The storm was appalling and had been for several days. The watch boats had long been driven ashore and, shortly after they had returned, the Line on coast watch had given up any pretence at patrolling as the screaming wind sweeping in from the sea had made it difficult for even the horses to keep their feet. Besides, the rain and spray which were being hurled horizontally across the shore were so dense that it was almost impossible to see the next rider, let alone the distant horizon.
Girvan laid his pen on one side and looked around the fisherman’s cottage that was serving as his tempo-rary headquarters. It was echoing with the muffled sounds of the storm raging outside, but it was warm and friendly, though, with its low open-beamed ceiling and enormous clutter of seafaring relics and ornaments, it was very different from the traditional Riddin dwellings he was used to being billeted in. Then again, it only reflected the fisherfolk themselves; they too were warm and friendly, but different; in some ways not Muster people at all, though on the whole they pulled their weight fairly enough. There was always that reserve about them; a quiet, inner strength. Ironically, it made them particularly good with horses, but they didn’t seem to have the relish for the animals that the Riddinvolk normally had.
After his several weeks watching the sea and sharing a little of the lives of these seafolk, Girvan felt he was beginning to understand this stillness. A rider had a partnership with his horse and a knowledge and regard for his land. But the sea was different. True, there was respect and knowledge, but there was also fear… no, not fear… more a dark, deep insight. There could be no partnership of equals between man and sea. It was brutally indifferent to those who rode and harvested it, and its power was awesome. Yet it was this very indifference that gave the seafolk such a grim measure of their true worth.
Girvan glanced covertly at his host and hostess. They were sitting on either side of the wide fireplace which was aglow with clucking radiant stones. The wife was working patiently at a delicate embroidery, while the husband sat sucking on a long-dead pipe, staring into the fire. Strange habit, smoking, Girvan thought. It was no horseman’s habit for sure, yet somehow it added to the fisherman’s aura of calm preoccupation.
As if sensing the Line Leader’s observation, the man spoke, without turning from the fire. ‘This is a bad storm, Girvan Girvasson. It has an unnatural feel to it.’
Girvan sat up and looked at the man intently, notic-ing as he did so that the wife had stopped her sewing. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked simply.
The man did not reply immediately but took his dead pipe from his mouth and stared at it as if for inspiration. He shrugged a little unhappily. ‘It has an unnatural feel to it,’ he repeated. ‘It blows too long, too hard. It has no rhythm… no shape.’ He looked up at the watching Line Leader. ‘It carries the wrong smells,’ he concluded.
Girvan looked down at the note he had just been penning. It was a routine report to Urthryn at Dremark. ‘This pounding storm has an oddly unnatural quality about it,’ he read. He had been on the point of deleting this eccentric and seemingly irrelevant observation, but if this man, with his deep knowledge of the moods of the sea, had sensed something untoward, then he too must be content to let his instincts guide him.
The name Creost hung unspoken between the two men. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I’ll send to Urthryn immediately and tell him our feelings. Let him and Oslang make of it what they will.’
The fisherman nodded, then stood up. ‘Where are your men?’ he asked.
Girvan looked a little surprised. ‘In their billets I imagine,’ he replied.
The fisherman nodded again. ‘Come along,’ he said, reaching for his voluminous waterproof coat that hung behind the door.
‘Where?’ Girvan asked.
‘To rouse your men, and our own,’ the fisherman answered. ‘We must go to the high banks and cliffs and do our duty.’
Girvan hastily scribbled a note to complete his re-port and, sealing it, placed it in his pocket. ‘What can we possibly see in this weather?’ he said.
The fisherman shrugged. ‘We belong out there, Line Leader,’ he said. ‘Not in here. We should be listening to what the storm tells us.’
Girvan cast a longing glance at the fire, then reluc-tantly scraped his chair back and stood up. The fisherman smiled as he followed Girvan’s gaze.
‘Keep the hearth warm, my dear,’ he said to his wife, laying an affectionate hand on her shoulder. Then, throwing the Line Leader his cloak, he beckoned him towards the door.
Outside, the storm was fully as bad as it had seemed from the inside, the wind being all the more cutting for the near-freezing water it was carrying. Underfoot squelched the chilly remains of the earlier snowfalls which refused to thaw fully under this icy onslaught. Used though he was to many weathers, Girvan could not forbear grimacing. The fisherman did the same. ‘I’ve ridden out some foul weather in my time, but never anything like this. Come along.’
Soon a small crowd of fishermen and Muster Riders were huddling in the lee of the village’s meeting hall. There was little cheery banter. Girvan used his authority with the Riders.
‘Yes, I know we’d all rather be sat by these kind folks’ firesides, but if both Cadmoryth and I feel something’s amiss, then we must get out into the storm and listen. We are on duty, and we maintain the discipline of the Line, for all we’re on our feet. Is that clear?’
There were some desultory murmurs of agreement which Girvan knew was as near as he was going to get to enthusiasm that night. He felt in his pocket for the report to Urthryn.
‘Lennar,’ he said, peering into the group. The girl shuffled forward, a shapeless dripping mound of unwillingness, and Girvan thrust the document out to her. ‘You’re duty runner tonight if memory serves me. Mount up and get this to the Ffyrst as quickly as you can. Move inland. Don’t take the coast road. And I want you to tell the Ffyrst when and where this weather changes. It’s important. Do you understand?’
‘No, but I’ll do what you say,’ the girl replied, brightening a little at the prospect of riding away from this benighted and chilling place where the land seemed to be almost as wet and cold as the sea. She took the report from Girvan and, with a brief farewell to her friends, scuttled off into the storming night.
‘Where should we go?’ Girvan said, turning to Cad-moryth.
The fisherman answered without hesitation. ‘Out along the cliffs,’ he said. ‘It’s an onshore wind, there’s no danger, and there’s the best view by far.’
Girvan nodded. ‘Not that there’ll be much to see,’ he said.
‘Nevertheless, we’ll see whatever’s there,’ the fish-erman replied.
The path to the cliff top was steep, though not very long, and the untidy procession slithered up it in comparative silence. Once at the top, they spread out in a ragged line, fishermen and riders paired off and staring into the howling wind.
‘I can scarcely keep my feet,’ Girvan shouted, catch-ing hold of Cadmoryth for balance as a powerful gust struck them both.
More used to such conditions, the fisherman grinned and took hold of Girvan’s arm to sustain him. But his concentration was out to sea. ‘This is wrong,’ he said anxiously, his face close to Girvan’s. ‘I feel it more than ever now. This is no natural storm.’
‘Then it’s Creost’s work,’ Girvan said, though the strangeness of his own words made him feel disorien-tated. ‘Could the Morlider sail on us under cover of this kind of weather?’
Cadmoryth shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘Certainly, no one would choose to sail when it’s like this. It’s different if you’re caught in it by accident, then you have to sail, but only from wave to wave, enough to keep afloat. You can’t look to sail to any greater purpose than that.’
Girvan scowled, painfully aware that he could not begin to think in terms of sea warfare. If Creost could indeed cause such a storm, what would be the reason for it. Was it simply to clear the sea and the shoreline of watchers? If so, it had been singularly effective, but then, as Cadmoryth had indicated, who could bring boats ashore and land men in such conditions?
A shout interrupted his reverie. Turning, he was surprised to see the lights of a rider cautiously negotiat-ing the steep path. He stepped forward to meet the newcomer. It was Lennar.
‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted, half concerned, half angry that his messenger had returned.
Lennar bent forward, water cascading off the hood of the large cape that some fisherman had lent her. ‘The storm faded away, barely a mile inland,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d want to know before I rode on.’
Girvan patted her arm. ‘Wait,’ he said, then, placing his fingers in his mouth, he blew a penetrating whistle and gesticulated to the nearest watchers. ‘Get back to the village, mount up and head north to where the cliff drops straight into the sea,’ he said to one pair. ‘And you go south,’ to another. ‘Take care, but be as quick as you can.’
‘What are we looking for?’ one of the men asked.
‘Just find out what’s happening to the weather,’ Girvan answered. There was an urgency in his voice that forbade any further debate, and the riders left quickly, like Lennar, only too happy to be away from this awful blustering watch.
Within the hour, both parties were back, however. The weather in the north and south was calm.
Girvan showed no emotion when he heard the news, but he felt his stomach churning as if he were about to vomit. ‘Give me the report,’ he said coldly to Lennar. Dutifully, she handed it to him.
Crouching down to shelter the document from the rain, Girvan wrote for a few minutes, then re-sealed it and returned it to Lennar.
‘Take someone with you,’ he said. ‘Full speed, maximum care. Take remounts.’ Then, turning to the newly returned riders, he said, ‘Raise the local Lines.’
‘What’s happening, Girvan?’ said Lennar, her face pale in the torchlight.
‘Just ride, girl,’ Girvan replied. ‘As well and as quickly as you can.’
As Lennar and her companion made their way care-fully back down towards the village, Cadmoryth turned to Girvan. ‘Behind the storm comes the Morlider?’ he asked.
‘I can see no other reason,’ Girvan replied. ‘This is the only stretch of shore for miles where boats could land. And where the cliffs become too steep, north and south, the storm abates.’
Cadmoryth wrapped his arms about himself and moved forward towards the cliff edge.
Abruptly, the storm was over. Girvan and the other watchers stood motionless on the cliff top. Tentatively the Line Leader lifted his hand to his head, as if unable to believe that the awful noise had indeed ended.
Below them, the sea, its recent demented fury for-gotten, broke prosaically over the long shoreline of the broad bay, and to the east, a clear cloudless sky lightened. But where a dark sea should have met the watery yellow sky with a sharp, clear edge, ominous ragged silhouettes waited. Girvan felt his chest tighten with fear. He screwed up his eyes in an attempt to see more clearly.
‘It’s them,’ he heard Cadmoryth say needlessly. Morlider islands! Swept close inshore under cover of the storm.
Girvan looked at the fisherman. ‘How far away are they?’ he asked, reaching out for something normal.
Cadmoryth frowned. ‘Perhaps only half a day,’ he said softly after a long silence.
Girvan’s body was shaking and uncertain with the ceaseless battering it had received through the night, but Cadmoryth’s simple statement started a trembling moving through it that was quite another response. Half a day! He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his bulky waterproof cloak, and turned to one of his men nearby.
‘Take two riders and make full speed to the Ffyrst. Tell him the Morlider are here, perhaps half a day off-shore. The local Lines have been roused and we’ll start evacuating the local villages immediately. We’ll be ready to give them a welcome, but… ’ He left the sentence unfinished.
As the man ran off, Girvan turned to Cadmoryth. ‘Your people had best get to horse, fisherman,’ he said gently.
It was not unusual in Orthlund for the days following the Feast of the Winter Festival to be characterized by widespread inactivity.
This year was only different in that lethargy reached almost epidemic proportions, with further snowfalls conspiring with over-indulgence to impede all forms of physical effort.
Orthlund’s great healer fared little better than his charges for the first few days, but towards the end of the week the relentless clump of Gulda’s stick prowling the corridors of Anderras Darion began to remind him, and others, of the virtues of diligent application to useful tasks.
It was not, however, the immediate threat of Gulda’s caustic presence that galvanized Hawklan abruptly, nor the knowledge that the spectre which had avoided the feast was still there to be faced. It was an Alphraan voice speaking softly in his ear.
‘Hawklan, come quick,’ it said, simple and clear, though in a tone filled with nuances of terrible urgency.
Hawklan jerked into wakefulness and screwed his eyes tight as the torches, sensing his awakening, burst into life.
‘What is it?’ he managed, swinging out of bed almost without realizing it, and sleepily groping for his clothes.
‘Come quickly,’ the voice said, more urgently than before.
‘Where?’ Hawklan said, as he began to struggle with buttons and buckles.
‘Follow. Bring your sword,’ came the reply, and the sound that had guided him and his companions through the tunnels in the mountains rang out again in his small, spartan room.
‘Where?’ Hawklan insisted, a little more firmly.
There was a brief pause, then, ‘Into the mountains. Come quickly.’
‘Into the mountains!’ Hawklan muttered to himself in some exasperation as he pulled off his tunic and reached for several layers of more appropriate clothing.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Are we being at-tacked? Has someone been hurt?’
‘No, but come,’ said the voice. ‘Before the wind changes. It is most important.’
Hawklan stopped dressing and scowled at this en-igmatic reply. ‘I can feel that,’ he said, his exasperation mounting. ‘But I need to know where I’m going, and for what, so that I can take supplies. I don’t know how you survive in the snow, but humans tend to die very easily.’
The sound faltered. ‘Supplies are being prepared,’ the voice said after a moment.
Briefly, Hawklan considered further interrogation but rejected the idea; urgency was humming all around him. He nodded and began dressing again. ‘Waken Loman and Isloman,’ he said.
‘They have,’ came the voices of the two brothers simultaneously. Hawklan started and glanced around involuntarily to see if they had both entered his room unheard, although he knew they had not. Carrying their voices thus was a device the Alphraan had not used before, but he chose not to remark on it; the unspoken sense of urgency was growing.
‘What about Gavor?’ he said, dragging on his boots.
There was a slightly embarrassed pause in the sound. Hawklan looked up.
‘Wake him!’ he shouted. ‘A little profanity won’t hurt you.’
Before any reply came, there was a knock on his door.
‘Come in,’ Hawklan shouted, irritably. The door opened and Isloman walked in, fully dressed for a long trek through the mountain snow and looking not dissimilar to a large jovial bear. ‘Loman’s packing supplies,’ he said by way of greeting.
Hardly a minute from his bed, Hawklan rebelled. ‘What in thunder’s going on, Isloman?’ he demanded.
Isloman shrugged. ‘I know as much as you do,’ he replied. ‘They woke me and Loman up and just told us to start getting things ready. Two or three days they said-perhaps. But they seemed so anxious about something we didn’t feel inclined to argue.’
Hawklan’s irritation could not sustain itself. Some-thing serious had happened beyond a doubt. He nodded. ‘Are we going to be allowed to eat before we start on this errand?’ he asked, buckling on his sword.
Isloman grinned and patted his pocket. ‘Apparently we must eat as we walk,’ he said. ‘Although the amount you put away at the Feast should keep you going for another three days at least.’
Hawklan raised a menacing forefinger. ‘That is a calumny, carver,’ he said. ‘Delicate and discerning are the words you were searching for to describe my appetite.’
Isloman gave a nod of ironic agreement. ‘Would you like some help with that belt?’ he offered.
Within the hour, the three men had left the village and were heading up into the mountains following the Alphraan’s guiding sound. Daylight was easing its way through a uniformly grey sky and, as it became brighter, so the snow-covered mountains came increasingly into view. They were magnificent, spreading into the misty distance like a jagged frozen ocean, though all three travellers knew that for all their beauty the winter mountains held dangers far greater than those to be encountered in summer.
The sound pulled them forward relentlessly, but Hawklan reproached their unseen guide. ‘We’re travelling as quickly as we can,’ he said. ‘The going’s difficult. Too fast and we’ll be exhausted very quickly, and if one of us falls and is injured then we’ll never reach wherever it is you want to go. We’re trusting your guidance; you must trust our pace.’
There was no reply, though the guiding note seemed to become a little more patient.
Some while later they were joined by Gavor, who landed clumsily on Hawklan’s head.
‘I hope someone’s got a reason for all this,’ he said in the manner of a strict schoolteacher roused from a clandestine slumber.
‘Ask your little friends,’ Loman said.
Gavor studied the grey sky. ‘We’re not speaking at the moment,’ he replied with haughty indifference. ‘Their intrusion was most… inopportune.’
All three men laughed. ‘They can’t be all bad, then,’ Loman said.
Gavor glowered at him indignantly and then gave a martyred sigh. ‘It’s very difficult coping with people so lacking in delicate sensibilities,’ he said. Then, thrusting a wing in Hawklan’s face, he said in an injured tone, ‘Look, dear boy. All my stars have gone.’
‘Thus passes the glory of the world,’ Hawklan com-miserated insincerely. ‘But I’m sure all your friends love you for what you are, not your vulnerable exterior.’
Loman gave a snorting chuckle but Gavor ignored him. ‘Thank you, dear boy,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘I see there’s some hope for humanity yet.’ Then, he leaned forward towards Loman. ‘You might take some solace in that yourself, smith,’ he said. ‘Coming into the moun-tains looking like a bear, with your fur coat and all.’ He paused and peered intently downwards. ‘And what in the world have you all got on your feet?’
‘Snowshoes,’ Loman said, warily.
Nearly falling off Hawklan’s head in his anxiety to examine the footwear, Gavor flapped his wings to regain his balance and then laughed loudly. ‘You do cheer up a deprived soul, dear boys,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know why you don’t practice a little harder and learn to fly. It’s not difficult. I’ve done it since I was barely an egg. Walking does seem to present an awful lot of strange problems, and some very strange solutions.’
Hawklan interrupted Gavor’s merriment. ‘Walking presents even more problems when there’s a large overfed bird standing on your head,’ he said. ‘Would you like to fly on and see if there’s anything unusual ahead?’
‘Delighted, dear boy,’ Gavor said, still laughing, and he glided down to land on a small stretch of exposed rock some way in front of the party. There he took three or four painstaking high-stepping strides in cruel imitation of his friends, prompting Loman to bend down to gather up a large snowball. Before the smith could implement his intent however, Gavor’s great black wings stretched out and he flapped up into the cold winter air, laughing raucously
‘Game to the bird, I think,’ Isloman said, banging his snowshoe against a rock to clear it of clogged snow.
No one disagreed.
Gavor’s arrival seemed to have lessened the unease that had been pervading the three travellers but, on his departure, the urgent note of the guiding sound returned to dominate their thoughts.
Abruptly it changed direction and led them from the Riddin path they had been following and up a narrow gulley that could only lead them higher and higher.
Hawklan looked at his friends questioningly. ‘Al-phraan,’ he said. ‘You’ll make our journey easier if you’ll tell us where we’re going.’
The note faltered and became full of apology. ‘None may know, yet,’ said a voice suddenly, very softly. Then it was gone and the guiding sound returned.
‘That’s all we’re going to be told,’ Isloman said, adjusting his pack. ‘Let’s just watch where we’re going and keep putting one foot in front of the other.’
This they did, for the remainder of that day. Gavor returned, but with no news, and their steady walking took them further and further from the normal track and progressively higher.
As the light began to fade, they found themselves on top of a wide ridge. Hawklan stopped and looked round. Everything was still and calm and beautiful. Unusually, there was not even the slightest breeze blowing. He remarked on it.
‘It’s a good job,’ Loman said prosaically. ‘This can be a cold place even in summertime when the wind’s blowing.’
‘You know where we are?’ Hawklan asked.
Both Loman and Isloman nodded. ‘It’s been a long time,’ Isloman said. ‘But we’ve both been up here when we were young, and the only place this ridge leads to, is there.’ He pointed ahead to a distant peak disappearing into the clouds.
Hawklan found he was looking upwards. ‘It looks high,’ he said.
‘It is high,’ Isloman said, looking concerned. ‘The highest local peak by far. And we can’t go a great deal further.’
‘Is it difficult to climb?’ Hawklan asked.
Isloman shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘At least I don’t think so. Though neither of us ever reached the top; the air’s too thin. What can they want of us here? Are you sure this is safe?’
‘I feel no danger,’ Hawklan replied. ‘All I feel is their urgency. But I don’t see that we’ve any alternative but to continue, do you?’
Both men shook their heads. ‘No,’ Loman said. ‘But we’ll have to camp soon, the… ’
‘There’s no time for rest.’ The Alphraan’s voice in-terrupted him. ‘Hurry. We will guide you, have no fear.’
The three men looked at one another. There was a note in the voice that could not be denied. Loman looked up at the darkening sky and checked his torch.
‘Come on,’ he said resignedly. ‘I doubt any of us would be able to rest anyway.’
Hawklan glanced at Isloman, who nodded, and the three set off again. As they moved slowly forward, the ridge became progressively steeper and the cloud covering the mountain moved down to greet them.
Soon they were climbing through the mist, guided by the Alphraan’s urging note and stepping carefully by the light of their torches. Increasingly they had to stop and rest. It had been a long day and the way was becoming not only steeper but rougher, obliging them to relinquish their snowshoes to scramble over the rocks. The Alphraan allowed them little respite however, their guiding tone if anything becoming more urgent still.
‘Enough,’ Loman said eventually, flopping down on a rock and breathing heavily. ‘This is madness. We’re going too fast and we’re getting too tired. One of us is going to have an accident. Look, even Gavor’s looking seedy.’
Hawklan turned his torch on Gavor. The raven did indeed look subdued, standing in the snow with his head bent forward as if he were listening for something.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked him.
Gavor did not reply. Concerned, Hawklan bent for-ward and picked him up, but still he made no response.
‘Alphraan,’ Hawklan said, an edge to his voice. ‘Is this your doing?’
But the question was ignored. ‘Come quickly,’ said the voice. ‘It is only a little further. They need you, but they doubt.’
Hawklan scowled. ‘Enough,’ he said, echoing Lo-man’s plaint, his voice grim. ‘I asked is this your doing?’
The guiding note stopped abruptly. Hawklan looked around. In the sudden silence, it seemed that the darkness beyond the torchlit dome of mist was closing in upon them, as if some great weight were pressing down. Somewhere, he heard… sensed… a sound. A vaguely familiar sound.
Suddenly, Gavor stirred in his arms, then wriggled free violently. ‘This way,’ he said hoarsely, and flapped off into the darkness.
Hawklan swore, and all three turned up their torches. But Gavor was gone, swallowed up in the night and the mist.
‘Come on,’ Hawklan said, turning to the others. But Loman seized his arm.
‘Where, Hawklan?’ he asked. ‘We’ve nothing to guide us now. We’ve been walking steadily uphill since before sunrise.’
He slapped his chest with his hand and took a deep breath. ‘It’s already getting difficult… ’
Abruptly, Hawklan held up his hand for silence. ‘Douse the torches,’ he said. Loman scowled at the interruption but after a brief hesitation did as he was bidden. The darkness closed around them like some ancient predator.
‘What is it?’ Loman whispered.
‘I thought I saw something,’ Hawklan said. ‘But… ’
‘You did,’ Isloman interrupted. ‘Look.’
Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the intense dark-ness, Hawklan noticed a hazy glow some way ahead of them. Cautiously he started to move forward.
‘Careful,’ Isloman said. ‘There are… figures… moving about.’
Hawklan screwed up his eyes, but his vision was not that of the Orthlundyn carver and he could distinguish nothing but the faint glow. He wondered for a moment if Isloman could be seeing the figures that he had seen gathered around Gulda at their first meeting. But there was no driving compulsion here as there had been in the cold, damp, glen.
‘Who are they?’ he asked softly.
He sensed Isloman shrugging. ‘I can’t see clearly enough,’ he said. ‘But I presume they’re whoever the Alphraan wanted us to meet. Let’s go and see.’
Carefully, using only a single dimmed torch to show them the ground, the three men moved slowly through the crunching snow towards the glow. As they neared it, Hawklan began to distinguish the figures to which Isloman had referred, though for some reason they seemed to become no clearer as he drew nearer. The effect was strangely disorientating, especially when he saw also that prowling up and down in front of them, stark and clear-cut, was Gavor.
Hawklan screwed up his eyes again to make some sense of what he was seeing and realized abruptly that the mist around the figures was denser by far than the mountain mist that surrounded him and his friends. It was as if it were contained in some way. Further, it was the source of the light. It seemed almost as though it was a vague doorway into some bright, private mansion.
‘This is he?’ said a voice. It was soft, gentle, and slightly muffled and it came from one of the figures.
‘This is he,’ replied the Alphraan, their voice, as ever, clear and disembodied and without any direction.
‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ Hawklan said, moving towards the figures.
‘Come no closer… Hawklan,’ said the voice. ‘The mist you see keeps our worlds apart. We have moved as deep as we dare and need it for our protection. If you pass through it you may perish, as would we if we came to you.’
Hawklan stopped. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated.
One of the figures stepped forward, and Hawklan could see the others reaching out nervously to restrain it.
‘I am Ynar Aesgin,’ it said. ‘One of the Soarers Tar-ran of Hendar Gornath, Margrave of this land. These are my companions in flight. ‘We are… ’
‘Drienvolk,’ Hawklan completed the sentence. The memory of the great cloud land he had seen floating through the spring sky over Riddin returned to him vividly. Involuntarily, he glanced upwards as if expect-ing to see the huge bulk of the sky island towering above him, but all was darkness.
A flood of questions surged into his mind, but all that he could voice were, ‘How did you come here?’ and ‘What do you want?’
‘We came here because that was the will of Sphaeera,’ said the figure.
‘But… Viladrien have never come to Orthlund before,’ Hawklan said, still uncertain what he should be saying.
‘Not in countless generations,’ Ynar said. ‘But many things are not as they were. Not now that He is awake again, and His Uhriel are turning to their old devilment.’
Hawklan put his hand to his head. Were not even the citizens of the skies to be allowed peace? ‘Does He assail you also?’ he said.
Ynar nodded, but before Hawklan could ask any further questions, he said, ‘The Alphraan tell us you are a great prince, wearer of the black sword of Ethriss and key-bearer to Anderras Darion. They say you have made whole their shattered family and struck down Oklar himself with an arrow from Ethriss’s bow. Is this true?’
There was an unexpectedly plaintive, almost desper-ate note in his voice.
‘It may be that I was once a prince,’ Hawklan an-swered quietly. ‘The prince who led the Orthlundyn to their doom, if you know the tale. But now I am a healer and the Orthlundyn know no ruler, nor have since that time.’ There was no response from the Drienvolk but Ynar was leaning forward slightly as if listening intently. Hawklan continued. ‘It’s true that I carry Ethriss’s sword and hold the key to his castle, but how that has come to pass is beyond my knowledge. As for the Alphraan, it was they who brought their own family together, and while it was I who fired the arrow that wounded Oklar, this was the smith who made it.’ He indicated Loman, then Isloman. ‘And this the man who saved my life by bearing me on a Muster horse from the horror of Oklar’s wrath.’ And finally Gavor, still pacing fretfully up and down at his feet, ‘And this the friend who made Oklar show his true nature.’
The figures in the mist milled around, seemingly in some excitement. ‘What of Oklar now?’ asked one.
‘I don’t know,’ Hawklan replied. ‘He is pinioned in some way. It seems he could not free himself of the arrow, and he did not use his Power when the Fyordyn launched their army against him. Now he skulks in the tower fortress of Narsindalvak. The Fyordyn watch him, and we are preparing an army to ride into Narsindal and face Sumeral Himself.’
There was more agitation amongst the Drienvolk.
‘In our pain and distress we doubted you, Alphraan,’ said Ynar. ‘But this man-these men-are fired by Ethriss’s spirit beyond doubt and their telling seals the truth of your own words. Forgive us. How can we atone?’
‘The pain of our own ignorance is all too near for us to offer you any reproach, old friends,’ came the Alphraan’s voice. ‘And the music of your great land echoes now through our Ways to put us eternally in your debt.’
As Ynar turned back to him, Hawklan repeated his earlier question. ‘Who assails the Drienvolk, Ynar?’ he said.
‘Dar Hastuin assails us, Hawklan,’ the Drienwr re-plied simply. ‘He rides the Screamer Usgreckan again and has been amongst us for many years.’
‘Amongst you?’ Hawklan said, instinctively resting his hand on his sword hilt. He felt Loman and Isloman becoming suddenly alert behind him. Was this, after all, another subtle trap, with the Alphraan as innocent dupes?
‘Amongst some of our people,’ came the reply, hast-ily, as if noting the concern the remark had caused. ‘He has corrupted and possessed the minds of many of our kind on other lands, but not yet ours.’ Suddenly there was defiance in the voice. ‘Nor will he, though he hurl us to the depths of the ocean.’
Hawklan flinched from the passion in the voice; it betrayed the desperation of a man prepared to lose all in order to destroy his enemy. Yet it was uncertain. Childlike almost?
‘Your voice tells me you’re sorely pressed,’ Hawklan said. ‘I know nothing of your… lands or your people, but we are allies against a common foe; tell me how you will be attacked and how we can help.’
There was a mixture of gratitude and gentle amusement in the Drienwr’s reply. ‘We are both at some extremity here, Hawklan, and we cannot even touch, let alone help one another,’ he said. ‘But you help us more than you know by your very presence. And your news that Oklar is harmed and that the peoples of the middle depths are rising to oppose Sumeral will bolster us in our last days.’
Hawklan looked round at Loman and Isloman in concern, then he stepped forward towards the strange mist. ‘Your last days? Do you go to war looking only to your defeat?’ Suddenly, and somewhat to his own surprise, his voice became angry. ‘War is chance run riot. Where the merest gesture, the shifting of a pebble, the braying of a horse, may tilt the balance. You cannot wield your sword while your hearts and minds are so bound.’
Except for Ynar, the figures in the mist retreated a little. ‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘You admit to knowing nothing of us or our lands. We will be attacked in ways you cannot begin to understand. It is… ’
Hawklan cut across him. ‘I understand that if you are defeated, then Dar Hastuin will own the skies and will be free to add his power to that of Oklar and Creost which is already ranged against us.’
The Drienwr bridled. ‘You do not understand, Hawklan,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Like Creost with the Morlider Islands, Dar Hastuin has committed the ultimate blasphemy. He moves the lands to his own will. He can command the higher paths and destroy at his whim any land that opposes him. Either binding them with his legions or… ’ He hesitated, as if having difficulty speaking. ‘… crushing them in the depths. So far chance has kept us from him, but he knows of us and even now is seeking us out. When he finds us… ’ He left the sentence unfinished.
Hawklan hesitated. He did not indeed understand, he realized, but the word blasphemy hung in his mind. He recalled Agreth’s telling of the interrogation of the Morlider Drago by Oslang. To Drago, the moving of the islands had been a matter of mystery and awe; to these Drienvolk however, it was a blasphemy, and blasphemy implied choice.
‘Can you not move your own land?’ he said quietly.
There was no reply.
He repeated the question.
Still there was no reply. Gavor flapped his wings noisily in the cold air. At the sound, Hawklan suddenly felt as if he were one of the figures on the other side of the glowing mist, looking through at this strident black shadow of a man from the choking middle depths, who had had the effrontery to stand in judgement over them.
‘You are right,’ he said contritely. ‘For all we are both human, we are too far apart for us to understand one another truly. I should not intrude. You have your own choices to make in the light of your own ways and your own needs.’
He bent down by Gavor, who stopped fidgeting and looked up at him. ‘But war tests many things. It is the horror of Sumeral’s gift that we must accept it to oppose it. Healer though I am, I know that I must be as He, to defeat Him. If I am fortunate I hope I will stay my hand from excess in victory. That tiny hope is all that will distinguish me from my enemy when we finally meet. So it may have to be with you. Many valued things have to be set at hazard.’ Then, Andawyr’s conclusion about Creost returned to him unexpectedly. ‘But remember,’ he said. ‘If Dar Hastuin uses his Power to move your lands then he is that much weakened in himself.’
Ynar moved as if to speak, when suddenly there was a small commotion behind him. Hawklan caught ‘… the paths move… ’ spoken urgently.
‘We have little time, Hawklan,’ the Drienwr said hastily. ‘Sphaeera wills us away, and it is already dangerous for me and my companions to stay here; we’ve been too deep too long. We will ponder your words. We will ponder your heart. But we have not your strength. Wish us… good fortune… ’
‘Light be with you,’ Hawklan said impulsively.
‘Ah,’ came the response. ‘So we are as much alike as we are different.’ Then, shocked. ‘But this is of no import. In burdening you with our cares I’d forgotten. We came to warn you that… ’
Ynar staggered suddenly before he could finish, and the mist shifted and swirled violently. Some of the figures in it seemed to be disappearing-upwards, Hawklan thought, though he could not see their passing. He felt a cold breeze on his cheek. When he looked at the hazy figure of Ynar again, he saw anxious hands reaching out to draw him away. The Drienwr, however, was resisting their pull and extending his arms out towards him.
Again on impulse, Hawklan drew his sword and, taking hold of the blade, thrust the hilt towards the reaching figure. There was no resistance when the black sword entered the mist, but it became white, brilliant and shining. So bright that Hawklan had to turn his eyes away.
The Drienwr’s right hand closed around it and the air was suddenly filled with the sound that only Hawklan and a quiet Riddin child had heard on a sunny spring day months ago; the song of the Viladrien. Now, however, it was vast and joyous and seemed to fill the entire sky.
‘Wait!’ It was Gavor. Abruptly, his great wings started to thrash violently, throwing up flurries of snow, and slowly he rose and flew into the mist. As he did so, he too became white, and the movement of his powerful beating wings seemed to become infinitely slow, their great pulse matching that of the song of the cloud land. As Hawklan watched, he saw Ynar extend his left hand and Gavor alight on it. They were talking, Hawklan thought, but the scene was almost dreamlike and it seemed to Hawklan that Ynar was moving upwards with Gavor, although he could still feel the Drienwr’s light but strangely powerful grip on the sword.
Then the mist was gone, though, like the moment of the onset of sleep, none of the three watching men noted the moment of its passing.
Hawklan found himself holding the blade of his sword, its blackness glinting in the subdued torchlight that had illuminated the last part of his journey. He was flanked by Loman and Isloman, gazing uncertainly upwards into the darkness.
For some time no one spoke, as if fearful of disturb-ing even the memory of what had just passed. Then the mounting breeze that had presumably carried the Viladrien away, buffeted them, and Hawklan started out of his reverie.
‘Gavor,’ he cried out. ‘Where’s Gavor?’
His cry galvanized his friends and the three of them set up a great shouting.
Hawklan clenched his teeth in anxiety as he thrust his sword back into its scabbard. What had happened to his friend? Then, following in the wake of that question came the memory that the Drienwr had said he had come with a warning.
For a moment Hawklan was overwhelmed by an appalling sense of loss. His friend taken; some warning unheard; who knew what allies were perhaps lost now? And all through his angry impetuosity. He did not dare to look at Loman and Isloman for fear of the reproach that might lie in their eyes.
‘Look.’ Isloman’s voice reached into his darkness. He was pointing into the sky.
Hawklan drew his hood about his face to protect himself from the cold wind. The sullen clouds that had covered Orthlund for the past days were now scudding across a sky tinged yellow with moonlight. In the distance, and high above them, marked by Isloman’s pointing hand, was the dark form of the Viladrien; vast among the breaking clouds, and with its upper surface glittering with countless lights.
The three men stood spellbound at the sight.
‘Such things we’ve seen, Hawklan,’ Isloman said after a long silence. ‘I’d be a rare carver indeed if I could catch one tenth of that vision.’
Though buoyed up briefly by the majestic sight, Hawklan lapsed again into angry self-reproach.
‘And a rare captain I’d be if I’d listen to people in-stead of lecturing them,’ he said. ‘Gavor’s gone who knows where, and whatever the Drienvolk had to tell us is gone too.’
Before Loman and Isloman could speak however, something struck Hawklan’s head a glancing blow, and fell into the snow a few paces away. A familiar voice swore out of the darkness, then came, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’ Loman turned up his torch to reveal Gavor struggling to right himself in the soft snow.
‘At last,’ he said churlishly. ‘You might have done that sooner. ‘I’m not an owl you know.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ Hawklan said, crouching down and holding out his hand for the bird. ‘I thought you’d gone with Ynar.’
Gavor’s truculence vanished. ‘I did, in a way,’ he said distantly. ‘He took me where all Sphaeera’s creatures should go. I saw it, Hawklan. Saw it. Sphaeera’s… Anderras Darion. Great mansions and halls, towering and open… and the lights and colours… such a land… and such people… I soaring everywhere… ’
Hawklan picked him up gently. ‘But you were gone only a few minutes,’ he said.
‘No, I was there for hours,’ Gavor replied.
Hawklan looked at him thoughtfully and then aban-doned his interrogation. ‘Did you hurt yourself when you landed?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ Gavor replied.
‘I’ll carry you anyway,’ Hawklan said. The two friends looked at one another, and Gavor nodded.
‘We’d better leave and find a camping place lower down before this wind gets any stronger,’ Loman said. ‘This is a dangerous place.’
‘We shall be with you,’ came the Alphraan’s voice, as the three men turned up their torches.
Their descent was slow and cautious, each knowing that tiredness and gravity were treacherous downhill companions. Gavor remained silent and warm inside Hawklan’s cloak, and when they finally made camp they ate a simple meal and lay down to sleep with barely a word.
The next morning a clear blue sky and brilliant sun displayed the white peaks and valleys surrounding the three travellers and they broke camp and continued their descent in good spirits. Gavor in particular seemed unusually boisterous and was soon floating high above the sweeping valleys.
Despite the beauty of the scene however, Hawklan’s thoughts were dominated by his conversation with the Drienwr. It seemed that Dar Hastuin had power over the Drienvolk as Creost had over the Morlider. Of the Uhriel, only Oklar so far had been successfully resisted. But what did it mean? Creost’s intended assault on Riddin could be understood, but what did Dar Hastuin’s power in the air mean for the Orthlundyn and Fyordyn armies?
With difficulty Hawklan managed to set his con-cerns aside. Ynar had been right, he didn’t understand; indeed, he couldn’t understand. He knew nothing of the Drienvolk, nor, he suspected, did anyone else, perhaps not even Gulda. Gavor probably did, but could he explain it? Such little as he had mentioned was strangely confused.
But he could not set aside the knowledge that the Drienvolk had sought him out to warn him of some-thing and he had thrust it from Ynar’s mind with his unexpected anger.
Eventually he voiced his concern. ‘Alphraan, do you know what Ynar tried to warn us of?’
‘No, Hawklan,’ replied the Alphraan. ‘When our ways met there was great happiness, but we came to you when we felt their pain. They gave us no warning, we… ’
‘Oh, I know about that, dear boy,’ Gavor interrupted, landing softly on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘I thought you’d heard Ynar telling me. You should’ve asked.’
Gulda had been told by the Alphraan about the sudden departure of Hawklan and the others the previous day, but on questioning them had received no answer other than, ‘We may not tell,’ overlaid with sounds of reassurance.
Unable to interrogate the Alphraan, she had taken the rebuff with an ill grace and had eventually retreated to the deserted wall where she had stood, black and motionless, defying the ubiquitous whiteness like a rock in the ocean.
Seemingly oblivious to the cold wind that was blow-ing over the snow-covered landscape, she stood for a long time rapt in who knew what thoughts.
Suddenly she started. Hawklan was speaking to her.
‘The Alphraan carry my voice, Gulda,’ he said. ‘We are needed in Riddin. Begin the levying of the army and select those who can march across these mountains.’
Gulda cocked her head on one side, as if testing the sound she was hearing, then, without speaking, she turned and walked towards the door that would lead her down into the Castle.