The Fall of Fyorlund

Chapter 3-2

Both Isloman and Loman bridled at this suggestion, but Ireck used the authority of their long friendship and was unequivocal.

‘Every one of us around this table loves Tirilen. What’s happened defies belief, but we’re carvers, we must see things the way they are. You two are too heated and you’ve been warriors in your day. If you go, there’ll be fighting.’ He gave Loman a stern look. ‘Look at you, Loman. You’re clenching your fist even while I’m talking to you.’ Loman breathed out heavily and put his hands behind his back awkwardly. Ireck continued. ‘If there’s fighting, then others than yourselves may be hurt, or worse. Could either of you carry that burden? That Jaldaric struck me as a reasonable and honest young man. If enough of us go to him peacefully they’ll not be able to take us captive, and I doubt they’ll fight us if we don’t attack, so there’s a chance we might resolve the matter by talking. Don’t you agree?’

Isloman was about to argue, but surprisingly, Loman cut him short. ‘You’re right, Ireck, it’s a good idea. Besides, Tirilen wouldn’t want anyone hurt on her account. And we do need Hawklan’s advice.’

He looked round at the wooden beams overhead and at the sunlight washing across the floor, then at the ceremonial stone table they were all sitting around. Unlike the rest of the village, but like the remainder of this room, the table was completely undecorated in symbolic homage to the greater carvers yet to come.

‘It’s a sad tale to relate around our Meeting Table, friends,’ he went on. ‘But I’m indebted to you, Ireck, for your sound sense. Do what you can. Isloman and I will do our best to wait patiently for Hawklan.’

‘When he arrives, give him the horse I bought,’ said Jareg. ‘Whatever he did to it, he’s cured it, and it’s a fine animal.’

Loman bowed. ‘Thank you, Jareg, but I doubt that Hawklan will ride it. You know what he’s like.’

‘He’ll ride it for Tirilen, Loman,’ said Jareg. ‘Offer it to him. He’ll need it. Times are moving too quickly for walking.’

* * * *

Almost before his mind could register the fact, Hawklan rolled away from the menacing shadows and rose quickly to his feet. As he did so he drew his sword in one singing sweep, though it felt heavy and reluctant in his hand.

In spite of his terror, part of his mind seemed to be watching him: noting with approval his rapid glance around the whole area for other attackers and commending him for the speed with which he recovered his balance when he caught his foot in his cloak as he stood up.

Taken aback by the quickness of this movement, the two figures seemed to be momentarily paralysed. Then, suddenly, to Hawklan’s horror, the strange helm on the taller of the two seemed to come to life. Hawklan crouched low and waited for whatever attack might come from this apparition.

‘Dear boy,’ said a familiar voice, laden with both alarm and reproach. The helm flapped its great black wings. ‘Fine way to greet friends.’

Hawklan straightened up and lowered his sword as the faces of Loman and Isloman became clearer in the moonlight. His immediate reaction of delight and relief was, however, stemmed by the appearance of his friends. They were grim-faced and armed.

Before Hawklan could speak, Loman stepped forward, his face fighting for control over some powerful emotion.

‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Help us. Tirilen has been taken by strangers.’

It took the two men but moments to tell the tale of Tirilen’s disappearance, their ill-fated encounter with the High Guards, and the decisions made by the Guild.

‘We couldn’t wait back in the village,’ said Loman, almost sheepishly. ‘You might have been gone for weeks. We had to try and find you.’

Hawklan nodded silently.

‘It’s a good job I heard them, dear boy,’ said Gavor. ‘You disappear without trace when you wear that cloak in the dark. They’d have walked straight past us.’

Even now, Hawklan was difficult to see, wrapped in his cloak and squatting on the shadow-dappled ground, as he listened to his friends’ tale. He kept his body very still in an attempt to keep his mind calm, but he felt it was beginning to race out of control. The blows recently struck against him were disturbing and mysterious enough, but this strange and sinister happening seemed to dwarf everything else.

Something within him told him that he was the cause of Tirilen’s abduction, and that he was being led towards some destiny beyond his seeing at the moment. Both logic and an inner resolve brought him to the same conclusion, namely that he must seek out the person, or thing, that was seeking him, and confront it, or he would be pursued endlessly and his friends would be crushed one by one in the wake of his flight.

‘What shall we do?’ Loman asked, after a long pause.

Hawklan pushed back the hood of his cloak from his face and gazed up into the moonlit sky. A slight signal of concern passed between the two brothers as his pale face shone white in the moonlight. Their friend was changing perceptibly: the healer had wandered off on a strange pilgrimage seemingly transformed into a prince come down from one of Anderras Darion’s carvings; now, for an instant, his face looked old and battle-weary. It was a look they had seen in the faces of some of the Muster officers in the Morlider wars. His eyes, however, showed no sign of fatigue, nor his tone.

‘When you’ve rested, we must go straight after Ireck and his party, and hope that his counsels have prevailed,’ Hawklan said quietly.

‘We need no rest,’ said Isloman impatiently. ‘We’ve wasted too much time already.’

Hawklan looked at him and smiled faintly. ‘The horses need rest, Isloman,’ he said. ‘We’ll make no progress at all if we ride them into the ground, will we?’

Isloman slapped his hands on his knees in frustration. Hawklan stood up abruptly and the two brothers echoed his action. He looked at them both in turn.

‘We’ve known one another too long and too well to vie amongst ourselves like silly children about which of us has the greatest affection for Tirilen. We must set aside our selfish pain and think of her. You two must think as you did when you fought side by side before she was born. I’ll offer what observations I can.’ Hawklan shook his head pensively. ‘I seem to be finding many strange skills and ideas within myself these days. I fear I may not be without some experience in battle myself, though I remember none of it.’

Gavor ruffled his feathers noisily in the darkness, and for a moment the group stood in an uneasy silence.

Then, cutting through it, Hawklan said almost jauntily, ‘Show me Jareg’s horse. I had doubts about whether it would reach Pedhavin alive.’

‘It’s a fine mount,’ said Isloman. ‘Jareg knows his horses and he’s got a real bargain there. He said it livened up considerably after you’d seen it on the way back.’

Hawklan walked across to the three horses waiting patiently by the path and laid his hand on the animal’s nose. It was indeed well again.

The horse spoke to him unexpectedly. ‘I am Serian, Hawklan. And your debtor. I’m whole again through your ministrations and I’m happy to see you returned from the Gretmearc uninjured, if not unchanged.’

Hawklan started. Animals rarely sought to impose themselves on others and it was unusual for one to speak unless spoken to first. However, it did not surprise him that the horse had noticed the changes in him. Certain animals seemed to possess a strange deep vision that harked back through many generations.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m uninjured, or nearly so.’ He held up his bandaged hand. ‘Thank you for the warning you gave me. I thought the giving of it would have destroyed you.’

The horse gave the equivalent of a chuckle. ‘It was a powerful hand that was laid on me, without a doubt,’ he said. ‘Even though it was an accident.’

‘Accident?’ queried Hawklan.

‘Oh yes,’ said Serian. ‘I was only caught by the welt of a restraining curse they were using to disguise their monstrous snare. If they’d realized I’d recognized them I’d be in the pot by now.’

Another innocent harmed by traps set for me, thought Hawklan, but he could not forbear smiling at the horse’s remark and he patted his cheek.

‘Still, I’m a Muster horse,’ Serian continued. ‘I don’t succumb easily. Now I’m well again, will you allow me to carry you?’

Hawklan stepped back a little. On the rare occasions he had ridden, it had been he who had asked permission of the horse. ‘Thank you,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But I’ve no wish to burden another animal.’

There was a faint hint of impatience in the horse’s reply. ‘Hawklan, you’ll not catch the Fyordyn on foot, even the way you walk.’

‘There I think you’re wrong, my friend,’ said Hawklan. ‘I think I’ll catch them however slowly I travel because they wish me to catch them.’

Unexpectedly, the horse reared a little. ‘Then you’ll need me even more, won’t you?’ he said. ‘If you wish to remain free to release your Tirilen and escape.’

The horse’s powerful personality struck Hawklan almost like a physical force.

‘And besides,’ Serian continued, ‘how could you burden me? I could carry thrice your weight until you fell off from exhaustion and I’d know no strain.’ Serian bent his head forward and his voice sounded strangely in Hawklan’s ears. ‘The Sires within me know you, Hawklan, even if I don’t, and even if you don’t know them. Can you question the destiny that’s brought us together? I blighted by ancient and fearful enemies and in need of a healer, and you floundering in the unknown like a cork in a stream and in dire need of a mount.’

Hawklan seemed to hear the distant trumpet call he had heard when first he picked up the black sword, and the horse’s voice suddenly echoed and thundered in his mind as though they stood in a great chamber.

‘Generations have made me, Hawklan. Generations. It’s your privilege and your duty to ride me just as it is mine to bear you. Not to do so is to diminish us both.’

Hawklan bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t understand. We humans forget our place in the world too often. I’ll ride you gladly.’

‘And I’ll carry you willingly and well, Hawklan,’ replied the horse quietly. For a little while the two stood silent in the moonlit stillness.

When he left Serian, Hawklan went to the other horses and spent some time using his hands to ease the fatigue from them. He spoke to them a little, but they were like most animals — shy and reserved. Their very normality highlighted Serian’s powerful presence, but Hawklan set aside the strangeness of the horse and of their meeting, placing it with the many other mysteries that were accumulating around him.

‘Are they well?’ Isloman’s deep voice interrupted his reverie.

‘Yes,’ Hawklan replied. ‘They’ll be well rested by dawn. We can leave then and make good progress. Now, let me have a look at this gashed hand of yours that I’ve heard so much about.’

Sheepishly, Isloman offered the injured hand. Hawklan looked at Tirilen’s neat and characteristic bandaging and felt a lump come into his throat. Bending forward so that Isloman could not see his face he removed the bandage gently to reveal a livid, inflamed scar.

‘It’s getting better slowly,’ Isloman said apologetically, but Hawklan scarcely heard him. A savage tremor passed through him as he looked at the damaged flesh and felt Isloman’s inner strength fighting off its evil. He recognized the tremor as a cry for vengeance against the tinker for the damage he had wrought, made almost unbearable by the poignant touch of Tirilen’s healing skill emanating from the damaged hand he was holding.