Roger Taylor - Hawklan 4 - Into Narsindal

Roger Taylor has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be

identified as the Author of this work.

First published in United Kingdom in 1990 by Headline Book Publishing.

This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1

4EB, United Kingdom

www.mushroom-ebooks.com

the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 1843191466

Into Narsindal

Book Four of The Chronicles of Hawklan

Roger Taylor

Mushroom eBooks

Map of Hawklan’s Land

“The time of Hawklan is so far in the past that it could be the distant future”

Prologue

Hawklan’s face was desolate.

‘I remember the enemy falling back and standing silently watching us. I remember the sky, black with

smoke, and flickering with fighting birds. There was a raucous command from somewhere and the enemy

lowered their long pikes – they were not going to close with us again. Then the figure next to me shouted

defiance at them, hurled its shield into their midst and reached up to tear away its helm.’ Hawklan paused

and his eyes glistened as he relived the moment. ‘Long blonde hair tumbled out like a sudden ray of

sunlight in that terrible gloom.’ He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t realized who it was. A great roar went up

from the circling army. I called out her name . . .’ He opened his mouth to call again. Both Gulda and

Andawyr watched, lips parted, as if willing him this release, but no sound came from either of them.

‘Without taking her eyes from the approaching enemy, she reached back and her hand touched my face

briefly. “I am here,” its touch said. “I am with you to the end.” I threw away my own helm and shield and

took my sword two-handed as she had. Then the figure at my back cried out in recognition. He too I had

not recognized in the press. Thus by some strange chance, we three childhood friends formed the last

remnant of our great army.’

He paused again and clenched his fist, as if around his sword hilt. ‘A group of the enemy threw down

their pikes and rushed forward to take . . . the girl. She killed three of them with terrible skull-splitting

blows, but . . .

‘So I slew her. I slew my friend. With a single stroke. I saw her head tumbling red and gold down the

slope and into the darkness under those countless trampling feet.’ He shook his head. ‘Better that than

that she be taken alive.

‘The rest of her attackers fled back to their pikes and the enemy began its final slow advance. Back to

back we held. Pushed aside and broke their long spears. Killed several. Then my last friend and ally fell

and I . . .’ He faltered.

‘He said “I’m sorry,” even as he fell . . .

‘That last burden was my end and I too sank to my knees . . .’

Chapter 1

Startled, Jaldaric spun round as the rider appeared suddenly out of the trees and galloped to his side.

His right hand began moving reflexively towards his sword, but a cautionary hiss from Tel-Mindor

stopped it. Abruptly, a second rider appeared on the other side of the road and moved to flank

Arinndier.

Tel-Mindor looked behind. Three more riders were following. Despite himself, his concern showed

briefly on his face. Not because the five men seemed to offer any immediate menace, though they were

armed, but because he had not seen them, and that indicated both wilful concealment and no small skill

on their part. However, his Goraidin nature did not allow the concern to persist. Instead he began to feel

a little easier; the actual appearance of the men confirmed the unease he had felt growing for some time.

‘Hello,’ said the first new arrival to Jaldaric, his face unexpectedly friendly. ‘I’m sorry I startled you.

We’ve been following you since you came out of the mountains, but your friend here,’ – he nodded

towards Tel-Mindor – ‘was on the point of spotting us, so I thought it would save problems if we

approached you directly.’

His manner was pleasant enough but, still unsettled by the man’s abrupt arrival, Jaldaric’s reply was

harsher than he had intended.

‘Following?’ he said. ‘Do the Orthlundyn always follow visitors to their country?’

‘No, no,’ the man replied with a smile. ‘You’re the first.’ His smile turned into a laugh. ‘In fact you’re

the only people who’ve come out of Fyorlund since we started border duty. It was good practice for us.’

He extended his hand. ‘My name’s Fyndal, and this is my brother Isvyndal.’

Jaldaric’s natural courtesy made him take the hand, though part of him remembered Aelang, and was

alert for a sudden attack. ‘This is the Lord Arinndier, the Rede Berryn and his aide Tel-Mindor,’ he said,

indicating his three companions. ‘I’m Jaldaric, son of the Lord Eldric.’

This time it was Fyndal who started. ‘Jaldaric,’ he echoed, his eyes widening. Then, as if uncertain how

to phrase the question, ‘Jaldaric who came with Dan-Tor and kidnapped Tirilen?’

Jaldaric’s face coloured at the reminder of his previous visit to Orthlund. ‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly,

looking down at his hands briefly. ‘To my shame.’

‘And was taken by Mandrocs?’ Fyndal continued. Jaldaric looked puzzled, but nodded.

Fyndal reined his horse to a halt, as if he needed a moment’s stillness to assimilate this information. His

brother too seemed to be affected.

The three riders behind them also stopped.

Then Fyndal clicked his horse forward again. ‘Why have you returned?’ he asked, his manner still

uncertain.

‘You not only follow, you interrogate,’ Jaldaric began, but Arinndier leaned forward and interrupted him.

‘We’re representatives of the Geadrol,’ he said. ‘We’ve important news for all the Orthlundyn, and

Isloman told us that we should seek out his brother Loman and the Memsa Gulda at Anderras Darion.’

Again Fyndal showed surprise. ‘You’ve spoken to Isloman?’ he said. ‘Where is he? Was Hawklan with

him?’

He gestured to the following riders, who spurred forward to join the group. Jaldaric and the others

exchanged glances. ‘Who taught you the High Guards’ hand language, Fyndal?’ Jaldaric asked.

‘Loman,’ Fyndal answered. ‘He taught it to all of us.’

‘Us?’ queried Arinndier.

‘The Helyadin,’ Fyndal replied.

All Fyndal’s answers were uttered straightforwardly and in the manner of someone stating the obvious.

Arinndier opened his mouth to ask for an explanation, but Fyndal repeated his inquiry.

‘When did you see Hawklan and Isloman?’ he said, concern beginning to show through his affability.

‘Where are they? Are they safe?’

Arinndier shook his head. ‘We don’t know where they are,’ he said, then pausing thoughtfully he added,

‘They left Fyorlund some time ago with two of our men to return to Anderras Darion. I’d hoped they’d

be in Orthlund by now.’

Fyndal frowned unhappily and made to speak again, but this time Arinndier took the initiative.

‘What we do know about Isloman and Hawklan we’ll tell to Loman and Memsa Gulda when we meet,

Fyndal,’ he said. ‘That and a great many other things. Then it’s up to them what they choose to tell you.

You understand, I’m sure. In the meantime, perhaps you could tell us who you are. And what the

Helyadin are, and why you follow and question visitors to Orthlund. And why this man Loman should see

fit to teach you our High Guards’ hand language.’

‘We’re just . . . soldiers,’ Fyndal answered, with a slight hesitation. ‘We’re on border patrol, making

sure that nothing . . . unpleasant . . . comes into our land unchallenged again. Loman taught us the hand

language because he said it was a good one’ – he gave a subdued laugh – ‘and it was the only one he

knew. He’s taught us a lot of other things as well.’

‘Soldiers, eh? So the Orthlundynhave been preparing for war.’ It was Rede Berryn and his tone was

ironic. ‘How typical of Dan-Tor to tell the truth and make it sound like a lie.’ Then he looked at the

young Orthlundyn again. ‘Who are you preparing for war against, Helyadin?’ he asked.

Fyndal looked at the old man. ‘Sumeral, Rede,’ he said simply. ‘Sumeral. And all who stand by His

side.’

The Rede met his gaze and idly rubbed a scar on his forehead. Since Hawklan and Isloman had left his

village with their Mathidrin escort he had heard only rumours and gossip about what was happening in

Vakloss and the rest of the country. Such instructions as he had received told him nothing, and such

inquiries as he made were ignored. The local Mathidrin company was suddenly greatly strengthened and

the patrolling of the Orthlund border increased dramatically. Then a ban they imposed – and enforced –

on virtually all travelling ended any hope he had of obtaining accurate information from such friends as he

had in the capital.

Throughout these happenings Berryn had followed the ancient survival technique of the trained soldier

and kept himself inconspicuous while clinging to what he knew to be right and true. In his darker

moments, he tried to console himself with the thought that this madness must pass; the spirit of the

Fyordyn surely could not be so easily crushed.

And the memory of his brief encounter with Hawklan and Isloman persisted in returning like some kind

of reproach. Hawklan, the strange healer from wherever it was down there, looking every inch the

warrior, yet playing the coward before the crowd until his horse laid Uskal out. And Isloman, revealed

suddenly as one of the Orthlundyn Goraidin. The two of them, alone, seeking out Dan-Tor to demand an

accounting for an incident that could not possibly have happened. Armed Mandrocs marching through

Fyorlund to commit atrocities in Orthlund?

Yet the two men had patently been telling the truth.

The paradox had cost him sleepless nights. He, who could sleep in his saddle in the middle of a forced

march.

Then it was over. First, a flurry of increasingly improbable rumours: Dan-Tor attacked? The King slain?

Rebellion? Then, a dreadful silent lull and, as abruptly as they had come, the Mathidrin had left; the whole

complement riding off secretly one night without a word of explanation. The villagers had scarcely had

time to assimilate this change when Jaldaric and Arinndier had ridden in with a good old-fashioned High

Guard escort, and announced the defeat and flight of Dan-Tor and the Mathidrin.

But they had brought worse news. Ludicrous news. Dan-Tor was Oklar, the Uhriel. Sumeral had come

again and raised Derras Ustramel in Narsindal. No, Berryn had thought, rebelliously. Lord or no,

Arinndier, you’re wrong. Dan-Tor was a bad old devil, but I can’t accept that kind of nonsense.

And he had resolved to bring himself nearer the heart of this turmoil. Someone had to start talking sense.

Thus when Arinndier had dismissed his escort, fearing that such a patrol might be none too popular in

Orthlund, Rede Berryn had offered the services of himself and Tel-Mindor as guides.

‘We know the border area well, Lord,’ he had said. ‘Tel-Mindor doesn’t look like much, but he’s

worth the three of us put together. And no one’s going to be upset by a limping old duffer like me.’

On the journey, however, Arinndier had talked quite freely of all the events that had happened since the

Geadrol had been suspended, and Berryn had found the threads binding him to his old commonsense

reality were stretched to breaking point. Now, in his simple statement, the young Orthlundyn had severed

them utterly.

Oddly, the Rede felt more at ease, as many past events took on a new perspective.

Battle nerves, he thought suddenly. Just battle nerves. All that furious turmoil before you finally turn

round and face the truth. The realization made him smile.

‘You find the idea amusing,’ Fyndal said, misinterpreting the smile and uncertain whether to be indignant

or reproachful.

The Rede looked at him intently. Young men preparing for war again, and doubtless old men

encouraging them. Well he’d be damned if he’d play that game!

‘No,’ he said, his voice stern but sad. ‘I’ve ridden the Watch and done my time in Narsindal.’ He

tapped the scar on his head. ‘I’m only sorry I stopped watching too soon. Sorry for my sake, sorry for

your sake.’

Something in the man’s voice made Arinndier look at him. ‘Don’t reproach yourself, Rede,’ he said.

‘You weren’t alone. And at least we can see more clearly now. We’ve no time for self-indulgence. You

ensured that Hawklan reached Vakloss. Without that, all could well have been lost.’ He turned back to

Fyndal. ‘We need to bring our news to Loman and the Memsa as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Have you

made your judgement about us yet, soldier?’

‘Yes,’ Fyndal replied, taken unawares by his kindly bluntness. ‘Some time ago.’ Then his youth showed

on his face. ‘Can you tell us nothing about Hawklan?’ he asked, almost plaintively.

Arinndier shook his head regretfully and repeated his previous reply. ‘At Anderras Darion, soldier,’ he

replied. ‘And only then as determined by Loman and Memsa Gulda.’

For a moment, Fyndal seemed inclined to pursue the matter, but then with a resigned nod of his head, he

let it go. ‘I’ll ensure that you’re not delayed then,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the post riders send news of your

arrival ahead. That will save you a great deal of time, though I fear you may find Loman and Memsa

away with the army in the mountains still.’

‘You have an army mobilized?’ Arinndier asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Fyndal nodded.

Arinndier pulled his cloak around himself as a sudden gust of the cold raw wind that had been blowing in

their faces all day buffeted them.

‘There’s winter in the wind,’ he said. ‘I don’t envy anyone doing a mountain exercise in this.’

‘It’s no exercise, Lord,’ Fyndal said, his face suddenly grim. ‘They’re out trying to deal with an

unexpected foe.’

Arinndier raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but a brief knowing smile from Fyndal

stopped him.

‘I’ll find out at Anderras Darion?’ he suggested.

Fyndal’s smile broadened, though it did not outshine the concern in his face. ‘Indeed, Lord,’ he said.

Arinndier accepted the gentle rebuke at his own secrecy with good grace. ‘You won’t be accompanying

us yourselves?’

Fyndal shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We have to finish our tour of duty here first.’

‘I doubt you’ll see any more travellers from Fyorlund,’ Arinndier said. ‘If you feel you’ll be needed with

your army.’

Fyndal bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said. ‘But had we been needed,

we’d have been sent for. Our orders were to watch, and watch we must.’

Berryn nodded in approval.

Then Fyndal glanced at his brother and the three others, and they were gone, disappearing silently back

into the noisy trees.

‘Just stay on this road,’ he said, turning back to the Fyordyn. ‘It’ll carry you straight to Anderras Darion.

And don’t hesitate to ask for food or shelter at any of the villages. They’ll be expecting you by the time

you arrive.’ And, with a brief farewell, he too was gone.

As the sound of hoof-beats dwindled, Tel-Mindor rode alongside Arinndier. ‘I didn’t see them following

us, Lord,’ he admitted. ‘Whoever they were, they weren’t ordinary soldiers. And it almost defies belief

to think that anyone could have been trained so well in just a few months.’

Arinndier nodded. ‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think that whatever problems the Orthlundyn are having

in the mountains, they’re still keeping a very strict watch on their border with us, and, frankly, I don’t

blame them. As for the training . . .’ He shrugged. ‘The past months have reminded me of the service

they gave against the Morlider, and it was considerable. The Orthlundyn are a strange people. I’ve heard

them referred to as a remnant people at times. Not a phrase I’d care to use myself, but there aren’t many

of them, for sure, and it does prompt the question: remnant of what?’

* * * *

As the day progressed, the quartet trotted steadily south through the cold damp wind.

At the top of a long hill, Arinndier grimaced. ‘It’s neither mellow like autumn, nor sharp like winter,’ he

said, reining his horse to a halt. ‘Let’s walk awhile, give the horses a rest.’ Then he looked around at the

countryside they had just ridden through. After a moment, he nodded reflectively to himself. Despite the

unwelcoming wind and the dull hues of the dying vegetation, the place had its own strange peace.

A sudden intake of breath cut across his reverie.

Turning, he saw that it was Jaldaric, and even as he looked at him, he saw the young man’s face, already

pale with cold, blanching further until it was almost white.

‘What is it, Jal?’ he asked anxiously.

Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came. ‘It was here,’ he managed eventually,

gazing around. ‘I didn’t recognize it until I turned round and looked back down the hill. It was here. The

Mandrocs.’

Arinndier’s eyes narrowed at Jaldaric’s patent distress.

Tel-Mindor caught Arinndier’s eye and drew his gaze to the bushes and shrubs that lined the road. They

still bore signs of the damage where the Mandrocs had crashed through in pursuit of the High Guards.

‘Would you like to be alone?’ Arinndier asked.

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stand here alone every night as it is. Watching . . . Aelang . . .

struggling with his cloak and then smiling.’ He put his hand to his face involuntarily as if to block Aelang’s

swift and savage blow. It was a well-rehearsed movement. As Arinndier watched him he noted with

regret the grimness in his face and abruptly he was reminded of Eldric’s ferocious father.

Tel-Mindor stepped forward and took Jaldaric’s arm. ‘Say farewell to your friends now, Jal,’ he said

gently. ‘Leave them here. There are no good places to die violently, but there are worse than here.’

Jaldaric clenched his teeth. ‘I will stay a moment,’ he said. ‘You carry on. I’ll join you shortly.’

The three men were silent after they walked away from the young man. Each knew that there was little

they could do to ease Jaldaric’s burden, and while grief is a rending emotion, watching it in someone else

is precious little easier.

Eventually Jaldaric rejoined them, his face set and emotionless. No one spoke and, mounting up, the

party set off again.

As Fyndal had promised, the villagers they encountered had been told of their coming and they found

themselves being offered an abundance of food and drink. Having brought adequate supplies with them,

they tried to decline this generosity, only to find that Fyndal had laid gentle traps for them.

‘Yes, we know you’re in a hurry with your news, but you can eat this while you ride,’ was the comment

that invariably ended their hesitant refusals.

Jaldaric in particular was visibly moved by the warmth of the greeting he received.

After passing through Little Hapter, Arinndier carefully stowed a large pie in his saddlebag and looked at

the others a little shamefacedly. ‘I couldn’t refuse the woman, could I?’ he asked. ‘They must think

we’ve had a famine at home, not a war. Are there many more villages between here and Anderras

Darion, Jal?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Jaldaric replied, now much more relaxed, and smiling broadly.

‘We should’ve brought another pack-horse,’ Tel-Mindor said, chuckling.

Jaldaric nodded. ‘They do take some pride in their hospitality,’ he said. ‘But if you want the benefit of

my local knowledge, whatever you do, don’t start admiring their carving, or we’llnever reach Anderras

Darion.’

Their first encounters with the Orthlundyn however, whilst burdening their packs, had eased their

unspoken concerns greatly. The people apparently held no ill-will towards the Fyordyn who had

inadvertently brought such trouble to their land. Even the chill wind seemed to lose some of its edge.

After they had passed through Perato, Berryn remarked on the absence of young people from the

villages.

‘They must all be with this army of theirs in the mountains. It must be a civilian militia,’ he said. No one

disputed this conclusion and the Rede nodded to himself. ‘I know there aren’t many Orthlundyn,’ he

went on, ‘but if those villages are typical, then they’ve got a big army, and if they’re all in the mountains,

then they’re having to deal with a big problem.’

Arinndier looked at him. It was a valid deduction, but still it made no sense. Who could threaten the

Orthlundyn from the east? The chilling thought occurred to him that while Fyordyn had been looking

towards Vakloss, some army had swept down the Pass of Elewart to overwhelm Riddin and was now

moving against Orthlund prior to attacking Fyorlund’s southern border.

And we sent Sylvriss there!

The panic-stricken thought nearly made him voice his fear, but it was followed immediately by the

memory of the faces of the villagers they had met. These were not the faces of a people facing imminent

destruction at the hands of an army powerful enough to have overcome the Riddin Muster.

Nonetheless, the Rede’s comments had given him a problem that would not be set lightly aside, and at

the next village he asked directly what the army was doing.

The villagers made reassuring noises. ‘Don’t you worry yourself about that, young man,’ came the reply

from a man whom Arinndier judged to be somewhat younger than himself. ‘It’s just a little trouble with

the Alphraan. I’m sure Loman and Memsa Gulda will sort it out soon. Not many things argue with

Memsa Gulda for long.’

This last remark brought some general laughter from the group that had gathered around the new

arrivals, but Arinndier sensed an undertow of concern that was more serious than the levity indicated.

‘Who in the world are the Alphraan?’ he asked his companions as they continued on their way. The

name was vaguely familiar but he had been loath to show his ignorance to the villagers.

Jaldaric was frowning. ‘The only Alphraan I’ve ever heard of are in . . . children’s tales,’ he said

awkwardly. ‘Little people . . . who live underground and . . . sing.’ Rede Berryn and Tel-Mindor both

nodded.

Arinndier looked at them sternly, then his own memory produced the same image from somewhere in his

childhood. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps the word means something different down here,’ he said.

Tel-Mindor laughed softly. ‘Perhaps Fyndal’s sent more than one message to the villagers,’ he said

significantly.

The following day the wind had eased, but it was still cold, and the winter chill in the air was

unequivocal. And as if to emphasize this, many of the already snow-capped mountains to the east were

whiter than they had been on the previous day.

Looking at them, the thought of Sylvriss, Hawklan and Isloman came inexorably to Arinndier’s mind.

They should be through the mountains by now . . .

But the route taken by Sylvriss’s party was little used, and that taken by Isloman’s was virtually

unexplored. And as far as could be seen from Eldric’s stronghold, snow had come to the higher, inner

mountains unexpectedly early. Of course there was nothing he could do, but it took some effort to remind

himself of that.

‘What’s that?’ Tel-Mindor’s voice interrupted Arinndier’s brooding.

The Goraidin was holding his hand up for silence and craning forward intently. Unconsciously, the others

imitated him.

Faintly, the sound of distant singing reached them. It came and went, carried on the slight breeze.

‘I hope it’s not some kind of celebration for us,’ Arinndier said, patting his stomach.

The remark brought back to Jaldaric his tormented evening at Pedhavin when the villagers had held an

impromptu feast for them before he had had to return silently on his treacherous errand to snatch away

Tirilen. Several times during that evening he had forgotten utterly why he was there in the whirl of the

music and the dancing. Then his purpose would return to chill him to the heart like a mountain wind

striking through a sun-baked and sweltering walker breasting a ridge.

Since his welcome by the Orthlundyn however, this sad, dark thread running though his memory had

faded a little, and the happiness he had felt had become more dominant.

He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Lord,’ he said. ‘If it’s a celebration, they’ll soon dance the food off us.’

When they reached the next village however, despite the fact that there was quite a large crowd of

villagers on the small central green, there was no special celebration awaiting them. In fact, though they

were again offered food and drink, the attention that was paid to them was markedly less than that they

had received hitherto. The main topic of interest was the distant singing.

For distant it still was. As the Fyordyn had neared the village, the singing had grown a little louder and

clearer, but its source was obviously not near at hand.

‘What is it?’ Arinndier asked, but the villagers did not know and with polite head shaking declined to be

drawn into conjecture by these outlanders.

Pausing by the village leaving-stone, Arinndier turned to the others. ‘Something strange is happening,’ he

said. ‘Whether it’s bad or good I don’t know, but I think we should move a little faster.’ No one

disagreed.

Over the next few hours, the singing grew louder and, despite their concern, the four men could not be

other than swept up in its elaborate pulsing rhythms and joyous melodies.

‘Somebody, somewhere, is celebrating without a doubt,’ Berryn said. ‘That is amazing singing.’

But Arinndier frowned slightly. ‘Amazing indeed,’ he said. ‘But who could sing so long and so well, and

with such power that it carries so far and so clearly?’

As the question left his lips, the four riders, line abreast, clattered over the top of a small rise. Arinndier

gasped at the sight before them, and signalled to the group to halt. For a time they were motionless and

the singing rose around them to fill the air so that it seemed to be coming from every conceivable

direction.

Chapter 2

Andawyr dived into his small tent, sealed the entrance and, rubbing his hands together ferociously, swore

roundly, in a manner most unbecoming in the chosen leader of the ancient Order of the Cadwanol.

It was bitterly cold in the tent and his breath steamed out in great clouds, but at least he was now out of

that merciless wind.

Gathering his cloak tight about him, he crouched down and fumbled in his pack. After some muttering he

produced a small bag and immediately began to struggle with its tightly laced mouth. It took him some

minutes of finger blowing and further profanity, together with judicious use of his incisors, to release the

leather thong, but eventually he succeeded and with some relief emptied the contents on to a small tray.

He looked at the radiant stones dubiously. He’d never been any good at striking these damned things.

And they didn’t look very good either. He’d bought them very cheaply from a shifty-eyed blighter at the

Gretmearc. Rubbing his still frozen hands together again, he decided now that that might have been a

mistake – a very false economy.

The wind buffeted the tent to remind him where he was and he shrugged his self-recriminations aside;

good or bad, there’d be something in these things and he must get them lit quickly. Delving into his pack

again, he retrieved the striker and, tongue protruding slightly, scraped it along one of the stones.

Somewhat to his surprise a glowing white line appeared and spread out across the surface of the stone.

Less to his surprise, it faded almost immediately into a dull red. He eyed the stone malevolently and

struck it again, but the result was the same. Turning his attention to the striker he adjusted it and tried

again, but still the stone refused to ignite satisfactorily.

Several minutes later he had made little further progress, though he was a good deal warmer by then,

and his face was redder by far than most of the stones he had managed to strike into some semblance of

life.

He threw the striker down irritably. There was a soft, deep chuckle.

‘I can do without any of your comments, thank you, Dar,’ Andawyr said testily. ‘It’s all right for you,

Roger Taylor - Hawklan 4 - Into Narsindal

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