Jaldaric looked at him, puzzled.
Hawklan smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I agree. It’s probably going to rain.’
And, as if so commanded, a slow tattoo of great raindrops started to speckle the dusty road at their feet. Jaldaric turned in his saddle and looked enquiringly at his men. There was much shaking of heads and gestures to continue the journey. Cloaks were fastened and hoods pulled up. The patrol slowed to a walk.
Admitting defeat, the wind dropped and the rain came down triumphantly in a shifting vertical down-pour, reducing visibility all around to a few hundred paces. Hawklan stared down, hypnotized by the coronets of spray bouncing off the road, a mobile and patternless web flowing over the almost imperceptible geometry of the ancient stone blocks.
The noise of the rain was sufficient to drown the sound of the horses’ hooves, and such conversation as there had been guttered out in the face of this opposi-tion. Each rider withdrew into himself, and the patrol became an indistinct and introverted procession moving silently through the hissing rain.
Hawklan became aware of Isloman by his side. He raised his eyes from the glistening road and looked ahead into the greyness. Over the past two days he had seen an unexpected change come over his friend.
After the abduction of Tirilen, Loman had discarded the gruff irritation he brought to his daily duties, and had become more voluble and straightforward. Isloman, by contrast, had become quieter and had discarded in turn much of his bluff heartiness. The two brothers had moved towards one another during the crisis. An understandable reaction, thought Hawklan. Such an event must necessarily blow away the dust that daily routine laid over their real selves.
But now Isloman seemed to be oscillating between elation and troubled concern, as if two parts of him were wrestling for command of the whole.
To Hawklan it seemed that the change began after the High Guards questioned Isloman about his brother’s knowledge of the Battle Language, and his own part in the Morlider War had become known.
The Orthlundyn volunteers, though small in num-ber, had made a considerable impression on the High Guards of the day and, by now, had almost entered Fyordyn legend. To be in the presence of one and, for some of them, to have actually been hit by one, brought out an almost boyish excitement in the young men and for a while they plagued Isloman with questions. Even the surly Esselt and his cadre showed an interest.
Now, in the grey rain, Isloman’s posture showed that he was troubled again and, even though Hawklan could not see his face under the deep hood, he knew that it was pensive and lined.
‘You’re riding better,’ he said. ‘How are your aches and pains?’
Isloman started a little at Hawklan’s voice, and then craned forward almost as if to catch the words as they fled into the distance.
‘Oh fine,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I’m remembering how to ride again. And I’m easier in my mind now that Tirilen’s safe.’
Hawklan picked on the word. ‘I think you’re re-membering more than how to ride, aren’t you?’ he offered.
Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ he replied. ‘Talking to these young lads about the old days has brought back things I’d rather had stayed forgotten.’
‘They mean no harm,’ Hawklan said. Then, in a gently mocking tone, ‘You’re like something out of a history book to them. A real warrior.’
Isloman did not reply immediately, but turned his head and cast a look full of doubt at Hawklan. ‘Even you don’t understand, do you?’ he said resignedly. ‘Not really.’
They rode on in silence for a while.
‘It’s not your fault, I suppose,’ said Isloman eventu-ally. ‘No one can understand it who’s not actually had to fight for his life-not even these… soldiers.’ He indicated the following group with an inclination of his head. ‘It leaves you with… feelings… opposite feelings that shouldn’t be able to exist at the same time, but do.’
Hawklan looked at his friend intently and almost immediately observed the same phenomenon in himself. The healer in him knew that Isloman must speak his concerns out loud if he was to ease his pain. But at the same time he heard his darker side coldly declaiming that Isloman must deal with this problem now or it would seriously impair his worth as a fighter. He recoiled from the thought but he knew it would not leave him.
‘Explain,’ he said flatly.
Again there was a long silence before Isloman spoke, and Hawklan sensed the tension building in his friend.
A small furry animal scuttled its bedraggled way across the road in front of them. The movement seemed to dislodge Isloman’s pent-up words.
‘Being in a battle is terrifying and degrading,’ he said suddenly. ‘I know that-with both my head and my… ’ He tapped his chest with his fist. ‘Everything. It’s a thing to be avoided. But a part of me enjoyed it, Hawklan, and, I think, might enjoy it still. It’s precious little clearer now than it was then. Part of me enjoying what was obviously wrong. And yet it wasn’t wrong, was it? Here was an enemy-people who’d killed and robbed, and worse, people who couldn’t be reasoned with and who broke such promises as they made, people who’d kill you and your friends if you didn’t stop them. What do you do in those circumstances-when all other alternatives have been unsuccessful?’
He did not wait for an answer. ‘And then there’s the fear. Horrible. Your heart thumping, your mouth dry and sour, your stomach churning. Until… ’ He reached out and took Hawklan’s arm in a powerful grip. ‘Until you fight. Then ancient forces within you rise and say "This is good". All around is mayhem and destruction, and you don’t care. You carry on killing-and revelling in it.’ Isloman shuddered as his muscles and sinews recalled long-forgotten deeds. ‘And when it’s over, when everywhere’s full of the sights and sounds of the wounded-crawling and writhing, groaning and screaming-you have to crush your remorse underfoot to stay sane.’ He fell silent and gazed down at the bouncing rain. ‘Your only solace,’ he said after a while. ‘Is that all other forms of… entreaty had failed.’
Hawklan searched for some way to help his friend. Isloman’s words had struck a strange chord within him; brought to his mind a dark place full of horror and noise and death. But it was too deep, too distant, and it flitted away from him uneasily when he tried to examine it. None the less it left a faint after-glow of understand-ing.
‘We act to preserve ourselves,’ he said, finally. ‘It’s the most ancient of laws; written deep into all living things. And who can answer the question that that poses?’
He turned to look at Isloman and a small stream of water cascaded from his hood like a tiny waterfall.
‘But there are other things. It’s also written in us to avoid violence. It’s too arbitrary, too open to chance. Too open to appalling consequences.’ He leaned across to his friend. ‘But if others strip that protection from us, then they take the consequences. If it can’t flee, life will fight against all odds and with any means it can, to survive.’
Isloman straightened up. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I re-member the old Sirshiant I first served with. "Once you’re committed to combat," he said, "it’s the most violent who’ll prevail. You have to be worse than your enemy. Don’t think otherwise, or you’ll die." Said we shouldn’t worry about it. We were good lads and when we’d won we’d "stay our hands from excess".’ Isloman shook his head reflectively and smiled slightly. ‘Fancy remembering him after all these years.’ He turned to Hawklan and nodded. ‘And we did too. Stayed our hand from excess. It’s something, I suppose.’
‘It may well be everything,’ Hawklan said.
Isloman seemed lighter in his saddle. His unease was still there, but it had been faced and he saw that time had in fact made it clearer for him. It was not a dilemma after all. It was simply the stern, cruel consequence of life asserting itself against those who would deny its right to be.