‘May I escort you through the rest of the wood?’ he offered tentatively.
Up came the stick again. ‘Don’t you soft soap me, young man. What would I want with an escort who sees things, hey? Be on your way, or I’ll give you a taste of my stick.’
Hawklan was not a man to hold on to an indefensi-ble position indefinitely and he was about to go back for his horse when a great shape loomed up out of the mist.
‘I don’t believe it,’ came Isloman’s voice. ‘I thought I recognized those dulcet tones.’ He jumped down from his horse. ‘Old Memsa Gulda, as I live and breathe. And not changed a jot.’
The woman looked at him ferociously.
‘Don’t you recognize me, Gulda?’
The woman stepped forward and peered intently up at him. ‘I used to know an impudent young whelp called Isloman who had the look of you-snotty-nosed little imp. Quarrelled with his brother over some girl and then went off to the wars as I recall.’
‘Not so snotty-nosed by then, Gulda,’ said Isloman, slightly subdued.
She was contemptuous. ‘You’re all snotty-nosed. Men. Eternally in need of some attention or other or you’ll be off creating trouble.’ She stepped back a little and looked him up and down as if she were contemplat-ing a purchase. ‘You’ve aged, lad.’ Her voice was quieter.
The mist brightened a little as the morning sun skimmed over the hollow.
Isloman stroked his horse. ‘Of course I’ve aged. It’s been a long time since you left, Gulda,’ he said. ‘Proba-bly twenty years or so. Where did you go? Why did you leave so suddenly?’
The stick came up and prodded him in the stomach. ‘Cheeky as ever, I see, young Isloman. I go where I go, and for my own reasons.’ Then, with a prod for each word, ‘Just like you did.’ The stick relented. ‘A woman needs a little peace now and then, a little time away from people and their noise.’
Isloman was about to speak when the woman re-leased another barrage. ‘And it’s Memsa to you, my lad,’ she added indignantly. ‘Gulda indeed. I’ll give you Gulda. And a little less of the old if you please. I’d say I’ve weathered the years better than you have, wouldn’t you?’
Isloman seemed uncertain about how to react to this fierce reminder of his youth. He found boyhood fears surprisingly near the surface under the threat of her gaze and her stick.
She spared him further reflection. ‘What are you doing here then? Looking after this lunatic?’ She continued looking at Isloman, but the stick pointed to Hawklan, standing listening to this exchange with some amusement.
‘Gul… ’ Isloman faltered. ‘Memsa, this is Hawklan,’ he finished formally.
Slowly she turned her head and looked at Hawklan severely. The she grunted thoughtfully. ‘Hawklan. The healer. The Key Bearer. I’ve heard a lot about him round and about.’
She walked round him, looking him up and down as she had Isloman.
‘Who is she?’ Hawklan mouthed silently to Isloman over her head.
Isloman made a tiny movement with his hand to indicate explanations later.
‘Stop that,’ snapped Gulda without altering her pace. Then suddenly, to Hawklan, ‘Perhaps you’d tell me, young man, why the Key Bearer of Anderras Darion should charge about in the mist, sword in hand, chasing shadows?’
Hawklan spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you. I heard someone calling and I saw the figures by you.’
‘You’ve said that once,’ said Gulda impatiently. ‘And I’ve told you I’m alone.’
Hawklan shrugged. ‘They were there. I saw them. Just behind you.’
‘She wrinkled her nose suspiciously. ‘What were they calling?’
Hawklan told her.
‘Ethriss, eh?’ she muttered, again to herself. Then, to Hawklan, sharply, ‘Is your name Ethriss?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Then why did you gallop into the mist like a mad-man at the sound of his name?’ she pressed.
Hawklan shrugged uncertainly. ‘It was me they were calling out to,’ he said quietly. Gulda looked at him darkly for a long moment and then pulled up her hood so that her face disappeared into its shade except for the end of her nose which floated white in the darkness.
Abruptly she turned round and headed off down the road. After a few paces she turned. ‘Come on,’ she said crossly.
Hawklan waved vaguely in both directions. ‘I thought you were going… that way.’
‘Bah,’ she snorted and, turning again, stalked off into the mist. Her voice floated back through the greyness. ‘I’ll see you two at the Castle.’
Isloman swung up on to his horse, a wide grin on his face. ‘Loman’ll be pleased, I don’t think. Get your horse and catch her up. I’ll fetch the others.’ Then a deep chuckle bubbled out of him. ‘But keep out of the way of that stick. And watch your lip, young fella.’
Before Hawklan could speak, Isloman had trotted off into the lightening mist and Hawklan could hear him laughing to himself.
Mounting, he urged Serian gently forward after the woman. As he reached the top of a small rise and emerged into the sunlight, he was surprised to see how far the woman had travelled. For all her appearance of age, and her stick and stoop, she had a long purposeful stride and he had to trot Serian forward briskly to catch up with her.
He debated offering her the saddle, but was dubious about the reception of such a suggestion, so he dis-mounted a little way behind her.
‘Come along, young man, don’t dawdle,’ she said without turning round. ‘I’ve got questions to ask you. Quickly, quickly!’
Hawklan found himself running forward like a schoolboy in response to these instructions. When he reached her he found he needed his long legs to match her unrelenting pace. He cast a sideways look at her, but the hood covered her face and he could see nothing but the end of her nose ploughing steadily forward like the prow of a ship.
A combination of courtesy and amused alarm stopped him asking any questions as they strode on in silence along the old stone road. Occasionally she would mutter to herself as if participating in some internal debate, then, ‘Give me your sword, young man,’ she said sharply.
Hawklan hesitated. Her right hand stretched out impatiently and the morning bird-song was silenced momentarily by two resounding cracks as she snapped her fingers to indicate that hesitation was not what she had asked for. Hawklan drew the sword and handed it to her gingerly.
‘Take care,’ he said. ‘It’s very sharp.’
Gulda grunted and her long fingers closed around the hilt. Hawklan noted the grip. It was not that of a woman examining a dangerous curiosity. It was a swordsman’s grip.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you were used to weapons.’
Briefly her pace slowed and there was a slight incli-nation of the head. Then there was another grunt and she strode out again. The sword hilt went to the end of the long nose and was turned round and round, then each part of the sword in turn was similarly scrutinized. Abruptly she stopped walking.
‘Well, well, well. Ethriss’s sword. His black sword.’ Her voice had lost its cantankerous quality and was quiet and full of many emotions. ‘I thought it might be, but I couldn’t be sure in that mist. Then, who’d have expected to see it ever again? How did you come by it, healer?’
‘I found it in the Castle Armoury,’ Hawklan said. The hooded head turned towards him. With the sun in his eyes he could see nothing of her face, but he could sense those piercing blue eyes, sharp in the blackness of the hood, missing nothing. Then she turned away, and striding out again gave an enigmatic laugh.
‘That I doubt, Key Bearer. That I doubt. Ethriss’s sword couldn’t be found because it was never hidden. It found you. Have no illusions about that. It found you.’ Then the hilt disappeared into the hood, as if she were listening to it. ‘And it’s killed Mandrocs recently. I knew it!’ There was triumph in the voice. ‘I knew it. I’ve not lost all my wits yet.’
Hawklan’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘How could you know that?’ he asked.
Her voice was distant. ‘Gulda knows Mandrocs. Could smell them. That’s why I came back. Couldn’t believe my nose after all this time. They’ve been killing again. Taken life here in Orthlund, haven’t they? That’s what’s upsetting all the Orthlundyn, although they’re too sleepy to know it. Running about like ants under a stone instead of feeling what’s happened.’