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.