Closing the door, he leaned back against it, took off the black Mathidrin helmet and puffed out his cheeks in some relief. Almost immediately, his nose sensed a savoury trail and he followed it down a short red-flagged passage towards a lighted doorway. It opened on to a small room lit by the thoughtful glow of an old torch. His men were sitting round a narrow table eating hungrily and talking noisily, while the man and the wife of the house busied around them, constantly filling their bowls and plates. The smallness of the room made it seem very full.
‘This’ll get you started,’ the woman was saying. ‘Big lads like you should eat plenty. Keep your strength up.’
Yatsu smiled. ‘Anything for a little lad then, mother?’ he said.
She bustled him to a seat at the end of the table and thrust a large bowl in front of him. ‘Less of the mother,’ she said with a playful slap. ‘You’re no sapling yourself, young Yatsu. Just put yourself outside that.’
Yatsu took the admonishing hand in both of his and pressed it to his face affectionately.
‘Go on with you, you daft thing,’ she said as she retrieved her hand and scuttled off to attend to some culinary chore.
Yatsu looked distastefully at the helmet he was car-rying, then laid it down on the floor by his chair. When he looked up he found himself staring along the table at Isloman. The man was more familiar than ever, but the memory still would not click into place. He saw, however, that Isloman recognized him. ‘Well I’m damned,’ said Isloman. ‘I thought my shadow-lore was deceiving me out in that murk, with you hiding in that black… soup bowl, but it is you. Yatsu?’
Yatsu half rose. Pieces of memory juddered to-gether. ‘Is-lo-man,’ he articulated slowly as his mind arced back through the years. ‘Of course. That rock for a head. And that club. Who else could it have been? How could I have forgotten?’
‘You forgot because you were once young and stu-pid, and now you’ve grown old and stupid,’ said Isloman. ‘As opposed to me who was young and wise, and am even wiser now.’
Yatsu walked round the table and, seizing Isloman by his short cropped hair, shook his head from side to side, laughing. Isloman wrapped his arms around him and lifted him well clear of the floor.
‘Enough, enough,’ cried Yatsu almost at once. ‘Never let it be said that I didn’t know when to surrender.’
Isloman lowered him effortlessly and the two men stared at one another affectionately.
‘It was no wise thing to come to Vakloss in the mid-dle of a riot… old man,’ said Yatsu eventually. Then, before Isloman could reply, Yatsu turned to his men who were open-mouthed at the bizarre spectacle they had just witnessed.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘stand up.’ One or two pushed their chairs back hesitantly. ‘Up, up, up,’ Yatsu repeated, gesturing. Then, placing an arm around Isloman’s shoulders, ‘Men. Raise your… ’ No glasses! ‘Raise your mugs. A toast to Isloman here. The Isloman. With his brother Loman, the only outlanders ever to ride-and fight-with the Goraidin.’
There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then the room was alive with applause and the babble of countless questions. For a while Yatsu and Isloman both found themselves recalling and recounting many long-hidden memories-funny, bewildering, tragic-all the personal paraphernalia that combat leaves in its wake. Their discourse was interrupted only by the insistence of the woman of the house that they attend to the really important business of eating the considerable quantities of food she was steadily placing in front of them.
Suddenly Yatsu slapped his forehead angrily and swore. ‘I was so engrossed, I forgot,’ he said. ‘What’s happened to the Lord Arinndier and Dacu?’
‘Your friend has a broken shoulder bone, some lacerations and some bad bruising.’ It was Hawklan’s voice. He had been standing quietly in the doorway for some time listening to the hubbub of reminiscences filling the room. ‘I’ve set the one and bound it up, and given him something to soothe the others. He’ll be all right if he does as I say, as will the Lord Arinndier. Right now, they and your other Lords are sleeping. I think we’d all better do the same as soon as possible. I suspect the next few days are going to make heavy demands of us.’
The room had fallen suddenly silent at Hawklan’s entry and all eyes were on him.
Isloman cut through the uneasiness with forced joviality. ‘Men,’ he said, ‘this is my friend Hawklan. A healer by inclination, but quite useful in a fight if sufficiently provoked.’ Then, more earnestly, ‘I consider it a great honour and privilege to ride with him.’
Yatsu, who had faced Hawklan directly in the alley, leaned back in his chair and nodded quietly to himself. He was watching the response of the others. The Goraidin was a close-knit group, its strength lying not least in the knowledge of the severe training that each member had undertaken. They would accept Isloman on his recommendation and because he and his brother had their own special niche in Goraidin lore. But this man was different, even though he had faced down their Commander, done service to Lord Arinndier and one of their own, and had Isloman’s loyalty. Courtesy he would certainly be given, but acceptance? That was another matter.
One of the men stood up and offered his chair. ‘Lord Hawklan,’ he said, ‘please join us. You must be hungry yourself after your unusual welcome to Vakloss.’
Hawklan thanked the man, but declined the seat. ‘I’m no Lord,’ he said. ‘There are no Lords in Orthlund. I’m just a healer, as Isloman said.’
‘Well, healer,’ said another with a laugh. ‘You still need to eat. Put down your sword and any other tools of your healing trade, and join us in the meal the good lady has prepared.’
Hawklan conceded and, leaning his sword against the wall, he pulled up an empty seat and helped himself to a large portion of bread from a great brown loaf in the centre of the table. Yatsu watched carefully to see what his men would do next. He knew that in spite of his approval of the man they would test him in some small way, even if they were not aware that they were doing it.
Isloman watched also, sensing the same, and, as the conversation picked up again, various remarks headed Hawklan’s way which might have provoked a more defensive spirit. He knew that Hawklan would not lose his temper, but he was far from sure how the Goraidin would interpret his apparently placid acceptance of their wilful probing.
Then, to the considerable surprise of both Isloman and Yatsu, Hawklan started to laugh. Not laughter clanging with hollow defiance, but open and full of genuine amusement.
He’s going to test them! Yatsu realized, and he could not forbear smiling to himself a little.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Hawklan, ‘we’re all too old for this cadet’s game, aren’t we? You’re uncertain because I’m not one of you. I’ve shared neither your training nor your experiences. I’m not one of the spiritual descen-dants of the men who guarded Ethriss at the Last Battle. And it worries you that your Commander didn’t just ride right over me in that alley, doesn’t it?’
An uncomfortable silence filled the room at this sudden declaration.
Hawklan pointed to Isloman and continued. ‘We came to Fyorlund because of certain evil deeds done by your Lord Dan-Tor in Orthlund. Now we find a sickness in your land that will spread and corrode far beyond your borders if it’s not stopped.’ He stood up. ‘What I need to know is what kind of men you are. Are you good enough to help us fight against this ill?’
Some of the men were beginning to scowl angrily, but Hawklan’s voice had a power that commanded their attention.
‘I’m prepared to accept Isloman’s word as to your worth as fighters, but time is against us and I’m not prepared to wait for all of you to come to the same conclusion about me.’
What’s he doing? thought Yatsu, in mounting alarm.
‘Look at me, each of you,’ continued Hawklan. ‘You value truth and openness. Speak your minds, now. Look into your hearts and form your conclusions now, for there’ll be precious little time later and I want no doubters around me when I have to seek out Dan-Tor and hold him to account for what he’s done.’