Thus, leaving groups of villagers scouring the immediate vicinity of the village, the two men took horse and rode off in the direction the Fyordyn had taken.

Neither were good hors.e.m.e.n but they made adequate, if uncomfortable, progress and soon located the site of the camp that the Fyordyn had used on the previous night. From there a trail of lightly damaged gra.s.ses and undergrowth showed that the Fyordyn had ridden towards the Pedhavin Road, before heading north, confirming the High Guard's statement that they were heading back to Fyorlund.

Relieved that the Fyordyn seemed to be making leisurely progress, the two brothers rode through the night as rapidly as they dared, pausing only occasionally to rest the horses and to stretch their own sore limbs. Early in the morning, they saw the High Guards' camp in the shelter of a small copse and, turning off the road, they trotted towards it, casting long shadows on the dew-chilled gra.s.s.

A number of the Guards came forward to greet them and, as the two men dismounted, their horses were courteously taken from them and led away. However, before either could speak they found themselves quietly surrounded and held at knife and sword point. When Loman tried to move, the unequivocal intention of their captors was made quite clear.

'Please don't attempt to escape. We've orders to hold you until Jaldaric can see you,' said one, resting the point of his long sword on Loman's throat.

Isloman reached out gently and rested a restraining hand on his brother's arm. Casting his eyes about significantly into the surrounding trees and bushes and at the group of men holding them, Isloman sent the obvious message to his brother.

Although it was unlikely that any of these young men had been in actual combat, they were trained soldiers and as such were not going to commit themselves to violence, where random chance could play too high a part, unless it was absolutely necessary. They had, therefore, ensured the two brothers were totally overwhelmed. Each was restrained by four sharp points, at least two of which, at any one time, were out of sight and were signalled only by the occasional gentle prod in the back. Then there were two bowmen some distance away, weapons at the ready, and clear sounds of movement in the nearby trees.

Isloman looked steadily down into the face of the man opposite him and took some satisfaction in the man's inability to return his gaze. Loman fumed and roared, but did not move.

After a few minutes, Jaldaric came out of one of the tents. Loman smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but Jaldaric waved him to silence. When he spoke, both his manner and voice were formal. 'I regret that it was necessary to abduct your daughter,' he said bluntly to Loman. Both the captive brothers gaped, but found no words. Jaldaric looked down fleetingly then, recovering himself, continued. 'It was done at the direct order of a superior and we had . . . no choice. She's unharmed and is currently being taken to Fyorlund where she'll be given every consideration. Now, unfortunately, you'll have to come as well, but you too will be given every courtesy if you behave correctly.'

Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed the two men to the care of their guards and turning on his heel walked quickly back to the tent he had just come from, his shoulders hunched high, showing the inner tension that he had managed to keep from his voice.

Before either man could recover sufficiently to even shout questions after the retreating figure, the surrounding sword points began shepherding them towards another tent.

'Just do as you're told and no harm will come to anyone,' said one of the High Guards. 'This tent's a bit rough, but we weren't expecting you. We'll find you something better tomorrow.'

Loman swore at him roundly, but moved as he was bidden.

Inside the bare tent, Loman spent some considerable time raging after Jaldaric and his companions, but eventually he fell silent and slumped on to the ground with his back against the tent's central pole. As the day wore on, they were given food and drink, which Isloman was just able to prevent being hurled by Loman at the head of the man who brought it. But no one spoke to them, nor offered any answers to their questions, and the entrance to the tent was guarded all the time. In between fits of rage and frustration, the two men tried to make some sense of their predicament, but their conjectures led them nowhere other than into more frustration. Tirilen's abduction was almost unbelievable in itself, but to learn that it had been done by High Guards of Fyorlund left the two brothers floundering hopelessly. The High Guard were the epitome of Fyorlund chivalry; their action made no sense. Eventually, however, as night came, physical and emotional fatigue took its toll and the two men fell asleep.

Isloman woke up suddenly from a fitful, dream-racked slumber. He shook his brother and gestured silence. Something seemed to be out of place. Cautiously he crawled to the entrance of the tent and peered out. The guards were not there, and there were sounds of merriment coming from one of the other tents.

He found it hard to believe that the High Guards could be so neglectful of their duty but, realizing that a similar chance was unlikely to occur again, he gestured frantically to Loman. The full implications of this lapse by the High Guards pa.s.sed between the two brothers with a mere glance and, after pausing only until a cloud slid in front of the moon, they ran crouching and silent to where their horses were tethered.

Fighting down a powerful urge just to mount and flee they led the horses on foot quickly and quietly out of the camp.

After several minutes, Loman stopped. 'What are we doing?' he said. 'We must go back for Tirilen.'

His shocked voice was loud in the still darkness.

Spinning round as if struck, Isloman seized him and clamped a huge hand violently over his mouth.

For a moment Loman struggled, but even in the moonlight he could see the desperate plea in Isloman's eyes, and he became still.

'I want to go back too,' Isloman hissed, slowly removing his hand. 'But we don't even know if Tirilen's there, do we? She's being taken to Fyorlund, Jaldaric said. And, in any case, what can we do against so many trained soldiers, even if they're a bit the worse for drink at the moment?'

Loman glowered furiously but did not speak. Isloman nodded. 'Yes, we could do a great deal of damage. But that's all. We'd still end up being killed, and then what would happen to Tirilen?' Loman turned his face away as Isloman continued. 'We need help. We'll have to go back to the village.'

Breathing heavily, but still without speaking, Loman clambered on to his horse and started off at a canter. Isloman glanced back at the camp briefly and then mounted up and rode after his brother. Behind the two men, the sound of carousing and laughter faded into the distance.

They rode back to Pedhavin as they had never ridden before and reached it in the middle of the morning, stiff and weary, with horses steaming and foaming.

Their noisy arrival brought out many of the villagers and it was barely a matter of minutes before they were pouring out their tale to a gathering of the High Fellows of the Guild. The predominant reaction was one of shock and disbelief. The Orthlundyn regarded the Fyordyn as an honourable people, some of the older men referring to them as the Protectors of Orthlund. This act of treachery was beyond most of them to grasp immediately and Loman and Isloman had to repeat their tale several times before any semblance of a clear decision was reached.

Ireck summarized it. 'Now you've escaped, they'll a.s.sume you'll return with help, so they'll probably make haste northwards. We'll gather such as can be spared and go after them, though I doubt we'll beable to catch them. You two must wait here for Hawklan. He should be on his way back by now. We need his guidance.'

Both Isloman and Loman bridled at this suggestion, but Ireck used the authority of their long friendship and was unequivocal.

'Every one of us around this table loves Tirilen. What's happened defies belief, but we're carvers, we must see things the way they are. You two are too heated and you've been warriors in your day. If you go, there'll be fighting.' He gave Loman a stern look. 'Look at you, Loman. You're clenching your fist even while I'm talking to you.' Loman breathed out heavily and put his hands behind his back awkwardly. Ireck continued. 'If there's fighting, then others than yourselves may be hurt, or worse.

Could either of you carry that burden? That Jaldaric struck me as a reasonable and honest young man. If enough of us go to him peacefully they'll not be able to take us captive, and I doubt they'll fight us if we don't attack, so there's a chance we might resolve the matter by talking. Don't you agree?'

Isloman was about to argue, but surprisingly, Loman cut him short. 'You're right, Ireck, it's a good idea.

Besides, Tirilen wouldn't want anyone hurt on her account. And we do need Hawklan's advice.'

He looked round at the wooden beams overhead and at the sunlight washing across the floor, then at the ceremonial stone table they were all sitting around. Unlike the rest of the village, but like the remainder of this room, the table was completely undecorated in symbolic homage to the greater carvers yet to come.

'It's a sad tale to relate around our Meeting Table, friends,' he went on. 'But I'm indebted to you, Ireck, for your sound sense. Do what you can. Isloman and I will do our best to wait patiently for Hawklan.'

'When he arrives, give him the horse I bought,' said Jareg. 'Whatever he did to it, he's cured it, and it's a fine animal.'

Loman bowed. 'Thank you, Jareg, but I doubt that Hawklan will ride it. You know what he's like.'

'He'll ride it for Tirilen, Loman,' said Jareg. 'Offer it to him. He'll need it. Times are moving too quickly for walking.'

Almost before his mind could register the fact, Hawklan rolled away from the menacing shadows and rose quickly to his feet. As he did so he drew his sword in one singing sweep, though it felt heavy and reluctant in his hand.

In spite of his terror, part of his mind seemed to be watching him: noting with approval his rapid glance around the whole area for other attackers and commending him for the speed with which he recovered his balance when he caught his foot in his cloak as he stood up.

Taken aback by the quickness of this movement, the two figures seemed to be momentarily paralysed.

Then, suddenly, to Hawklan's horror, the strange helm on the taller of the two seemed to come to life.

Hawklan crouched low and waited for whatever attack might come from this apparition.

'Dear boy,' said a familiar voice, laden with both alarm and reproach. The helm flapped its great black wings. 'Fine way to greet friends.' Hawklan straightened up and lowered his sword as the faces of Loman and Isloman became clearer in the moonlight. His immediate reaction of delight and relief was, however, stemmed by the appearance of his friends. They were grim-faced and armed.

Before Hawklan could speak, Loman stepped forward, his face fighting for control over some powerful emotion.

'Hawklan,' he said. 'Help us. Tirilen has been taken by strangers.'

It took the two men but moments to tell the tale of Tirilen's disappearance, their ill-fated encounter with the High Guards, and the decisions made by the Guild.

'We couldn't wait back in the village,' said Loman, almost sheepishly. 'You might have been gone for weeks. We had to try and find you.'

Hawklan nodded silently.

'It's a good job I heard them, dear boy,' said Gavor. 'You disappear without trace when you wear that cloak in the dark. They'd have walked straight past us.'

Even now, Hawklan was difficult to see, wrapped in his cloak and squatting on the shadow-dappled ground, as he listened to his friends' tale. He kept his body very still in an attempt to keep his mind calm, but he felt it was beginning to race out of control. The blows recently struck against him were disturbing and mysterious enough, but this strange and sinister happening seemed to dwarf everything else.

Something within him told him that he was the cause of Tirilen's abduction, and that he was being led towards some destiny beyond his seeing at the moment. Both logic and an inner resolve brought him to the same conclusion, namely that he must seek out the person, or thing, that was seeking him, and confront it, or he would be pursued endlessly and his friends would be crushed one by one in the wake of his flight.

'What shall we do?' Loman asked, after a long pause.

Hawklan pushed back the hood of his cloak from his face and gazed up into the moonlit sky. A slight signal of concern pa.s.sed between the two brothers as his pale face shone white in the moonlight. Their friend was changing perceptibly: the healer had wandered off on a strange pilgrimage seemingly transformed into a prince come down from one of Anderras Darion's carvings; now, for an instant, his face looked old and battle-weary. It was a look they had seen in the faces of some of the Muster officers in the Morlider wars. His eyes, however, showed no sign of fatigue, nor his tone.

'When you've rested, we must go straight after Ireck and his party, and hope that his counsels have prevailed,' Hawklan said quietly.

'We need no rest,' said Isloman impatiently. 'We've wasted too much time already.'

Hawklan looked at him and smiled faintly. 'The horses need rest, Isloman,' he said. 'We'll make no progress at all if we ride them into the ground, will we?'

Isloman slapped his hands on his knees in frustration. Hawklan stood up abruptly and the two brothers echoed his action. He looked at them both in turn. 'We've known one another too long and too well to vie amongst ourselves like silly children about which of us has the greatest affection for Tirilen. We must set aside our selfish pain and think of her. You two must think as you did when you fought side by side before she was born. I'll offer what observations I can.' Hawklan shook his head pensively. 'I seem to be finding many strange skills and ideas within myself these days. I fear I may not be without some experience in battle myself, though I remember none of it.'

Gavor ruffled his feathers noisily in the darkness, and for a moment the group stood in an uneasy silence.

Then, cutting through it, Hawklan said almost jauntily, 'Show me Jareg's horse. I had doubts about whether it would reach Pedhavin alive.'

'It's a fine mount,' said Isloman. 'Jareg knows his horses and he's got a real bargain there. He said it livened up considerably after you'd seen it on the way back.'

Hawklan walked across to the three horses waiting patiently by the path and laid his hand on the animal's nose. It was indeed well again.

The horse spoke to him unexpectedly. 'I am Serian, Hawklan. And your debtor. I'm whole again through your ministrations and I'm happy to see you returned from the Gretmearc uninjured, if not unchanged.'

Hawklan started. Animals rarely sought to impose themselves on others and it was unusual for one to speak unless spoken to first. However, it did not surprise him that the horse had noticed the changes in him. Certain animals seemed to possess a strange deep vision that harked back through many generations.

'Yes,' he replied. 'I'm uninjured, or nearly so.' He held up his bandaged hand. 'Thank you for the warning you gave me. I thought the giving of it would have destroyed you.'

The horse gave the equivalent of a chuckle. 'It was a powerful hand that was laid on me, without a doubt,' he said. 'Even though it was an accident.'

'Accident?' queried Hawklan.

'Oh yes,' said Serian. 'I was only caught by the welt of a restraining curse they were using to disguise their monstrous snare. If they'd realized I'd recognized them I'd be in the pot by now.'

Another innocent harmed by traps set for me, thought Hawklan, but he could not forbear smiling at the horse's remark and he patted his cheek.

'Still, I'm a Muster horse,' Serian continued. 'I don't succ.u.mb easily. Now I'm well again, will you allow me to carry you?'

Hawklan stepped back a little. On the rare occasions he had ridden, it had been he who had asked permission of the horse. 'Thank you,' he said uncertainly. 'But I've no wish to burden another animal.'

There was a faint hint of impatience in the horse's reply. 'Hawklan, you'll not catch the Fyordyn on foot, even the way you walk.'

'There I think you're wrong, my friend,' said Hawklan. 'I think I'll catch them however slowly I travel because they wish me to catch them.' Unexpectedly, the horse reared a little. 'Then you'll need me even more, won't you?' he said. 'If you wish to remain free to release your Tirilen and escape.'

The horse's powerful personality struck Hawklan almost like a physical force.

'And besides,' Serian continued, 'how could you burden me? I could carry thrice your weight until you fell off from exhaustion and I'd know no strain.' Serian bent his head forward and his voice sounded strangely in Hawklan's ears. 'The Sires within me know you, Hawklan, even if I don't, and even if you don't know them. Can you question the destiny that's brought us together? I blighted by ancient and fearful enemies and in need of a healer, and you floundering in the unknown like a cork in a stream and in dire need of a mount.'

Hawklan seemed to hear the distant trumpet call he had heard when first he picked up the black sword, and the horse's voice suddenly echoed and thundered in his mind as though they stood in a great chamber.

'Generations have made me, Hawklan. Generations. It's your privilege and your duty to ride me just as it is mine to bear you. Not to do so is to diminish us both.'

Hawklan bowed his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't understand. We humans forget our place in the world too often. I'll ride you gladly.'

'And I'll carry you willingly and well, Hawklan,' replied the horse quietly. For a little while the two stood silent in the moonlit stillness.

When he left Serian, Hawklan went to the other horses and spent some time using his hands to ease the fatigue from them. He spoke to them a little, but they were like most animals shy and reserved. Their very normality highlighted Serian's powerful presence, but Hawklan set aside the strangeness of the horse and of their meeting, placing it with the many other mysteries that were acc.u.mulating around him.

'Are they well?' Isloman's deep voice interrupted his reverie.

'Yes,' Hawklan replied. 'They'll be well rested by dawn. We can leave then and make good progress.

Now, let me have a look at this gashed hand of yours that I've heard so much about.'

Sheepishly, Isloman offered the injured hand. Hawklan looked at Tirilen's neat and characteristic bandaging and felt a lump come into his throat. Bending forward so that Isloman could not see his face he removed the bandage gently to reveal a livid, inflamed scar.

'It's getting better slowly,' Isloman said apologetically, but Hawklan scarcely heard him. A savage tremor pa.s.sed through him as he looked at the damaged flesh and felt Isloman's inner strength fighting off its evil. He recognized the tremor as a cry for vengeance against the tinker for the damage he had wrought, made almost unbearable by the poignant touch of Tirilen's healing skill emanating from the damaged hand he was holding.

Chapter 4.

Gavor turned and twisted high in the cold mountain air. Looking down, he could see the three figures moving along the winding path: Hawklan, tall, straight and relaxed, looking like part of the animal he was riding, constantly having to check himself from riding too far ahead of the others; Loman and Islomanlooking anything but part of their animals, struggling awkwardly with the mounting discomfort of having been several days in the saddle, and fretting impatiently at what they saw to be their lack of speed.

Every few hours, Hawklan stopped and made them rest. Ostensibly it was for the benefit of the horses but, in fact, it was to calm and relax his friends with words and occasional ma.s.sage and manipulation to ease tense and tired muscles and stiffening joints. In this way they made as good progress as such a trio could make.

Gavor straightened his wings to rest on a slow-rising air current and, with the occasional movement of his pinion feathers to keep his balance, soared smoothly around in a great circle. Then he put his head down and, tumbling over in an apparent confusion of feet and wings, he looked again at the gift which Loman had brought for him; if gift it was. A pair of long black, glittering sharp, fighting spurs.

'I'm not sure what they are, but they're the same metal as the sword, Hawklan,' Loman had said, fumbling them cautiously out of a pocket and offering them for inspection. 'I found them near where we found the sword. I don't know why I've never seen them before . . .' He had shrugged in reluctant acceptance of yet another strange chance happening. But all of them had fallen silent when, as if by some ancient instinct, Gavor had picked the spurs up deftly in his beak and snapped one on to each leg.

'Careful, they're very sharp . . .' Loman said hastily, his hand reaching out protectively. Then his eyes had opened wide in a confusion of shock and disbelief. The spurs fitted Gavor's legs perfectly, one even having a special clip to accommodate an irregularity in his wooden leg. Instead of making him look incongruous, however, the spurs made him look formidable, just as the black sword had changed Hawklan's appearance.

Loman had turned to Hawklan. 'It can't be possible,' he said.

'But it is,' replied Hawklan simply. 'And I've no more answers than you have.' He fingered the pommel of the Black Sword unconsciously.

Even Gavor himself had been at a loss for words, taken aback at his own actions. Now, skimming the air currents, he discovered something else about the spurs. Instead of hindering his flight as he had expected, they improved it. His balance, his manoeuvrability, even his speed, all seemed to be better, and he knew deep inside that few flying creatures could attack him now and depart unscathed.

'I'll be a fearless feathered fighter now, dear boy,' he said, alighting on Hawklan's shoulder. Then, thoughtfully, 'Do you think I should take them off when I go to visit my friends, or leave them on to make a greater impression?'

Hawklan laughed. 'How do you expect me to answer that for you, you fearless feathered lecher?

Hawklan the innocent?'