As they left the outskirts of Vakloss, Hawklan advised Yatsu to allow Serian to set the pace. ‘He’s a better judge of horses than either of us, and time’s important.’ The Goraidin acceded with some reluctance and was uncertain for some time until he saw the progress they were making and how fresh the horses remained after following Serian’s unseen commands.
On a few occasions Hawklan asked Serian to stop for the sake of the men, but the horse remonstrated with him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re going well. We’re in harmony. Our spirits are flowing. You look to your own, Hawklan, I’ll look to mine.’ And Hawklan had to content himself with tending Dacu and Arinndier and encouraging the others while in the saddle, until Serian deemed it fitting to stop.
A combination of Serian’s will and Isloman’s shadow lore sped them through the night, and Gavor’s high circling watch kept them clear of Mathidrin patrols during the day.
‘They’re not looking for anyone,’ he concluded eventually. ‘We’ve been too fast for them. They don’t know what’s happened.’
A further, lengthy sortie by Gavor yielded the information that they were apparently not being pursued at all. Yatsu was uneasy.
‘It could be for many reasons,’ Hawklan said. ‘Perhaps Eldric’s giving Dan-Tor severe cause for thought. Perhaps he’s uncertain of your support in the country and is frightened of over-extending himself.’
Yatsu shook his head. ‘No. He has enough Mathidrin in the country to deal with us. He must know where we’re going and why by now. If he’s not pursuing us with everything he has, then he doesn’t care that we’ll raise an army against him, which means...’
‘He’s got greater forces at his command somewhere than we’ve seen so far.’ Hawklan anticipated his conclusion.
‘Yes,’ Yatsu acknowledged. ‘We must execute Lord Eldric’s orders as quickly as possible.’
On the third day out from Vakloss Gavor swooped down unexpectedly out of the windy sky. ‘Rider coming,’ he said. ‘Very fast.’
‘Mathidrin?’ asked Yatsu.
‘No,’ said Gavor. ‘But he’s liveried, armed and riding as if his life depended on it.’
Yatsu spoke a few soft orders and four of the Goraidin melted into the adjacent fields and hedgerows. Within minutes, the rider thundered round a bend in the road ahead. Seeing the waiting group blocking the road he brought his sweating mount to a precipitate halt. Hawklan could see the mixture of emotions that illuminated the man’s face as he looked at them. Then, with apparent reluctance he turned his horse as if to flee, only to find Goraidin emerging from the fields to seal his retreat.
He spun his horse round several times indecisively, then abruptly lifted a double-headed axe from his saddle and held it high and menacingly in the air. The gesture and the man’s attitude radiated an unequivocal intention. Hawklan heard Yatsu draw in a sharp breath.
‘He’s battle crazy,’ he shouted. ‘Defend yourselves.’
The man’s horse reared violently, and with a terrible roaring cry he urged it forward straight at Yatsu’s group.
The force of the man’s desperate passion hit Hawklan like a breaking wave, and he felt a strange stirring deep within him.
‘Stop,’ he shouted. Not to the charging figure, but to the Goraidin by him, who were drawing back bows to end this threat at a safe distance. Before anyone could argue, Serian leapt forward into a full gallop seeming to read Hawklan’s will without words being spoken.
The group watched, stunned, as Serian gathered speed and headed straight for the oncoming rider. But Isloman’s eyes opened wide, almost in terror, as once again his old friend had disappeared and in front of him was some ancient figure sprung alive from the walls of Anderras Darion.
At the sight of Hawklan approaching, both the man’s cry and his horse faltered slightly, but not sufficiently to stem either the physical or the emotional momentum that had been built up. The axe swung around his head in a lethal hissing circle, and his cry became more shrill, but Yatsu screwed up his eyes in a sympathetic grimace as he heard the fear in it.
As the two horses closed, Serian swerved suddenly to the right and Hawklan leaned to the left, bringing his hand up in front of the man’s face. The move was so rapid and unexpected that the man rose up out of his saddle and crashed backwards on to the ground even though Hawklan had barely touched him.
Hawklan dismounted quickly and ran to the fallen man, the grim aura that had surrounded him during his charge falling from him like an unwanted cloak. He knelt down by the man’s side and began gently and swiftly checking for injury. Isloman watched uncertainly, two images lingering in his mind: Hawklan the healer he had known for so many years; and Hawklan the terrible warrior who appeared in times of physical trial.
As Hawklan’s hands moved across the man’s face, his eyes flickered open and gazed upward, unfocused and bewildered.
‘You’re badly winded, but uninjured,’ said Hawklan. ‘You were lucky. I’m sorry I had to be so rough, but you were about to be killed.’
Memory returned to the man’s face and he tried to rise.
Hawklan restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest. ‘Just rest for a moment,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’
The Goraidin gathered round and the man struggled for a moment unavailingly against Hawklan’s hand. Then his head dropped back despairingly. ‘Damn you,’ he said weakly. ‘Damn you and all your kind.’
Hawklan smiled. ‘I don’t think there are a great many like me, and you’re misjudging the others, they’re not what they seem.’
The man, still breathing heavily, glowered at Hawklan, but Hawklan returned the look with another smile. ‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’ he said. Then, flicking his thumb towards the watching Goraidin, ‘These men would’ve killed you in another pace if I hadn’t stopped you. They had quite specific, if hasty, orders about it, and every personal inclination, the way you were swinging that axe.’
The man’s expression did not change. ‘What did you hit me with?’ he asked. ‘All of a sudden you weren’t there and then...’
Hawklan laughed and stood up. ‘You hit yourself in a manner of speaking,’ he replied. ‘But don’t bother about it. Just consider yourself lucky you weren’t badly hurt. Lie still for a little while until you’re fully recovered.’
But the man insisted on easing himself gingerly into a sitting position. ‘That’s the remains of a High Guard livery he’s wearing,’ said one of the Goraidin.
‘Lord Evison’s livery,’ came a voice from behind them. It was Arinndier, carefully dismounting from his horse. ‘And ill-used at that. Explain your condition and your conduct, Guard.’
‘Lord Arinndier?’ said the man in surprise. He accepted the hands held out to lift him to his feet. ‘Lord... I...’ He looked round in confusion. ‘What are you doing with these... these... people? A group of these tried to stop me earlier and I had to kill three of them.’
‘Answer my questions, Guard, before I answer yours,’ Arinndier replied. ‘Suffice it that these people, as you call them, aren’t Mathidrin, despite their uniform, but High Guards such as yourself. You’ve fallen among friends... literally. And you owe the Lord Hawklan here your life.’
The man swayed a little and Hawklan took his arm and looked closely at him. ‘He’s very weak, Lord Arinndier,’ he said. ‘In fact he’s exhausted. When did you last sleep or eat?’ he asked.
The man shrugged vaguely. ‘I’ve to find Lord Eldric urgently,’ he said. ‘Lord Evison’s message...’
Hawklan’s tone was gentle but unequivocal. ‘The Lord Eldric’s in Vakloss and, I suspect, in no position to receive messages at the moment. The Lords Arinndier, Darek and Hreldar will accept it, I’m sure, but only when you’ve rested.’
The man became agitated. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve lost too much time already. The country’s gone mad.’ He shook himself free of Hawklan’s hand and immediately staggered uncontrollably around the small circle formed by the gathered men. As each tried to help him, he pushed them away until finally he collapsed on to his knees.
Hawklan bent down and passed his hand over the man’s face. The agitation left it and he slithered gently to the ground.
‘That was a little premature, Hawklan,’ said Darek. ‘I’d say from his condition that his message was one of some urgency.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Hawklan. ‘But he’ll tell you precious little in that condition. He’s on the verge of total collapse. I’d judge he’s been riding for several days without food or sleep. However urgent his message I don’t think an hour or two will make much difference.’ He looked at Yatsu. ‘Can we spare this man a little time?’ he asked.
Yatsu raised an eyebrow. ‘Ask your horse,’ he said ironically. The comment provoked a little more laughter than it merited as it carried the group’s residual battle tension into the breeze.
As if following it, Gavor extended his shining wings and rose leisurely into the air. ‘I’ll keep watch for you, Commander,’ he said. ‘It’s a good day for resting on the air.’
Yatsu acknowledged with a nod of thanks, but posted sentries anyway. Only Hawklan heard Gavor’s distant chuckle.
Hawklan made the newcomer comfortable and then joined the three Lords and Yatsu, who were sitting on a grassy embankment at the side of the road.
‘Let me look at your wound,’ he said to Arinndier. The Lord smiled to himself. He had already learned that this green-eyed healer was not to be stayed by any form of protest. As Hawklan’s hands examined the wound and manipulated his neck and shoulders, Arinndier felt a deep relaxation seep through him.
‘You’ve magic in your hands, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘The only person I’ve met who could do the same was Dan-Tor.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘No, that’s not quite right. He treated my wrist once when I sprained it. He cured it very quickly, but it felt more as if the injury was being... torn out almost... by a great power.’
The hands on his shoulders stopped moving and he turned his head to look at Hawklan. ‘I suppose that sounds rather foolish to you, doesn’t it? Healing’s healing, isn’t it?’
Hawklan smiled and, placing his hand on top of Arinndier’s head, turned it to the front again. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘Far from it. You’ve just told me a great deal about the man. I’ll have to think about it, it may be important. Now, be quiet and relax.’
But Arinndier was not so easily stopped. ‘And where in this world did you learn that trick you used on our messenger?’
‘I’d like an answer to that,’ said Yatsu. ‘What possessed you to tackle someone in that state? I take some pride in my fighting skill, but that was a textbook case of when to retreat. I’ve seen men like that take a score of arrows and still kill a dozen before they fell.’
Hawklan did not answer immediately. He looked down at his hands seeking out the damage in Arinndier’s back. Though he knew no others could see it — even Tirilen would see it only faintly — it was written there quite clearly for him to read. The arrow wound, centring a vivid mosaic of tensions and strains brought about by the man’s posture generally and his anxious response to the injury in particular. A mass of tiny interlinked wounds leading deep down into the very heart of the man. His hands would gradually release them, but he knew the body would partly re-establish some of them in spite of itself. These people were always the same — these people, the phrase made him scowl slightly — always a part of them dedicated to self-destruction.
‘The man had to be protected from the consequences of his actions,’ he said.
‘He had to be protected?’ exclaimed Arinndier. ‘What about us? He was the one with the axe and the frenzy — ouch.’
‘Be still,’ Hawklan said, firmly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to relax? Stop fighting your body’s attempts to heal itself.’
Yatsu casually lifted a hand to his mouth to hide his amusement.
‘Anyway, you were in no danger,’ Hawklan continued. ‘Your Goraidin would’ve killed his horse and then him before he’d travelled half a dozen paces. Isn’t that so, Yatsu?’
Yatsu nodded. ‘There’s no other way with people like that if you can’t run away. At least I’ve never seen one until today.’ He rolled a grass stalk between his thumb and finger and then launched it gently like a tiny spear. The breeze caught it and tumbled it along the road.
Hawklan sensed that Yatsu was recalling memories he would have preferred stayed forgotten. He looked again at Arinndier’s back. ‘That’s all the answer I have for you, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I saw a path and followed it. It was different to yours.’
Yatsu looked at him. ‘You took an incredible risk,’ he said.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The path was there to be followed. The only danger lay in my leaving it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Yatsu.
Hawklan laughed and slapped Arinndier’s arm. ‘That should do for now,’ he said. ‘Remember, relax into the pain when it troubles you. Stop fighting it.’ He turned to Yatsu, still laughing. ‘You don’t understand it?’ He bounced his finger ends off his chest in emphasis. ‘I don’t understand it. Now where’s Dacu?’
* * * *
Ordan emerged from a warm, comforting darkness into a warm, comforting summer light. He stared up at the sky picture his father had carved and painted on his bedroom ceiling. The breeze on his face must be coming from an open window. Soon the house would start to bustle awake, and a sunlit day would spread before him.
Then he noticed that the cloud pictures were moving, and a small black dot was sweeping a wide watchful circle high above him. With an appalling jolt, his memory returned. His message! Lord Eldric! More Mathidrin attacking him! He tried to sit up, but a gentle hand restrained him.
‘Not yet,’ said a voice. ‘You’re with friends. Rest while you can. We haven’t much time, but you must eat, and tell us your tale before we decide what to do.’
Ordan turned his head towards the voice. The speaker had a lean, carved face with high cheekbones and bright green eyes. Ordan remembered a haze of weariness and mounting frenzy, and a great force that had torn it from him effortlessly. The words, ‘You’re alive aren’t you?’ came back to him. This green-eyed man had saved him in some way when he could just as easily have killed him.
‘What’s happening?’ he said. ‘Who are you? Who are these...’
‘My name is Hawklan,’ came the reply. ‘These other men are High Guards, of a kind, despite their uniforms. As for what’s happening, that’s a complicated tale which will have to keep. Come on, sit up.’
But the momentum of Ordan’s long journey reasserted itself and swept away most of his new-found quiet. He struggled unsteadily to his feet and looked round at the groups of resting men and grazing horses. Lord Evison’s order had been unequivocal. Give the message to Lord Eldric only. But he had lost so much time. Lord Eldric’s Castle had been sealed and his household reputedly fled to the mountains. Then he’d had to fight his way through black-liveried guards he’d never seen before. Now, this strange green-eyed man steadying him — from Orthlund by the sound of him. And High Guards in black livery? And Lords? Arinndier, Darek, and was that grim-faced one Hreldar?
He put his hand to his head. He knew he was too tired from his relentless journey to think clearly. But these were Eldric’s close friends. They would advise him. He walked over to them and saluted. ‘Lords. Ordan Fainson. Commander of the Lord Evison’s High Guard. May I speak?’
Arinndier returned his salute without rising, and motioned him to sit down.
Ordan told his tale quickly and simply and the Lords listened intently and without interruption, though Hawklan could feel their mounting alarm. At the end, Ordan took the bundle from his tunic and gave it to Arinndier without comment.
Hawklan looked at the figure resting on the bloodstained kerchief. It meant nothing to him but, glancing around, he saw it meant a great deal to the Fyordyn.
Hreldar’s face had become harder. The face of a man confirming and confronting his worst fears. Darek’s face was torn between belief and doubt, while Arinndier simply scowled and shifted his injured shoulder. The movement was unnecessary and painful and Hawklan watched him closely, waiting for him to emerge from behind the shield of self-inflicted pain that he found more acceptable than the truth of what he was looking at. When he did so, his face was contorted with anger.
‘Commander, are you insane?’ he shouted. ‘You know what this is?’
Ordan bridled a little but stood his ground. ‘Yes, Lord,’ he replied. ‘I know exactly what it is. It’s my Lord’s message to the Lord Eldric, sent to ask for help in extremity.’
Arinndier muttered to himself.
‘What does it mean?’ ventured Hawklan.
Darek started a little and then turned to him. His face was pale and his manner uneasy. He looked faintly embarrassed as he spoke. ‘It’s the fourth figure from a Festival Shrine. The figure of Ethriss.’ He seemed reluctant to continue. ‘It should never be visible. The appearance of the fourth figure is a portent of the Second Coming of... Sumeral.’
‘Madness,’ muttered Arinndier, nursing his injured shoulder again. ‘Evison’s stirring up trouble because the King declared him a rebel.’ But his tone carried no conviction.
‘Nonsense,’ Darek said impatiently. ‘Evison’s been badly treated by the King, but he’s neither rebel nor troublemaker. I’ll ask you to recall our discussion before we went to meet the King.’ He gave a soft mirthless laugh. ‘Our last night of innocence.’
Arinndier blustered. ‘Eldric was unwell. I formalized things to avoid embarrassing him.’
‘No,’ said Darek. ‘He was perfectly well and perfectly rational and he said nothing that wasn’t fit for Gathering. You’ll perhaps recall also that we agreed first face proof for what he submitted.’ He became heated. ‘Everything that’s happened since has been like a waking nightmare. That first face proof has been enhanced with time and you know it.’
Arinndier turned his face away angrily with a contemptuous oath.
‘Enough,’ said Darek coldly. ‘Have you been so long away from the Geadrol, Lord, that you forget its ways so totally? I’ll put your indiscipline down to your wound and your fatigue.’
Arinndier stepped towards him, eyes blazing.
Darek’s jaw tightened angrily and snatching the figure from his friend he held it up close to his face. ‘In Ethriss’s name, Arin, think. You know Evison. He’s got even less imagination than Eldric. Do you think he’d have done this for no reason?’
Under the impact of Darek’s uncharacteristic passion, the resentment and anger abruptly drained out of Arinndier like water from a shattered bowl. He bowed his head. Sympathy replaced Darek’s anger.
Hawklan took Arinndier’s arm, and looked round at the anguished Lords and the Goraidin, standing bewildered at this outburst.
‘Lords,’ he said. ‘Isloman and I are here because we believe this, too. Sumeral is risen again, and Dan-Tor is His agent. He’ll unleash His corruption on the whole world if we don’t oppose him. Even now, this very division among you here is a small victory for Him.’ Before he could be questioned, he splashed practicalities in their faces. ‘But our immediate problems are simpler,’ he said. ‘You have a known foe. You must obey Lord Eldric’s orders and continue to his estate as quickly as possible and prepare to face Dan-Tor.’ He took the figure gently from Darek and looked at it closely. It was beautifully and intricately carved. Its slightly raised right arm seemed to point to yet another new direction for him.
‘Isloman and I will return with Commander Ordan to find out what happened to Lord Evison to prompt him to send this... ancient... message. We’ll meet you at Lord Eldric’s stronghold as soon as we're able.’