None of the officers moved.
‘Tell your men the same,’ he continued. Then, rais-ing an admonishing finger, ‘No reproaches of any kind. No debates. Let those who wish to go, go.’ And in a pragmatic echo of Hawklan’s words, ‘Their doubts will get your throats cut one day.’
The atmosphere in the hall was almost tangible. Looking round at the standing men, Hawklan knew that he could be looking into the eyes of Sumeral Himself so much did His teachings pervade the group. He knew that in time the hideous reality of mutilated and torn flesh stinking in the churned earth would be lost in the glow of the storytellers’ ringing phrases, and the terror and agony would simply be forgotten, as glory and heroism raised their treacherous standards. And yet, such false inspiration would carry young men and women through the training they would need to face the enemy who would surely confront them in time. He put his hand to his head.
Yatsu noted the gesture. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Hawklan nodded. Just a touch of conscience, he thought.
Chapter 48
The group in the hall talked for a long time, provoking more than a few wry asides from Isloman about the seemingly endless ability of the Fyordyn to talk and talk.
‘And listen,’ Hawklan offered by way of defence. ‘They need to shake their thoughts loose. They can come to only one conclusion, but they’ll need to come to it their own way.’
And they did. Inexorably, the consensus formed round Eldric’s last order like a pearl around a tiny irritation, solid and purposeful. Around it in turn would grow an even greater mass. An army of Lords and High Guards and ordinary people who would stand against Dan-Tor’s baleful influence, because his actions had taken him beyond the realm of reasoned dispute. He offered them now only his tyranny, using the King’s name as its sole disguise. It was not possible to mount a small operation to rescue Eldric, if indeed he was still alive, so the tyrant himself had to be assailed. With the great web of lies and deceit that Dan-Tor would spread, this could mean civil war. Kin would fight kin, and kin would slay kin. And all with that peculiar viciousness that the righteous possess when fighting for the truth that they alone possess. It was a grim conclusion, but the Fyordyn reached it and faced it.
‘Perhaps this time we’ll be able to prevent Sumeral spreading from His fastness in Narsindal,’ said Yatsu afterwards to Hawklan. ‘Stop Him reaching the world beyond.’
It was the first time Hawklan had heard Sumeral spoken of as a mortal enemy. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied.
His hope lay in Yatsu’s remark, but a deeper voice told him he might not have glimpsed the strategy of the Great Corrupter. There were marks of impatience and haste in Dan-Tor’s actions which sang a false note to him. The thought nagged at him that, with the Fyordyn being so subtly lured from their old watchfulness and discipline, the knowledge of His awakening could have been hidden for aeons yet. His strength could have been marshalled in the mists of Narsindal, unseen and unknown, while His poisons leached ever outwards to corrupt and weaken His old enemies. A harsh voice rose inside him. Perhaps they already have, it said.
The next day, Hawklan stood with Arinndier on the battlements of Eldric’s stronghold. Resting his arm on the edge of one of the great merlons he leaned forward and stared out across the mountainous ramparts that separated the castle from the plains of Fyorlund.
‘An admirably placed fortress,’ he said. ‘Well stocked, defensible food lines, own water supply, almost impregnable at the rear, and flanked by those moun-tains, needing very little defence. You’d need sleepy guards indeed to be taken by surprise.’ He paused as if lost in an old memory. ‘Or treachery,’ he added quietly. Then he pointed down the long valley and the wide twisting road that led from the castle. ‘It’s very similar to my own castle in its layout. Very similar. Though the workmanship’s different and it’s not so old.’
Arinndier shrugged slightly. ‘No one knows how old any of the Fyorlund castles are,’ he said. ‘Or who built them. They’re said to be from the Golden Age, after the Last Battle.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘It could be,’ he said absently. ‘They weren’t here… before.’
Arinndier stared at him wide-eyed and uncertain, but Hawklan seemed oblivious to what he had just said, and before Arinndier could speak, he turned round and met his gaze directly, sweeping the moment away. ‘But you didn’t join us out here to discuss ancient architec-ture did you, Arin?’
‘No, no,’ Arinndier stuttered. ‘Of course not. I came to try and persuade you to stay and help us. You’re needed here. You could convince and persuade more in an hour than we could in a week. The Fyordyn are very conservative; not given to rapid change. They’re not all as flexible as the Goraidin by any means.’
Hawklan looked out along the valley again, resting his head on his hand and frowning slightly. Then he turned and, taking Arinndier’s arm, started walking slowly along the wide parapet.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I know I could be of service to you. But I see other things as well. Besides, I can offer little more than you yourself. You, the Goraidin and, if I’m any judge of Eldric and Varak, a tough crowd of High Guards, together form a powerful nucleus. Many armies have started with much less.’
Arinndier made to protest, but Hawklan raised a hand and fixed him again with a piercing gaze. ‘Sumeral’s a force beyond human understanding, Arinndier, for all His human form. He needs sway over all mortal peoples and their lands to corrupt the Great Harmony beyond recovery, and He could achieve this with His Will alone if He so chose. Only one thing restrains Him, if He and His Uhriel are awake, then could not the Guardians also be awake, or awakening? The Guardians. His equals in the older, greater, Power. If He expends His Power on controlling humanity then He’ll not be able to face the Power of the Guardians. And even if they’re not yet awake, the exertion of His will in such a deed would surely awaken them. So He must raise mortal agents and mortal armies to achieve this.’
A sudden chilling knowledge swept over him. Sumeral would be more cunning, more patient than before, and the Guardians must surely be weaker. But less innocent, he thought, in rebuttal, less innocent, and goaded by a terrible guilt.
Arinndier stared at him almost fearfully.
Hawklan’s gaze was unrelenting. ‘We must draw on our every ally, and use them where they are most strong. In the end the balance may lie in the thickness of a hair.’ He held up his hand, thumb and finger lightly touching. ‘So finely balanced,’ he said distantly.
‘Hawklan, you speak so strangely at times,’ Arinndier said, his face anxious. ‘What do you know of these things? I don’t understand you. You make us sound as if we’ll be mere skirmishers in someone else’s battle.’
Hawklan’s look softened into a smile. ‘We are skir-mishers,’ he said. ‘But the mortal battle is ours in its entirety, and if we lose everything will be lost.’
Arinndier still looked fretful.
Hawklan slapped his arm. ‘Gather all your forces, Arin. Look to your own estates and those of such other Lords as you can reach. Then send to Orthlund. To Loman at Anderras Darion.’ A brief look of sadness passed over his face. ‘I fear you may have powerful allies there soon.’
‘You fear?’ Arinndier said. Hawklan waved a dismis-sive hand, and did not pursue the question in Arinndier’s voice. ‘Take heart,’ he said. ‘While you face mortal armies, however foul, however numerous, the war can be won. Gather every resource together and use them well.’
Arinndier seized the straw and reverted back to his concern of the moment. ‘But you won’t stay and help us,’ he said.