‘The others are nearby,’ Yatsu said, wrongly antici-pating Hawklan’s question, as he reached out to support the hopping Cadwanwr. ‘Not in the best of shape, but alive. Those Mandrocs were rough. I was glad Dar-volci and Gavor were there.’
Hawklan raised his hands in self-reproach as a cas-cade of questions poured into his mind. Then came a surge of awful grief for his slaughtered friend. With an effort he set it aside. Time enough perhaps, to weep later, he thought.
‘Where’s… the woman? And Oklar’s body?’ he asked. ‘And Serian.’
Yatsu looked at him blankly.
‘They were here when I came to fetch you,’ Andawyr said. ‘She was still cradling his head and crying.’
‘Come and look at the others,’ Yatsu said urgently as Hawklan and Andawyr looked around vaguely. ‘Whoever you’re talking about wasn’t here when we arrived, and Jenna and Tirke need you now.’
As Hawklan tended to the casualties, the mist began to clear a little, though a dense cloud still hid the centre of the Lake. Other roads leading up to the broken causeway appeared; solid lines across the marshland.
‘To the great plain,’ Byroc said, indicating one.
Yatsu looked along it. ‘No food, no shelter, debat-able water and a long way to go through hostile territory,’ he said. ‘I’m open to suggestions.’
‘How about one foot in front of the other?’ Athyr said.
Yatsu nodded, then looked at his battered troops.
‘Where’s your sword, Hawklan?’ he asked.
Hawklan nodded towards the lake.
Yatsu shook his head. ‘Take Tirke’s for now,’ he said, putting his arm out to support Andawyr. ‘It’s better balanced for you than Jenna’s, and we mightn’t have finished fighting yet.’
They set off wearily, two being carried, several limp-ing, all too exhausted to talk.
A low, blood-red sun was sinking into the mist-shrouded west when a Muster squadron came upon them.
The following morning, Hawklan woke, aching and deeply weary. He was aware that the tale of the battle had been recounted to him on the journey back to the camp, but he had little recollection save that the Mandrocs had finally broken and fled under the onslaught of Sylvriss’s great charge, and now none were to be found anywhere.
He walked to the entrance of his tent and stepped out. The eastern sky was lightening, and the camp was very quiet. The guards on the palisades were motionless silhouettes.
A noise made him turn. It was Serian. He reached up and patted the horse.
‘We have some tales to tell,’ he said.
The horse nuzzled him affectionately. ‘Where’s Gavor?’ he asked.
Hawklan looked down, unable to speak at first. ‘Later,’ he said unsteadily. ‘All our telling later, Serian. Take me to the battlefield.’
Hawklan did not speak as the great horse took him to the edge of the dreadful killing ground, and as they came there, he dismounted.
A yellow sun was beginning to rise, throwing long anxious shadows across the scene. Small lakes of water stood here and there, golden among the muddy, tousled ground, and slowly the shapes of slaughtered Mandrocs and men began to be distinguished. Numerous small hillocks became horses, and tall sparse grasses became spears and swords. Hawklan walked among them silently, Serian following behind him delicately.
Birds circled and squabbled overhead; animals scur-ried away briefly as they approached, then returned to their feasting when they had passed. Old revellers at an ancient banquet.
‘Would that this horror could pass down through legend as vividly as the tales of courage and splendour will,’ Hawklan said.
‘It could not have been avoided,’ Serian said. ‘This does not compare to what would have been had He prevailed.’
Hawklan remembered the vision Sumeral had shown him. Beyond words in its endless, beautiful, perfection. It had seemed to become empty and futile in the light of Ethriss’s will, yet…?
He walked on. Serian was right, he knew, though amid such carnage, the knowledge made his spirit no less heavy. A dreadful price had been paid, but a great evil was gone and the energy that had gone into its destruction could gradually be harnessed to the work of healing. Yet such a bargain was wrong. Such a savage accounting should never have come about when simple vigilance would have prevented it. Ethriss’s greatest and most flawed creations must strive ever to know the measure of their imperfection or seal such bargains thus always. How the future, near and far, would learn from this event would depend on its telling now, but the greatest protection for all could lie only in the truth, no matter how awful.
And, Hawklan thought, awful it would be-must be.
He looked around. Among these bodies would be people he knew. Eventually he would learn their names and carry the burden of his own grief and remorse and that of his friends and their families. Yet he could grieve now only for the one whose death he did know of. That of Gavor, his companion since he had awakened in the snow-filled mountains, indeed, it seemed, his awakener.
Gavor, irreverent and hedonistic, yet faithful and true. Gavor, tormenting Loman, practicing his bird impressions, gliding high in the sunlit mountain air, tumbling and laughing just out of joy at being. The true spirit of Ethriss and a fitting steed for him at the last.
He looked up in the hope that among the birds swooping and squabbling there, perhaps one of the black silhouettes might be his old companion. But he knew that nothing could have survived the onslaught that had destroyed even its own creator.
Suddenly, one of the birds swept low to land nearby. Hawklan stepped forward, heart lifting, but it was only some raucous Narsindal crow and it flapped away noisily as he came near. Sadly, he mounted Serian and turned back for the camp.
He had travelled only a little way when frantic cries reached him.
‘Whoa, whoa, dobbin!’
The voice was unmistakable. Hawklan spun round and looked up again into the crowded air.
‘Down here,’ came the irritated response.
Hawklan looked down. A short distance away, the familiar form of Gavor appeared, stumping awkwardly through the corpses.
Hawklan dismounted and ran towards him. The raven was dirty and bedraggled and not at his most endearing. ‘That’s the last time I give a lift to any of your friends, I can assure you, dear boy,’ he declaimed indignantly. ‘I’ve never had to fly so fast in all my life as when I had to get out of that place.’
Hawklan picked him up gently.
‘Ow, ow, ow,’ Gavor protested. ‘Be careful.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked anxiously.
Gavor was still indignant. ‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve bust my chuffing pectoral again. I’ve had to walk all the sodding way and my feet are killing me.’
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Bust your pectoral,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘Don’t get technical with me, bird. I’ll do the diagnosing, you just stick to the flying.’
Gavor snorted. ‘Where are you going to drag us off to next?’ he asked crossly.
Hawklan looked out across the grim, seething, bat-tlefield.
‘Home, I think, Gavor,’ he replied. ‘Home. Back to the light. Back to Anderras Darion.’
And So…
Many events occurred after the Last Battle of the Second Coming which cannot be told here.
Sylvriss returned with her triumphant raggle-taggle squadron and relieved a harassed Oslang of his noisy burden.
The heads of Creost and Dar Hastuin were retrieved from the shattered causeway at Lake Kedrieth and then burned together with their bodies and those of their awful steeds, so that all could see their destruction and know of it. Their ashes were scattered to the winds so that none could so easily worship them again.
The body of Oklar was not found, and Hawklan, looking into Serian’s eyes, sought no answer.
Gulda was not seen again, though the Alphraan sang of her journeying south, past Anderras Darion, giving her a name that no human could truly hear.
Tirilen and Hawklan tended the injured and sus-tained also the healers in their great pain.