Sylvriss stood at the half-opened door to the nursery and looked at her son in his simple crib. His arms were thrown up over his head and he was lying very still.
The Queen was holding her breath and she did not release it until she saw the slight movement of the sheets that showed her son too was breathing.
Then, looking around rather self-consciously, she closed the door gently and, pulling her cloak about her, set off along the wide corridor.
As she walked past the hanging tapestries and the ornately carved panels that decorated the corridor, Sylvriss took out the message she had received from Narsindalvak and read it again. Her father was safe, but though he made little play of it, his regret at not being able to come to Vakloss and see his grandchild shone through his simple straightforward prose like a beacon.
She smiled indulgently, as children will at the folly of their parents then, carefully, she returned the letter to her pocket and turned down a broad curving flight of stairs.
Outside, she acknowledged the salutes of the guards and set off towards her private stables.
As she had throughout her bitter struggle to reclaim Rgoric from Dan-Tor’s malign influence, she rode every day. Sometimes through the streets and parks of the City, sometimes around the extensive gardens of the Palace.
Her riding now, however, was not to assuage the seething emotions that had surged and roared within her in those times, but to ease the quieter, deeper, concerns that beset her now that her nation was recovering from its trial and turning to face its true foe.
As she neared the stables she heard the unsteady clatter of hooves and an anxious voice torn between coaxing and cursing. She quickened her pace.
Turning the corner she came into the smooth flagged courtyard that was bounded on three sides by buildings that Rgoric had had converted into stables suitable for her fine Riddin horses. The upper floors of the building protruded on to arched columns to form a covered walkway and, wandering in and out of the columns, was the source of the small commotion. A High Guard cadet was trying to take the reins of a large horse but the animal kept snatching its head away and then either walking round the columns or gently nudging its would-be captor sideways.
The boy was red-faced with frustration and despair, and an increasing amount of abuse was seeping into his language as he spoke to the animal. Sylvriss smiled at the sight: the boy must have saddled the horse for her and then tried to sneak a ride on it. Then her smile faded as the horse emerged calmly out of the shadow to avoid another lunge by the boy.
It was undeniably a Muster horse, but it was un-kempt and thinner than it should have been, and it was not one of hers.
The cadet saw her and stopped his weary pursuit to salute; there was no guilt in his manner.
‘I’m sorry, Majesty,’ he said plaintively. ‘It was here when I arrived. I don’t know where it’s come from, or who it belongs to and I just can’t get hold of it.’
‘It’s all right,’ Sylvriss said reassuringly, quietly walking up to the horse. It watched her, unmoving.
‘It’s a Muster horse like one of yours, isn’t it, Maj-esty?’ the cadet said.
Sylvriss nodded absently as she stared at the horse, her eyes widening with recognition. ‘It’s more than a Muster horse,’ she said softly, almost to herself.
‘You’re Hawklan’s horse, aren’t you?’ she whispered as she laid her hand on the great horse’s neck. ‘You’re Serian.’
Serian dipped his head and shook it.
The question, where is Hawklan? rushed into Sylvriss’s mind suddenly, but she set it aside with practicalities. ‘And you’re famished and filthy,’ she said.
She signalled to the cadet. ‘Open the big stable, move the other horses, get food and water and bring me a brush and comb,’ she said. The boy gaped. ‘Quickly!’ she said urging him on with a wave of the hand.
Questions cascaded into her mind again as the boy scurried off. Hawklan had gone off with Andawyr and a small party according to Eldric. But what was he doing now, without his horse? And where was he? She looked at Serian carefully. Though untidy and obviously hungry, the horse bore no signs of injury, nor did he seem to be distressed. Indeed his eyes were calm and watchful. For an instant she felt a surge of driving purposefulness that she knew must be the horse’s will.
‘You’ve come over the mountains, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re looking for him! No. You’re going to meet him!’ She clenched her fists in frustration. If only she could talk to the animal as Hawklan used to.
She reached up to take Serian’s reins, then withdrew her hand. ‘Come with me,’ she said, walking away. ‘The big stable has wide doors and I’ll leave them open, have no fear.’ She smiled as she looked back over her shoulder. Even in his present condition, Serian was a splendid horse. Have no fear, she thought, mocking herself. You’d smash those doors with a single kick, wouldn’t you?
Serian lowered his head and walked after her. Sylvriss spoke again as they walked. ‘I’ll clean you up and sort out your harness-if you wish-and when you’ve eaten, you can return to your… quest… unhindered.’ Serian pushed her gently in the back, making her laugh.
Some while later, the cadet dismissed, she was put-ting the finishing touches to Serian and he was starting to toss his head restlessly.
‘All right, all right, don’t be impatient,’ she said, slapping him with the brush. ‘I know you feel better for it, but you’ll feel better still if you’ll let me finish.’
Serian looked at her reproachfully. Sylvriss laughed. ‘Don’t you make cow’s eyes at me, horse,’ she said. ‘I’m a Muster woman, not some soft-hearted healer you can twist around your hoof. There. You’re done.’
Serian bent forward and nuzzled her affectionately. Sylvriss stroked him. ‘Oh, you’re a wicked horse,’ she said, laughing again, her lilting Riddin accent suddenly full and rich. Then, more seriously. ‘On with your journey, Serian. Find Hawklan. And thank you for letting me help you.’
She patted him once more and then walked through the wide stable doors into the courtyard. She did not look back, though she paused slightly and inclined her head when she heard his hooves slowly clattering after her.
Coming to a small flight of steps, she ran up them and turned as she reached the top to watch the horse leave.
Serian however, did not move. Instead he walked to the bottom of the steps and stood looking up at her. She stared at him, puzzled.
‘What do you want?’ she said after a moment. Serian shifted his feet and kept looking at her; there was a strange look in his eyes, almost as if he were annoyed at being kept waiting.
Sylvriss looked at him intently. ‘You are looking for Hawklan, aren’t you?’ she said uncertainly, beginning to doubt the promptings that had given her the idea. But they were still there. The horse was journeying, he had stopped here simply for food and attention, she was sure, and now he wanted to be away again.
Sylvriss held out her hands. ‘Serian, you can go. You’re free, you can… ’
Her voice faded as an unexpected and not totally welcome thought came to her. She moved down the steps and took hold of the horse’s head. ‘You want me to come with you, don’t you?’ she said, a little fearfully. Serian bowed and nudged her gently.
‘But… ’
Sylvriss looked around. Odd patches of snow lin-gered on the lawns and on the roofs of some of the outbuildings. The familiar walls of the palace towered over her protectively, grey and fatherly against the watery sunlit sky. There was much she had to do here in the Palace, in Vakloss… yet she was a Muster woman and the Muster were riding to war… and she was Commander of the entire allied army.
But her son…
Serian shifted his feet again and Sylvriss felt some call within her that would not be denied.
‘Wait,’ she said, then she turned and ran back up the steps.
Minutes later, Hylland was bobbing in her wake as she swept through her rooms.
‘No,’ she said, casting a critical eye over her racks of clothes. ‘You were right before, but now I must go.’
‘Majesty… ’ Hylland protested.
Sylvriss looked at him, brown eyes unmanning him. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘We’re both of us growing stronger daily.’
‘Majesty, you can’t take a baby to war!’ Hylland managed at last. ‘You could be killed. He could be killed. There’ll be all manner of hardship; disease, even.’
Sylvriss paused and looked from her packing to her child, still sleeping, despite the argument.
‘Damn you, Hylland,’ she said. ‘I know that. But it makes no difference. If the war is lost then we could all be killed.’ She went over to the crib, adding, distantly, ‘Or worse. He could be turned into some poisoned puppet like his father, and who would there be to save him? I’d rather see him dead than that.’
Her voice cracked a little and tears sprang to her eyes though she did not weep.
She turned back to her work, easing Hylland aside as she moved towards a cupboard.
‘Hawklan needs that horse, wherever he is, and the horse needs me-probably only to tend him-but he needs me nevertheless,’ she said. ‘Such few tasks as I’ve taken on here can easily be performed by Dilrap and his staff as before, but no one else can help Serian.’ The memory of their tumultuous first meeting came to her, he carrying Isloman and the unconscious Hawklan from Oklar’s wrath, she riding at Rgoric’s bidding to rouse the Lords in the east. ‘He and I have been one before, albeit briefly,’ she said.
The two antagonists looked at one another.
‘Very well, Majesty,’ Hylland said inclining his head resignedly. ‘If you will allow me a few moments.’
Sylvriss’s eyes narrowed. ‘What for?’ she said suspi-ciously.
‘I too must prepare my travelling kit for the jour-ney,’ Hylland replied blandly.
Sylvriss’s expression became both concerned and exasperated.
‘You won’t be needed,’ she said hastily after an un-certain pause.
Hylland inclined his head again. ‘As your Majesty wishes,’ he said. ‘In that case I must return to my Lord.’
Sylvriss drew in a noisy breath but Hylland went on formally before she could speak. ‘I am Lord Eldric’s Healer General, Majesty,’ he said. ‘An officer in his High Guard. Officially I’m on secondment to Palace duty to attend to you and the prince, but if that secondment has now been ended then I must… ’
Sylvriss levelled a grim finger at him. ‘Ten minutes, soldier. And I’ll check your travelling kit-and pick your horses. You ride under Muster discipline if you ride with me.’
Gavor rose into the air, his flapping wings throwing dancing black shadows through the dust-filled torch-light.
The sound of swords being drawn hissed up after him.
Hawklan made to step forward towards the Man-droc, but Dacu and Isloman moved in front of him, flanked by Jaldaric and Tirke. Athyr, Tybek, Yrain and Jenna moved to protect Andawyr. Dar-volci chattered his teeth menacingly.
The Mandroc let out a surprised yelp and then drew a sword and dropped into a menacing crouch. The figures behind it moved forward out of the haze and stood by it. There were three of them in Mathidrin livery and they too were wielding their swords purposefully.
Hawklan felt his stomach go cold at what he knew he had to do next. He pushed forward between Dacu and Isloman. ‘No prisoners,’ he said hoarsely.
‘Wait!’ Isloman said urgently, seizing his arm. Hawklan glanced at him quickly. His eyes were nar-rowed and his face was creased with uncertainty.
The Mathidrin stopped at the same command, then one of them reached up and removed his helmet. The other two copied his example.
A gasp of disbelief burst out from Dacu and the other Fyordyn.
‘Yatsu?’ Isloman said, stepping forward. ‘Lorac? Tel-Odrel? What…?’
But his question disappeared under a sudden tor-rent of mutual welcomings as the Fyordyn began to greet their countrymen.
‘What are you doing here?’ was the common ques-tion of the two groups, but before it could be answered, a harsh, guttural voice intruded.
‘We must go. This is a bad place. Too near the kill-ing rocks.’ It was the Mandroc and it was addressing Yatsu. Its eyes widened in fear as it pointed toward the tunnel from which Hawklan and the others had emerged, and its voice fell to a terrified whisper. ‘And Amrahl’s… creature… is down there. Hurry, hurry.’
‘Lead on then,’ Yatsu said, lifting his hand for si-lence. The Mandroc scurried through one of the tunnel openings and Yatsu beckoned the others to follow.
‘Follow that?’ Jaldaric said. Hawklan started at the snarling anger in the young man’s voice. As he looked at him, however, the memory returned to him of Jaldaric standing alone in the spring sunshine and facing Aelang and the chanting mob of Mandrocs that was to massacre his friends.
Hawklan took his arm and felt his dreadful fear and rage. ‘Yatsu is commander,’ he said simply. ‘We talk as we walk.’
Jaldaric turned to him, his face riven with torment. Hawklan urged him forward. ‘As we walk,’ he repeated forcefully.
They did little talking for some time however, the route being upwards and the Mandroc setting a fair pace, for all his rolling gait. The concussions and the blasts of air gradually became less frequent and more distant and eventually the pace slowed down. As it did, the questions emerged again.
‘What are you doing here, and why are we following… that?’ Jaldaric asked, nodding viciously at the back of the Mandroc as he spoke.
Yatsu raised a conciliatory hand. ‘That’s Byroc,’ he replied. ‘He’s one of the Ivrandak Garn tribe and he hates Sumeral more than we do.’
Andawyr looked intently at Yatsu as he spoke and then shot Hawklan a look of appreciative surprise.
‘Call it what you want… ’ Jaldaric began.
‘Him, Captain!’ Yatsu said grimly. ‘Him! He’s no more a thing than you are.’
Jaldaric’s eyes blazed momentarily but Yatsu’s stern gaze forbade any further remonstrance.
‘Why are we following him, then?’ Jaldaric managed.
‘Because he’s saved our lives half a dozen times already and unless anyone here knows any different, he’s the only one who can get us out of here.’ Yatsu’s voice was angry.
Hawklan came between them. ‘Are these explosions something to do with you?’ he asked Yatsu.
A white grin displaced the anger in the Goraidin’s grimy face. ‘They certainly are,’ he said. ‘They’re the funeral knell of those stinking mines.’
Mines! Hawklan thought in some surprise. Andawyr had been right, they had moved well to the west of the Pass.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
Yatsu confined himself to a brief operational sum-mary. ‘We’ve been studying them for weeks,’ he said. ‘Even managed to get right inside once or twice. When Lord Eldric told us to destroy them, we sent in a diversionary raid to draw out the guards, sneaked in a group disguised as Mathidrin to open the slave pens… ’ He faltered and his face became pained at some memory. ‘Then we simply set fire to the storage silos. You’ve never seen anything like it. That stuff is appalling.’
‘We?’ queried Hawklan. ‘You three and Byroc here?’
Yatsu’s expression soured. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There were four companies of us altogether. Veterans and the younger ones we’d trained up. There was some hand to hand fighting with the off-duty guards as we were leaving, and we got separated. The others got away, but we were cut off by the fire, covering their retreat.’
‘And Byroc?’ Hawklan asked.
Yatsu frowned. ‘We came across him in a special cage of his own when the fire drove us underground.’ His voice fell as if he did not wish the Mandroc to hear. ‘I think they had him lined up for something particu-larly nasty; he just fell on his knees and grovelled when we released him and he’s no coward, believe me.’
‘And you trust him?’ Hawklan said.
‘He led us to three underground storage units that we never even suspected existed, and helped us fire them safely and get away,’ Yatsu replied. His eyes widened. ‘And you should have seen what he did to the Mathidrin who tried to stop us! Yes, I’m well on the way to trusting him.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Will he speak to me?’ he asked.
‘Go and ask him,’ Yatsu replied. ‘He’s got a mind of his own, to put it mildly.’
Hawklan strode forward to the Mandroc. He sensed many emotions radiating from the powerful figure as he fell in step beside him; suspicion, fear, anger.
He noticed markings on the Mandroc’s face that he recalled having seen in a book at the Caves of Cad-wanen.
‘Why do you help us, Byroc, Chief of the Ivrandak Garn tribe, Plains Runner, Leaper of the Crags and Chosen Hunter?’ he said.
The Mandroc’s various emotions disappeared under a surge of surprise, but apart from a quick sidelong glance he gave no outward sign.
‘Because they wish it,’ he said, nodding back at Yatsu and the others. ‘But keep the young one from me. He hates like the black ones.’ His voice was harsh and unpleasant but Hawklan judged that to be because he was speaking in an alien tongue.
‘The young one is Jaldaric,’ Hawklan said. ‘Son of a great warrior and chief. His friends were slain by your kind and he himself imprisoned by the leader of the Mathidrin-the black ones. He carries much pain inside, as you do.’
‘Imprisoned?’ Byroc said after a long silence.
Hawklan nodded. ‘Why were you imprisoned, By-roc?’ he asked.
Byroc looked back over his shoulder, his eyes whit-ening, then he opened his mouth and let out a great bellowing whimper of fear that echoed along the tunnel and made Hawklan wince in its intensity.
‘Why were you imprisoned?’ Hawklan pressed. ‘And what frightened you back there? There are few things you would flee from.’
‘I would flee from Amrahl’s creature,’ Byroc said, quickening his pace, and speaking as if the words were being torn out of him. ‘The all-seeing one.’
‘The creature that sees through its yellow-eyed birds?’ Hawklan asked.
Byroc nodded and quickened his pace.
‘It is dead,’ Hawklan said quietly. ‘The raven, the felci, the sound carvers, and this sword slew it. Amrahl’s sight is as yours now.’
Byroc stopped suddenly, causing some commotion behind. He looked at Hawklan, and then at Gavor, and Dar-volci standing on his hind legs by Hawklan. Tentatively the Mandroc reached out towards the black sword. Hawklan drew it slowly and offered it to him, hilt first. Dacu and Isloman edged forward.
Byroc however, did not touch the sword but with-drew his hand and stepped back a little, his mouth gaping to reveal his massive canine teeth. Then he looked at Hawklan again. ‘You… and these… slew Amrahl’s creature?’ he asked, the harshness in his voice softened by awe.
Andawyr stepped forward. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Byroc stared at the Cadwanwr and then stepped back again in undisguised fear. ‘You are one of His kind,’ he said. ‘You wield the Great Harm, and the sword possesses it too.’
‘No, Byroc,’ Andawyr said. ‘I can use the same Power that He does, but it is like… fire or water. Whether I use it for harm or good is my choosing… ’ He screwed his face up with effort and began speaking hesitantly in a harsh, guttural, language.
The Mandroc replied uncertainly in the same lan-guage and a short debate ensued. As it concluded he turned back to Hawklan.
‘I do not understand all these things,’ he said, shak-ing his head massively. ‘Have you truly slain His creature? Do you truly come to oppose Amrahl’s might?’
‘Yes,’ Hawklan said. ‘The creature is truly dead. And many others than we move to oppose Him also.’
There was a low rumbling in Byroc’s throat. ‘I was to be given to it,’ he said. ‘My spirit was to be slowly torn from me and… ’ His voice deteriorated into a low, moaning, howl. Hawklan looked at Andawyr.
‘The Vrwystin exists on many planes,’ Andawyr said. ‘Even we can feel Byroc’s fear. Those parts of the Vrwystin’s nature that are elsewhere feed on such emotions.’
Hawklan grimaced. ‘And the part that was here?’ he asked.
‘That would feed on flesh and blood,’ Andawyr re-plied reluctantly.
Hawklan remembered the tendril that had bound his hand and severed his glove. He shuddered.
‘I owe you blood debt for ever,’ Byroc said, suddenly stern. ‘I will go with you even to Amrahl Himself and be your shield.’
Hawklan looked at him. Here was one of the crea-tures-the savage animals-that had massacred Jaldaric’s patrol, that had cruelly butchered Evison’s entire garrison, that he himself had cut down like so many unwanted weeds in the sunlit Orthlund forest. Here was one of the creatures that formed the heart of Sumeral’s dreadful army during the First Coming; creatures so irredeemable that they had finally been abandoned by the Great Congress and condemned to live in Narsindal under the Watch of the Fyordyn. Yet here too was dignity and some form of honour and, above all, some form of opposition to Sumeral’s domination of this land.
Many things are stirring, said a voice inside him.
‘I release you freely from all debts, Byroc,’ he said. ‘I want no slaves, and your burden is ours. If it’s your will, follow us and fight by us and welcome. All I’ll ask of you now is that you take us from here. We also have been too long away from the sky.’
Byroc stood motionless for a long moment, his head inclined slightly, then he uttered a strange howl, bared his teeth, and began walking up the tunnel again.
The group fell in behind him, but their long under-ground pilgrimage was nearer its end than they had imagined. Within minutes, they found themselves walking towards a distant grey light that could only be daylight.
As they drew nearer, the light came and went a little as if there were clouds blowing overhead.
And then they were silently edging their way to-wards the ragged mouth of the tunnel. Cautiously, Isloman crept forward and peered out. In the distance, his carver’s vision could just make out groups of tiny figures running down the rocky slopes towards the grey, mist-covered, sparseness of Narsindal. Overhead, a cloud of dense black smoke was blowing northwards.
He signalled the others to wait, and there was a long silence as they stood motionless, breathing in the cold mountain air and screwing their eyes tight against the brightness of the dull sky.
Crawling forward on his stomach, Yatsu joined Isloman who levelled a cautionary finger at the distant figures. Yatsu nodded, then looked up at the billowing smoke and smiled.
‘Escaping slaves and the remains of the mines,’ he said, and edging back from the entrance he sat up and leaned luxuriously against the rock wall.
The others followed his example.
‘Now,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘Tell us how you come to be here.’
‘In a moment,’ Hawklan replied, turning to Byroc. ‘I need to know first how the chief of the Ivrandak Garn tribe came to be trussed up as a meal for his great Leader’s creature, and then fought and killed His soldiers, and helped destroy His mines.’
‘He is not my leader,’ Byroc replied immediately, his dog-like snout curling viciously. ‘The Ivrandak Garn know no leader but whoever they choose. And I am their chosen, for all they are scattered and broken.’
Hawklan’s eyes narrowed at the pain and bitterness in the Mandroc’s voice even though it was masked by his harsh tone.
‘What happened to your tribe?’ he asked.
‘We would not worship Him,’ Byroc replied. ‘As our fathers would not worship Him when they waked Him.’
‘They?’ Andawyr interrupted.
‘The Dowynai Vraen,’ Byroc’s eyes widened and the fur ringing his face became rigid as he spoke. He was a fearful sight. ‘They were ever corrupt and treacherous, a tribe of liars and thieves, who preyed on the terrors of the weak and foolish and who meddled in the Ways that should be forgotten… ’
Hawklan raised his hands gently to stem the Man-droc’s mounting anger. ‘They woke Him?’ he asked.
‘They woke those who woke Him,’ Byroc said, his voice still angry. He rasped several words in his own language, venomously.
‘The Uhriel,’ Andawyr translated partially.
A growl rose in Byroc’s throat, but when it emerged it was a cry of pain. ‘But for all their magicks we would not worship Him. The Ivrandak Garn worship nothing. Not the mountains, nor the rivers, nor the thunder. They have our fear and our respect, but not our spirits.’
He scanned his audience. ‘Would you worship a mere mortal creature?’ he snarled. ‘Or set his word above all things?’ No one answered.
‘And the other tribes?’ Hawklan asked.
‘They worship Him. They have lost their true selves and placed their hands beneath the feet of the Dowynai Vraen,’ Byroc said scornfully. ‘A great madness possesses them. They fall down even before the black ones and cry out His name. They forget the wisdom and ways of their fathers, the ways of the plains and the mountains and the mist.’
‘But in His name do they not become great warri-ors?’ Andawyr suggested.
Byroc growled and struck his chest with his fist. ‘Great warriors fight fearing the end of life, yet ready to embrace it,’ he said. ‘He tells His warriors that there is a wondrous land beyond death to those who die in battle, where every desire is given without trial or strife. And they believe Him and rush to it in their blindness.’ His tone was withering.
‘And your people?’ Hawklan said.
Byroc turned to look about at the grey daylight. ‘Across the seasons, our lodges were burned, our hunting ranges poisoned, our wives and young taken to the slave pens,’ he said. His manner was subdued, as if the pain were too deep to be encompassed by words. ‘Then I was betrayed and captured like some animal, and though each took ten for his own life, the warriors with me were slaughtered while I stood bound.’
Hawklan looked at Jaldaric and noticed that even he was moved by the Mandroc’s unexpected eloquence.
‘An evil story, Byroc,’ Hawklan said after a long silence. ‘One that has been told in other lands before now.’
‘If He is not slain, it will not end until it has been told in every land, sword bearer, until the seas are dry, the mountains levelled, and the skies emptied-even of their stars.’
Hawklan felt a chill at his very heart as Byroc in-toned this grim prophecy.
‘Where will you go now, chief?’ he said quietly.
Byroc looked at him. ‘With you,’ he said. ‘On your journey to slay Him.’
There was an uneasy stir amongst his listeners and he made a noise which was eventually identified as a chuckle. ‘Did you think that the chief of the Ivrandak Garn could not recognize hunters?’ he said. ‘And that was forged for only one prey.’ He levelled a finger at the black sword.
Hawklan did not reply, but turned to Yatsu. ‘Are you three going back over the mountains to your company?’ he asked.
Yatsu shook his head. ‘Too risky from this side,’ he said. ‘We’ve no equipment and precious little food. Besides, they won’t have waited. They’ve no way of knowing that we weren’t killed in that blaze.’ He looked at Hawklan and then added, half-heartedly, ‘We could head west towards Narsindalvak, I suppose. The army will be there by now, I imagine.’
Hawklan looked at Dacu. ‘How are our supplies?’ he asked.
‘Sufficient as we are,’ Dacu replied. ‘But not so good if we have an extra four along; we’ll have to live off the land much sooner. And the shelter’s going to be crowded, to say the least.’
Hawklan thought for a moment then nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We all go. Yatsu, Lorac and Tel-Odrel are too valuable to be wandering back to join the main force, and Byroc knows the country.’
‘No!’ It was Jaldaric. ‘We can’t take a Mandroc for pity’s sake, they’re… ’ He faltered, remembering Byroc’s tale; but the sight and wet-fur smell of the Mandroc evoked memories that surged through him and found voice despite himself. ‘They’re His creatures. They killed my friends. He’ll betray us,’ he said.
In an echo of his own meeting with the Goraidin many years ago in snowbound Riddin, Isloman drew his knife and offered it to the young man.
‘You kill him, then. Now,’ he said flatly.
Jaldaric looked at him for a long moment and then, with an oath, turned away.
Hawklan intervened. ‘If you remain standing on that Orthlund road, facing Aelang, you’ll betray us, Jaldaric,’ he said starkly. ‘And if you ever meet the man again he’ll kill you for the same reason; he’ll be here and you’ll still be there.’
Jaldaric glared at him but Hawklan offered no resis-tance to his reproach and anger, and Jaldaric felt it turning back upon himself. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Hawklan watched him silently, then continued.
‘We’ll live off the land whenever opportunity pre-sents itself, starting now,’ he said. ‘Sentry duties will ease the accommodation problem.’ He looked round at his companions intently. ‘Be aware, all of you, all the time, as never before. We’re very near the end now.’
After a short rest and a redistribution of their packs, the group set off again. Released from the confines of the tunnel, Gavor stretched his wings massively and launched himself into the air without a word. Hawklan smiled as he watched his friend climbing steadily into the pale sky. Soon Gavor was no more than a tiny circling dot.
‘What do you know about Derras Ustramel and Lake Kedrieth,’ Hawklan asked Byroc as they made their way down the rocky slope.
The Mandroc growled. ‘Only that it is a bad place,’ he said. ‘The lake is as deep as the sky is high, and the marshes around it are foul and treacherous, and full of dancing fires. And those who see His lair are changed forever.’
‘Do you know of any paths through the marshes?’ Hawklan asked.
Byroc shook his head. ‘There are no paths,’ he said. ‘The waters shift and change. There is only the road. His road.’
He pointed. Hawklan followed his hand. Far below he saw a thin white ribbon meandering gently for a little way then straightening out and running northwards into the mist.
‘We do not need it here, but at the end, only that can bring us to the lake,’ Byroc said. ‘If we are parted for any reason, follow it.’
The journey down the mountain from the cave was oddly euphoric for the group. There was little talking. Each seemed uncertain how to respond to the openness and the cold wind that was blowing after the rocky walls and roofs that had hedged them in for so long.
They made good progress however, and towards evening the mountains were behind them. Dark and ominous against the gloomy sky, the disordered ranks of crags and peaks rose up forbiddingly to deny unequivocally any easy retreat back to the south.
As the light faded, so also did the euphoria, and the pervasive unease of Narsindal that it had kept at bay, began to seep into the group.
They were subdued as they made camp in the lee of one of the large patches of twisted undergrowth that dotted the rocky landscape.
Byroc watched as they unpacked and erected the shelter. Once or twice he took hold of the fabric and rubbed it between his fingers or sniffed at it. When the shelter was completed he peered inside cautiously and curled his lip.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked, standing by him.
‘Bad smells,’ Byroc answered. And without further explanation he lumbered off towards the dense undergrowth. ‘I shall be near,’ he said.
Hawklan was about to call after him when he sud-denly felt the Mandroc’s overwhelming loneliness. For a moment he saw the shelter as alien and unnatural, and his companions as flat-faced expressionless creatures hung about with angry and frightening memories.
‘Whatever you wish, Byroc,’ he said. ‘But the shelter is yours if you need it.’ The Mandroc, however, made no reply, and as Hawklan watched he quietly faded into the undergrowth.
Inside the shelter, Hawklan told Yatsu and the oth-ers the tale of their journey from the Caves of Cadwanen and of his intention to confront Sumeral. It caused little surprise.
‘I told you before that you were near to the player in this game, Hawklan,’ Yatsu said. ‘I’m glad you made the right decision.’
It was a remark that allowed no further comment.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr. ‘This place has a bad feel to it,’ he said, unknowingly echoing the words of generations of Fyordyn who had ridden the Watch.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Few things have ever lived joy-ously in Narsindal,’ he said. ‘The fear from His First Coming still entwines the heart of everything. Now… ’ He paused. ‘He’s all around again. Stronger than when I came only months ago. Watching, waiting, listening.’
‘Watching?’ Hawklan said, picking up the words in some alarm.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘No, He can’t see us now,’ he said. ‘He’s watching for Ethriss… watching for those small signs that might presage his awakening.’ He looked at Hawklan. ‘If I use even a vestige of the Old Power,’ he said. ‘It would be like a clarion call to Him.’
‘We knew that when we started,’ Hawklan said.
Andawyr nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But now it begins truly. I’ll need the help of all of you. I must reach out and be aware of Him, but I mustn’t oppose Him, not with so much as the weight of a falling leaf. Please keep what tranquillity you can in your own hearts, and protect me if you find me absent and withdrawn.’ He found a smile. ‘Treat me like a dotty grandparent.’
The brief flash of humour held little sustenance, however, and most of them slept fitfully through a night full of strange animal calls, to wake just before dawn, ill-refreshed and reluctant.
After they had eaten a silent and small meal, they broke camp. Gavor came gliding down out of the grey sky. ‘There are some strange-looking creatures in this place, but no people that I can see, though it’s not easy with all this mist,’ he said, settling on to Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘I suggest you go that way, dear boy,’ he went on, leaning forward like a figurehead. Hawklan cast a glance at Byroc, who nodded.
As they walked, they found that the mist came and went in accordance with mysterious laws of its own and with scant regard for the damp wind. Sometimes they could see to the horizon, at others, visibility was reduced to twenty or thirty paces. During such times, Byroc would raise his muzzle into the air and sniff rapidly and audibly at regular intervals.
The vegetation around them was stunted and seem-ingly deformed, as if it had fought some great battle just to struggle through to the surface. The dense patches of undergrowth that littered the plain and which loomed up out of the mist alarmingly on occasions, seemed to consist mainly of tangled brambles, as thick as tree trunks in places, and armed with vicious thorns.
From time to time, various animals bolted suddenly and startlingly in front of them causing a mixture of alarm and amusement. Hawklan frowned; for the most part the creatures were such as might be encountered anywhere in such wild terrain, but they were strangely altered. Teeth, claws and colouring betrayed powerful predatory needs, and eyes revealed constant watchful alarm. Occasionally he caught a brief snatch of speech, and that too was full of a mixture of menace and fear.
‘Is there nothing here that hasn’t been touched by Him?’ he said softly to Andawyr.
‘No,’ Andawyr replied, adding enigmatically. ‘In-cluding us.’
Hawklan looked up into the grey sky. High above, Gavor was circling, spurred and watchful. Around him the Goraidin and the Helyadin were moving silently, armed and watchful.
Did you think that the chief of the Ivrandak Garn could not recognize hunters? Byroc’s words came back to him.
He looked up again at Gavor. At least we have the eyes now, he thought. It gave him comfort. The combined skills of the group would keep them from the eyes of men, and Andawyr’s silence would keep them from His sight. Their presence was unknown and thus unlooked for.
Dan-Tor dismissed the exhausted and quaking Mandroc messenger. He sat silent for some time, a strange sensation stirring inside. When it emerged, he recog-nized it as amusement, black and rich. It bloomed to enfold the vision that had been tormenting him since the eye of the Vrwystin he had been holding had shrieked and, impossibly, died; the vision, fleeting but vivid, of Hawklan wielding the black sword of Ethriss and destroying his precious creature.
Now came the news that at the same time as the Vrwystin had been slain, the mines had been attacked by an unknown force of men, and that all the workings had been destroyed, and the shafts and adits sealed utterly by a terrible fire.
Dan-Tor luxuriated in the irony. Silently creeping into my domain again, Hawklan, he thought. Seeking to destroy my eyes and the food for my weapons with your treacherous cunning, and now destroyed in your turn by your own men.
A rumbling laugh began to form. So His enemies stumble and fall. Their every seeming success had been but a failure in disguise. Soon the rest would come clamouring across the plains of Narsindal to be destroyed in their turn; Cadwanol, Fyordyn, Orthlundyn and Riddinvolk; the old enemies, to be crushed this time at the very outset.
But through his malevolent delight shimmered a cold, sharp, sliver of uncertainty.
Hawklan had eluded destruction and capture so often; had appeared where he should not have been; had struck mysteriously beyond where he should be able to reach.
‘Commander Aelang,’ he said.
Aelang appeared from an adjacent room and sa-luted.
‘You heard the message, commander?’ Dan-Tor said.
‘About the mines? Yes, Ffyrst,’ Aelang replied.
Dan-Tor stood up. ‘Take a company from the deep penetration patrol, go to the mines and destroy any of the attacking force who may have escaped to the north,’ he said.