He fell silent and stared absently at the table. A nearby torch was shining through a clear glass goblet and throwing a splash of multi-coloured light on to the heavily grained surface. He gave a slight sigh, and Gavor’s head came inquisitively over the fruit bowl again.
The brief introspection faded quickly, however, and he looked round again at his companions. ‘Our chances of success at the end are not calculable,’ he said. ‘They’re probably very small… I just don’t know. If any of you wish to leave, then do so without any reproach from me. Ride back and wait for the army and hold your peace.’ Then, in contrast to these words, his voice and manner became grimly purposeful. ‘However, if you wish to stay, understand this: I value Orthlund and my life there, and however small the odds, I intend to return to both in due course. I have no intention of winning this cause by dying for it. I have a memory of advice from someone, somewhere: "You win by making the other poor devil die for his cause." It’s advice I intend to follow. Indeed, I commend it to you all.’
He sat back. ‘Now,’ he concluded. ‘Who rides with us?’
‘I do,’ said Dacu quietly. His reply was echoed unanimously round the table. The healer in Hawklan rose to reproach him at his success in engineering the loyalty of his chosen group, but the warrior rose too and laid the reproach aside. ‘They are as trapped as we are,’ he said, ‘and their vision is clear enough for them to see it.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan said simply.
‘Er…?’ said Gavor tentatively.
‘Silence in the ranks,’ someone said, and the last vestiges of tension disappeared in laughter.
‘When do we leave?’ Tirke asked.
‘Fairly soon,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Within the next few days. We need to study whatever maps and charts are to be had here, and plot out a route as well as we can. We need to learn what we can about the ways of the Mandrocs, and we have to replenish our supplies and also learn enough about Narsindal to be able to survive when they run out.’
There was much head nodding at these observations and Yrain started to ask a question.
Hawklan raised his hand. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said gen-tly. ‘Tomorrow, we begin properly. But for the rest of this evening, let’s just talk and enjoy this peace.’
Yrain tried not to frown.
Hawklan smiled. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Just this one last thing. And let me anticipate your question. We have no specific plan of campaign. We are Helyadin and Goraidin, doing one of the things that such troops are intended to do; entering the enemy’s territory like shadows and doing as much harm as possible. In this instance, striking to its very heart. Our tactics will be to put one foot in front of the other… very carefully.’
Over the following days, the group studied the docu-ments that the Cadwanwr produced for them and, amongst other things, decided upon the route for the first part of their journey. It was not one they had anticipated and it left Hawklan with a sad task which he postponed until the end.
‘You cannot come with me,’ he said to Serian, laying his hand on the horse’s muscular flank. Serian shifted, his feet clattering on the stone floor, but he did not speak.
‘We have to go through the caves to reach Narsin-dal,’ Hawklan went on. ‘Andawyr fears that the Pass itself may be watched, and any news of our arrival could prove disastrous.’
Serian shifted again. ‘This is not the way it should be,’ he said eventually. ‘You and I should ride against Sumeral together.’
Hawklan pressed his forehead against the animal and closed his eyes. ‘So our hearts say, horse,’ he said. ‘But circumstances dictate otherwise.’
Serian’s hoof scratched at the floor fretfully.
‘I go where I must, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Set me free to find another destiny.’
‘You’ve always been free, my friend,’ Hawklan said. ‘I’ve already told the Cadwanwr that your door is to be open so that you may leave when you please.’
Serian bowed his head low. ‘Farewell then, prince,’ he said. ‘Until we meet again.’
Hawklan put his arms round the horse’s neck and embraced him, then he turned and left without speak-ing.
‘At Derras Ustramel,’ Serian said softly as the bat-tered door closed and the sudden flaring light in the barn became dim again.
Returning to his companions, Hawklan found them fully laden and anxious to start. Their enthusiasm drew him from his introspection and he smiled as Dacu helped him fasten his heavy pack.
‘Everything checked?’ he asked. The Goraidin grunted a terse confirmation.
‘Who’s carrying my food?’ Gavor asked suddenly, in great alarm.
Each looked at the other and shrugged a wide-eyed disclaimer.
‘Don’t worry, Gavor,’ Tirke said. ‘We’ll see you get well fed. You’re the emergency ration.’
There was some laughter at this, but a small circle cleared expectantly as Gavor walked slowly across to him.
‘Very droll, Tirke,’ the raven said darkly. ‘Very droll.’ Tirke cringed a little in anticipation of some form of retaliation, but Gavor turned as if to move away. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning back again casually. ‘I was sorry to hear about your sore leg.’
Tirke, mildly relieved at escaping so lightly after such an indiscretion, gazed at him in some surprise, and shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a sore leg,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Gavor said, then his black beak shot for-ward and struck Tirke’s shin with a resounding thud. ‘I could have sworn you had.’
While Tirke was executing a small hopping dance to renewed laughter from his friends, Gavor flapped up on to Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘And another thing, Tirke, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It’s not wise to talk about eating one’s companions when one’s made out of meat oneself, is it?’
‘Peace,’ said Hawklan, trying not to laugh. ‘There’ll be plenty to fight about before we’ve reached the end of this journey. Andawyr, lead on if you would, please.’
Andawyr did some final wriggling underneath his pack until it was comfortable then set off down the long stone corridor. Though it was deep below ground it was well lit by the window stones which brought bright, daylight scenes from the surface. Since Andawyr’s return, the seeing stones had been readjusted, and at least half of them gave a view of some part of the Pass. This had been done throughout the whole cave system thus ensuring that in addition to a formal watch being maintained, a substantial informal one was kept also.
Occasionally they passed through an arch decorated with strange glowing symbols and the same soft echoing ring that had greeted their entry to the Caves sounded again.
‘What is that?’ Athyr asked.
‘The Caves are on Full Watch,’ Andawyr said. ‘They’re riddled with traps and devices to protect us from the many strange foes that have beset us through the ages. Had you carried His taint, you’d not have survived so far. The chime celebrates your wholeness.’
The matter-of-fact tone of his voice was more chill-ing than any threat could have been and Athyr let the topic lie.
Then Andawyr led them through a short dazzling passage like the one through which they had passed from the stable.
As Isloman stepped out, blinking, he found himself in another long corridor. It too was brightly lit, but by torches not window stones. He gazed around, his head back like an animal scenting some subtle change carried on the breeze. ‘We’re much deeper,’ he said. ‘Very much deeper. How can that be?’
Andawyr nodded appreciatively. ‘How did you know we were so deep, carver?’ he said by way of answer. Then, relenting a little, ‘We call them the Slips,’ he said. ‘They spare us the toil of endless flights of stairs but they’re really a part of our defence system. Each entrance has many exits and some are into regions which are far away from here, and far from pleasant.’
Again his matter-of-fact tone was chilling.
‘We could use them at Anderras Darion,’ Isloman said ruefully, remembering the endless stairs of the Castle.