Mountains, forests, even the sky and the very horizon were gone not as in a mist not hidden from view but vanished utterly into brightness. Only vaguely could they see one another and their footsteps in the snow. Their main awareness of one another came through touch and, hand in hand, they wandered aimlessly for miles until eventually they stumbled across a fallen tree whose roots offered them some shelter.

They built a rough snow wall to keep out the wind, and slumped down in the cramped s.p.a.ce to contemplate their imminent demise. Even with their Orthlundyn clothing, and the extra garments that the local Riddinvolk, used to such conditions, had given them, the bitter cold struck through and both knew that without food and warmth they would soon die.

Loman was wakened from a fitful half sleep by his brother clamping a hand over his mouth and whispering in his ear. 'Morlider. Just outside. Listen.'

Nearby voices speaking a strange language drifted into their shelter. Loman craned forward, listening intently, and then raised four fingers to his brother. Isloman nodded. Four men.

'Food,' mouthed Loman silently. Isloman nodded again and raised a clenched fist. This time Loman nodded and cautiously slipped his gloved hand through the straps of his shield. Isloman slowly did the same and, on his brother's signal, the two of them crashed down their snow wall and charged out roaring and shouting at the four men.

Except that there were not four, but six. Without pausing to a.s.sess the consequences of their mistaken arithmetic the two brothers pressed on. Strong even in those days, Loman sent two of the men staggering with a single blow of his shield and then swung his club at the head of a third.

But the blow never landed and, instead, Loman found himself sprawling on his back only vaguely aware of where he was and how he got there. There had been no impact, he was sure. He rolled over and tried to regain his balance and then there was an impact. A stunning blow came from nowhere and exploded in his head, filling it with white light. Now he was face down in the snow and sufficiently aware to know that he was losing this battle utterly. He was going to die. Somewhere he could hear his brother's voice and the sound of fighting.

'I'm coming, Isloman,' he shouted weakly and, with head still ringing, he struggled to his knees. His shield and club were gone, but he had his fists and his strength. As he moved, he heard a gasp of surprise and the sound of a sword being drawn. Looking up and focusing blearily, he saw a white, fur-clad figure approaching purposefully with a white-bladed sword in his hand. He was not going to be able to move in time.

'Wait,' cried an authoritative voice. 'Wait.' The figure paused. A second figure joined it and, bending forward, spoke to Loman.

'What did you say?' it demanded.

Loman, uncertain at this strange turn in the proceedings, swore at him roundly and tried again to stand. 'Well I'm d.a.m.ned,' said the figure. 'Orthlundyn or I'm a Mandroc. What are you doing here?'

Loman kept his gaze on the drawn sword. 'Wishing I was somewhere else,' he said.

The figure laughed unexpectedly and stepped forward, its hand extended. 'Yes. Orthlundyn without a doubt. Put up your sword, Yatsu, we mustn't slaughter our allies, even if they do ambush us. Take my hand, man.'

Hesitantly Loman grasped the offered hand and struggled to his feet, swaying dizzily. The two men steadied him, and for a moment he leaned on them both while his head cleared.

The second man chuckled again. 'I didn't know Orthlundyn were so hard,' he said. 'One kick from Yatsu is usually sufficient to take a man out of this world and you're only a bit dizzy. Remarkable.' He gestured to an untidy white mound by the roots of the fallen tree. 'Let him up,' he said, and Loman watched the mound break up as four more fur-clad individuals rose to their feet and released his bruised and winded brother.

'Well, Orthlundyn,' said the man, turning back to Loman, 'you gave us quite a surprise. I think we'll talk a little. My name's Dirfrin, and this little group you've a.s.sailed is a detachment of King Rgoric's Goraidin.'

The name meant nothing to either of the brothers, and Dirfrin did not seem disposed to elaborate.

After a little wound counting and some awkward introductions, Dirfrin laid a sad hand on Loman's shoulder. 'I'm afraid your unit's been wiped out, Loman,' he said. 'We came across the remains of them earlier. I'm sorry.'

Loman cast his eyes upwards, while Isloman dropped his head into his hands.

After a moment, Dirfrin continued. 'Worse,' he said. 'The Morlider have moved in unexpectedly and now occupy this entire area. If you go off on your own, then the weather, the terrain or the enemy will kill you within a couple of days.'

Loman looked inclined to demur, but Isloman laid a hand on his arm and shook his head.

'Furthermore, I don't want you falling into enemy hands. They're none too kind with prisoners and they'll find out about us for sure, and if that happens we'll be in even more trouble than we are now. It's a matter of urgency that we get back to the army and report where the enemy are and in what strength.'

'What can we do?' asked Isloman.

'You'll have to come with us,' came the reply. There was some muttering in the strange language that the brothers had heard before. Dirfrin looked angry. He drew a long knife and offered it, hilt first, to one of his men.

'Well, kill them here in cold blood if you've the stomach for it, because that's the only alternative we have.' The man lowered his eyes and waved the knife away. Dirfrin returned it to its sheath and Loman and Isloman unclenched their fists.

Dirfrin fixed them with an unwavering stare. 'Listen carefully, both of you. The Goraidin are the finest fighters in all Fyorlund. Our training's so hard that not one in a hundred ordinary High Guard will evenaspire to it and only one in three of those who do is likely to complete it. I'm afraid all I can offer you is a slim chance or no chance, but you look fit, you're certainly strong, you're well-clothed and, looking at your shelter, you're not stupid. We've picked up extra supplies from your dead friends so we'll take you with us.' He leaned forward urgently. 'But we can't allow you to delay us. We'll teach you what we can as we go and you'll have to learn as you've never learned before. But understand,' he paused, 'you'll obey any of these men without question, and without hesitation.' His tone was unequivocal. 'Too many people, ours and yours, depend on the information we have for us to be jeopardized by you. If you give us any trouble you'll be killed without compunction. Do you understand?'

Standing on the walls of Anderras Darion, warm in the summer sun, Loman shivered as he recalled Dirfrin's relentless gaze and grim voice. Looking over the sunlit plains of Orthlund, he nodded his head as he had done that bitterly cold day so long ago huddled in a mountain forest in Northern Riddin.

Now Hawklan wants us to train our own Goraidin, he thought. The request still fretted him. He and Isloman had travelled successfully with the Goraidin. They had learned. They had also taught.

'Well, at least you'll have sharp swords now and know how to use the shadows a little more wisely,' he remembered telling Dirfrin when they had finally parted.

But some of the skills he and his brother had learned disturbed Loman to this day. Countless ways to kill people and to wring information from them. Countless ways to rend and destroy. Yet other things were indisputably fine and made him proud to have been with the Goraidin. Courage, loyalty, sacrifice, the knowledge to survive in the most appalling conditions. He looked northwards pensively. And their actions did save many lives in that bitter war.

Loman breathed out noisily and curled his mouth in self-reproach. He was wasting his time debating this.

He had no alternative. He had had no alternative ever since he accepted the necessity of the Orthlundyn arming themselves, if for no other reason than the knowledge that any enemy would be doing the same.

He needed no trust in Hawklan to tell him that, nor advice from him about what he should do.

He was Orthlundyn. Whatever had been achieved could, and must, be improved.

He walked along the top of the wall towards one of the stairways. As he strode down the steps, two at a time, he went through a list of names that he realized had been forming in his head over the last few weeks. The names of those trainees who would probably be suitable for special training.

Chapter 26.

'What do you make of them?' said Isloman discreetly.

'I don't know,' replied Hawklan. 'But we'll be very conspicuous if we try to avoid them now. Keep smiling. If they offer us violence don't resist unless it gets really serious.'

They had been riding openly through the mountainous edges of Fyorlund for some days, avoiding villages and settlements as much as they could without actually appearing to do so. Now, however, they had no alternative but to pa.s.s through a large village situated at the mouth of a valley which was effectively the only route available. The cause of their concern was a modest but growing crowd of men in the square ahead of them. No women or children, Hawklan noted, and some of the men were carrying farm implements and other tools. Glancing casually around he took in the few side streets running up the valley sides. These Fyorlund villages are very pleasant, he thought, in spite of the gathering group. Heavy, squat, wooden buildings, vividly painted and decorated with carvings quite different from those of Orthlund. He had remarked on the difference to Isloman earlier as they had started to come upon outlying farmhouses.

'Wood is wood. Stone is stone,' Isloman had replied. 'They sing a different song.' Then he had laughed and shaken his head affectionately in the way that the Orthlundyn invariably did when Hawklan's rock blindness became apparent.

The houses of this village were scattered, apparently at random, over the floor of the narrow valley and up its steep sides, the position of each being determined by some local feature in the rock. Some of the higher buildings seemed to be clinging precariously to sheer rock faces and looked to be completely inaccessible. Presumably they were reached by these side streets, thought Hawklan. No escape there.

'We may have trouble ahead,' Hawklan said to his horse softly. 'Be ready to move quickly on my signal.'

'Youhave trouble ahead,' replied Serian. 'I can smell it from here.' Hawklan patted his head.

'Gently through the middle of them all,' he said to Isloman. 'Make for that building over there.' With a nod he indicated a three-storey building in the centre of one side of the square. It dominated the other buildings in the village and was obviously a meeting hall of some kind. On its roof sat Gavor.

The crowd parted quietly as the two men rode through, and Hawklan took the time to study the upturned faces for signs that might help him decide their mood. It was interesting.

There were strong elements of suspicion and fear, and some hostility, but there were some open friendly faces, and a large part of the crowd seemed to be doubtful, or simply curious, though whether curious about them or about what was going to happen, he could not tell. He caught the eye of several members of the crowd and nodded friendly greetings. Tilt the crowd our way, he thought.

Reaching the building he had indicated, he sat back in his saddle with his hands on his thighs and dropped the reins on the horse's neck. It was an open and relaxed gesture that again should impress the crowd favourably.

However, before he could dismount, a burly, ill-favoured man stepped forward and reached up for Serian's bridle. The horse craned his neck forward, teeth bared, and the man stepped back quickly.

Hawklan leaned forward and patted the horse's neck as if to calm him.

'Good,' he whispered and then sat up. 'My apologies, sir,' he said pleasantly. 'I'm afraid the horse is a little nervous. He's not used to big crowds.'

As he antic.i.p.ated, his description of the group as a big crowd caused a little amus.e.m.e.nt. Some smiles appeared, and the word 'Orthlundyn' whispered into the air from various directions, while at the same time those at the front of the crowd eased a little further any from the great black horse.

The burly man, however, was not so easily daunted. Carefully watching the horse's whitening eye, he came to the side and spoke roughly to Hawklan.

'Who are you, and what do you want?' he demanded.

Hawklan reached out his hand in friendly greeting. 'My name's Hlan,' he said. 'And this is Isman.'Isloman gave the man a friendly nod. 'We'd be greatly obliged if you could tell us where we might buy supplies for the rest of our journey.'

The man ignored the offered hand and the pleasantries bounced off his scowl. 'You're lying,' he said.

'You're Orthlundyn. You're spies.'

Hawklan sensed that while those hostile to them in the crowd were comparatively few, they held a dominance beyond their numbers. He affected a puzzled expression. 'We're Orthlundyn, certainly,' he said. 'But spies? I don't understand.'

'You're enemies of Fyorlund, sneaking in here through the quiet paths hoping not to be seen. We've been told about what's happening in Orthlund and to look out for the likes of you.' Before Hawklan could speak, the man's att.i.tude changed abruptly from unpleasantness to belligerence. He levelled a finger at Hawklan and his face became suffused with anger. 'Well, you'll not get past us. You'll not sneak any further.'

Hawklan raised his hands in a placatory gesture. 'I don't understand you,' he repeated. 'We're just travellers come to look at your country and your great houses and cities. Do we look like spies?'

The answer was swift and unequivocal. 'You're soldiers without doubt,' the man said. 'With that bow and your fancy sword, and that great horse.'

'Ah,' said Hawklan, 'I understand. The horse is from Riddin. It's a Muster horse. I bought it at the Gretmearc. The bow's just for hunting I'm afraid we haven't enough money to buy food all the time and, well, I brought the sword in case we ran into bandits in the mountains.'

The man scowled, and Hawklan could see that he was not listening to what was being said. He got the impression of a man who had not been much thought of in the village, despised even, but who had recently been pushed into prominence. His att.i.tude was not one that would naturally command even the mixed support of this present crowd. Such support as there was, therefore, came as a result of some influence which was not immediately apparent. Equally, therefore, Hawklan saw that they might be in greater danger than was immediately apparent. Careful, he thought, and then, as if a.s.suming his explanation had ended the matter, he swung his left leg over the horse's head and dropped down to face the man.

The suddenness of the movement made the man start and there was some laughter in the crowd. He spun round and the laughter faded. One or two stepped away from him.

'That's enough,' he shouted angrily. 'These people sneak in here armed to the teeth, and spin some yarn about hunting and bandits, and you think it's some kind of a joke.' He swung a pointing finger around the crowd. 'Don't think I don't know which of you sympathize with these spies. There'll be a reckoning soon for the traitors in our own camp.'

One or two looked as if they would have liked to disagree, but were too afraid.

Hawklan intervened. 'I a.s.sure you. We're not spies . . . or soldiers. We've done no harm and we mean none. If we're not welcome here, we'll leave. But we'd still like to buy supplies to tide us over the next few days.' He addressed this appeal to the crowd and began fumbling in a pouch on his belt. 'We've money enough for that.'

A brief s.n.a.t.c.h of bird-song floated across the square. Gavor's signal that danger was approaching. 'We don't want your money, spies,' said the man viciously. Before Hawklan could reply, there was a disturbance in the crowd as four men pushed roughly to the front.

'Trouble, Gister?' one of the new arrivals asked the man confronting Hawklan.

'Not now you've managed to get here, Uskal,' said the man. 'Where've you been? This lot's useless.'

He flicked a derisory thumb at the crowd. 'I d.a.m.n near had to whip most of them out on to the street.

Left to them these two would've walked right through unhindered.' His voice began to develop a whine of self-justification Uskal was almost as tall as Hawklan and powerfully built, with a lowering stupid face enlivened by just enough intelligence to confirm him as being dangerously vicious. He did not seem inclined to explain his late arrival, but immediately directed his attention to Hawklan and Isloman.

'These the two?' he asked.

Gister nodded.

'Right,' said Uskal through clenched teeth, and without further formalities he stepped forward and struck Hawklan in the stomach. To Hawklan, the blow appeared to be lumberingly slow and he was able to absorb its worst effects simply by expanding his stomach muscles and moving back a little to disturb the balance of his attacker. However, he bent forward as if hurt, to see what effect this would have on the crowd. He had no doubt that he and Isloman could deal with Gister and the other four but, if the crowd sided with their own kind, as well they might, then the two of them would probably be overpowered or injured.

Isloman jumped down from his horse and was immediately seized by two of the new arrivals. Hawklan shot him a swift glance as he saw his powerful frame preparing to deal out summary justice. Isloman read the look and struggled in a half-hearted manner until one of the men hit him also.

The third man grabbed Hawklan from behind and Uskal made to hit him again but, pretending to lose his balance, Hawklan staggered sideways, taking his captor with him, so that Uskal's blow fell ineffectually across his face, slightly cutting his bottom lip against his teeth. As if released by the small trickle of blood that ran down his chin, a small evil sprite raised a long-silent voice deep inside Hawklan. 'You'll die for this, you corruption,' it said. Hawklan's eyes opened in horror as he felt the venom within him, and he swept the thought away ruthlessly.

'Had enough, eh?' said Uskal, misreading Hawklan's expression. Then roughly seizing his jaw he brought his leering face close to Hawklan's.

However, a babble of anger from the crowd precluded any reply by Hawklan. One of the older men stepped forward and took Uskal's arm. 'That's not necessary,' he said. 'They weren't causing any trouble. There's no reason to treat them like that.'

Uskal released Hawklan, shook his arm free and, seizing the man by the front of his tunic, pushed him violently backwards. 'That's how we treat weaklings and cowards, Flec.' he said.

Flec, however, was neither weakling nor coward and, recovering his balance, he surged forward at his attacker, seizing him round the waist and carrying him to the ground. For a while they struggled, raising a small cloud of dust, while others tried uncertainly to separate them. But Uskal was the stronger and morevicious of the two and soon had the advantage of the older man. Sitting on his chest, he struck him a savage blow in the face, and then, standing up, prepared to deliver an equally savage kick.

'No!'

Hawklan's unexpectedly powerful voice made Uskal stop abruptly and, looking round, the man caught the mood of the crowd. It was a dangerous mixture of fear and anger and it was turning against him for sure. He looked at Hawklan with an expression of intense loathing a distant trumpet call sounded in Hawklan's memory the look was familiar, but he had never seen the like in Orthlund.

'Don't shout at me, filth,' Uskal cried, and striding forward he brought his arm back to strike Hawklan full in the face. Unbidden, Hawklan's knees bent and, moving sideways, he hurled the man holding him over his shoulder straight into the approaching Uskal. The two tumbled on to the ground and rolled for some way, such had been the power of Hawklan's throw. The circling crowd widened dramatically.

Isloman, still held by the two men, caught Hawklan's eye. Hawklan shook his head.

'Seize him, seize him,' shouted Gister, but n.o.body seemed inclined to listen. Uskal, downed by this stranger, lost whatever small control he had. He stood up and looked round furiously.

'No more, please,' said Hawklan pleadingly. It was still important to keep the crowd divided in their att.i.tude to him; laying this oaf out might still turn them against him.

But Uskal was beyond listening. He wrenched a sickle off a man standing nearby, sending him staggering with a powerful blow in the chest when he offered some resistance. Then, crouching slightly, he moved towards Hawklan, his face turned into a grinning mask. He twisted the curved, shining blade so that it reflected the sunlight into Hawklan's eyes.

You're a demented, unfettered creature, came the thought to Hawklan, and he felt his right hand preparing to draw his sword. A vision of the black sword singing out and severing this abomination in two floated alluringly before Hawklan, and he dismissed it only with a considerable conscious effort.

Time enough later to consider such thoughts and the throw that had saved Flec and brought about this predicament but there was a more pressing problem to be dealt with first.

Uskal was still moving forward, swinging the sickle from side to side. Hawklan retreated slowly, still anxious to play the bewildered traveller.

'No more,' he repeated, to reinforce this, but soon he would have to defend himself in earnest, and he knew that his body would act outside his control when threatened, using skills beyond his knowing. And while this might overcome Uskal, it could turn the crowd against him.

As if sensing Hawklan's dilemma, Isloman started to struggle with the two men holding him, dragging them to and fro. 'Let me go,' he shouted. 'This is madness. There'll be murder done.'

Serian, apparently alarmed by the disturbance, began to jig and prance like a skittish colt, his hooves kicking up a great cloud of dust. But his eyes were firmly fixed on Hawklan, awaiting a command.

Hawklan gave it with an almost imperceptible nod and Serian pranced even more wildly.

With a swift step, Hawklan moved across to the horse as though to quieten it, or perhaps hide behind it, away from Uskal's swinging blade. The movement seemed to act like a signal to Uskal who charged towards Hawklan like a wild predator after fleeing prey. Serian reared wildly and his flailing hoof caught Uskal a pitiless and accurate blow on the shoulder, sending him sprawling and screaming in the dust, thesickle bouncing harmlessly towards the feet of its real owner.

Hawklan took his horse's head as if calming it. 'I presume you didn't want him killed,' Serian said softly.

Hawklan patted the great head affectionately and then ran across to his fallen a.s.sailant who was writhing on the ground and lashing out at anyone who tried to touch him.