The Call of the Sword Page 9

  Gavor looked at him with undisguised scorn.

  ‘Look at it dear boy,’ he said, nodding his shining black head at the body in Hawklan’s hand, and shaking a shower of droplets loose. ‘It’s as fat as a ripe apple. I don’t know how its wings lifted it. That never died of exhaustion. They had to sing their song twice to kill it, that’s how exhausted it was. I heard them. It’s not my fault you’ve got cloth ears. And that was no swirling mist we saw. That was the Alphraan.’

  Hawklan grunted dismissively. ‘Very well. If you say so. But I think you’re going fey. It’s probably the altitude. Come on.’

  He looked hesitantly at the dead bird. ‘We should find somewhere to leave this. It must return to the earth.’

  Gavor jumped down onto Hawklan’s arm and examined the body. He shuddered.

  ‘Put it in your pack, dear boy. Nothing’s going to eat that. It doesn’t belong to the earth. It’s repellent. I’m surprised you can’t feel it. We must keep it with us until a suitable time for its disposal presents itself. It’ll only do harm if we leave it lying here.’

  Hawklan looked intently at his friend, puzzled by this enigmatic speech. He wanted to ask him what he was talking about, but his ears were ringing oddly in the mist-damped silence and he felt impelled to move on quickly.

  ‘Come on then. Let’s be on our way,’ he said, swinging his pack onto his back and dropping the small brown body casually into his pocket. ‘Maybe you’ll recover your wits when we get out of this mist.’ His voice echoed peculiarly and menacingly in his own ears, and for an instant he felt as though he were constrained to a certain path as intangibly and yet as definitely as if he were in the labyrinth guarding the Armoury at Anderras Darion. Beyond the path lay a roaring death, without a doubt.

  He shook his head to dismiss the notion, then strode purposefully forward towards the sunlight glowing through the mist.

  Chapter 11

  Hawklan began to notice a change in himself. A broadening, an enlarging of his awareness and knowledge. These were the only words he could find to describe the feelings within him, but they were not very adequate. As more of his latent knowledge quietly manifested itself, he felt as though he were emerging from a chrysalis; the world began to look very different, and he knew that he too was different.

  He had set off from Pedhavin apparently on a whim. Not exactly a light-hearted one, but equally, not a doom-laden compulsion. Now, as he and Gavor paced out the long lonely miles through the mountains, he realized that what was moving him forward was not an idle whim, but a stern resolve.

  He was surprised to encounter within himself both steel and flint and their sparks drove him on, though why he should be so driven he could not have said. He knew only that he must find the source of that appalling doll and perhaps now, since Gavor’s news, he must find also the source of all the tinker’s wares. It was his hope that in finding these, all questions would be answered.

  Just as he had once awoken to find himself wandering in the mountains, unaware of who he was or how he came to be there, so he began to realize that he must be awakening again. But with this realization came the feeling that the past twenty years would prove to be but a short episode in his life – a brief respite. Twenty years in the Great Harmony of Orthlund and in the sanctuary of Anderras Darion. Twenty years of lightness of touch, of healing and bringing contentment to people. Twenty years – resting? – waiting? – preparing?

  ‘You’re looking very pensive, dear boy.’ Gavor interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘That will be because I’m thinking, Gavor,’ Hawklan replied, a little more tartly than he had intended.

  Gavor drew in a long hissing breath and then clicked his black tongue reproachfully.

  ‘Not a good idea, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Humans don’t really have the brain for it. It’s a well-known fact. Wears it out, you know.’

  He hopped onto Hawklan’s head and tapped the top of it lightly with his beak.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Hawklan, waving his hand vaguely over his head to dislodge the bird.

  ‘Just checking, dear boy,’ replied Gavor, nimbly jumping up and down to avoid the flailing hand, and keeping his balance by spreading his wings a little, pinions gently flicking the air.

  ‘Yes, thought so,’ he said. ‘Distinctly hollow sound developing. And our normal placidity and equanimity aren’t what they could be, are they?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Hawklan. ‘Nor would yours be if you’d some demented bird trying to peck its way into your skull.’

  Gavor swooped off Hawklan’s head and then soared up into the air with a laugh. Hawklan ran his hands through his dishevelled hair.

  ‘I can live with most of your bird impressions, Gavor – just. But I’m not too keen on your woodpecker.’

  Gavor turned over and over in a warm updraught. The joy of it made him laugh out loud in sheer delight.

  ‘A true artist must live his part you know, dear boy. It’s an endless struggle for perfection,’ he shouted. Then he performed his inadequate nightingale briefly, and cried, ‘Come on up. The air’s splendid.’

  Hawklan shook his head and smiled broadly, his green eyes bright. There were times when Gavor seemed to have a boundless capacity for glee. Watching the black shape twisting and turning high above him in the blue sky, Hawklan admitted to himself a small twinge of envy. The slight taint of this emotion did not however, mar the enjoyment he felt in watching his friend’s happiness, but it brought to his mind the incident in the mist.

  The inert body of the brown bird felt heavy and anxious in his pocket. ‘Don’t know how those wings could carry it,’ Gavor had said. And then the strange figures. He was as sure as Gavor that he had seen something, someone, two tiny figures. But he had not wanted to pursue them for some reason. His mind had seemed to be full of sounds urging him away from the mist and the high ground.

  He was about to shout up to Gavor and ask him more about the Alphraan, when Gavor called out, ‘Visitors coming, Hawklan,’ and dropped down to perch on a nearby rock.

  The ‘visitors’ proved to be villagers from Pedhavin returning from the Gretmearc: Jareg with his wife and children. Most of the Orthlundyn threatened to visit the Gretmearc at least once in their lifetime, but few actually got round to it; there was always some more pressing matter at home. Jareg however, was an exception. He was always thought of as being rather restless by his neighbours. ‘It shows in his work,’ they would say. ‘His father was the same. Hasty. Touch of Riddin blood in the whole family, if you ask me.’ And as if in confirmation, he had actually packed his bags and taken his family on this great adventure.

  They all greeted Hawklan warmly as they came together on the narrow path, the children embracing him, and the wife staring at him with open, laughing admiration.

  ‘Didn’t recognize you, Hawklan, dressed like that. Sword and all,’ she said with teasing irony. ‘You look like a great warrior, not our healer. What are you doing here?’ Hawklan kissed her on the forehead and, acknowledging her comment with an embarrassed smile, looked for something to deflect the conversation from both his appearance and the reason for his journey. It was not difficult, for Jareg had with him a large, black horse, walking listlessly behind his two packhorses. Hawklan felt the pain radiating from it.

  ‘Bought yourself a present I see,’ he said in some surprise, indicating the animal. The Orthlundyn rarely bought horses, usually being able to meet their few needs from their own stock.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jareg doubtfully. ‘But I’m not so sure it was a good idea. He looked all right at the market, and he’s a fine creature – Muster stock. I thought he’d be good to breed from. But something seems to be wrong with him.’

  Hawklan took the horse’s handsome black head in his two hands, and spoke to it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked it.

  The horse made no reply, but showed the whites of its eyes and looked for a moment as if it might shy away from him. Hawklan spoke again, gently, laying his han
d on its forehead. ‘Don’t be frightened. Tell me what’s the matter.’

  The horse still looked fearful, and did not answer.

  ‘You bought this at the Gretmearc, you say?’ Hawklan asked. Jareg nodded.

  Hawklan was puzzled. Animals were as subtle and sensitive in their feelings as humans, not infrequently more so, but they were usually much more straightforward to deal with. He began to wonder if indeed a Riddin horse would speak a different language from an Orthlundyn horse, but that was nonsense. He was sure this one understood him and chose not to reply . . . or could not. And it was in some kind of pain. He tried again, but again there was no response.

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ Jareg asked. Hawklan’s lean face showed his doubts.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It won’t talk to me.’

  ‘It’s a Muster horse, but that should act in its favour,’ said Jareg. ‘They work them hard but they look after them very well.’ He patted the horse anxiously. ‘Thinking about it, there must be something wrong with it. I don’t think the Muster normally sell their horses. But . . .’ he laughed good-naturedly. ‘Those Gretmearc people would sell you your own shirt, and send you away feeling you’ve got a bargain.’

  Hawklan nodded. He had heard of the Riddin Muster from Isloman and Loman. It was a relic of some ancient time but it was now deeply embedded in the culture and hearts of the Riddinvolk. At the appropriate command, an elaborate and rapid system of messengers could bring thousands of people riding to the defence of the land, working in highly organized and trained groups of anything up to twenty thousand riders.

  The Muster always trained regularly, a strict rota of duty and work sharing ensuring that the disruption of the normal working lives of the people was minimal. And everyone – men, women, and even children – participated without exception. It was its continual state of readiness that enabled it to hold off the Morlider raiders until help came from Fyorlund and Orthlund some twenty years or so ago when the Morlider had attacked with such suddenness and such unprecedented viciousness.

  In more peaceful times, its meetings were full of ceremony, hectic merrymaking, and displays of horsemanship, but never at the cost of basic effectiveness. The down-to-earth Riddinvolk always assumed that the Muster had been formed to deal with the Morlider in the distant past and never lost sight of that fact. Folklore however, took its formation back into legend and a myth, and linked it with great wars in times beyond remembering, when a terrible evil had arisen and had been defeated only after many years of bitter and bloody strife.

  The quality of Muster horses was legendary. Hawklan nodded. ‘It certainly seems to be in excellent condition,’ he said, as he walked quietly around the horse, stroking it soothingly and feeling its responses under his hands. ‘Yes. Excellent. But . . .’

  He stepped back, his face furrowed into an uncharacteristic frown. Healing involved, amongst other things, entering into the pain of the sufferer, and when Hawklan felt a sinister, strangling, restraint deep within him, he recognized it as belonging to the horse. His green eyes narrowed.

  ‘I thought it was just shocked in some way,’ he said thoughtfully, as if to himself. ‘But it feels as if someone has laid a stifling hand on its heart to silence it.’

  He seemed puzzled by his own words. The idea was horrific and a spasm of pain passed over his face as he turned away from the horse. ‘Yes. That’s what’s happened,’ he said, laying a hand on the horse again. ‘There’s something deep inside it that I can barely reach, let alone move. Who would do such a thing? And how?’

  A cloud passed over the sun briefly, echoing the feeling of darkness that Hawklan’s concern had brought to the group.

  Hawklan reached up and, putting his arms about the horse’s neck, rested his forehead against it and closed his eyes. For seemingly endless minutes, the group stood still and silent, like the mountains themselves. Slowly the horse’s great head sank lower and lower, and it began to breath noisily, in unison with Hawklan’s own breathing. Then, abruptly, it jerked upright and whinnied slightly. Hawklan stepped back, his eyes wide and watering tearfully, his forehead glistening.

  ‘What have you done?’ said Jareg anxiously.

  Hawklan shook his head, and wiped his eyes with a kerchief offered to him by Jareg’s wife. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I might have helped it. It don’t think it’ll get any worse, and it may be better able to help itself now; it’s a powerful animal in every way.’

  ‘What should I do with it?’ Jareg asked. Hawklan smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Just look after it as you have been doing. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks or so and I’ll look at it again. I’m sure I’ll be able to help it some more. Don’t worry. It’s a fine animal.’

  His reassurance restored everyone’s good spirits and they spent some time showing him their gifts and purchases and talking about the excitement and wonders of the Gretmearc, before eventually continuing on their way.

  Hawklan watched them thoughtfully as they left.

  Gavor spoke. ‘What did you see in the horse, Hawklan?’ he asked.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never felt the like. But it was nothing natural, that’s for sure. It felt primitive – very old. It was horrible.’ He shuddered.

  Gavor cocked his head to one side at this untypical response. ‘If it wasn’t natural then it was unnatural,’ he said. ‘Who would do such a thing, dear boy? Come to that, who could do it?’

  Hawklan pondered. Isloman, a First Carver, slipping with a chisel. A tinker with unclean wares that deceived the sight of the Orthlundyn – and disturbed his own equilibrium. A fine animal ruthlessly invaded. He stood silent for a moment, then he smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t know that either, Gavor, but I fear we’re being manipulated and that we’re destined to find out why at the Gretmearc.’

  Gavor nodded. Hawklan had told him all that words could offer. ‘Very well, dear boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll continue to watch your back.’

  Hawklan turned round to look at the departing family. They were on the skyline and they turned to wave before dropping out of sight. He saw the horse throw its head back, and he bent forward to catch the faint, distant sound.

  ‘What did it say?’ Gavor asked.

  Hawklan frowned as if in pain. ‘It said, “Take care at the Gretmearc – old enemies are abroad.” ’

  Gavor turned a beady eye on him. ‘That’s not much use,’ he said.

  Hawklan looked at him crossly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But it cost that horse dear to say it.’

  He rested his hand on the pommel of the black sword, and the spring sun sparkled in a tear than ran down his face in memory of the pain he had felt in the horse.

  Old enemies, he thought. And I’m walking – being drawn? – towards them. I wonder if I’ll know them when I see them?

  Chapter 12

  It was with some relief that Eldric welcomed the last of the three Lords he had summoned following Hrostir’s news of the suspension of the Geadrol.

  Lord Darek rode into the courtyard with his small, yellow-liveried escort, and dismounted stiffly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ were his first words to Eldric. ‘I came as quickly as I could, but I don’t ride like I used to.’

  Eldric smiled warmly and took his hand. ‘Nonsense. You’re here a good day earlier than I thought you’d be,’ he said. ‘It’s a long journey. I’m only sorry you’ve had to make it under such circumstances, and at this time of all times. You must rest a while before we talk.’

  Darek shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me attend to my men and then we’ll talk right away. I couldn’t begin to rest with all the hares your news set running around in my head, and I presume you’ve all been pacing the floor for at least two days waiting for me. And being none too charitable about the delay.’

  Eldric raised his hands and shrugged in mute confession and apology. ‘You always were too sharp, Darek,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come
inside. My men will attend to your escort and the horses, and we’ll join Hreldar and Arinndier straight away.’

  Leading his guest through a blossom-decorated doorway, he added wryly, ‘You’ll not decline a little Festival fare while you’re talking, I trust?’ Darek allowed a brief smile of acknowledgement to light up his thin, dour face.

  Within minutes they had joined the others in one of the rooms of Eldric’s private quarters. It was simply decorated and well-lit with ample comfortable furniture, and Darek sat down in a capacious chair with an aura of considerable relief.

  The four Lords presented a considerable contrast. Eldric, bluff, solid and open-countenanced; by a month or so the senior in years, but by far the most senior in the eyes of the people and his peers. Arinndier, some five years younger, but bigger and stronger and with the demeanour of a much younger man. Darek, thin and wiry, with a quiet, rather scholarly manner. And finally Hreldar. A real Festival Lord, as Eldric described him. Round faced and jolly. A man much given to easy and infectious laughter.

  For all their contrasts however, they were bound by long ties of affection and loyalty. Ties forged mainly during the years they spent fighting shoulder to shoulder in the Morlider War, and subsequently tested and tempered by their long service together in the Geadrol.

  Ironically, for four Geadrol Lords, their conference was remarkably brief.

  Hrostir had little to add to the news he had brought. Leaving Vakloss at the end of his routine secondment to the Palace, he had come across the edict almost by accident, so quietly had it been posted. It came as no great surprise to any of the Lords that there had been no public outcry at such an edict. For all its virtues, there was no widespread interest in the affairs of the Geadrol and, at that time, the Grand Festival dominated all horizons. Few things were deemed so serious that they could not be left until ‘after the Festival’. Taking a copy of the edict, Hrostir had ridden post-haste to Eldric with the news rather than to his father because his estate was the nearer and because of his seniority.