Hawklan started at the sight of his own sleep-drawn face staring back at him out of the two yellow eyes and lifted his arm as if to protect himself from a blow. As he did so, the eyes moved away from him and he found himself focussing on their owner: a small brown bird, compan-ion to those that had followed him through the mountains and to the one that lay dead in his pocket.
It was hopping back in response to his sudden movement and its eyes were flaring with a yellow and unhealthy glow. In spite of this, Hawklan’s involuntary response was to reach out a hand in reassurance. He spoke softly to the bird to avoid disturbing his sleeping neighbours, but though it opened its beak it made no sound. Instead, Hawklan heard a confused whining jabber ring through his mind, as if many voices were speaking simultaneously in a strange and repellent tongue. He grimaced; the sensation was disturbing.
The eyes flared again briefly, and then became a vacant, unpleasant yellow. Levering himself up onto one elbow, Hawklan stared at the watching bird. Birds were never easy to communicate with, their language, like their lives, being short and frenetic, but he had never encountered anything as strange as this-or quite as unpleasant.
Abruptly the bird lifted its head twice in a clear message of invitation, and Hawklan heard the whining jabber again. He thought he felt a note of encourage-ment in it and, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he slowly sat up.
He made to waken Gavor, sound asleep on top of his pack, his good claw reflexively clutching its frame, and his wooden leg pushed into an eyelet for stability. But the raven was working steadily through a whole gamut of snores and whistles and Hawklan knew that to wake him now would be to waken the entire area. Nonethe-less, there might be danger in this strange little bird. He reached out again to waken Gavor, but an impatient whine from the bird made him move his hand instead to his own temple.
Almost against his will, he abandoned his idea of waking Gavor and, standing up, carefully made his way through the sleepers towards the waiting bird.
As he neared it, it hopped away again. Some part of Hawklan noted that it judged its distance nicely, keeping just beyond where he could reach it with a single step and a sword cut. It was a strange thought and reminded him of those he had had about the Muster, but he shrugged it aside and, wrapping his cloak around himself against the cold night air, he followed the bird out into the bustling Gretmearc crowds.
It became quickly obvious that the bird was indeed leading him somewhere, as its behaviour was gro-tesquely unnatural. It fluttered and hopped innocuously from stall to stall, but each time it landed it turned round, blank eyes wide, to check that Hawklan was still there.
Hawklan tried again to talk to it but received again only the whining jabber. It rang unpleasantly in his head still sounding like many voices speaking at once. It also had a distinctly unhealthy feel about it and, to his annoyance, Hawklan found that now he could not close his mind against it.
For a moment the noise seemed to become coher-ent, as if something deep inside him understood it and, without realizing what he was doing, Hawklan gripped his sword with his left hand. His face became grim and the lights of the Gretmearc cast harsh shadows over his lean features, turning it into the face of a terrible fighting man. The bird increased the distance between them and Hawklan felt people making way for him nervously.
Another harsh thought came unbidden into his mind-slay it now, it’s an abomination-but yet another stopped him. Somewhere behind this unpleas-ant little creature must presumably lie the source of the evil that had plagued the village of Pedhavin with its unclean wares, and had sent the devilish doll with its mocking corruption to horrify him. Evil came from a disturbance in the balance, in the harmony of things, and it had to be corrected. He was a healer. Who better suited to the task? Involuntarily, and in contrast to his healing thought, he gripped his sword harder, and his stride lengthened.
Gradually the bird led him away from the crowds and into darker, less frequented areas of the Gretmearc. But he did not notice. He had eyes only for the tiny hopping form, while his mind sought to deal with the persistent jabber that pervaded it. He did not pay attention to where he was going, nor look for the small landmarks by which he could find his way back from a strange place if need arose.
When eventually he looked around, he found he was completely alone in a part of the Gretmearc he had not visited during his long search. There were several large buildings that from the signs on them housed grain and foodstuffs, and timber and other building materials. They were all shuttered and dark however, there being little or no call to deal in these items during the night. There were a few small tents and booths, but these too were all sealed and almost all of them presented a dilapidated, deserted appearance.
The sudden awareness of his solitude startled Hawk-lan. He could not recall how he had come here, or when he had left the crowds behind. Occasionally an odd shadowy figure passed him muttering a muffled greeting, as if surprised to see anyone else there.
He could still see the bird faintly in the glow from the relatively distant Gretmearc, and its yellow eyes flashed as it turned round every few paces. For the first time since he left the rest area, he thought about the danger he might be courting. What did he expect to find? Certainly nothing good. And not all evils could be cured by all healers; some killed you first.
Hawklan stopped. It had been a mistake not to wake Gavor, but he had not anticipated such a wilful and winding luring-on, for that, he knew, was what was happening. Why should anyone want to lure him anywhere? Who would want to harm an innocent healer? He realized he was gripping the pommel of his sword violently in his left hand, and the thought of the sword brought Loman’s voice back to him. ‘This is something from your past-watch your back.’
He had an unpleasant sensation in his stomach and his mouth was dry. It came to him that this was fear: an emotion he could not remember having felt before. He had seen it in others and eased it away but, experiencing it for himself, he found it to be singularly wretched, and far less easily cured.
He turned round nervously. There was nothing there except the glow of the Gretmearc visible through the gaps between the hulking silhouettes of the tents and buildings. Silhouettes that seemed to be watching and waiting.
The whine inside his head made him turn back again. The bird had come close to him and was pacing up and down fretfully. Hawklan felt his fear ease a little. He had no idea how to use the sword he carried, but on the testimony of Loman and Isloman, it was a sword beyond compare and would play its part if required. Even so…?
‘Carry on,’ he said to the bird, his voice loud in the silence and rather hoarse. He could not see too well in the dark, but he had the distinct impression that the bird sneered at him.
The strange procession continued forward through the darkness, and Hawklan’s fear refused to abate any further. He found he was listening for sounds behind him, looking for darker shades within the shadows. Involuntarily his footfall became softer, and the bird turned round more frequently to see if he was still there. It too, seemed to be becoming more and more agitated.
Suddenly Hawklan found himself in an open space. The bird gave a little hop and, with a whirr of its wings, flew off at a tremendous speed. Hawklan lifted both hands to his temples as the incessant whining jabber stopped abruptly.
In its place came a low soothing hum and, for a moment, Hawklan felt a little dizzy. Before he could recover fully, the area was suddenly filled with light and he found himself staring at a strange pavilion in the middle of an open clearing between several large buildings.
He had grown quite used to unusual spectacle in his brief stay at the Gretmearc, but this was by far the most brilliant he had seen. All manner of lights shone from and around it. Every colour he had ever seen, and more. Some flickered rapidly, some slowly, merging, changing, separating, lingering briefly to make hauntingly beautiful tableaux. Some flowed sinuously around and over the building as if they alone carved it out of the night darkness. In and out of the haze they went, chasing and changing. Now the building was sharp, distinct and crystalline, now shining, shimmering and glistening uneasily like a child’s soap bubble, now a shapeless cloud of multi-coloured nothingness. Hawklan had never seen such a display.
After his anxious pursuit of the bird, the whole sight was warm and inviting, and relief flooded over him. No harm could come to him in this place, it felt too good. The bird must have abandoned its task as lure. Perhaps its increasing agitation had been at his own growing awareness of danger and finally the unexpected sight of this obviously new building had put it to flight.
He had to admit that his relief at the bird’s flight outweighed his curiosity to seek out what might have been the cause of his entire journey. He had not known what to expect, but he did not relish finding anything untoward in an area as dark and as peculiarly lonely as that he had just come through. Tomorrow he would return in the daylight with Gavor and they could search together. He swayed slightly, still dizzy. He must be tired. He would go back to the sleeping area… after he had looked at this wonderful pavilion that had so fortuitously interrupted his search.
Looking down, he saw at his feet a narrow stream of moving light which made a glittering flowing pathway that could carry him to the entrance of the building. It was enchanting.
Gently he stepped forward, and the lights surged up over his feet like the summer sun sparkling off an Orthlund stream. He could feel the warm, caressing urging of mountain-bred waters swirling around him and pushing him forward. He smiled.
As he moved along the path he could not lift his eyes from it, so fascinating was it. But he felt there were people coming out of the pavilion, laughing and shouting, some of them greeting him as they walked past.
Then, without realizing he had walked the full length of the path, he found himself in an entrance area lit even more brightly than the outside. The light was so intense that he could not focus properly and he still felt the need to keep his eyes lowered. He became aware of someone coming forward to greet him.
Before he could say anything, the individual had taken him gently by the arm and was speaking to him and leading him somewhere. Hawklan felt drowsiness overcoming him-waking up in the middle of night after walking round the Gretmearc all day, and then doing the same thing again, following that silly bird-small wonder he felt tired.
His friendly guide seemed to agree with him but Hawklan only caught snatches of what he was saying. His voice was at one moment distorted and distant, and at another, soft and comforting inside his head. He recognized words, but could not remember what many of them meant.
The intense light pressed down into him and he felt unable to lift his head to look at anyone or see what it was the place was selling or showing. The voice talked on and on, ebbing and flowing through his head like waves breaking on a shore. Hawklan knew he was being welcomed, although he did not know what he was supposed to do.
Gradually he gathered enough of his wits together to ask a question of his guide, but before he could, the hand on his arm turned him slightly, and, softly but quite clearly, the voice said, ‘You’re very tired. Sit down here. I’ll be back soon and then we can talk.’
Hawklan found himself sitting. It was a great relief. His feet and legs seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, and he knew in a moment he would drift off into sleep. The seat was indescribably comfortable, and everywhere was so warm after the cold moonlit spring night outside.
There was a strange, subtle fragrance in the air, and he became aware of a low, all-pervading humming. He had the impression that many people were making him welcome and were moving round him very quietly to avoid disturbing him. He tried to quieten his own breathing to match theirs.
‘You rest there quietly, you’ve had a long hard jour-ney, now you shall have some of the comforts of the Gretmearc,’ said the soft voice somewhere. ‘Here’s a drink to refresh you.’
Hawklan mumbled thanks and looked at the goblet that had appeared in his hand. Like the building-where was it he’d seen that building?-it swirled and flowed and welcomed him with a shifting kaleidoscope of colours. The soporific humming continued. It seemed to be right inside him now, like his own heart, and the fragrance was becoming stronger, heavier. He felt his hands sagging. A gentle grip took the hand holding the goblet and turned it upright maternally.
‘Not yet, Hawklan,’ the voice said, kindly. ‘Not yet. Look at your drink.’
Hawklan screwed up his eyes to focus on the goblet. The surface of the liquid was smooth and inviting, and the goblet seemed to be infinitely deep, he felt he was looking across the universe. Figures formed in it-smiling figures. Through his half-open eyes he could see them: Tirilen, Loman, and then Isloman standing over them both. They were smiling and Tirilen was beckon-ing to him. The fragrance rising up from the cup was now almost overpowering, and Hawklan could do nothing to stop himself falling, falling, falling into dark depths beneath him to meet his friends. He felt Isloman’s welcoming grip on his right arm.
Then he became aware of a faint ripple in his calm. Something about the figures in the goblet was strange-wrong, even. His mind tried to reach out and identify the sour note that had crept into this magic harmony. It was familiar. Slowly, like icy raindrops falling on an upturned face, he felt flashes of wakefulness jolting him.
The eyes!
What were his friends doing in a wine goblet?
An alien sound penetrated through the drowsy haze that enveloped him. He made a faint effort to stand up but Isloman’s grip on his right arm urged him comfort-ingly back into the chair.
The strange noise persisted, and for a moment came into focus. It was someone singing and shouting. Someone… drunk?’
Hawklan felt confusion swirl about him.
These kind people who were helping him-he wanted to tell them that his friends were in the goblet-that something was wrong-but there was now a sense of urgency around him. He became vaguely aware of people running about, and the clamour was growing, breaking through to him with increasing clarity.
He felt the goblet drop from his hand and heard it splash onto the ground.
Slowly turning his head to apologize, he saw three figures struggling: one of them a small, scruffy individ-ual. As he watched and tried to focus on this strange interruption, he felt the warm euphoria that had pervaded his limbs turning into a leaden weight, and cold chills of fear began to form inside him.
A noise drew him away from the slow, slow, strug-gling figures, and he looked down at his feet. In the pool of spilt wine he could see the caricatured figures of his friends reaching out to him, their hands clawlike. Gleaming eyes and gaping mouths transfixed him. He could feel the tiny hands seizing his foot. He tried to move it, but it would not respond.
‘Wanna shee wot’s appening,’ came the garbled cry of the small struggling figure. ‘Gorra right. Gretmearc rules. All shstallsh to be open to everyone-shee?-everyone.’
Hawklan turned again and tried to call out to the men struggling with him to leave him alone, but no sound came. The little figure staggered and with a joyous shout fell to the ground taking one of his assailants with him.
‘Shorry,’ he cried in a jovial sing-song voice.
Staggering to his feet he sent another man sprawl-ing, and then he lurched into a table which fell over, crashing noisily into a large and elaborate display of some kind. The lights inside the pavilion went wild, flickering dementedly.
The little figure laughed infectiously and gave a cheer of approval.
Hawklan smiled at the man’s antics and tried to rise so that he could intervene. But the grip on his arm tightened, and the scrabbling at his foot grew more frantic. He tried to call out again.
Suddenly, through all the flickering commotion and the noise of the happy destruction being wrought by the drunken man and his pursuers, a solid black shadow flapped into the pavilion and flew over Hawklan’s head.
Hawklan heard a sickening and vaguely familiar thud behind him, followed by a cry, and some of his leaden stupor eased. Then a familiar grip tightened on his shoulder and an equally familiar voice, now urgent and fearful, said, ‘Get up. Hawklan. Get up.’
Hawklan struggled to obey. Black wings beat in his face and the cry was repeated. This time the voice was almost screaming. It was a tone he had never heard before.
There was another crash as the drunk continued to career around the pavilion.
‘Gavor,’ mumbled Hawklan. ‘Gavor. Help me.’
He felt another presence at his back and Gavor was gone again. His mind groped for consciousness now as a drowning man strives for air. The knowledge that his friend might be in danger acted on him more effectively than did any awareness of his own peril, and he exerted what will he had left to try to stand up.
He was partly successful, but his right arm was still gripped tightly, and the scrabbling at his foot persisted and grew horribly. Without looking, he raised his foot and drove it down fiercely. The impact seemed to shake his entire body and he heard tiny cries of fury and hatred swirling off into the distance.
His vision was clearing, as was his head, but every-thing still seemed to be moving very slowly. He turned and saw Gavor deliver a pitiless blow to the temple of a strangely liveried individual who fell like a stricken tree and lay still. Gavor flapped desperately for a moment to recover his balance and then looked across at Hawklan’s right hand.
Hawklan followed the wide-eyed stare and looked down in horror. He could feel his hand, but not see it. His arm stopped just below his elbow. The hand and forearm had been absorbed into the chair, and he could feel it pulling him further in.
The remains of his stupor fled and he became coldly and frighteningly conscious. He pulled desperately on his arm to try and free it, but nothing moved. He felt as if he was trying to lift an entire mountain, and worse, the grip on his arm tightened menacingly. Gavor was about to land on the chair and assail it with his beak, but Hawklan waved him away.
‘Don’t touch it,’ he cried. Then almost without real-izing it, he seized the hilt of his sword in his left hand and pulled it from its scabbard like a great dagger. He felt a strange surging power run through him, and the grip of the chair eased momentarily, before tightening again, and drawing him in further, irresistibly.
Here was an obscenity that could be healed in only one way.
Arching his body awkwardly, he drove the sword down into the chair with all his strength, although, more correctly, the sword seemed to leap forward of its own accord, like a hound after prey.
There was a dreadful choking sound from the chair and the grip tightened on Hawklan’s arm until he began to feel his bones being crushed. Abruptly he was in a dark and tormented place, assailed by clamour and death from all sides, and so full of unending despair that his whole being was filled with a dreadful killing frenzy. He heard his voice screaming both in pain and rage and, withdrawing the sword, he plunged it repeatedly into the horror that would have bound him.
The grip on his hand finally slithered away and the choking sound rose up into a howling scream. Freed, Hawklan staggered back and, his frenzy still on him, seized the sword with both hands and swung it down in a whistling, pitiless arc.
The blade seemed to pass through the terrible chair, leaving it intact, but Hawklan felt it cutting through something, and his flesh crawled at the sensation. He lifted the sword high again, the action harmonizing with his still mounting fury, then with a roar of murderous anger that mingled with and overtopped the cry rising from the chair, he struck again.
The impact seemed to shake the very earth beneath his feet, and he knew he had struck some evil to the heart.
The screaming rose in pitch, a rasping shriek, be-coming louder and louder, until Hawklan felt that the very sound itself was solidifying about him. For an instant it seemed that the seat and the back of the chair were the maw of some dreadful beast spewing forth hatred in its death agony.
Then, it was over. The screaming dwindled into a loathsome gurgling, and everywhere was suddenly silent. Hawklan was equally suddenly spent. He gazed around shakily. The two men who had been struggling with the drunken little man were staring, thunderstruck, at the chair, which seemed to be rotting away as they watched. Beside it, the liveried figure was stirring and groaning.
The little man leapt to his feet and ran over to Hawklan, remarkably sober.
‘Run, man, run. We’ve been lucky so far,’ he said, his whole manner urgent.
Then, eyes wide, as he stared at the remains of the chair, he muttered, ‘This is unbelievable. Appalling.’
Hawklan hesitated and the man pushed him in the chest with unexpected strength, sending him staggering backwards through the doorway and out into the night.