Into Narsindal [Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan] Read online

  It was not the sound of any wholesome creature. It had the quality of desecration about it that hallmarked His work.

  With appalling suddenness, it grew until it overtopped both the commotion of the battlefield and the still grumbling sky.

  Creost's black eyes turned upwards, drawing Hawklan's with them. A black shape was high above them. Gavor? But something was amiss. Hawklan screwed up his eyes as they refused to focus clearly on the descending form, dark against the clearing sky.

  It seemed that Gavor was coming too close, too quickly, but ...

  The screeching became unbearable.

  It was not Gavor! It was some other bird. A huge bird. And someone was astride its back!

  The awesome deadlock between Creost and the Cadwanwr shattered suddenly. Hawklan's gaze returned to Creost and he felt his arms lift the sword high as they obeyed his long restrained will. As his legs prepared to carry him forward, however, someone seized him about the waist and sent him crashing to the ground.

  Rolling over, he brought a mailed fist round to deal with this assailant, only to find that it was Andawyr.

  Before he could speak however, the air was full of the sound of the beating of great wings, and the descending creature landed in front of Creost.

  Hawklan gaped. The creature was a grotesque travesty of a bird. Its body was larger than Serian, its feet were taloned, and a serpentine neck supported a long pointed head that swayed to and fro menacingly. Astride its back, however, was a worse sight. Gaunt and deathly pale, with long tangled white hair that writhed as if it existed in a wind-blown universe of its own, sat the white-eyed figure of Dar Hastuin.

  Hawklan recognized the Uhriel, though no name had been spoken; nothing else could so offend the time and place by its very presence.

  Come in triumph to aid your ally and gloat over your victory, you obscenity? he thought.

  Anger rose up through him like a sudden blazing fire as he struggled to his feet. Freed from whatever had held him, he knew he must slay these abominations while chance allowed. The black sword seemed to draw him onward, singing, to the deed.

  As he dashed forward, he saw Dar Hastuin's claw-like hand reach out to take Creost's.

  'No!’ he cried. They must not escape the reach of the sword. He aimed a savage blow at the head of the frightful bird, but it pulled away from him with unexpected speed and, curling its long neck, struck at him like a serpent, screeching horribly as it did so.

  Hawklan staggered as his reflexes moved him away from the blow, but he did not lose his footing.

  Creost was astride the flapping creature now. Hawklan moved forward to strike again, but the bird struck first, making him fall over this time. As he rose to his feet, the bird began beating its wings so ferociously that he could scarcely keep his balance in the wind it created. Then it charged at him, making him dive desperately to one side.

  As he rolled through the trampled snow he brought himself upright, sword still firmly gripped. But the bird was in the air, carrying its loathsome cargo.

  'My bow!’ he roared. ‘Serian!

  The horse was by him in the instant, but even as he reached for the bow, Hawklan knew that the Uhriel were beyond even its range. Quickly he swung up into the saddle. Serian could surely outrun that bird!

  Before he could move however, Andawyr stepped in front of Serian and laid a gentle hand on his muzzle.

  'Stand aside, man,’ Hawklan shouted angrily. ‘We can have them yet.'

  Andawyr shook his head sadly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In the confusion of the moment we might indeed have slain them. But not now. Not together, and riding Usgreckan. They would slay us if we challenged them. Let them flee if they themselves haven't realized that.'

  'No!’ Hawklan shouted, urging Serian forward to push Andawyr aside. But the horse did not move.

  Hawklan's anger foamed up into his eyes then drained away abruptly as it broke against Andawyr's stillness. He leaned forward and looked into the old man's face.

  'No,’ he said again, quietly, and in some despair. ‘It cannot be, Andawyr. Not when we've been so close.'

  'It is, my friend,’ Andawyr said gently. ‘It is. But the day is ours. Creost hurt, and his mortal allies broken and fleeing should give us the Muster by our side when we march into Narsindal. And we know that Dar Hastuin too was hurt, hurt at least as sorely as...'

  'Hurt?’ Hawklan echoed, looking at him sharply.

  Andawyr shrugged and looked upwards. ‘Whatever happened up there, he too was defeated.'

  Hawklan looked up. Inland, the sky was dark and heavy with winter, but overhead and out to sea the cloud had been breaking up for some time as the tide turned. Now much of the sky was blue and filled with tiny blowing clouds. Directly overhead, and very high, a large white cloud moved slowly out to sea.

  Though he could hear nothing above the noise around him, Hawklan felt the presence of the great cloud land. He raised his sword in salute. ‘Live well, and light be with you, Ynar Aesgin, and with your soarers, riders of the high paths. May you find the peace to heal all your pains,’ he said, quietly. ‘Forgive me if I failed you.'

  He swung down from Serian and gazed at the passing Viladrien for a moment in silence.

  As he turned back to Andawyr, Isloman galloped up. His face was flustered and anxious. ‘Hawklan! Quickly!’ he shouted pointing to the south.

  Hawklan followed the direction of his hand. There in the distance were horsemen; hundreds of them, spreading out as they approached.

  'Muster!’ he said softly, smiling as he remembered the call of the old lady he had met on his sunlit way to the Gretmearc. ‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ he heard her say.

  But his smile faded almost immediately and, with a shout, he remounted Serian and drove him forward. The Muster were heading towards the fleeing Morlider with lances and drawn swords. Their intention was unequivocally clear.

  'I will take you to the Line Leader,’ Serian said as he gathered speed. ‘But sheathe your sword or neither of us will live to reach him, they're in full cry.'

  Hawklan gave the horse his head marvelling again at his speed and power as he galloped forward towards the charging horsemen.

  Looking at the Muster, Hawklan saw the wisdom of trusting to the horse. He could not have stopped the impending massacre single-handed, and he could not have found the leader amidst so many.

  Indeed, in Hawklan's eyes, the grey-bearded man before whom Serian eventually halted was scarcely distinguishable from any of the other riders, in his heavy clothing and helm.

  'Hawklan,’ cried the man riding next to him. The voice was Agreth's and its tone was full of both pleasure and relief.

  Hawklan returned him no courtesies, however.

  'Call your men back,’ he said urgently. ‘Call them back.'

  Agreth hesitated and looked uncertainly at his neighbour. Urthryn took off his helm; his face was grim, and strained with great weariness.

  'Take care,’ Serian said softly.

  'You are the man Hawklan,’ Urthryn said appraisingly. ‘I should have known you from your demeanour without Agreth's calling your name. We are greatly in your debt. A matter to be honoured in due time. But we've ridden as the Muster has never ridden before to find these murderers, and nothing will stop us meting out due punishment.'

  Hawklan glanced over his shoulder and saw the Muster reaching some of the stragglers.

  'Call them back!’ he shouted furiously. ‘They're retreating. Let them go.'

  Urthryn recoiled from Hawklan's outburst, then his face darkened. A rider next to him, misunderstanding his movement, brought a lance up protectively towards Hawklan's throat.

  Almost off-handedly, Hawklan seized the shaft as it moved forward, and with a barely perceptible movement unbalanced the man so that he toppled from his saddle. Another rider reached for a sword, only to find Hawklan's newly acquired lance resting heavily across his hand. Other swords were drawn rapidly.

  'No!’ shouted Agreth, holding out a hand before his
own angry leader. Then, to Hawklan, ‘What are you doing, threatening the Ffyrst? These invaders slaughtered thousands of our kin mercilessly. They must be punished.'

  Hawklan struggled with his anger. ‘Whoever fought your people in the south, it was not these. They've been on this shore for weeks and the only people they've killed have been Orthlundyn, and that only today. Call your riders back.'

  'Hawklan, they swept our people away like so much dung out of a stable.’ Agreth's face was pained. ‘Smashed and drowned them all as they waited on the beach...'

  Hawklan's brow furrowed. ‘Drowned?’ he queried.

  Agreth faltered, ‘A wave. A great wave...’ he said, his voice fading as his gaze turned to the sea, sparkling now golden and grey, and alive with fluttering sails and bobbing vessels.

  Hawklan turned to Urthryn. ‘If your people were slain by the sea, then their murderer is Creost,’ he said, his voice now urgent and pleading. ‘And he has fled this field, injured and robbed of his mortal army.’ He swung his arm over the retreating masses. ‘These people were deceived and misled. They've taken a hundred losses to our one and now their very lands are drifting from them. Let them go. Call your riders back. Your true foe—our true foe—lies yonder.'

  He turned and pointed to the north, but as he did so, he froze. Serian whinnied uncertainly. Low over the horizon and black against the distant clouds was an unmistakable silhouette. Usgreckan and its unholy burden were returning.

  Andawyr's fears returned to Hawklan. Together the two Uhriel might yet reverse this rout. A great silent cry of denial rose up within him and he swung Serian round, scattering the gathered Muster riders. ‘Break your heart, prince of horses,’ he said, his face savage. ‘We must kill these before they reach our peoples.'

  And wild though Serian's charge had been to intercept the Muster, it was as naught before the tumultuous black wind of his race to greet the Uhriel, with Hawklan carrying high the bow of Ethriss and the ranks of friend and fleeing enemy parting before him like the sea before a surging prow.

  'Hawklan, no! You'll be killed! Stay by us!’ Andawyr cried as the great stallion sped by, but nothing could stay such purpose, and Andawyr and Atelon spurred their horses after him like flotsam in his wake.

  The sound of Usgreckan came ahead of him, bearing the Uhriels’ rage like a foul wind. It mingled with the cry rising in Hawklan's throat as he nocked one of Loman's black arrows on to the glistening string of Ethriss's bow.

  But as the two foes closed, a third figure appeared; a small black dot falling precipitously from high out of the sky.

  As it seemed set to fall past the screeching Usgreckan, its wings spread wide and it arced down to strike the ghastly white head of Dar Hastuin a punishing blow.

  'Gavor!’ Hawklan shouted in alarm and distress. ‘No!'

  But the battle was far from his reach and Serian's pounding charge slowed as both horse and rider found themselves helpless spectators to Gavor's lone assault.

  The two Uhriel struggled and flailed their arms to repel Gavor's frenzied attacks while Usgreckan twisted and swooped, but all was to little avail against Gavor's consummate flying until eventually a fortuitous blow struck the raven full square.

  Even as his friend fell, Hawklan released an arrow, and then another and another. The first glanced off Creost's hand which was reaching out to deliver some final blow to the falling Gavor; the second and third did no hurt, but passed close by, causing Usgreckan to tumble and almost unseat its riders. Then Andawyr was by Hawklan's side, his bright eyes blazing and his arms extended, adding his own menace to Hawklan's assault.

  Usgreckan shrieked and fled, its fearful cry echoing over the whole field. Gavor struck the ground.

  Hawklan galloped desperately to his stricken friend.

  The black form looked fragile and broken in the deep Riddin snow and there was blood all around him. As Hawklan knelt by him, Gavor opened his eyes weakly and said, very faintly, ‘Sorry, dear boy.'

  Then his eyes closed and he lay very still.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  The snow-covered landscape was yellowed by a low, watery sun as it peered fitfully through the wintry haze. Vague patches of grey shadow picked their way over the fields uncertainly as, high above, unseen clouds formed and changed and drifted slowly by.

  'Thaw coming soon,’ Eldric said, feeling the cold dampness in the air.

  A few heads nodded indifferently. No one relished the raw, blustering interregnum between the paternal tyranny of winter with its white, biting certainty, and the usurping anarchy of spring with its irreverent, unassuageable energy.

  Eldric did not pursue his foretelling. It had only been a nervous twitch to break the silence which had enfolded the waiting group as they watched the distant Orthlundyn army winding its way through the brightening morning towards the City. Turning to Hreldar and Darek, he became prosaic.

  'Come on,’ he said. ‘I'm freezing to death here. Let's go and meet them.'

  The two lords exchanged a brief smile. Eldric intercepted it and scowled inquiringly.

  'We had a small wager that you wouldn't wait,’ Darek said, his smile broadening unrepentantly.

  Eldric snorted and clicked his horse forward. His entourage fell in behind him, noticeably more cheerful for being on the move again.

  'I wonder what this Gulda's like,’ Hreldar said.

  'Memsa Gulda,’ Darek said sternly. ‘If Arinndier's underlining is anything to go by.'

  'Remarkable I should imagine,’ Eldric said. ‘All our messengers come back looking slightly stunned, and delivering her messages with great precision.’ He laughed. ‘And I swear Arin's hand was shaking every time he wrote her name.'

  As the troop rode on, the road became more and more crowded with people walking the same way for the same purpose. Gulda had politely declined the Geadrol's suggestion that the Orthlundyn march through Vakloss to receive a formal welcome.

  'We're an army, but we're not soldiers, Lords. We're a people come to aid in the destruction of Sumeral, not to tourney. Your good will and a place to pitch our shelters will be welcome and honour enough.'

  'I did tell you!’ Arinndier wrote.

  But nothing could prevent the people of Vakloss providing their own informal welcome, muffled and gloved though they might be.

  Eldric was pleased to see the crowds. Dan-Tor's rule and his bloody deposition had left many scars on the Fyordyn; scars which ached and throbbed from time to time and some of which might take generations to heal fully. But the Uhriel's leeching corrosion had destroyed none of the vital threads which bound the people together. The re-establishment of the Geadrol and, above all, the open meting out of justice in the traditional courts, proved too rich a fare for the ranks of malcontents that had thrived on Dan-Tor's diet of envy, vindictiveness and secretive treachery. The recovery had gone on apace.

  It had been helped, too, by the news from Orthlund. With old enemies threatening Riddin, and the Orthlundyn—the quiet, gentle Orthlundyn—marching through the winter mountains to their aid, the Fyordyn's own sufferings could be seen as part of a wider torment. A combination of guilt at their failure to fulfil their ancient duties, and anger at Dan-Tor's personal betrayal swept away many lesser grievances.

  Now the Orthlundyn were here. And soon the winter would be ended. Then the creator of this long nightmare would feel the wrath of his victims!

  The Fyordyn were optimistic.

  Except for the news from Riddin, Eldric thought. Or, more correctly, the absence of news. According to messages from Arinndier, the Alphraan had reported that the army had left the mountains to enter Riddin in good heart, but since then there had been only silence. What had happened there? What had happened to the Muster? The Orthlundyn? Hawklan? And, not least, Sylvriss? And, though heard only in Eldric's heart, Jaldaric?

  It had been suggested that some of the Goraidin be sent through the mountains to find the answers to these questions, but Yatsu calmly, if regretfully, stated the obvious.
‘Men could die on such a journey,’ he said. ‘That's probably why they've not sent any news themselves. And at the worst, what information could such a venture bring us that we can't already make preparation for? The Goraidin should be used where they'll be of greatest benefit. They must stay in the north, preparing for the assault on the mines.'

  Nobody had seriously disputed his comments, but still the silence from Riddin lay across all considerations like a cold hand.

  Distant cheering brought Eldric out of his brief reverie and he saw that the road ahead was blocked by a milling crowd. Beyond the bobbing heads he could see wagons and horsemen, prominent among the latter being Arinndier.

  Eldric reined to a halt and smiled.

  'Commander Varak,’ he said. ‘Take a few troopers and see if you can gently open up a way for us ... and our allies.'

  Varak saluted smartly and signalled to a group of High Guards. Their offices, however, were not required. Even before they had moved forward, the crowd ahead parted to reveal a black, stooping figure leaning on a stick.

  'Gulda,’ said Eldric and Darek simultaneously.

  'Memsa!’ Hreldar reminded them raising his eyebrows in mock warning.

  Gulda moved purposefully towards them, Arinndier and other horsemen following in her wake. Eldric and the party dismounted to greet her.

  For the first time in many years, Eldric felt young again as the black figure bore down on him; too young. He had the distinct feeling that he was a child again, standing in front of one of his old teachers. There was quality about Gulda that belied utterly the stooped form and the stick she seemed to lean on.

  'Lord Eldric,’ she said—a statement, not a question, he noted. He took the offered hand. Her grip was like a man's; indeed, not unlike Hawklan's in the feeling it gave of great power finely and totally controlled. He found his balance being subtly tested. A brief appreciative smile passed over Gulda's face, then her piercing blue eyes looked into his and reduced him unequivocally to the schoolroom again.

  The word ‘Gulda’ formed in his throat, but ‘Memsa’ came out as he scrabbled back to his true age and dignity. ‘Lord Arinndier has written much about you. It's an honour to meet you.'