‘Whatever it was, it used to be a horse and it’s better dead, believe me,’ Usche protested as Isloman frantically dragged her out of the melee. The air was ringing with a high-pitched shrieking that struck to the heart of its hearers. Isloman looked to Andawyr in anticipation of an order to flee but the Cadwanwr had dragged Oslang and Atelon together and was shouting something at them desperately. Usche and Ar-Billan joined him also.
Then, dark and awful against the lights still silently darting and dancing across the blue distance, the blind man was rising from the tangle of the dead creature. Isloman had been present when Oklar had revealed himself and unleashed the Power against Hawklan. The black sword had saved Hawklan but a great swathe of destruction had been cut across Vakloss. Nothing the Power touched could stand against it. And this one was even more powerful.
This is how it ends, came the thought.
And, for a time that could not be measured, he felt himself held at the finest of balances.
Resignation flowed over him, soothing, calming – a destination had been reached, a journey over time; time to lie down, to rest, to let all travails go.
Yet the scents and sounds of everything around him were washing through him, overwhelming in their intensity. At their heart was a glowing totality – a lifetime – his lifetime – leavened by many struggles and full of the joy of being. And though is was his and his alone, it was also part of a greater whole that would be diminished by its loss.
It must not end thus.
The resignation slipped from him like a soiled cloak. He prepared to face the monster who had made this awful place.
But even as this decision formed about him, the five Cadwanwr were in front of him, facing the risen Uhriel. Andawyr, Oslang and Atelon to the fore, Usche and Ar-Billan a pace behind. Isloman hesitated. He knew that what Andawyr had just done was little more than a party piece for entertaining children. It was the least of any novice’s tricks. For some reason, Andawyr had engineered this confrontation, knowing that neither he nor his companions could hope to oppose such a creature.
What was he doing?
The question paralysed Isloman. Would some reckless action on his part bring a subtler plan to grief?
There was a strange pause. Everywhere was silent and the blue air was full of the crackling tension of a pending storm.
It broke.
Though the Uhriel made no arcane gestures or incantations Isloman knew that he was assailing the Cadwanwr. His white eyes were manic in the blue gloom and the five figures seemed to shimmer as their hands came up as if to protect themselves from the heat of a suddenly opened furnace or the blast of a hail-loaded wind.
Isloman felt nothing. But he knew he was of no consequence in this conflict – an ant under the churning hooves of the cavalry, surviving through chance rather than intention.
Yet he could not stand idly by.
But he had to.
Then the Cadwanwr were failing. Unaware of the nature of the conflict Isloman might be, but it needed no great perception to read their postures and their expressions. And if they fell, he would be carried with them.
Every part of him cried out in denial.
He would not perish in this awful place or at the hands of this monster without doing hurt to both of them for as long as he was able.
His eye rose to the hovering star. Isloman was a gentle man, a creator of beautiful things, but circumstance had plunged him into many conflicts and he had ridden with the Goraidin as one of them. He had learned that though there were many ways to destroy an enemy, in the end it was always best to strike to his centre – swift, straight and with every resource committed. And Andawyr had declared this star to the centre of something – a terrible focus. Who knew what would happen if it were destroyed?
Isloman looked at the faltering Cadwanwr, locked in their silent conflict with the blind man, motionless amid the ruin of his slaughtered mount.
His hand closed around the chisel in his belt. A good piece of iron, tempered and hardened by the deep skills of his brother and worn to his own ways of working. It had unlocked many a fine carving from the waiting rock. He tossed it lightly and felt all the memories in its familiar shape and weight. Then, with a sure and unclouded confidence, like that of a child, his powerful frame hurled the chisel at the star.
Across the blue-mirrored plain, still flickering with the distant remnants of Andawyr’s sunburst, innumerable missiles twisted and glittered. As many Uhriel burst into black movement and reached up to catch them with both hand and will.
And failed.
The chisel made a sound more felt than heard as it struck the star, but the blind man let out a cry that sent Isloman and the Cadwanwr staggering backwards.
Isloman was the first to recover. He looked at the star. It was slowly twisting and turning as though it were struggling to be free from unseen bonds. A thin bright ray of light shining from it swept about the chamber. The Uhriel was staring at it, transfixed.
Andawyr grasped Isloman’s hand and pulled himself up.
There was both triumph and desperate fear in his face.
‘He did it,’ he gasped. ‘He struck the star with the Power – released it. I knew he’d no control. Get us out of here.’
‘What? Where to?’ Isloman exclaimed. He was dragging Oslang to his feet.
‘Anywhere!’
The others needed no bidding. Usche, Ar-Billan and Atelon were supporting one another and staggering towards the passage.
They had taken barely a step when the light from the star struck the mirrored wall and the vast blue plain was instantly enmeshed in a lattice of brightness. Before they could move further, the lattice had grown and become solid, and a glaring flood swept through and over them.
As he felt himself fading, Isloman, through tightly narrowed eyes, saw the star fragment. Hovering where it had been, a wavering shadow in the terrible light, was a sword.
Then he was nothing.
Hawklan looked away from the giddying heights swaying above him. Wherever they were and however they had come there, this could no longer be the Labyrinth he had known. But what was it? Surely it should be a device of Ethriss’s? But might it be one of Sumeral’s? Or was it a manifestation of the conjunction? Or a creation of his own mind?
To centre himself amid these doubts he touched the nearest column. A whirling confusion of voices rang through him.
‘You are he? The healer? As Farnor and Thyrn?’ The voice was both many and one and was hung about with deeply unsettling resonances. It was as though behind each word lay a long and complex debate.
‘We will shelter you from the return of the Great Evil.’
‘Who are you?’
There was a reply, but Hawklan could not understand it. Images, dark and deep, bright and sun-dancing, burgeoning-new and ancient beyond imagining filled him. Dominant amongst them was a broad thread of fear.
‘You are the Great Forest,’ Hawklan said, grasping at an inspiration.
‘We are.’ It was a statement, not a reply.
‘How can you be here?’
‘Here? We do not know “here”, healer. We are.’
‘How do you know me?’
‘You are. You are Mover and Hearer. You are rare. Few are with us so in this place.’ The fear returned, and urgency. ‘The Great Evil comes again. For Farnor we will shelter that which is your essence, until He passes once more.’
A feeling of warmth and rest enfolded Hawklan.
‘Oi!’
Dar-volci was shaking his leg violently. ‘This is no time to be nodding off.’ His voice was loud and brutal after the subtlety of the Forest’s language, but it jolted Hawklan free. There was no malice in what he had been offered, he knew, but there was error. He remembered Farnor telling him of a glimpse he had once had of the Forest’s knowledge of times long gone, of what had probably been the Great Searing, and the fears that lay deep-rooted in them about that terrible change.