Hawklan sensed uncertainty in the ominous figure, but it made no sound.
‘You’ll gain scant thanks from your teacher for this night’s work, apprentice,’ said Andawyr. ‘Others can use the Old Power. And without this corruption. Go your way. Leave us.’ Then, almost pleadingly. ‘There are other, wiser ways. Seek them while you have the chance. Repent your folly.’
The green light dimmed perceptibly, and the figure moved. Then the light flared again and Hawklan heard a hissing breath exuding rage and frustration. A wave of appalling malice swept over him and he felt his own face contorting into a wide-eyed snarl in response. Slowly he began to raise his sword to strike down the menacing figure.
‘No,’ cried Andawyr desperately. ‘He’s corrupted the Old Power and his failure to bind you has unhinged him. He’s beyond all control now, don’t add your own darker nature to his madness, you’ll destroy us all.’
The words rolled off Hawklan unheard as he felt his anger lock with the figure’s.
‘Healer, he’s too frail for his burden.’ Andawyr’s voice rang out powerfully. The compassion in the words cut through the swirling malice and hatred and dispelled Hawklan’s rage as if it had been no more than autumn smoke. Turning, he saw the old man unwind the waist cord from his stained smock.
‘Ethriss and my teachers help and forgive me,’ An-dawyr said to himself, then taking the cord in his right hand, he flicked it towards the figure. It shone, white and dazzling, and Hawklan felt the myriad tiny ties release him. The figure seemed to struggle against an unseen force, but Hawklan could feel its rage and malice growing for some terrible blow.
‘No,’ cried Andawyr, his voice alive with concern. ‘I beg you. There is always another path. Even for you.’
The figure’s eyes flared briefly, and abruptly it re-leased its blow. It seemed to Hawklan that someone else was looking through his own eyes. Someone who saw a wave of wrongness surge from the figure to envelop the waiting Andawyr.
With an unexpected calmness and grace, the little man gently opened his arms as if to welcome the assault, and Hawklan felt the wrongness surge around the motionless figure then, subtly changed-righted-return to its creator.
Abruptly the inner watcher was gone from him, and Hawklan watched as, with a terrible cry, the figure in the gaping green doorway staggered backwards and disappeared from view. He had a brief glimpse of a hand vainly trying to protect a tormented and all too human face from some blinding light.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr. The little man’s face was both regretful and triumphant. ‘One more thing,’ he said anxiously, twirling his cord. ‘It’ll give us a little more time.’ He edged Hawklan to one side and, with his tongue protruding slightly, he flicked the cord. A ring of white flame sprang from it and floated across the clearing, growing in size and intensity as it did. Andawyr nodded with workmanlike satisfaction.
The glittering ring hit the pavilion and started to spread over it. As it approached the lights, they danced frantically as if to avoid its enveloping whiteness, but its progress was relentless and each light in turn crackled and sighed into extinction as it reached them. Slowly the whole structure sank silently to the ground and faded into nothingness.
Hawklan became aware of a cool night breeze on his face and moonlight filling the strangely misty clearing. Then the distant sounds of the Gretmearc impinged. He turned to his rescuer, once again a little old man in a stained smock fastened by an old cord.
A thousand questions burst over him, but Andawyr cut across them. ‘Come on,’ he hissed urgently. ‘We must get away. Follow me. Quickly.’
Chapter 22
Hawklan strode out to keep up with Andawyr’s trotting gait as they moved through the darkness that fringed the edge of the Gretmearc. They passed a bewildering array of rest areas, store-houses, dwellings, and closed stalls before finally reaching Andawyr’s tent.
Once inside, the little man made a pass with his hands over the threshold of the entrance and then relaxed visibly. He patted his hands on his chest as if to dust something off them.
‘It should be a little while before they recover, he said. ‘But I fear we’ve not got a great deal of time. Anyway that will keep most prying eyes out.’ He took hold of Hawklan’s right hand. ‘Come along, we must attend to that right away, whatever else we manage to do.’
Hawklan looked down at the hand and saw that it and a portion of his forearm had turned white. Not just pale, but an appalling deathly white as if the flesh had been under water for a long time and was just about to start putrefying. He flexed it and found no pain or stiffness, but the sight of it moving made him feel nauseous and dizzy. Andawyr’s unexpectedly strong grip prevented him from falling, but he sat down heavily on a chair by the table.
‘Sorry, young fellow,’ said Andawyr gently. ‘I’ve never seen this before, but I know what it is. I can tend it for you.’
‘What’s happened to it?’ asked Hawklan, recovering himself slightly, and being heartened by Andawyr’s confidence. Andawyr did not reply immediately. He was busy examining the arm in great detail, and muttering to himself. Then he stood up and started bustling round the tent, still muttering.
‘Where’s my bag. Dar-volci? Have you moved it again?’ he said irritably.
‘What?’ came a bad tempered and deep voice from a side room somewhere.
‘I said, have you moved my bag again?’ shouted Andawyr.
There was silence for a moment, then what sounded like a sigh, and, ‘Of course not, you old fool. What would I want with your bag?’
Andawyr shrugged apologetically at his guests. ‘An… old friend,’ he said.
‘We’ll leave if we’re going to cause trouble for you,’ said Hawklan, concerned at the tone of the conversa-tion. Andawyr was dismissive.
‘Take no notice of Dar-volci,’ he said very loudly. ‘He’s just an uncouth mountain dweller with no idea how to behave in civilized company.’
The object of this jibe ignored it, but retorted in an oily voice. ‘Found your bag yet, Andy?’
Andawyr stood up very straight, his fists clenched, his mouth taut and the start of a twitch flickering along his jawline.
‘Dar-volci,’ he growled warningly. A low chuckle came from the other room. ‘Have you looked in your cupboard yet, old friend?’
Andawyr snorted and, spinning on his heel, stalked off into another room. He returned a moment later carrying a huge double-handled bag which seemed to be almost as big as he was. He dropped it on the floor next to Hawklan, opened it and started rooting around inside it, making a great clatter amongst the contents.
Gavor gave a small flap of alarm when it looked at one stage as if the little man was going to disappear into it entirely.
Eventually he stood up, rather flushed, with a length of cloth in his hand.
‘This should do it,’ he said, triumphantly. ‘Give me your arm.’ Gingerly, Hawklan offered the seemingly alien limb. Andawyr took it and quickly and expertly wrapped the cloth around it, singing softly and rhythmically to himself as he did so. Hawklan tried to follow the movements of Andawyr’s hands, but they were so deft that he soon lost track. When he had finished, Andawyr’s forehead was damp, but he looked up at Hawklan and smiled, his little eyes shining.
‘Not familiar with this technique, are you?’ he said.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘I’ve some healing in my voice, but your weave means nothing to me.’
‘No reason why it should,’ said Andawyr. ‘It’s a fairly… specialized method, used for fairly specialized injuries.’ He made a slight adjustment to the bandage. ‘There. That should do it.’
Hawklan looked at his arm. The bandage covered the whole of the damaged area and was wrapped individually around each finger. To his surprise however, he found he could move his hand and fingers quite easily. Looking closely at the bandage he saw that it was without texture, and apparently without edges. Nor could he see any sign of how it had been fastened. He looked at Andawyr and was about to speak when the little man raised his hand.