Gradually the clattering thoughts faded and went their way unhindered. He sat for a long time in silence and stillness until he became aware of the cold moun-tain air blowing around him.
Opening his eyes, he held out the hilt of the Black Sword and looked at it. The stars inside it glittered and twinkled like reflections of the sky above him, and the intertwined strands pursued their journey into an endless distance. He felt a lightness again that he had not realized he had lost.
They reached Eldric’s stronghold late the following day. Yatsu took one look at the four travellers and immediately postponed the questions that had been building in his mind since the return of Ordan with the Mandroc armour and his tale of horror. ‘We’ll hold an Officers’ Council tomorrow,’ he said simply. ‘Now you must eat and rest properly.’
Hawklan sat pensively in a high-winged chair. It was ornately carved, though its arms and rails had been worn smooth by countless years of use. It was also extremely comfortable. Just above his left shoulder, Gavor slumbered, his claw closed around the top of the chair. He was muttering incomprehensibly in his sleep. Opposite Hawklan, in an identical chair, was Isloman. He was sitting upright, but his eyes were half shut and it needed no healer’s touch to tell he was oblivious to everything around him.
Hawklan gazed at him, as he had been doing for the past hour. Wilfully he avoided fretting about his friend’s condition, hoping that some inspiration would drift into his mind.
What came, however, was not what he had either expected or hoped for. This man’s a liability in this condition, it said. He’s too good a soldier to lose, he must be brought back into fighting fettle. The thought was so cold and callous that Hawklan slammed the palms of his hands into the arms of his chair as if the noise and pain would prevent his hearing it, or as if to punish himself for it.
‘Damn it, Isloman,’ he said fiercely. ‘Don’t leave me like this. Other people depend on us. Speak, man.’
The outburst woke Gavor, who fell off the chair and only just managed to regain his balance before hitting the floor. He glided up on to the mantelshelf that topped the large open fireplace separating the two men and, ruffled, looked down at Hawklan indignantly.
Before he could speak, however, Isloman stirred. He opened his mouth as if to speak but no sound came. Then his great hands tightened around the arms of his chair and he swayed back and forth, racked by some inner conflict.
Hawklan leaned forward intently. Faintly he heard, ‘The words don’t exist, Hawklan… ’ He caught the phrase and held it; a precious jewel glinting in the barren earth. It was a phrase common among the Orthlundyn whenever he asked about their crafts, and he himself used it when asked about his healing. ‘The words don’t exist.’ He repeated them to himself.
Around their sharp focus formed the realization that Isloman’s illness was associated with his craft. It was obvious, he saw now, and he should have seen it from the start. But he refused to be lured astray by self-reproach. Isloman was still struggling. Hawklan knelt down in front of him and, taking his hands, looked into his eyes. The blankness had gone, but it had been replaced by pain.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I understand. It’s the song, isn’t it? The rock song.’
A low distant note sounded in Isloman’s throat and swelled rapidly into an almost inhuman roar. ‘There was no song,’ he cried. ‘No song. Only a great cry of horror and pain.’ He clasped his arms about himself and rocked to and fro again, as if nursing some terrible internal wound.
‘Why?’ persisted Hawklan. ‘What’s happened?’
‘No words, no words,’ muttered Isloman. Then his powerful hands broke free from Hawklan’s grip and shot out to seize his arms. ‘Worse than all those bodies, Hawklan. Far worse,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘So deep. Deep beyond any reaching. It’s infected me, Hawklan, I can’t hold on. Even to think about an obscenity like that would… But to feel it… ’ His voice tailed away and, releasing Hawklan, he rapped his hands around his bowed head and curled up like an unborn child.
Hawklan reeled back under the impact of his friend’s distress. He had hoped that the trickle of words might presage a deluge and with its passing so would pass Isloman’s pain. But it had not. Instead, his friend was slipping further away as if his brief contact with the present had loosed his weakened grip.
Guilt and doubt swept into Hawklan’s mind and his head jerked desperately from side to side as if looking for help from the pictures and statues that decorated the room. A jabbering crowd of voices seemed to fill his head, raucous and clamouring.
‘Let go, Hawklan,’ said one. It was Gavor. Hawklan looked at him, perched on the mantelshelf. ‘I felt the taint, but I haven’t Isloman’s vision and I can fly high above and soar in the clear air which knows the truth and can purify all. Let go. Have no fear. Your mind can go no further. Your healing draws from deeper wells than any evil can know.’
Hawklan met the enigmatic black eyes for a long moment. Gavor nodded slowly. Then, closing his eyes and turning away from the voices, Hawklan felt them vanish like smoke in the wind. He reached out and laid his hand on Isloman’s head. For an instant he heard the rock song and felt its appalling defilement. ‘I’m here, Isloman,’ he said quietly. ‘I hear your song, rock-blind though I am. Listen to me. Can any defilement be beyond the aid of the maker of this, old friend?’ And, unclipping the scabbard of the Black Sword, he lifted it in his left hand and held the hilt out towards Isloman.
As he did so, a nearby torch flared gently and its light caught the hilt’s inner pattern making the stars there shimmer and dance like a myriad tiny universes.
Isloman stared at the hilt distantly for what seemed an interminable time then, as if returning from a long journey, recognition came into his eyes, and his right hand slowly reached out and took hold of it. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as if moving some massive weight, then his left hand joined his right in clutching the black stone hilt. Tears began to run down his face, but he was not sobbing. ‘How could I have forgotten?’ he said, very softly. ‘How could I?’ His eyes opened.
Hawklan reached back unsteadily and regained his chair. Holding out his hands he found they were trembling. Isloman’s recovery had been as sudden and startling as his deterioration had been slow.
A faint smile appeared on Isloman’s face. He shifted in the chair, then, looking at the worn carving under his hands, nodded admiringly. ‘These Fyordyn have a way with wood,’ he said irrelevantly. Then he looked at the sword intently and, apparently satisfied, held it out to Hawklan. Hawklan laid it on a nearby table. The cold thought returned to him-this recovery is fortuitous, Isloman’s too good a fighter to lose-but he pushed it lightly to one side, realizing that his own violent reaction to it before was because Isloman’s pain had become his own as the healer in him had reached out to help. Such thoughts had their place, he knew, for all their harshness. Only when they dominated did they destroy.
‘I feel as if I’ve been dropped over a cliff,’ Isloman said.
Gavor floated down and landed on his shoulder.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Hawklan asked.
‘There are no words, Hawklan. You understand that.’ Isloman said. ‘Those valleys ring with a great groaning scream that pervades the whole area. The rocks are being tortured, defiled. Deep, deep down. It’s unbelievable. There’s no way I can describe it. I’ve never heard the like before and I didn’t even believe it at first. Then, when I did, I was trapped. I couldn’t ignore its plea and I couldn’t do anything about it. Nothing. Except stand there and listen. I’ve no control over my rock knowledge, Hawklan. I can’t shut it out. The sound tore into me and clung like a terrified animal. Imagine you’d been at that castle and seen those men being killed infinitely slowly, and known you could do nothing about it-nothing.’