The Fall of Fyorlund Read online

  Even after passing the destroyed remains of Evison’s troop, it needed no tracking skills to follow the trail of the departed attackers.

  ‘This is how the Mandrocs left Orthlund,’ said Gavor. ‘As if they were crushing something to death with every footstep.’

  Gradually the countryside yielded to the mountains proper and soon they found themselves moving between dark lowering crags. The two Goraidin were uneasy about their vulnerability in such terrain, but Gavor’s high-flying vigil enabled them to maintain their pace without any real fear of ambush.

  Eventually the route they were following became too rocky and awkward for rapid progress and, feeling that time was against them, Hawklan sent Gavor ahead to see if they were near to any kind of settlement or encampment, or anything else that might be worth examining.

  It was dusk when he returned, a shadow sweeping out of the shadows. ‘Leave your horses and climb that peak there,’ he said, and was gone.

  Without speaking Isloman stood up wearily, and began walking in the direction Gavor had indicated. Hawklan ran after him. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Where are you going? We can’t walk up there now, it’ll be pitch dark soon.’

  But Isloman kept on walking.

  Hawklan moved in front of him and held out a hand to stop the carver. ‘Isloman, what’s the matter with you?’ he demanded.

  Isloman stopped and looked at Hawklan as if puzzled by this inquiry. ‘I have to see, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Stay with me, you’ll be all right.’

  Hawklan still sensed the great turmoil in his friend, but no sickness. He gave a resigned sigh and, stepping aside, signalled the others to follow.

  The peak, however, was no easy walk, especially in the meagre light offered by the stars and a thin moon. Isloman seemed to have little trouble, but several times the others had to call out softly to him to slow down a little as they carefully negotiated areas of shattered rock and steep rubble-strewn slopes. At last, after several hours of leg-aching trudging they reached the summit.

  Unusually it was not the rounded grass dome that characterized most of the smaller mountains, but a jumbled mass of jagged rock. This, however, did not deter Hawklan and the two Goraidin from flopping down gratefully when they reached it.

  Isloman had not seemed to be hurrying, but he had set a relentless pace. As they rested, he wandered fitfully over the summit, turning round and round repeatedly, like a weather vane in a gusting breeze. Finally he stopped and stared straight ahead. Then slowly he raised his hand and pointed out into the night. ‘There,’ he whispered, as if fearful of being overheard.

  Hawklan stood up and carefully walked over to him across the uneven rocks. ‘What?’ he asked, following Isloman’s gaze. ‘What is it?’

  But Isloman did not reply. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself and slowly sat down.

  Hawklan bent down to him. ‘Isloman, what’s the matter?’ he said. ‘What’s happened? What’s out there?’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ came the faint reply through the darkness. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Instinctively Hawklan reached out to his friend, but he felt the man’s agony before he touched him. Abruptly, Isloman ‘s powerful arms swept up as if to dash Hawklan aside but, just as suddenly, they slowed and gently pushed him away. Hawklan stood up and looked down at him, puzzled and uncertain.

  ‘Is he sick?’ It was Lorac at his elbow. ‘He could have picked something up around those bodies. They’d been there some time . . .’ His inquiry tailed off.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘No. It’s nothing like that. It’s something deeper. Don’t worry. I’ll stay with him.’ He turned round and looked out into the night in the direction Isloman was staring. ‘You rest. We’ll see what the daylight shows us.’

  Isloman did not move all night but, long before Hawklan noticed a change in the light, he said, ‘Dawn,’ and stood up. The slow softening of the darkness that followed this announcement reminded Hawklan of the many times he had stood on one of the high towers of Anderras Darion and watched the dawn break over the mountains. It was like a reaffirmation, and he felt an inner ease which he realized he had not known for some time. For a while his mind left the bewildering cascade of events that had occurred since the day Tirilen had led him down the steep road from the Castle to look at the strange tinker on the village green.

  He stood up and joined Isloman. ‘Show me now, shadow sage,’ he said, hoping that a touch of humour might help his friend, but Isloman just pointed. ‘There,’ he said.

  As the light grew, Hawklan found he was looking between two mountains into a far-distant valley. He could make out what looked like white scars and gashes running down the sides of the valley, and a longer, more even line that twisted and turned sinuously before it disappeared from sight.

  ‘A road?’ he said, after a moment. ‘And quarries?’ The scene meant nothing to him. Before he could question Isloman, Gavor fluttered down to join them. His manner was agitated. ‘You’ve seen it, then?’ he said.

  ‘The road? Yes. And are those quarries?’ Hawklan asked. ‘But I don’t understand what I’m looking at, Gavor.’

  Gavor’s tone was strained. ‘You’re looking at a new, very large road, heading north into . . . there. And yes, they are quarries. And there are more on the other side. And mines. The road’s for taking . . . I don’t know . . . whatever’s coming out of them.’

  No one spoke. Gavor continued. ‘Those streaks that you can see are great mounds of waste that have been spewed down into the valley. It’s unbelievably foul. And there’s worse.’ He paused. ‘The work’s being done by slaves.’ All three men turned and looked at him. ‘Men, women, even children . . . and Mandrocs,’ he said slowly. ‘And all under the none-too-tender supervision of those cockroaches.’

  There was an uneasy silence.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Lorac burst out suddenly. ‘You’ve made a mistake, bird.’ His voice was vicious and angry, but layered with fear and uncertainty.

  Gavor’s eyes blazed and he spread his wings menacingly. ‘Don’t doubt me, human,’ he hissed, his black mouth gaping wide. ‘I tell what I see. Your brothers are torturing your brothers over there. They’ve poisoned the land with their filth. And the rivers. Even the air I flew through was tainted.’ He craned forward and beat his wings savagely. ‘It’s not for nothing that above all the other creatures in this world, He’s assumed your shape for His work here.’

  Lorac quailed under Gavor’s appalling assault and lifted his hands as if expecting to be physically attacked as well.

  Hawklan held out his hand to Gavor. ‘Gently, Gavor, gently,’ he said. Then to the chastened Lorac, ‘You can trust Gavor totally, Goraidin, totally. We mustn’t take our pains out on one another. We’ve got real enemies to fight. Gavor, can we come any closer?’

  ‘No,’ said the bird, still eyeing Lorac. ‘That valley’s two days away for you, and half a day will bring you in sight of their look-outs. You won’t even reach the remains of Lord Evison’s troop.’

  Hawklan nodded and thought for a moment. ‘Well, if we’ve seen all we can see, then we must take the knowledge back to the others as quickly as we can.’

  ‘Hawklan.’ It was Isloman. ‘Help me. Get me away from here . . .’ His voice was hoarse and distant, and it tailed off into a long failing breath as his knees bent and he fell to the ground.

  Chapter 46

  Hawklan bent over his fallen friend and examined him urgently. But his hands and his healing told him nothing. Whatever had brought Isloman low was beyond his knowledge. All that remained was Isloman’s own judgement: ‘Get me away from here.’

  The journey back to the horses, however, was a waking nightmare as the three of them struggled desperately with Isloman’s limp bulk, while the brightening summer sun and the splendour of the emerging mountain scenery seemed to mock them.

  Driven by his concern for his friend and his own feeling of impotence, Hawklan found the inevitable slowness of the descent unbearable. Tw
ice he slipped in his haste. Once slithering incongruously down a damp grassy slope and, another time, more seriously, missing his footing on moss-slimed rock.

  Tel-Odrel caught him and with a friendly grin supported him while he recovered his balance, but Lorac rounded on him furiously. ‘In Ethriss’s name, Hawklan, look what you’re doing. You could have injured yourself and Tel-Odrel, and how long would it have taken us to get back to the others then?’

  Part of Hawklan rose up in anger at this rebuke, but another quieted him. The Goraidin’s right, healer. Concern yourself with your friend. He deserves better than your self-indulgence.

  It took them several hours to reach the horses, and they were exhausted when they did. Hawklan examined Isloman again but his condition was unchanged.

  ‘Let me carry him,’ said Serian and, with an effort, they lifted him into the great horse’s saddle and tied him there firmly.

  The journey back to Eldric’s mountain stronghold was no less arduous and unpleasant, and Hawklan, unused to his new mount and unable fully to relax because of his concern for his friend, felt as if he had been in the saddle for his entire life.

  However, he had repeated cause to be grateful for Yatsu’s insistence that Lorac and Tel-Odrel accompany him. Their knowledge of the country and the mountains shortened the journey considerably and, amongst other things, spared them the need to pass by the carnage around Lord Evison’s castle.

  Isloman improved a little as they moved further away from the blighted valleys. He regained consciousness for increasingly longer periods but still did not speak, and Hawklan felt that the carver was fighting to hold something at bay rather than recovering from it.

  On the night before they were due to reach their destination, Hawklan, as usual, spent some time in making Isloman comfortable and in easing the aches of Lorac and Tel-Odrel that Serian’s unrelenting pace had brought about. But there was a restlessness in himself that he could not still and eventually he wandered away from the camp, sensing that, while sleep might restore his body, something else was needed to quieten his mind.

  Alone in the dying light, he sat down on a grassy knoll that overlooked the long valley they had spent the day negotiating. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a longing for Anderras Darion and the calm and harmony of its encompassing mountains and rolling countryside; for Pedhavin and the silver river that ran through it; and for all his many friends there.

  Without thinking he drew his sword and, pressing its cold black hilt against his face, closed his eyes. Thoughts suddenly burst in on him as if they had been penned by some great dam. Thoughts of a tiny mannequin full of corruption; of the huge, bustling Gretmearc and the sinister trap that was laid for him there; of the malign presence of Dan-Tor seeking him out, spreading corruption into his life and through him into the lives of all the Orthlundyn; of Andawyr, that strange scruffy little man filled with light, who searched into his mind and came to him mysteriously with terrible needs; of Mandrocs and of the slaughtered guards; of a fume-choked Vakloss and of the knife-wielding vengeance of a lone, lost woman against her persecutors; of appalling carnage fringing a blackened castle, and of mines and quarries, the very sight of which had brought down his friend.

  These and many others surged and tumbled through his head beyond all control, swirling like a frenzied maelstrom seeking a path down into a cold, dark stillness.

  For a moment he floundered, then, abruptly, he let them go. They were beyond resolution. They were the myriad tiny ills that he had seen so often emanating from wounds and disease. Some could be eased for the comfort of the sufferer, but always the source should be sought and its influence assuaged.

  But was this healing in his gift? Or was he only a humble part of a greater healer’s work? Again, no resolution. Only a healer’s faith. Whoever or whatever he was he would oppose this corruption where he found it and seek towards its centre when he could. He had no choice.

  Gradually the clattering thoughts faded and went their way unhindered. He sat for a long time in silence and stillness until he became aware of the cold mountain air blowing around him.

  Opening his eyes, he held out the hilt of the Black Sword and looked at it. The stars inside it glittered and twinkled like reflections of the sky above him, and the intertwined strands pursued their journey into an endless distance. He felt a lightness again that he had not realized he had lost.

  They reached Eldric’s stronghold late the following day. Yatsu took one look at the four travellers and immediately postponed the questions that had been building in his mind since the return of Ordan with the Mandroc armour and his tale of horror. ‘We’ll hold an Officers’ Council tomorrow,’ he said simply. ‘Now you must eat and rest properly.’

  * * * *

  Hawklan sat pensively in a high-winged chair. It was ornately carved, though its arms and rails had been worn smooth by countless years of use. It was also extremely comfortable. Just above his left shoulder, Gavor slumbered, his claw closed around the top of the chair. He was muttering incomprehensibly in his sleep. Opposite Hawklan, in an identical chair, was Isloman. He was sitting upright, but his eyes were half shut and it needed no healer’s touch to tell he was oblivious to everything around him.

  Hawklan gazed at him, as he had been doing for the past hour. Wilfully he avoided fretting about his friend’s condition, hoping that some inspiration would drift into his mind.

  What came, however, was not what he had either expected or hoped for. This man’s a liability in this condition, it said. He’s too good a soldier to lose, he must be brought back into fighting fettle. The thought was so cold and callous that Hawklan slammed the palms of his hands into the arms of his chair as if the noise and pain would prevent his hearing it, or as if to punish himself for it.

  ‘Damn it, Isloman,’ he said fiercely. ‘Don’t leave me like this. Other people depend on us. Speak, man.’

  The outburst woke Gavor, who fell off the chair and only just managed to regain his balance before hitting the floor. He glided up on to the mantelshelf that topped the large open fireplace separating the two men and, ruffled, looked down at Hawklan indignantly.

  Before he could speak, however, Isloman stirred. He opened his mouth as if to speak but no sound came. Then his great hands tightened around the arms of his chair and he swayed back and forth, racked by some inner conflict.

  Hawklan leaned forward intently. Faintly he heard, ‘The words don’t exist, Hawklan . . .’ He caught the phrase and held it; a precious jewel glinting in the barren earth. It was a phrase common among the Orthlundyn whenever he asked about their crafts, and he himself used it when asked about his healing. ‘The words don’t exist.’ He repeated them to himself.

  Around their sharp focus formed the realization that Isloman’s illness was associated with his craft. It was obvious, he saw now, and he should have seen it from the start. But he refused to be lured astray by self-reproach. Isloman was still struggling. Hawklan knelt down in front of him and, taking his hands, looked into his eyes. The blankness had gone, but it had been replaced by pain.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I understand. It’s the song, isn’t it? The rock song.’

  A low distant note sounded in Isloman’s throat and swelled rapidly into an almost inhuman roar. ‘There was no song,’ he cried. ‘No song. Only a great cry of horror and pain.’ He clasped his arms about himself and rocked to and fro again, as if nursing some terrible internal wound.

  ‘Why?’ persisted Hawklan. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘No words, no words,’ muttered Isloman. Then his powerful hands broke free from Hawklan’s grip and shot out to seize his arms. ‘Worse than all those bodies, Hawklan. Far worse,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘So deep. Deep beyond any reaching. It’s infected me, Hawklan, I can’t hold on. Even to think about an obscenity like that would . . . But to feel it . . .’ His voice tailed away and, releasing Hawklan, he rapped his hands around his bowed head and curled up like an unborn child.

  Hawklan reeled back under
the impact of his friend’s distress. He had hoped that the trickle of words might presage a deluge and with its passing so would pass Isloman’s pain. But it had not. Instead, his friend was slipping further away as if his brief contact with the present had loosed his weakened grip.

  Guilt and doubt swept into Hawklan’s mind and his head jerked desperately from side to side as if looking for help from the pictures and statues that decorated the room. A jabbering crowd of voices seemed to fill his head, raucous and clamouring.

  ‘Let go, Hawklan,’ said one. It was Gavor. Hawklan looked at him, perched on the mantelshelf. ‘I felt the taint, but I haven’t Isloman’s vision and I can fly high above and soar in the clear air which knows the truth and can purify all. Let go. Have no fear. Your mind can go no further. Your healing draws from deeper wells than any evil can know.’

  Hawklan met the enigmatic black eyes for a long moment. Gavor nodded slowly. Then, closing his eyes and turning away from the voices, Hawklan felt them vanish like smoke in the wind. He reached out and laid his hand on Isloman’s head. For an instant he heard the rock song and felt its appalling defilement. ‘I’m here, Isloman,’ he said quietly. ‘I hear your song, rock-blind though I am. Listen to me. Can any defilement be beyond the aid of the maker of this, old friend?’ And, unclipping the scabbard of the Black Sword, he lifted it in his left hand and held the hilt out towards Isloman.

  As he did so, a nearby torch flared gently and its light caught the hilt’s inner pattern making the stars there shimmer and dance like a myriad tiny universes.

  Isloman stared at the hilt distantly for what seemed an interminable time then, as if returning from a long journey, recognition came into his eyes, and his right hand slowly reached out and took hold of it. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as if moving some massive weight, then his left hand joined his right in clutching the black stone hilt. Tears began to run down his face, but he was not sobbing. ‘How could I have forgotten?’ he said, very softly. ‘How could I?’ His eyes opened.