Isloman did not move all night but, long before Hawklan noticed a change in the light, he said, ‘Dawn,’ and stood up. The slow softening of the darkness that followed this announcement reminded Hawklan of the many times he had stood on one of the high towers of Anderras Darion and watched the dawn break over the mountains. It was like a reaffirmation, and he felt an inner ease which he realized he had not known for some time. For a while his mind left the bewildering cascade of events that had occurred since the day Tirilen had led him down the steep road from the Castle to look at the strange tinker on the village green.
He stood up and joined Isloman. ‘Show me now, shadow sage,’ he said, hoping that a touch of humour might help his friend, but Isloman just pointed. ‘There,’ he said.
As the light grew, Hawklan found he was looking between two mountains into a far-distant valley. He could make out what looked like white scars and gashes running down the sides of the valley, and a longer, more even line that twisted and turned sinuously before it disappeared from sight.
‘A road?’ he said, after a moment. ‘And quarries?’ The scene meant nothing to him. Before he could question Isloman, Gavor fluttered down to join them. His manner was agitated. ‘You’ve seen it, then?’ he said.
‘The road? Yes. And are those quarries?’ Hawklan asked. ‘But I don’t understand what I’m looking at, Gavor.’
Gavor’s tone was strained. ‘You’re looking at a new, very large road, heading north into… there. And yes, they are quarries. And there are more on the other side. And mines. The road’s for taking… I don’t know… whatever’s coming out of them.’
No one spoke. Gavor continued. ‘Those streaks that you can see are great mounds of waste that have been spewed down into the valley. It’s unbelievably foul. And there’s worse.’ He paused. ‘The work’s being done by slaves.’ All three men turned and looked at him. ‘Men, women, even children… and Mandrocs,’ he said slowly. ‘And all under the none-too-tender supervision of those cockroaches.’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘That’s not possible,’ Lorac burst out suddenly. ‘You’ve made a mistake, bird.’ His voice was vicious and angry, but layered with fear and uncertainty.
Gavor’s eyes blazed and he spread his wings menac-ingly. ‘Don’t doubt me, human,’ he hissed, his black mouth gaping wide. ‘I tell what I see. Your brothers are torturing your brothers over there. They’ve poisoned the land with their filth. And the rivers. Even the air I flew through was tainted.’ He craned forward and beat his wings savagely. ‘It’s not for nothing that above all the other creatures in this world, He’s assumed your shape for His work here.’
Lorac quailed under Gavor’s appalling assault and lifted his hands as if expecting to be physically attacked as well.
Hawklan held out his hand to Gavor. ‘Gently, Gavor, gently,’ he said. Then to the chastened Lorac, ‘You can trust Gavor totally, Goraidin, totally. We mustn’t take our pains out on one another. We’ve got real enemies to fight. Gavor, can we come any closer?’
‘No,’ said the bird, still eyeing Lorac. ‘That valley’s two days away for you, and half a day will bring you in sight of their look-outs. You won’t even reach the remains of Lord Evison’s troop.’
Hawklan nodded and thought for a moment. ‘Well, if we’ve seen all we can see, then we must take the knowledge back to the others as quickly as we can.’
‘Hawklan.’ It was Isloman. ‘Help me. Get me away from here… ’ His voice was hoarse and distant, and it tailed off into a long failing breath as his knees bent and he fell to the ground.
Chapter 46
Hawklan bent over his fallen friend and examined him urgently. But his hands and his healing told him nothing. Whatever had brought Isloman low was beyond his knowledge. All that remained was Isloman’s own judgement: ‘Get me away from here.’
The journey back to the horses, however, was a waking nightmare as the three of them struggled desperately with Isloman’s limp bulk, while the brightening summer sun and the splendour of the emerging mountain scenery seemed to mock them.
Driven by his concern for his friend and his own feeling of impotence, Hawklan found the inevitable slowness of the descent unbearable. Twice he slipped in his haste. Once slithering incongruously down a damp grassy slope and, another time, more seriously, missing his footing on moss-slimed rock.
Tel-Odrel caught him and with a friendly grin sup-ported him while he recovered his balance, but Lorac rounded on him furiously. ‘In Ethriss’s name, Hawklan, look what you’re doing. You could have injured yourself and Tel-Odrel, and how long would it have taken us to get back to the others then?’
Part of Hawklan rose up in anger at this rebuke, but another quieted him. The Goraidin’s right, healer. Concern yourself with your friend. He deserves better than your self-indulgence.
It took them several hours to reach the horses, and they were exhausted when they did. Hawklan examined Isloman again but his condition was unchanged.
‘Let me carry him,’ said Serian and, with an effort, they lifted him into the great horse’s saddle and tied him there firmly.
The journey back to Eldric’s mountain stronghold was no less arduous and unpleasant, and Hawklan, unused to his new mount and unable fully to relax because of his concern for his friend, felt as if he had been in the saddle for his entire life.
However, he had repeated cause to be grateful for Yatsu’s insistence that Lorac and Tel-Odrel accompany him. Their knowledge of the country and the mountains shortened the journey considerably and, amongst other things, spared them the need to pass by the carnage around Lord Evison’s castle.
Isloman improved a little as they moved further away from the blighted valleys. He regained conscious-ness for increasingly longer periods but still did not speak, and Hawklan felt that the carver was fighting to hold something at bay rather than recovering from it.
On the night before they were due to reach their destination, Hawklan, as usual, spent some time in making Isloman comfortable and in easing the aches of Lorac and Tel-Odrel that Serian’s unrelenting pace had brought about. But there was a restlessness in himself that he could not still and eventually he wandered away from the camp, sensing that, while sleep might restore his body, something else was needed to quieten his mind.
Alone in the dying light, he sat down on a grassy knoll that overlooked the long valley they had spent the day negotiating. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a longing for Anderras Darion and the calm and harmony of its encompassing mountains and rolling countryside; for Pedhavin and the silver river that ran through it; and for all his many friends there.
Without thinking he drew his sword and, pressing its cold black hilt against his face, closed his eyes. Thoughts suddenly burst in on him as if they had been penned by some great dam. Thoughts of a tiny manne-quin full of corruption; of the huge, bustling Gretmearc and the sinister trap that was laid for him there; of the malign presence of Dan-Tor seeking him out, spreading corruption into his life and through him into the lives of all the Orthlundyn; of Andawyr, that strange scruffy little man filled with light, who searched into his mind and came to him mysteriously with terrible needs; of Mandrocs and of the slaughtered guards; of a fume-choked Vakloss and of the knife-wielding vengeance of a lone, lost woman against her persecutors; of appalling carnage fringing a blackened castle, and of mines and quarries, the very sight of which had brought down his friend.
These and many others surged and tumbled through his head beyond all control, swirling like a frenzied maelstrom seeking a path down into a cold, dark stillness.
For a moment he floundered, then, abruptly, he let them go. They were beyond resolution. They were the myriad tiny ills that he had seen so often emanating from wounds and disease. Some could be eased for the comfort of the sufferer, but always the source should be sought and its influence assuaged.
But was this healing in his gift? Or was he only a humble part of a greater healer’s work? Again, no resolution. Only a healer’s faith. Whoever or whatever he was he would oppose this corruption where he found it and seek towards its centre when he could. He had no choice.