Hawklan looked at him, a puzzled frown on his face at this unexpected vehemence. Isloman met his gaze.
‘Can’t you feel it?’ he said impatiently, as to an ob-tuse pupil.
‘I’m sorry… ’ began Hawklan, but Isloman inter-rupted him with a remorseful gesture.
‘Don’t apologize, Hawklan. It’s my fault. It’s hard to remember you weren’t born here.’ There was regret in his voice, though whether it was at his own impatience or because Hawklan was not an Orthlundyn was not clear. A little further on he spoke again. ‘I can’t explain, Hawklan, any more than I can explain rock lore to you, but everyone will know that something terrible has happened. You see. The first village we reach-they’ll be out, asking, worried.’
And that, thought Hawklan, is all the explanation I’m going to get, judging from the tone of your voice.
Gavor broke the slight uneasiness with a throaty chuckle. ‘I’ll tell you what those Mandrocs don’t like, though.’ He fell silent, awaiting a response from one of them. Hawklan looked at him sideways and raised his eyebrows, indicating it would not be from him. After a few moments, Isloman’s curiosity got the better of him and, reluctantly, he asked what that might be. ‘Ravens,’ laughed Gavor. There was a note of malevolent exulta-tion in his voice that made Hawklan turn sharply.
‘What have you been doing, Gavor?’ he asked before Isloman could respond.
‘Nothing, dear boy,’ replied Gavor innocently. ‘Just ruffled a few feathers, metaphorically speaking.’
‘Never mind the metaphors,’ Hawklan said firmly. ‘What have you done?’
‘Well… I just flew round a little.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing much. Just sang them a little tune I’d re-membered.’ Green eyes and black eyes locked. Old friends.
‘That little tune, as you call it, is a death cry, isn’t it? A warning. Something out of your murky past, you feathered ancient.’
Then Gavor was all devilment. ‘Yes it is. Yes it is. I don’t know what it means, dear boy, but they do. And they don’t like it. They became very restless. The poor man at the front had a very difficult time with them.’ He chuckled again and hopped on to Hawklan’s head. ‘And less of the ancient, dear boy,’ he said, ruffling Hawklan’s hair with his wooden leg and hopping nimbly out of the way as a hand came up to dislodge him. ‘After all, we’re no hatchling ourselves, are we?’
Hawklan ignored the comment. ‘Well?’ he de-manded.
‘Well what?’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Oh. Nothing special. Just had a closer look at them once or twice.’
‘How close?’
Gavor was gone, then…
‘This close,’ he shrieked, flying tumultuously be-tween the two men from behind, and catching their heads with his thrashing wings. Both of them jumped at his sudden appearance and Isloman offered him a clenched fist as he soared high up above them. Gavor laughed raucously and tumbled over in the air.
‘They didn’t like it either,’ he cried.
‘I’ll put you in a pot, you black-hearted crow,’ roared Isloman as he struggled to regain control of his startled mount.
‘Really, dear boy,’ came the reply from above. ‘Crow. Tut tut. No need to be personal. Your little brother’s influence, I suppose.’
Then he soared in a great circle over their heads laughing to himself. The sound was infectious and Hawklan laughed quietly. ‘There’s a paradox for you, Isloman. It takes a bird to put our feet back on the ground again.’
Isloman replied with a formidable grunt and the two men rode on, the silence between them now a little easier and more companionable.
Shortly afterwards, strange noises could be heard overhead. Hawklan’s face assumed an expression of mock pain, and Isloman slumped noticeably.
‘He’s practicing his bird impressions again,’ said Hawklan plaintively.
Isloman looked up. ‘There are times when life seems to be just one burden after another,’ he said.
A faint voice came down to them. ‘Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentleman. Now-the nightingale… ’
The first village they came to was Little Hapter.
As Isloman had foreseen, the people came out to meet them. Hawklan knew many of them, and they acknowledged his greetings courteously enough, but there was a general air of preoccupation about them that was unfamiliar, and it was around Isloman that they all gathered.
Hawklan looked at the growing crowd, and for the first time in twenty years felt that he was not one of these people. There was nothing hostile in their attitude, or even unpleasant, but something had disturbed them at a level which heightened his position as an outsider and drew them to look first to their own kind. Sensing it was a time to listen and learn, he was content to let Isloman answer their questions. He wanted to ask, ‘How did you know?’ but he knew that no answer would be forthcoming. Their responses to the news of the Mandrocs and the fighting ran the gamut of shock, alarm, and anger, as might be expected, but though these were sincere, Hawklan felt that the deeper shadows in the Orthlundyn were eased by the light of knowledge, however bad, and he felt himself brought back into their circle again.
He was inclined to dismiss the feeling of being an outsider as being over-sensitivity on his part or perhaps even a little residual shock, but he examined it again and found it true. There had been a strange but definite mood in the crowd as they turned initially to Isloman. One that he had never seen before. He set the thought aside for future consideration. It seemed to be impor-tant in some way.
Then he was with Isloman, sharing equally the cen-tre of attention, and it was agreed that one of the elders should accompany them to Anderras Darion to discuss the matter thoroughly with elders from other villages.
So it was as they passed through each village on their southward journey-Greater Hapter (the smaller of the two villages), Astli, Perato, Oglin, Halyt Green, Wosod Heath, Lamely Bend and others-the response was always the same. The people knew that something horrific had happened. They knew. And always their darkness eased a little when they learned the truth.
Hawklan had never known the Orthlundyn to be a simple folk. Each year he had lived with them he had learned to respect more and more the sophistication and deep wisdom that lay in their apparently simple life; their natural awareness of balance and order, of freedom within discipline, their respect for each other’s freedom. A respect that had made him welcome and left him unquestioned in all his years with them, despite the mystery of his sudden appearance and his acceptance by Anderras Darion. Now, however, a force was at work deep within them that he had never known before, never even suspected.
Abruptly he felt lonely and lost, and woefully inade-quate to serve these people who seemed now, in some way, to be looking to him for guidance.
With the passing of each village their little party grew and, as most of the newcomers were old, their progress necessarily became slower. Gavor chuckled to himself from time to time as he looked down on the raggle-taggle parade wending its painstaking way along the old road, through the Orthlund countryside, boisterous with new growth and life.
‘A fine strapping army you have there, O mighty Prince,’ he gloated, landing with wilful awkwardness on Hawklan’s shoulder and steadying himself by sticking his wooden leg in Hawklan’s ear. Hawklan glowered at him and Isloman shook with silent laughter.
It was Gavor’s irreverent clowning that had pre-vented the little cavalcade dropping into corrosive introspection and fretfulness, but Isloman found it difficult to equate this Gavor with the one who had filled the sky with an ancient death song and then slit the throats of Mandrocs with his murderous black spurs. Spurs of the same metal as Hawklan’s strange sword. Spurs found by his brother near where the sword had fallen. Spurs that fitted his ridiculous wooden leg.
Isloman stared thoughtfully at the pair riding just ahead and to one side of him. Occasionally Gavor would hop on to Hawklan’s head and extend his great shining wings in a luxuriant gesture and, to Isloman, the image of his old friend changed briefly from travel-stained and weary healer to a haunted, haggard leader, battle-wearied and a long way from what he loved, a terrible helm on his head and a black slaying sword by his side.