Angry voices came again from the group around the fallen man. Loman felt his own anger begin to rise in response to the sound, then, unexpectedly, it slipped from him.
He started to move forward. ‘Are you going to per-sist in this, Alphraan?’ he asked. ‘Are you not going to cease until more terrible deeds have been done? Until more people have been killed?’
‘We will not allow you your weapons, human.’ The Alphraan’s voice was fraught and vicious. ‘We will not allow you to scar the world with your evil and treacher-ous ways again.’
Loman looked surprised. He had not expected an answer to his question. ‘We?’ he said ironically, still continuing forward. ‘I still don’t believe you speak for your people, voice, but let that pass. I won’t debate the rights and wrongs of our actions with you further. You’ve heard enough to appreciate them fully, even though you seem to prefer not to listen. And you’ve heard and seen enough to know that, as promised, no matter what the cost, we will protect ourselves and we will move ever into your domain until you release the Armoury and agree to leave us alone.’ A wisp of anger floated into his voice, but it was his own and he used it. ‘We are preparing to fight against the monstrous will of Sumeral Himself. Did you think that we would yield so easily to your petty tyranny?’
A sound formed in the air that might have been the beginning of a reply, but Loman dismissed it with a wave of his arm.
With the Orthlundyn walking silently behind him, Loman reached the fallen man. The group around the man had fallen silent at his approach, and Loman looked at each in turn. ‘Well done,’ he said encourag-ingly. ‘Their will is failing, just as ours is growing in strength. All will be well soon.’
Then he bent down and examined the injured man. He’s got a nasty gash on his head, but I think he’s just unconscious,’ he said after a moment. ‘Take him down to base camp, gently.’
As the man was carried away, Loman turned to the silent, watching people around him. ‘Somewhere around here is one of the entrances to the Alphraan’s… our neighbours’ domain,’ he said. ‘Look for it, carvers.’
Before anyone could move, a terrible screech rent the air. ‘Never, human!’ screamed a voice amp;mdashmany voices amp;mdashcracked with rage.
Loman staggered back under the impact of the ap-palling sound, his hands to his ears. Only instinct enabled him to keep his balance on the uneven boulders. He cried out in pain.
Around him he could see the crowd was similarly affected, people staggering and stumbling on the unforgiving rocks. They were his responsibility, but all he wanted to do was flee this place amp;mdashto run and run until he was free of this dreadful pain. Yet his feet would not respond and, oddly, there was a quality in the sound which encouraged him to stand and oppose.
But there was also desperation. This was a last ef-fort.
Here, smith, you are re-forged or marred forever, he thought.
Then the quality of the sound changed. It lapped around him, mocking, taunting, tearing at him. It unearthed old and fearful memories which rose up and threatened to send him fleeing blindly across the mountainside until he crashed to his death over some unseen cliff.
But it woke another memory. A memory of trials faced and survived.
Loman stood up straight and took his ineffectual hands from his ears. ‘No, Alphraan,’ he said, though he could not hear his own words. ‘You may destroy me, but I will not die whimpering. I will not die dishonouring all those who have made me what I am.’ He opened his arms as if to receive the assault. ‘I have walked the labyrinth, and its ancient power had judged me no enemy. I am not afraid of your petty malice.’
Then, as if moving against a powerful wind, but without bowing, he began to move slowly forward. The sounds filling him became unbearable, and he felt consciousness slipping from him.
‘If I fail, others will follow,’ he said. ‘They will follow always, until you have released what you have unlaw-fully bound.’
He took another step forward, somehow still manag-ing to keep his balance on the uneven rocks.
‘Tirilen… ’ he thought as he felt his last ties break-ing under the terrible onslaught.
But the sound changed again. Abruptly it became loud and shrill, though, Loman realized, it had moved from him. The blackness receded and he was standing again amongst his friends surrounded by a deafening, but harmless clamour.
He looked around. The crowd had been scattered somewhat, but all were now motionless, listening spellbound to the noise rising and falling about them. For even though no coherent language could be heard it was patently a furious argument.
Loman grimaced as he felt anger, frustration and resentment all around him, mingling with regret, fear and denunciation. It seemed to go on interminably, then, as if cut by a sword stroke, it stopped suddenly and for a moment there was silence. Loman stared around in disbelief, thinking briefly that the sound had destroyed his hearing. But before he could speak the noise swelled up again.
This time however, it was profoundly different. This time it was full of disbelief; a disbelief that turned gradually to wonder and joy. Despite his recent ordeal, Loman felt a lump in his throat as he found himself the inadvertent witness to a great rejoining: the coming together again of a family that had been so long apart that each half had thought the other to be perhaps no more than a mere myth.
The poignancy was almost unbearable, and, feeling intrusive, Loman turned to walk away. As he did so, however, other sounds began to impinge on him. A frantic whistling from all sides.
Loman felt again the weight of the mantle of respon-sibility settling on his shoulders. He looked down into the valley.
Sound signals! What are they playing at? he thought.
Then the content of their messages impinged.
‘Hawklan is coming,’ they said. ‘Hawklan and Islo-man, from the north, with two riders.’
Loman looked north, fumbling in his pouch for his seeing stone. As he did so a familiar voice spoke behind him.
‘Well, well, dear boy,’ it said. ‘You do look trim. Been exercising?’
Chapter 29
Sylvriss rode forward and led her mount delicately out to the edge of a rocky outcrop. Her cloak was wrapped tight about her but her hood was thrown back and her face was flushed, as much with exhilaration at the progress they had made over the last few days as with the chilly air.
She looked out over the northern plains of Riddin. Home, at last, after all these years and so much turmoil. Admittedly, Dremark was far to the south, and the north of Riddin was sparsely populated, but soon she would be down there with her escort, and it would be only a matter of time before they encountered a patrol from one of the Muster lines.
Yengar joined her. ‘Your country, Majesty,’ he said, part question, part statement, his breath steaming.
Sylvriss nodded. ‘Ties of birth and family bind tightly, Yengar,’ she said. ‘But so do those of marriage and the loyalty of the Fyordyn, my people.’ She turned to him as she emphasized the word ‘my’.
‘I belong to both Fyorlund and Riddin now,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor brought me and Rgoric together for his own unseeable ends amp;mdashprobably to corrupt Riddin as he has corrupted Fyorlund amp;mdashbut it was an error, and we’ll give him full measure of it before we’re through.’
The mention of Fyorlund drew her eyes to the dis-tant snow-covered peaks behind which that country now lay. The snow had caught them unawares, slowing their progress and making the journey difficult and laborious, but, being past the highest peaks when it arrived, they had encountered no special dangers.
Yengar followed her gaze and spoke her thoughts. ‘The snow’s early, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I fear that it’s the beginning of a long winter. I doubt there’ll be any way back to Fyorlund before the spring, except for hardy souls.’