Watching them he saw that one or two were still a little the worse for drink, and quite a lot of whispering and giggling rose up to greet him. Most of it seemed to come from the direction of the north wall where two men were staging a mock sword fight with some bedraggled boughs of blossom. Inevitably one of them lost his balance and, as he sought to recover it, he bumped into the Shrine. The impact was slight but an abrupt and unexpected silence fell over the room and the man, suddenly sobered, hastily inspected the Shrine for damage. His friends gathered round, anxious at this inadvertent assault on one of their Lord’s treasured personal artefacts.
Varak shook his head knowingly, and allowed him-self a brief smile. He was about to turn away when the little cluster broke up suddenly, leaving the original culprit isolated and reaching awkwardly inside the Shrine to adjust something. As they stepped back, several of the servants scribed a circle over their hearts with extended forefingers. The ancient Sign of the Ring. Voices reached up to Varak in muffled alarm.
‘The fourth figure… ’
Varak started. The hidden figure of Ethriss must have been jolted loose and fallen into view. He found his own right hand reaching up to echo the responses he had just seen and he restrained it only with an effort. Stepping back from the balcony rail, he cleared his throat in some embarrassment at having fallen victim to such a superstition. Then, sternly, he brought his mind back to the more urgent matters left to him by his Lord.
The casual instruction of a few days ago had just been made chillingly purposeful. Prior to leaving, Lord Eldric had given him quite specific orders.
‘Commander, while I’m away at Vakloss I want you to move the entire household to the mountain strong-hold. It’s just an exercise of course, but everyone will need shaking up a little after the Festival; there’s far too much inclination to turn a seven day celebration into a fourteen day one. My fellow Lords will be doing the same, and we’ll see who’s managed the most effectively when we return. Probably in a couple of weeks.’
Varak had saluted.
‘No questions, Commander?’ Eldric asked.
‘None, Lord,’ Varak replied, his eyes exposing the lie.
‘Good.’ Eldric nodded gratefully. Then again, in the Battle Language. ‘I rely on you absolutely in this matter.’
Into our mountain strongholds like rebels, was Varak’s first thought, but it passed almost immediately, to be replaced with a genuine regret.
Eldric’s an old man, he thought reproachfully. He shouldn’t have to deal with things like this. And those other three aren’t much use. Well, Arinndier’s all right, but the other two… He made a contemptuous gesture with his right hand. Thank the Guardians this house kept the old values alive. Kept a proper High Guard, well trained and disciplined. True, Arinndier kept his up to scratch, but he could not understand how someone like Lord Darek, with his quiet shrewdness, could join in the current trend to turn High Guards into ceremonial rather than combat troops.
No one threatens us, went the specious wisdom. A bit of discipline’s good for the lads, but no need to risk them in mountain training, patrolling in Narsindal, doing endless tedious duties at the bleak fortress of Narsindalvak…
The arguments rattled irritably in his head. It was all wrong; he felt it in his bones. Darek’s High Guards in their yellow liveries looked like a bunch of spring flowers, and Hreldar’s beggared description with their multi-coloured liveries and braids and laces. A good breath of mountain air would blow them on their backs, let alone a real training exercise.
Then, the unusual introspection and his considera-tion of the inadequacy of the High Guards of two such important lords, seemed to shake loose many old thoughts, and stray pieces fell into place to give him a sudden fearful insight.
The King had long since stopped The Watch-the rotation of the various High Guards as duty garrison at the great tower fortress of Narsindalvak. For genera-tions they had maintained a continuous watch over Narsindal, both from the tower itself and through their regular patrols. Now that was no more! True, the conditions in Narsindal were invariably appalling, and no patrols in Varak’s memory had ever seen Lake Kedrieth because of the mists that surrounded it and the ever-changing shape of the marshes that marked its edges. However, the patrols had kept the men in good fettle and, although they had grumbled, it had given them a feeling of continuity with the great traditions of the past, and a certain dignity.
But Varak suddenly saw the end of The Watch and the deterioration of the High Guard as part of a corruption. No one these days could believe in Sumeral and his defeat by the four Guardians and the Great Alliance, or that he might one day rise again from the depths of Lake Kedrieth. That was foolish superstition. But Narsindal was indisputably a bad place. Men had been lost there regularly. Its predominant inhabitants, the Mandrocs, were bad enough: man-like, dog-snouted savages, but there were worse things lurking in those perpetual mists.
Varak shivered slightly. He had taken many patrols into Narsindal in the past and felt in his bones that myths or no, it was wrong not to keep watch on it. Somewhere in those old stories was a hard kernel of truth that was not wisely ignored.
The word corruption lingered in his mind, and Tirke’s outburst at the First Feast rose before him-Dan-Tor, that devil’s spawn out of Narsindal, has our King strung like a puppet.
Then old habits reasserted themselves. These were not problems he could do anything about other than speak his piece when the time came. He pushed them aside vigorously, straightened up, and strode off down the sun dappled corridor, the echoes of his clicking heels hanging in the air like dust motes.
Chapter 13
Hawklan enjoyed the remainder of his long journey through the mountains, despite some of the leg-wrenching slopes he had to contend with. On more than one occasion he chose to leave the path to climb some nearby peak, just for the sake of sitting quietly in the rich stillness and calm that the ancient rocks exuded. Gavor too seemed to be in his natural habitat, spending most of his time gliding in wide circles high overhead.
They met no other travellers, but Hawklan gradually learned of the many plants and creatures that discreetly thrived there. Only the little brown birds occasionally disturbed their peace. Hawklan would see Gavor spiralling silently downwards towards some rocky slope or cluster of vegetation, then one of the birds would burst alarmingly from cover and fly rapidly into the distance, its wings whirring peculiarly.
‘I don’t know how they can fly so fast,’ was Gavor’s predominant comment. ‘Or how they know I’m coming.’
At such times, Hawklan felt impelled to look again at the small burden he was carrying. It was unchanged; no sign of either stiffness or decay. Dead and yet not dead. It felt almost as though the tiny body had been temporarily vacated-left empty for some reason. He shared Gavor’s puzzlement.
Before he left the mountains, they offered him one last gift, just as they had done at the beginning of his journey.
He was nearing the top of a long steep slope which led towards a high ridge. Perspiring freely in the warm spring sunshine, he sat down on a rock and looked back at the green valley he had spent the morning clambering out of.
I can see why so few Orthlundyn actually get round to making this trip, he thought ruefully, massaging his legs. But he still felt no urge to return, only the urge to continue moving forward.
Gavor’s fruity chuckle interrupted his reverie.
Turning, he saw that his friend was sitting on a small outcrop of rock at the top of the ridge. ‘Come on, dear boy, do hurry up,’ came the provocative cry. ‘My legs are getting tired standing waiting for you.’ He danced up and down waving his wooden leg as if to ease a cramp. Hawklan looked at him malevolently, but did not answer. Then, levering himself to his feet, he started up the last part of the slope. Gavor chuckled again.