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

  'Why do you disobey your leader, hadyn?’ he said, staring into the whitened eyes and using the Mandrocs’ own expression of contempt. ‘Do you forget the punishment for such actions?'

  The Mandroc's trembling increased. ‘Amrahl, Amrahl,’ he stammered.

  Urssain placed the edge of his sword against the Mandroc's throat. ‘Listen to me, worthless one,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘That you're not skewered to the ground is a measure of my mercy. But it's ended. Get up, now, or I'll send your spirit on the Dark Journey to face Amrahl's true Greatness with your cowardice about your neck and the curse of your tribe and your lodge bellowing at your heels for bringing such dishonour on them.'

  The threat galvanized the terrified Mandroc and in a trembling flurry he struggled to his feet, as did the few others still cowering on the ground.

  'Black Lord.’ It was the Mandroc leader. Urssain turned to find him pointing out over the lake.

  Moving on a scarcely felt breeze, the mist was thickening rapidly. Very soon it was possible to see only a few paces along the causeway and the world for the waiting group became a small grey enclave of damp silence.

  Urssain sheathed his sword. He tried not to speculate on the scream and the shaking of the ground. Both had emanated from Dan-Tor, he knew; he had heard their like before, many times worse, when Hawklan had treacherously struck down the Ffyrst. But what had caused them now? Had Dan-Tor, like Faron and Groniev, attempted some coup against his Master and failed? The thought shrivelled almost before it formed; it was ludicrous. Whatever strange world Dan-Tor dwelt in, it was far beyond such squeaking ambitions. And whatever had happened, Urssain could do no other than wait to find out. If someone had ended Dan-Tor, then he would serve them just as willingly. He pulled his cloak about himself again.

  For a long time there was no sound other than the lapping water, then came angry Mandroc voices, muffled by the mist, and the sound of the shuffling slaves and the creak of their carts began again.

  It had scarcely begun however, when it stopped suddenly.

  'He comes,’ whispered the Mandroc leader.

  Urssain peered vainly into the mist. He could neither see nor hear anything but he too knew that Dan-Tor was returning. Unconsciously, he straightened up.

  Then a vague shape appeared in the greyness. Urssain's eyes narrowed, but the mist, swirling now, disorientated him and he could not focus clearly. Indeed, he found he could not even discern whether he was looking straight ahead or up in the air, and the shape seemed to become many different things as it came forward; tall and straight at one moment, then swaying and hovering like some strange bird, then, impossibly, far below him, large and bulky.

  Gradually it resolved itself into a horse and rider. Urssain identified the rider as Dan-Tor by his hazy silhouette. But he had had no horse. All the horses had been left behind at the Mandroc camp half a day's march south; no horse would come near Derras Ustramel, not even those that would bear Dan-Tor.

  Yet, now, Dan-Tor was riding, without a doubt.

  Urssain moved forward to greet his Lord.

  As the figures neared, so the mist's deceit fell away and horse and rider stood clearly exposed.

  Urssain took in a deep breath. It was a horse that Dan-Tor was riding, but one such as Urssain had never seen before. Its shape was oddly angular and almost obscenely muscular, and at the back of each leg rose a curving bony spur. But it was the head and, above all, the eyes that made him shiver. Narrow and serpentine, the eyes glistened green through the mist, radiating a malevolence that seemed to confirm the impression of malign intelligence which was given by a bulging forehead.

  Held low below the great hunched shoulders, the head swayed slowly from side to side as if searching. As Urssain took in the vision, it turned towards him and slowly opened its mouth to reveal the tearing teeth of a predator. Then came a rasping and unmistakable noise of challenge which froze Urssain to the spot. It stopped only at a cold word from its rider.

  Urssain tore his gaze away from the creature and looked up at Dan-Tor. He too was different, though in what way Urssain could not tell.

  'Ffyrst,’ he said, saluting. The head of the horse creature swayed towards him again as if attracted by the movement of prey.

  'Commander,’ Dan-Tor acknowledged. His voice was both pained and triumphant and he was clutching his side.

  Urssain searched for something to say into the misty silence.

  'Are you hurt, Ffyrst?’ he ventured.

  Dan-Tor turned to him slowly and shook his head. ‘All hurts are as nothing now, Commander,’ he said, his white smile chilling in the gloom. ‘See. I am whole again.'

  As he spoke he removed his hand from his side.

  Urssain leaned forward.

  Hawklan's arrow was gone.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Cadmoryth stirred uneasily. Hawklan leaned forward and took his hand. Urthryn and Girvan watched the healer anxiously, but looking at each in turn he gave a slight shake of his head.

  It was a confirmation of what he had said earlier when, found on the beach as the Muster rounded up those Morlider abandoned by their fleeing compatriots, Cadmoryth had been brought to the hospital tent, unconscious and broken.

  Girvan turned away briefly in distress, but Urthryn bared his teeth in angry frustration. He turned to leave.

  'Ffyrst.’ Cadmoryth's voice was weak, but lucid and audible even above the commotion filling the hospital tent.

  Urthryn turned and looked down at the fisherman. The man's eyes were open and clear.

  'I'm here,’ Urthryn said.

  'Ffyrst,’ Cadmoryth said again. ‘Forgive me. So many good men dead ... I...’ His voice faded.

  'Hush, rest, fisherman,’ Urthryn said, but Cadmoryth shook his head and beckoned him closer.

  Urthryn knelt down beside the bed and bent forward to catch the failing words; his travel-stained tunic soiled the white sheets that covered Cadmoryth's broken frame.

  'I saw the evil, Ffyrst,’ the fisherman whispered. ‘I could do no other than ... hurl myself at it. I forgot my duty as captain of my vessel, forgot my crew. Now...'

  'Hush,’ Urthryn said again, looking helplessly at Hawklan. ‘You forgot nothing, fisherman. Sometimes a leader leads, sometimes he is simply a tool of the will of his people. Your whole crew saw the evil. You held the helm, but they rowed their hearts out to crush that abomination. The Orthlundyn saw the truth of it all.’ He indicated Hawklan.

  Cadmoryth's eyes followed his movement. Hawklan nodded. ‘It was the will of your crew,’ he said. ‘Your boat leapt at Creost like a hunting animal.'

  A brief smile lit the fisherman's face as he remembered that last surging charge to avenge the treacherous deaths of so many on that southern beach. ‘It did, it did,’ he said triumphantly. ‘The Morlider know how to make a fine ship. But so many dead ... it burdens me.'

  'Many survived Creost's wrath, Cadmoryth,’ Hawklan said. ‘And you brought him down with your deed. Gave us the day. Broke the Morlider utterly. Who knows how many lives you've saved? A good day's haul, fisherman, a good day's haul.'

  But Cadmoryth was not listening; he was clutching Hawklan's hand urgently. ‘Who lived, healer, who lived?’ he asked.

  'I don't know their names,’ Hawklan replied. ‘But they've been fretting about outside all the time you've been unconscious. They...'

  'Bring them here,’ Cadmoryth interrupted urgently, trying to rise. The effort however was too much, and he slumped back, gasping. ‘No, wait,’ he said. ‘Wait a moment.’ He lay still for a little while then, momentarily, he grimaced in distress.

  'There's no landfall from this journey, is there, healer?'

  Hawklan bent forward and spoke to him softly, placing a hand on his forehead. Slowly the fisherman's breathing became quieter.

  'Girvan,’ he said after a moment. The Line Leader crouched down by him. ‘Girvan ... Tell my wife ... I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to leave her. Tell her ... thank you ... for the light s
he's given me...’ His face became pained again. ‘You'll find the words, Girvan. She liked you.'

  Girvan nodded, but could not speak. Cadmoryth patted his hand reassuringly. ‘Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘You'll look to the needs of my wife?’ His tone was anxious.

  'It's ever our way, fisherman, have no fear for that,’ Urthryn replied.

  Cadmoryth closed his eyes briefly. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then, smiling a little: ‘That was a rare ride you made, Ffyrst. A fine yarn to tell your grandchild when it arrives.'

  'It was fair,’ Urthryn replied. ‘But as nothing compared with your great journey.'

  Cadmoryth gave a brief breathy chuckle then he lay back and looked up at the roof of the tent.

  A timber post with ropes lashed about it rose up by his bed like a mast. Radiant stones filled the tent with their stored summer warmth, and the slowly billowing fabric of the roof faithfully held and returned it, but Cadmoryth's eyes narrowed and his face tightened as if he were facing a cold, spray-filled wind, and revelling in it.

  'Send my crew in,’ he said to Hawklan, faintly. ‘They'll tend me now.'

  As the three men moved away from the dying fisherman, Urthryn took Hawklan's arm. ‘You must rest,’ he said. ‘Our healers and yours are sufficient. You've done enough.'

  Hawklan looked at him, and then around the tent. It was filled with long rows of wounded. They were lying on a hotch-potch of beds; a few had been hauled over the mountains by the Orthlundyn, and some had appeared silently in the wake of the Muster, but most were rough and ready creations salvaged from the remains of the Morlider camp. It was fitting; most of the wounded were Morlider. They had taken appalling casualties in both dead and wounded at the hands of the Orthlundyn, and the tent was filled with the sound of their collective despair; a dark, disordered chorus of cries and groans, shot through with muffled screams.

  Worse, to Hawklan, though, the place reeked of fear and horror. A spasm of anger ran through him.

  'A healer can't rest while such pain cries out,’ he said, more severely than he had intended. Then, thus triggered, the anger came out as unhindered as it was unjust. ‘But you can, and must. You're wearier than I am by far. You've younger officers who should be doing much of what you're attempting. Let them do it, they'll do it better and quicker. We've serious problems to discuss when these poor souls have been eased. It's you who should rest, Ffyrst, not I.'

  Girvan took a discreet step backwards.

  Urthryn frowned furiously. ‘You're powerfully free with your orders, Orthlundyn,’ he said barely restraining his own anger.

  Hawklan reflected the frown. ‘Fault my logic, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Better still, accept the wisdom of your people. Most of them are sleeping.'

  Urthryn bit down his reply though it was with an effort. ‘Sylvriss said you were a remarkable man,’ he said. ‘We'll talk later. When both of us are rested.'

  As Urthryn left, Girvan paused briefly by Hawklan. ‘Your remarks were unnecessary, Orthlundyn,’ he said bluntly but without anger. ‘Think about swallowing them later. The Ffyrst is a wise and patient man, but he's more than tired, he's exhausted in every way. The journey we made might have been epic, but it was also grim and he left behind much quarrelling and bitterness. Then to find the Muster could offer so little at the end...'

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I know,’ he said regretfully. ‘Time and rest will see us all at greater ease. See him settled if you can, then rest yourself.'

  When Girvan had gone, Hawklan cast a brief glance towards the group sitting silently around the peaceful form of Cadmoryth. He could do nothing there. He knew that, fisherman all, they were waiting for the turn of the tide that would take their comrade away.

  Leaving them to their vigil, Hawklan strode off down the long aisle between two rows of beds. All around him were men, young men for the most part, suffering from fearful injuries. Those with lesser injuries were being treated in other places.

  Here were severed and broken limbs; bodies, crushed and mutilated; the terrible gaping gashes and stab wounds made by swords and long bladed pikes. And, like a grim harmony note underlying everything, the thought of what must lie ahead of those who were healed. Maimed, abandoned and alone amongst their enemies.

  He caught the eye of a man who in Orthlund might still have been an apprentice carver. He was bearded, but the fluffy blond mass served only to accentuate his fresh-faced youth. From his skull emerged the shaft of an arrow. Hawklan went to him and placed his hands about his face. The eyes slowly looked up at him, but they were blank.

  The boy would live, Hawklan knew. Perhaps for a long time, but ...

  Rest? he thought. Would he could. His body ached with fatigue after the gruelling hours of fighting and then the even more gruelling hours of clearing the battlefield. But he had not lied to Urthryn; he could not rest while so much pain cried out. At their extremities, the warrior and the healer in him had little love for one another and their mutual anger marred him.

  'May I help?’ came a voice as he stood up from the young victim.

  Turning he saw first Yengar and Olvric, then the speaker.

  All three looked desperately tired. Hawklan sensed the third man for a healer, and his face was elusively familiar.

  'Marek,’ said the man, answering Hawklan's questioning expression. ‘Healer with the Lord Eldric's High Guard. We met, or rather, I saw you, when you were ... unconscious ... at Lord Eldric's. It's good to see you whole again.'

  'You were sent with Queen Sylvriss to Dremark,’ Hawklan said, smiling, as he recalled both the memory of Marek's face from that strange interlude following Oklar's assault on him, and Agreth's account of the Queen's journey. ‘When did you arrive?'

  'An hour or so ago,’ Marek replied. ‘But everything's so confused we had difficulty finding you.'

  Hawklan's smile broadened. ‘Came with one of the baggage trains, did you?’ he said.

  'Yes, and even that was hard going,’ Yengar said ruefully.

  'We didn't last two days with Urthryn's riders.’ He seemed distressed by this failure.

  'Set it aside, Goraidin,’ Hawklan said. ‘That journey will go down forever in Muster lore. It took no small toll of their own. Is the Cadwanwr with you...’ He cast about for the name.

  'Oslang,’ Yengar said. ‘Yes. And the others are following. He's with Andawyr now, but he's worse than we are. I doubt he'll wake up before the rest arrive.'

  Hawklan nodded. ‘You two find Dacu then rest awhile, there's nothing for you to do here. Marek, see how things are, do as your heart moves you, you're the best judge of your own worth at the moment.'

  The Fyordyn looked around the tent and then back at Hawklan. ‘I'm tired through travelling uncomfortably and sleeping badly,’ he said. ‘But I'm sound, and fresh from tending Sylvriss, who in her present condition gives more than she receives.’ Hawklan felt Marek taking charge of him. ‘You on the other hand are almost spent. In a little while you'll just be another burden. Go and rest.'

  Hawklan frowned at Marek's bluntness, but the healer's words cut through his weariness and both cleared his vision and gave him the little strength he needed to accept what he saw. He looked about the noisy tent once more and, feeling the awesome weight of pain and fear in the place, realized he had been trying to carry it all in reparation for the part he had played in creating it. That was not healing.

  'You're right,’ he said simply. ‘I've stayed too long. I'll go for a walk then I'll sleep—as instructed.’ He tilted his head towards the far end of the tent. ‘The Duty Healer's over there if you're going to stay.'

  The cold struck him as he stepped out of the warmth of the tent. It was snowing; large damp flakes floating silently and leisurely down through the grey sky. The two Goraidin strode off purposefully towards the Command tent in search of Dacu, and Hawklan turned towards the sea.

  As he walked, he let the countless unrepeating patterns of the swirling snowflakes fill his mind. Better they than the tangled mass of the thoughts he was still clinging
to. He had not started this appalling juggernaut on its life-crushing journey; who could say what butterfly's wings had? Such threads as he could unravel went back only to that spring morning when a bent and crooked tinker had appeared on the green at Pedhavin, and he could not see even those being woven into any other pattern. Nor, truly, was that pattern an ill one, despite the miasma of pain emanating from the sad heart of the hospital tent. His own words to the dying Cadmoryth returned to comfort him, ‘Who knows how many lives you've saved?'

  Now, at least, Sumeral's malice and intent stood plainly exposed; the Morlider were gone, leaving the Muster free to help in the struggle; the Orthlundyn had been tested in battle and their discipline had given them the day against fierce and overwhelming odds. The Cadwanwr too had met some great trial and survived; they would be the wiser for that. A good day's haul indeed, he thought, even though much of him cried out still at the tragedy that such nets had had to be cast.

  The sound of the sea brought him to a halt and he realized that he had walked further from the camp than he had intended. He was at the top of the slope that led down to the remains of the Morlider camp.

  The falling snow was already obliterating many of the scars of the battle, though in so doing it was hindering the groups of Riddinvolk and Orthlundyn charged with the task of cleansing the area. Rows of bodies, already covered to protect them from the scavenging seabirds were slowly disappearing under a further, cold, shroud. Stacks of weapons and supplies too were merging anonymously with the whitening terrain.

  He became aware of Serian standing by him. The horse had followed him from the camp.

  'How are the horses?’ Hawklan asked.

  'Better than the humans,’ Serian replied. ‘They forget more quickly. They did well.'

  Hawklan patted the horse's neck. ‘Indeed they did,’ he said. Then, on an impulse, ‘Do you wish to return to the Muster now that you're home again?'

  The horse lifted its head and shook it, throwing a spray of snowflakes into the air. ‘I'm no longer a Muster horse, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Touched by His evil at the Gretmearc, then redeemed by you. Facing the wrath of Oklar with you. Listening to the sounds of the Alphraan and the song of Anderras Darion. And now all this: charging against Dar Hastuin and Creost as they rode Usgreckan. I am not what I was. And I am possessed by the demon that possesses you. I ride next against Sumeral. Do we ride together still?'