He became aware of Serian standing by him. The horse had followed him from the camp.
‘How are the horses?’ Hawklan asked.
‘Better than the humans,’ Serian replied. ‘They for-get more quickly. They did well.’
Hawklan patted the horse’s neck. ‘Indeed they did,’ he said. Then, on an impulse, ‘Do you wish to return to the Muster now that you’re home again?’
The horse lifted its head and shook it, throwing a spray of snowflakes into the air. ‘I’m no longer a Muster horse, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Touched by His evil at the Gretmearc, then redeemed by you. Facing the wrath of Oklar with you. Listening to the sounds of the Alphraan and the song of Anderras Darion. And now all this: charging against Dar Hastuin and Creost as they rode Usgreckan. I am not what I was. And I am possessed by the demon that possesses you. I ride next against Sumeral. Do we ride together still?’
Hawklan looked out over the battlefield again. The snow was not falling quite as heavily, and an onshore breeze was beginning to blow. In the distance the sky was lightening, and here and there small golden swashes of sunlight were glittering on the sea. The horizon was true and straight, undisturbed by any unnatural intrusion. ‘Winter’s ending,’ Hawklan said, swinging up into the saddle. ‘And we ride together still, Serian, to His very throne.’
Returning to the camp, Hawklan made straight for his tent. As he approached, Andawyr came to the entrance. He too looked tired, but his eyes seemed to be brighter than ever.
‘I’ve been chased away from the hospital tent with orders to rest,’ Hawklan said
‘Rightly so,’ Andawyr said unsympathetically. ‘You should listen to your own advice more.’
Hawklan pulled a wry face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But while I’m confined to quarters will you arrange a meeting of all senior officers-a Council of War-first thing tomorrow morning. And gently with Urthryn, please, Andawyr. My brief meetings with him so far have been a little… fraught… to be generous about it.’
Andawyr opened his mouth to reply but a low, piti-ful moan from inside the tent interrupted him. He turned to let Hawklan enter.
Inside, resting in a small makeshift hammock slung off four poles, lay Gavor. His eyes were closed and he was very still. Curled upon the floor nearby was Dar-volci.
Hawklan looked at his old friend sadly. Andawyr came to his side.
‘It’s bad isn’t it?’ Andawyr said.
Hawklan nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, soberly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before.’
A single black eye flickered weakly, and Gavor ut-tered another low groan.
‘It’s the complications that are doing the damage,’ Hawklan went on, crouching down to be closer to the listless form. His face was lined with concentration, and when he spoke his voice was heavy with concern.
‘You see, Andawyr, after the fall, he began to de-velop symptoms of malingering, but I suspect now that it’s turned into severe and chronic hypochondria. I think it could be terminal.’
The eye opened wide and glared malevolently. Hawklan and Andawyr smiled hypocritically in reply.
Gavor groaned again-loudly. ‘I don’t know which hurts the most,’ he declaimed. ‘The pain of my terrible injury or the cruel indifference of my friends.’
‘I told you. You’ve only sprained one of your chest muscles a little,’ Hawklan said, flopping down on to his bunk. ‘Your pectoral muscle to be precise. A couple of days and some exercises and you’ll be good as new.’
‘You weren’t so callous when you pulled me out of that snowdrift,’ Gavor said, his tone injured.
‘I thought all that blood was yours, that’s why,’ Hawklan answered, closing his eyes and turning his back on the raven.
Gavor chuckled at the memory of his attack on the two Uhriel, then he groaned again. ‘It hurts when I laugh,’ he said.
‘Go for a walk,’ Hawklan said curtly. ‘The amount you’re eating, you’ll soon be too fat for your wings to carry you, sprain or no sprain.’
Gavor’s head shot up indignantly. Then, turning to Andawyr, he said, ‘Would you be so kind as to give me a wing down, dear boy, I’d hate my suffering to disturb our great leader.’ As Andawyr lifted him out of the hammock he added plaintively, ‘I’ll be out in the cold if anyone needs me.’
‘Gavor, clear off, I’m trying to get some sleep,’ Hawklan replied.
Gavor muttered something under his breath and stumped over to Dar-volci. ‘Come on, rat, let’s go round to the kitchens; see if they’ve anything for sprains.’
Dar-volci uncoiled himself, stretched languorously then sat on his haunches to scratch his stomach. ‘Good idea, crow,’ he said, dropping down on to all-fours again. ‘I’m feeling like something medicinal myself. You can do your bird impressions for me as we walk.’
Hawklan turned his head and stared in disbelief.
Slowly through the day, the camp changed, becoming quieter and more ordered as time pushed the nightmare of the battle inexorably further away. Cadmoryth died as the tide began to ebb, as did several of the Morlider. Others lived and died to different rhythms. The snow stopped and the sky cleared, and the day ended with long sunset shadows cutting obliquely through the ranks of tents.
Hawklan slept.
The following day began as the previous had ended, with a clear sky. A brilliant sun shone low into the camp and the snow-covered landscape echoed its light stridently.
A gentle shaking awoke Hawklan and he smiled as he opened his eyes to see Gavor tugging at his sleeve and, beyond him, the sky, blue and unblemished, visible through the slightly opened entrance of the tent.
Then he closed his eyes and lay back, his face pained momentarily.
‘I thought I was at home,’ he said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bunk. ‘A summer’s day ahead with fields to walk, flowers and blossoms to smell… ’
‘Sorry, dear boy,’ Gavor said repentantly.
Hawklan reached out and a laid his hand on the raven’s iridescent plumage. ‘Hardly your fault, old friend,’ he said, smiling again, then, more matter of fact, ‘How’s the wing this morning?’
Gavor extended it gently. ‘Creaking,’ he said. ‘But better. I think the knees are going though, with all this walking.’
‘Knee,’ corrected Hawklan.
‘Spare me the pedantry at this time of morning, dear boy,’ Gavor said, jumping down from the bunk and landing with a grunt. ‘Just because it’s not there doesn’t mean I can’t feel it. And it’s stiff.’
The statement was definitive and Hawklan did not pursue it.
‘Well, can you manage a walk to the mess tent?’ he asked, standing.
Gavor inclined his head pensively, then with an awkward flapping, bounced up on to the bed and thence on to Hawklan’s shoulder.
He was still sitting there an hour later when Hawk-lan rode across to the nearby camp that the Muster had established. As they approached, a small crowd began to form at the edge of the camp. Gavor started to preen himself.
The crowd, however, seemed to be interested pre-dominantly in Serian, Hawklan himself being greeted with an uneasy politeness.
As on the battlefield, Serian led him to Urthryn.
The Ffyrst’s tent was larger and more elaborate than the undecorated field tents that stood in ranks around it, but not ostentatiously so. An officer of some kind stood outside it; no mean fighter, Hawklan judged, probably a bodyguard, and vaguely familiar.
He dismounted and introduced himself.
‘I saw you on the field, Lord,’ replied the officer eyeing Gavor narrowly.
Hawklan looked at him, ‘Ah,’ he said diffidently after a moment, ‘I remember. I pulled you off your horse, didn’t I?’
The man nodded, then the question burst out of him. ‘You lifted me out of the saddle as if I was a child! I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I’ve never felt anything like it. How did you do it?’
Hawklan laughed at the man’s unrestrained curios-ity, though not unkindly. ‘Don’t concern yourself. You handled your lance well. I’ve had remarkable teachers in my time.’ Then, more seriously: ‘If your wish to learn overrides your sense of indignity at being unhorsed by an Orthlundyn, then you’re halfway there already. If time allows we’ll talk further.’