of the Orthlundyn. He had frequently castigated his daughter when taxed by the village women, but he had had little heart for it, and Tirilen had only to smile and put her arms around him to ensure she could carry on as usual. Since her earliest years he had recognized his own independent temperament housed in his wife’s frame, and he took solace from the knowledge that while she knew of his love and affection she would come to no great harm, nor do any, and he would keep her as a friend as well as a daughter when life eventually eased them apart. They had always been happy with one another and were more so now.

  Only with Hawklan had Tirilen’s quieter nature appeared. He had asked Loman to be his castellan at their first strange meeting, but Loman and his toddling daughter only moved into the castle some three years later when, despite Hawklan’s aid, Loman’s wife died. Then Hawklan had helped with the upbringing of the noisy, blue-eyed child as Loman pulled himself through the blackness that followed. He was a second father to Tirilen, although their relationship was very different from that she had with her real father. Hawklan it was who received those confidences and confessions which Tirilen preferred not to bring to her father’s attention, but which needed to be excised by utterance. And Hawklan it was who guided her into looking behind the surface of the dour man to find the true father within.

  Hawklan it was also, who found she had no small gift for healing, and who took charge of her instruction. Thus when the mood was right, she had learned about the herbs and other healing plants that could be found in the fields and among the rocks, and about repairing gashes and fractures. He could not teach her how to speak to the animals, because he himself did not know how he did it, but she was sensitive to their silent distress calls and frequently appeared in Hawklan’s workroom with some injured creature that she had found because ‘on impulse’ she had turned from her path.

  * * * *

  Like Gavor and Hawklan’s other close friends, Tirilen too had noticed his growing preoccupation; a lessening of his gentle ironic humour and, she alone noticed, an occasional strange, distant expression in his green eyes. In conversation and everyday intercourse he seemed happy enough, but he was increasingly to be found alone and pensive, and she sensed an unknown and mounting pain.

  It was only Gavor who asked the question directly and received any semblance of an answer. And vague though it was, he was pleased, because he knew that once question and answer began to appear in the mind, then the inner conflict was beginning to be resolved. With the emergence into the light of this slender bloom from the depths, Gavor deemed it advisable to leave lest their normal banter trample it underfoot, and he was pleased to see the arrival of Tirilen, to whose hands it could be more safely entrusted.

  However, the bloom having appeared, it transferred a portion of its uneasy perfume onto Gavor. Hawklan’s powerful intuition was not lightly set aside and Gavor felt dark clouds gathering distantly on his own inner horizons. Hawklan’s words began to crystallize unspoken concerns of his own, though not clearly. A change was in the air, and not a good one. He croaked at himself disparagingly as he flew above the rooftops of Anderras Darion. He had no intention of visiting his ‘friend’ in the north tower. Uncharacteristically, he too now wanted to be alone. Spiralling high above the Castle, resting on the warm spring air rising up from the front wall, he looked down at the crowd on the green by the crossroads, and at Tirilen leading Hawklan down the road to the village.

  He started crossly as a small brown bird whirred past him at great speed and disappeared in the direction of the green.

  * * * *

  Not many could resist Tirilen when she chose to be persuasive, and, his heart lightened a little by speaking of his concern to Gavor, Hawklan made only a token opposition to her invitation to see the strange tinker and listen to his chatter.

  He had to stride out to keep up with her as they walked down the road to the village. She, unusually, was talking incessantly.

  ‘He’s so funny, and he’s got so many wonderful things in his pack, you’d wonder how he could possibly get them all in, let alone lift it. And he seems to know so much about everything – sewing, farming, carving . . .’

  ‘And emptying purses,’ said Hawklan dryly.

  Tirilen smiled at him knowingly and then linked her arm in his.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said, carefully unwrapping the pendant she had bought. Hawklan looked at it studiously.

  ‘It’s an unusual design,’ he said, ‘although there’s something vaguely familiar in the style. Gold too, by the feel of it.’

  They were almost leaning on one another as they examined the pendant and they strode out in step down the last, steep part of the road. Hawklan rubbed the pendant gently b
etween his thumb and forefinger and wrinkled his nose slightly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Tirilen.

  Just clouds on the horizon, thought Hawklan.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I just thought I felt a tiny sharp edge, but it must have been my imagination.’

  * * * *

  At the green the tinker was still in full flow and the crowd was even bigger. Most of the people they had met on the way were either laughing or carefully examining purchases, and Hawklan had become increasingly anxious to see this phenomenon that had landed so randomly on the village.

  He soon found himself at the front of the crowd as it was in continuous movement, and the villagers, invariably glad to see him, virtually ushered him through. The tinker was at the edge of the little clearing around his laden cloths, busily expounding to someone the virtues of an intended purchase, but he turned round the instant Hawklan appeared and made straight for him, or as straight as his jerky gait would allow.

  His eyes stopped flickering for a moment and held Hawklan’s gaze fixed.

  ‘Hawklan,’ he said to himself softly, as if sending the word to some deep part of his memory.

  ‘Hawklan.’ Again with the same strange softness. Then, in his normal voice. ‘Hawklan? Hawklan the healer? From the . . . ?’ A long finger unfolded in the direction of the castle.

  Hawklan smiled and nodded. The tinker clapped his hands, and his face lit up as he returned the smile.

  ‘Ah, what have I for a healer?’ he said, screwing up his face thoughtfully. ‘Derimot Findeel Dan-Tor, who has everything for everybody, must have something for a healer – especially a rich healer like yourself.’

  This last he said in a loud whisper accompanied by an enormous wink and a complicated nod of the head in the direction of the castle. Hawklan laughed out loud along with many in the crowd.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll starve to death waiting for my gold, Derimot. Although I’ll happily give you some food and drink if that becomes likely.’

  ‘Take the food, Derimot,’ shouted someone in the crowd. ‘Hawklan has no coffers, but he has the finest kitchen in Orthlund.’

  ‘In that case I may accept your offer one day,’ said the tinker, bowing low, but creaking his head round to look at Hawklan. ‘Local knowledge is always worth more than gold.’ And he sent an acknowledging nod to his unknown adviser in the crowd. Then he turned his attention once more to Hawklan, looking him up and down professionally.

  ‘Look at my wares, Hawklan. There are things here that only I could obtain. No one – no one – has the skill and knowledge of Derimot Findeel Dan-Tor when it comes to trading. And all of it is the very finest. When I leave, you may never see such things again.’

  Hawklan inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you, Derimot, I shall,’ he said, and he walked across to the articles now scattered and disarranged by the villagers.

  He always took an interest in objects from beyond Orthlund, in the hope that they might stir some memory of the time before he found himself walking in the wintry mountains some twenty years ago.

  The tinker flitted away and gathered a crowd of children around him.

  ‘Now, children,’ he said very slowly. ‘Your turn.’ He put his long arms around several of them, and crouching on the floor brought them together in a confidential huddle. His mouth pursed up into a disparaging expression.

  ‘Fol-de-rols and fripperies are alright for the women, and tools and suchlike will quieten the men. But what should a tinker bring from far lands for the people who really matter, eh?’

  He waited, eyes wide in expectation.

  ‘Toys,’ came the ready chorus in reply.

  ‘Toys indeed,’ he echoed. ‘Sewing and carving are to keep the grown-ups out of the way, but toys are the really important things aren’t they?’

  Hawklan heard the laughter and squeals of the children counterpointing Derimot’s chatter as he looked at the various articles laid out before him. He picked up one or two things and then laid them down again gently with a small twinge of regret. For some reason, it did not distress him that he knew nothing of what he had been before he came to the village. He seemed to be full of happiness and light, and he fitted into this peaceful, tolerant and wise community as if he had been born there. He doubted that he had ever been anything particularly unpleasant.

  But inevitably he was curious, and he was ever watchful for some flash of knowledge which might illuminate that part of his life. However, there was nothing here; even though almost everything was new to him and obviously came from distant places as the tinker claimed. For a brief moment he felt a warning forming inside him . . .

  ‘Look at this, Hawklan.’

  The tinker’s voice startled him and he turned round suddenly to find himself with his face only inches away from Derimot’s twinkling eyes.

  ‘Hold out your hand,’ said the creaking voice, with odd seductiveness.

  Without thinking, Hawklan proffered his right hand and Derimot took it from underneath in his left, holding it like a tiny bridge between their two faces. Then he snapped the fingers of his right hand and placed his clenched fist on Hawklan’s extended palm.

  ‘Ha-ha,’ he cried, and releasing Hawklan he brought his hands together with a loud crack.

  Hawklan found himself gazing at a small doll. It was a tiny soldier, and it was marching up and down his hand. Apart from its rather stiff-legged walk, it was remarkably lifelike. Every detail was perfect. Even its tiny eyes moved, and Hawklan noticed that a button on the tunic had come undone, revealing an ornately decorated shirt underneath. By its side hung a tiny sword, which it proceeded to draw and use in an intricate drill, cutting glittering silver arcs in the bright sunlight.

  Hawklan stared, spellbound. The Orthlundyn made ingenious toys for their children, but this was far beyond anything they could do.

  Suddenly and without anything apparently happening, he found he was both cold and sweating. The tiny creature just inches from his face moved hauntingly, hypnotically, but its eyes . . .

  Hawklan felt an overwhelming urge to tighten his grip around it to stop its obscene, tortured performance. An urge to hurl it onto the ground where he could stamp it out of all existence. He felt a great pit open at his feet.

  The tinker seized the tiny figure with a swift movement, and Hawklan staggered forward with a gasp.

  ‘Hawklan?’

  He heard Tirilen’s voice, concerned, in the distance.

  ‘What’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet.’ The voice was closer now.

  ‘Wasn’t that a remarkable toy, then,’ said the tinker, looking at him intently. For the briefest of moments, Hawklan looked straight into the tinker’s eyes. They were lit with a sinister red glow; a red like the heart of a volcano. And there was a doubting recognition in them. For that moment, Derimot Findeel Dan-Tor looked as if he was standing straight and terrible. Hawklan seemed to feel the earth rumble under his feet and he felt his left hand clutching for a sword scabbard that was not there.

  Tirilen laid a hand on his arm, and he looked around, surprised. The chattering crowd had suddenly fallen silent and all were looking at one another awkwardly. The tinker clapped his hands and laughed. ‘Ah. A goose has walked over my grave,’ he cried, and everyone laughed and applauded, the old saw cutting through the embarrassment. The crowd became louder than ever.

  ‘Hawklan?’ Tirilen’s voice was full of concern. He smiled rather foolishly.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just felt a little dizzy. Standing up too quickly probably.’

  He moved between her and the tinker, who was holding a wooden box containing the tiny doll, now innocuous.

  ‘Isn’t it a most incredible doll, sir? Most skilfully crafted,’ he said.

  Hawklan felt tiny ripples of unreasoned anger still flowing somewhere deep within him but his natural courtesy and an unexpected caution kept them under control.

  ‘It is indeed,’ he replied. ‘A most unusual toy. I’ve never seen an
ything like it, and the locals here are not without skill in making such things. Where did you get it from?’

  The tinker looked sideways at Hawklan, long-forgotten doubts and fears starting to bubble deep within him. What had possessed him to break his journey and stop here? Here of all places? And in this, the most ludicrous of his guises, noisy and clamorous like some frightened child clattering and shouting to keep night-bred terrors at bay. And what power had prompted him to test the sight of this . . . this healer with the mannequin?

  Abruptly his doubts and fears faded as another, greater, spectre came to him and filled him with a terrible paralysing chill. Could this be Ethriss? Lying watchful in this green-eyed, mortal frame? Ethriss the Terrible One, who had thrown down the Master and His Uhriel into millennia of silent and impotent darkness? His very presence radiated a profound healing knowledge. He had seen instantly the corruption in the mannequin. But most damning of all, he had the key to that sinkhole, Anderras Darion. Anderras Darion stood open. Open! And had for twenty years according to these village oafs. Orthlund was a dreadful place. His chilling fear deepened and froze both his mind and his body.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Hawklan’s gentle voice penetrated into the tinker’s darkness like a sunlit dagger, making him start. He disguised the movement with an angular twitch.

  ‘Just trying to recall, sir,’ he said thoughtfully, clearing his throat. ‘So many places I’ve travelled to.’

  No. Ethriss awake would have felt his presence and swept him out of existence like dust in the wind. But still, Ethriss he might be – dormant, as He had been, waiting only the sign to rise again.

  Then the black favour of his Master loomed suddenly in his mind. Was this not perhaps the true purpose of his journey? Was it not He who had said he must go south through the darkness of Orthlund rather than through Riddin as was his wont? Riddin could be seen. Riddin was known. But the Harmony of Orthlund blinded and deceived all the eyes he sent into it.

  A treacherous shaft of ambition entered his swirling fears. Bind him, it said. This is His will. Bind him while he still sleeps. Bind him in a deeper sleep for His delectation. But gently, very gently. It could not be here – he shuddered inwardly – nor could he be drawn too near Narsindal too soon. There His presence pervaded the very air, and would beyond doubt waken the dormant Guardian, if Guardian he be. Then . . .