Hawklan enjoyed the remainder of his long journey through the mountains, despite some of the leg-wrenching slopes he had to contend with. On more than one occasion he chose to leave the path to climb some nearby peak, just for the sake of sitting quietly in the rich stillness and calm that the ancient rocks exuded. Gavor too seemed to be in his natural habitat, spending most of his time gliding in wide circles high overhead.
They met no other travellers, but Hawklan gradually learned of the many plants and creatures that discreetly thrived there. Only the little brown birds occasionally disturbed their peace. Hawklan would see Gavor spiralling silently downwards towards some rocky slope or cluster of vegetation, then one of the birds would burst alarmingly from cover and fly rapidly into the distance, its wings whirring peculiarly.
‘I don’t know how they can fly so fast,’ was Gavor’s predominant comment. ‘Or how they know I’m coming.’
At such times, Hawklan felt impelled to look again at the small burden he was carrying. It was unchanged; no sign of either stiffness or decay. Dead and yet not dead. It felt almost as though the tiny body had been temporarily vacated-left empty for some reason. He shared Gavor’s puzzlement.
Before he left the mountains, they offered him one last gift, just as they had done at the beginning of his journey.
He was nearing the top of a long steep slope which led towards a high ridge. Perspiring freely in the warm spring sunshine, he sat down on a rock and looked back at the green valley he had spent the morning clambering out of.
I can see why so few Orthlundyn actually get round to making this trip, he thought ruefully, massaging his legs. But he still felt no urge to return, only the urge to continue moving forward.
Gavor’s fruity chuckle interrupted his reverie.
Turning, he saw that his friend was sitting on a small outcrop of rock at the top of the ridge. ‘Come on, dear boy, do hurry up,’ came the provocative cry. ‘My legs are getting tired standing waiting for you.’ He danced up and down waving his wooden leg as if to ease a cramp. Hawklan looked at him malevolently, but did not answer. Then, levering himself to his feet, he started up the last part of the slope. Gavor chuckled again.
When at last he reached the top of the ridge, Hawk-lan found it was broad and grassy, and he paused to revel for a moment in the cool breeze that was rising up from the other side. Gavor glided down to greet him.
‘Come along, dear boy, come along. Don’t dawdle. Come and see your first view of the Decmilloith of Riddin.’
Hawklan followed Gavor across the springy turf.
Just as, days ago, he had suddenly seen a great swathe of Orthlund spread out before him, now he saw Riddin. The view burst on him after he had walked a little way past the top of the grassy knoll. He continued forward until he came to the edge of a cliff which fell away suddenly in a sheer drop.
Riddin looked very different from Orthlund. It had forests and farmlands like Orthlund and it had a harmony of its own, but it was not the Great Harmony of Orthlund: it looked busier, more hectic. It was criss-crossed by hedges and ditches, and roads-so many roads and pathways that Hawklan could hardly believe his eyes. Then there were countless isolated houses and little villages, far more than in Orthlund. He felt vigour and excitement in the harmony of Riddin and wondered what its people would be like. He stood motionless for several minutes, then he opened his arms wide as if to embrace the whole country. Gavor spread his great shining wings in a similar gesture and, laughing out loud, launched himself into the void.
For the remainder of that day, the track they had been following led them down through softer, rolling countryside, becoming wider as they passed farms and the occasional small cluster of houses. Such few people as they saw looked at them uncertainly, but responded pleasantly to Hawklan’s smile and greetings.
Finally, rounding a bend at the top of a small slope, they found themselves looking down on the road that would lead them north to Altfarran and the Gretmearc. Hawklan hesitated.
‘What’s the matter, dear boy?’ said Gavor, sensing his uncertainty. Hawklan did not reply.
Gavor followed his gaze down to the road. ‘Ah,’ he said after a moment. ‘Too many people, eh?’
Used to the scarcely frequented roads of Orthlund, and following his long journey in pleasant isolation, Hawklan felt a momentary reluctance to join the people he could see on the road below. Gavor flapped his wings, ruffling Hawklan’s hair and ending his brief reverie. ‘Wait until it gets busy, dear boy,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’ll soon find out what a crowd is.’
‘Thank you, Gavor,’ Hawklan replied, with heavy irony, as he started forward. ‘I really don’t know where I’d be without your support and encouragement.’ Gavor laughed gleefully.
After a little while however, Hawklan began to find the presence of so many other people as interesting, if not as restful, as the quiet of the mountains. People were riding and walking, some alone, some in groups, some empty-handed, some carrying packs on their backs or on their heads or in panniers. There was an indescrib-able variety of carts-handcarts, carts pulled by horses and other creatures, even ornate wheeled houses, something that Hawklan had never even heard of. At each junction in the road, people joined and people left, but on the whole the road became busier.
‘It’s not Orthlund is it, Gavor?’ concluded Hawklan after a while.
‘Ah, dear boy,’ said Gavor wistfully. ‘There’s nothing like Orthlund in the entire world. It’s a special place. Very special. But the odd trip away will make you appreciate it a little more.’
Generally the many travellers on the road were friendly and courteous, although occasionally the air would be rent by abuse and vilification as the sheer press of numbers, where the road took them through a village or past some small roadside market, resulted inevitably in friction between some of the many disparate travellers.
‘You great donkey!’
Hawklan started at the sound of an impact and the none-too-dulcet cry that immediately followed it; the proximity of both leading him to imagine he was in some way responsible for the former and the intended recipient of the latter.
Turning, he saw that the owner of the voice was a small, stout old woman. She was brandishing an angry fist at a youth who, despite the fact that he towered head and shoulders over her, was retreating and raising his hands defensively. Incautiously, Hawklan smiled at the sight, just as the old lady caught his eye.
‘You,’ she shouted, making a commanding gesture, ‘you with the crow on your shoulder. Stop grinning and give a hand with this.’
Gavor’s head shot round as if he had been stung, and looking over the top of Hawklan’s head he glowered at the old woman.
‘What did she call me?’ he muttered disbelievingly under his breath.
‘Shush,’ said Hawklan urgently, as his legs involun-tarily marched him towards the beckoning woman.
The cause of the disturbance was a slight collision between the woman’s cart and the youth’s, which had left them with their wheels locked together. Looking at the two protagonists, Hawklan had reservations about the old woman’s immediate declamation of the youth’s guilt but, exchanging a quick look of understanding with him, he decided not to pursue the matter.
It took only a few minutes to separate the carts, after which the youth was summarily dismissed and Hawklan conscripted to hold the horse’s head while the woman checked her load.
‘You on your way to the Gretmearc?’ she cried, from the far side of the cart.
‘Yes,’ replied Hawklan, stroking the horse’s head. It was a fine, strong-spirited animal that radiated well-being.
‘I’m going part of the way myself,’ said the woman, bustling back purposefully to take the horse from Hawklan. ‘The horse is rested now so you can ride with me. It’ll save your legs. And you won’t mind, will you, horse?’ She patted the horse’s cheek solidly and Hawklan felt the warmth of the animal’s response. ‘Besides,’ she continued, glancing up at Gavor. ‘It’ll be someone for you to talk to. You must get lonely with only your pet for company.’
‘Hawklan… ’ began Gavor menacingly.
‘Oh,’ cried the woman. ‘It talks.’
‘It!’ hissed Gavor under his breath. Hawklan threw him a pleading glance and with wilful awkwardness Gavor hopped over his head and on to the shoulder farthest away from the woman. ‘In deference to our position as visitors here, Hawklan,’ he whispered, ‘I shall refrain from entering into any badinage with this old… horse-person, but do at least advise her that this it is a he. I can assure you I am anything but neuter.’
Hawklan smiled and, reaching up, tapped Gavor’s beak. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll defend your honour,’ he said quietly. ‘But I don’t think you and the lady are going to get on too well. Give your feet a rest.’ And Gavor was gone, his powerful wings lifting him high into the spring sky.
The woman watched him as Hawklan climbed up onto the cart. ‘I hope I didn’t frighten it,’ she said anxiously. ‘It’ll come back won’t it?’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.’
The woman grunted then flicked the reins gently. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked as the horse started forward. Hawklan settled himself to the cart’s gently swaying rhythm.
‘Orthlund,’ he answered.
She looked at him in some surprise. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘We don’t get many Orthlundyn over here. Quiet kind of a place I’m told.’
Hawklan glanced at the busying traffic all around them, and nodded. ‘Quieter than this, for sure,’ he said.
The old woman laughed pleasantly. ‘You shouldn’t travel the Altfarran Road if you want peace and quiet,’ she said. Then she clucked at her horse, and fell silent.
‘You’re not going to the Gretmearc?’ Hawklan ven-tured.
‘Bless you, no,’ the woman replied. ‘I’m taking some things up to my sister’s. She lives just this side of Altfarran.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Mind you, I might look in there. It’s a long time since I’ve had a good wander round, and I might find something for the Line’s celebration.’
The Line, it transpired, was her local Muster group, and the celebration was an annual event in honour of its founding.
‘Really,’ she confessed confidentially, ‘no one knows when any of the Lines were founded. It’s just an excuse for a party and a bit of showing off.’ Then she laughed again. ‘Mind you,’ she added, more seriously, ‘we might have the Ffyrst with us this year.’
‘Ffyrst?’ queried Hawklan.
The woman’s look of surprise returned. ‘Urthryn,’ she said, and then, casting her eyes upwards. ‘I forgot. You Orthlundyn don’t have a Ffyrst do you? Or a King?’ She shook her head. ‘I really don’t know how you manage over there without someone in charge.’
It was a question that Hawklan could not begin to answer. ‘We just look after each other,’ he said, vaguely, but the words sounded oddly inadequate as a measure of the great respect that each Orthlundyn held for his neighbour’s right to pursue his life unhindered yet not uncared for.
‘Horses for ploughs, horses for battle,’ she said, shaking her head and frowning slightly, her tone suddenly more serious. ‘It’s not really for me to talk. Your people pulled their weight when the Morlider were here, and that’s not forgotten, but a people need someone to lead them. What would you do if someone like the Morlider suddenly attacked you out of the blue? Started destroying your farms and your homes? Slaughtering your friends? Fight them one at a time?’ She looked at him purposefully.
Hawklan offered no comment. The thoughts were dark and grievously at odds with both the bright day and the motherly figure sitting next to him. They had never occurred to him, but something deep seemed to move inside him. The woman continued. ‘Still, as I said, it’s none of my business how you run your country. You were good neighbours when you were needed.’ Then, looking at him appraisingly, ‘Besides, you’re a fighting man, I can see that. You know you’ve got to have someone in charge, don’t you? However you pick them. We choose our councillors and they choose the Ffyrst-first among equals. Up in Fyorlund they’ve got their King Rgoric and their… what is it? Geadrol?’ Her voice tailed away and she sighed. Hawklan felt her mood slip into sadness.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, partly from concern, partly to lead the woman away from this oddly disturb-ing topic.
The woman shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just men-tioning Rgoric reminded me of Urthryn’s lass, Sylvriss. I was at their wedding, you know. Head over heels with Rgoric she was, and he with her. They were so happy. But… ’
Her reminiscence was interrupted by Gavor who dropped out of the sky onto Hawklan’s shoulder, making her start.
‘There’s some kind of commotion along the road behind us,’ he said softly.
‘Commotion…?’ began Hawklan, but before he could continue, he caught a distant sound. It was peculiar-like a single word being shouted by different people one after the other. He turned to the old woman to ask her what it might be, but she too was craning her head to catch the faint sound.
Then, abruptly, she turned away from the sound and roared, ‘Muster!’ in the opposite direction. Hawklan winced at the force of her voice, but noted that the call was immediately taken up by others. It was soon echoing faintly along the road ahead of them.
‘Haha! First Hearer again,’ the woman said, smiling broadly, and before Hawklan could ask what was happening she clicked at the horse and it negotiated its way over to the side of the road and stopped.
‘Come along young man, down you get, and sharp about it,’ she said briskly, and with remarkable sprightliness she jumped down from the cart and signalled Hawklan to join her.
‘What’s happening?’ he managed eventually, as the woman positioned herself in front of him and gazed back along the road, screwing up her eyes in an attempt to see further.
‘Muster,’ she said, without elaboration. No wiser, Hawklan looked around and noticed that the road had been almost completely cleared. What had been a busy, rambling crowd seemed to have been swept to the sides of the road as if by a great brush. It needed no height-ened perception to see now who were Riddinvolk and who were strangers, for the crowd fell clearly into two parts. Those, like the old woman, standing purposefully at the front, forming a friendly but complete barricade, and those like himself, standing somewhat bewildered at the rear. For all its informality, it was an impressive display of discipline.
‘Muster?’ Hawklan inquired.
‘It’ll be here soon,’ she said with a beaming smile of pride lighting up her round red face. ‘Won’t be long. Ever seen it before?’
Hawklan shook his head.
‘Most strangers find it very exciting,’ the old woman continued. She rubbed her hands together gleefully. ‘I do. Even now, after all this time.’ She patted her horse’s nose. ‘Not as good as riding in it though, is it, old friend?’ she said quietly.
The good-natured firmness of the Riddinvolk, to-gether with natural curiosity, silenced any reproaches from visitors about this unexpected interruption to their progress, and an unsought stillness fell over the waiting crowd. It was punctuated only by the odd figure scuttling rapidly across the road to seek a better vantage point.
Then the sound of cheering and shouting reached them and, presaged by a fearful rumbling which grew in intensity until many of the strangers began to look alarmed, the Muster burst upon them.
Hawklan estimated there must have been about sixty riders, although he had little time to do more than gasp and take an involuntary step backwards. He had an impression of crouched bodies-men and women both-urging themselves forward, of long heads and necks reaching out, of flying hair and manes, of gleaming eyes and elated and determined faces. And of noise: the noise of hooves striking the hard ground, of riders shouting, tackle rattling, and the crowd shouting and cheering. He noted that even the old lady was bobbing up and down with excitement, and clapping her hands.
Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone, and a shuffling silence descended on the watchers as they stood uncertainly in the settling dust. For a moment it was as if the force that had just swept through them had taken their will to move for its own need.
The old lady turned round. ‘There you are, young man,’ she said. ‘Only a small group, but at full gallop on a training run. And going well too,’ she added with a knowing condescension. ‘What did you think of that?’ She did not wait for an answer, but dug her elbow in his ribs. ‘Something to tell the folks back home, eh?’
Hawklan agreed readily. The whole thing had made a deep impression on him. The skill of the riders in travelling at such a speed along the comparatively narrow road, so close to onlookers. And the discipline and speed of the locals in clearing the busy road ahead. He found that his heart was beating rapidly and powerfully, and his breath was fast and shallow.
What a formidable fighting force, he thought. They must be able to handle all but the most highly disci-plined infantry. Then almost immediately he wondered where such a thought could have come from. He had an unnerving sensation that, more and more, such dark and strange images were gathering at the edges of his mind.
Who am I? he thought, unexpectedly.