Roger Taylor - Hawklan 2 - Fall Of Fyorlund

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

as the Author of this work.

First published in United Kingdom in 1989 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 1843191105

The Fall of Fyorlund

Book Two 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

Frantically the valleys and peaks sped by. Gone now was even a vestige of pretence at silence and

stealth as the brown bird, its ghastly yellow eyes glittering, hurtled over the mountains from Riddin to

Orthlund.

Contained within was the news of Hawklan’s escape from the trap at the Gretmearc. Within was the

news of the destruction of that trap by a strange old man. Within rang the terrible noise of the battle that

was even now being fought with that same man for control of the birds’ will.

The bird faltered. The battle or the message? All effort to the message, and it would be bound utterly.

All effort to the battle, and the message might still be lost.

Then its master’s will reached out and touched it. The message must be delivered at whatever cost.

Unsteadily, the bird flew on, its wings a numbing vibration, until suddenlyhe was there. Tall and lank.

Alien in the Orthlund sunshine. His eyes, red beacons from another age.

The bird dropped out of the sky towards him . . .

Chapter 1

Jaldaric started suddenly out of his sun-hazed drowsiness. ‘What was that?’ he said, sitting up and

looking round at his friends.

In the distance, one of the horses whinnied uneasily.

There were six Fyordyn High Guard lounging away their off-duty hours in the small glade that they had

chosen as a camp site when the Lord Dan-Tor had called an abrupt halt to their journeying through

Orthlund.

For a moment Jaldaric thought that a muscular spasm had jerked him back from the twilight fringes of

sleep as his body relaxed into the soft turf but he noticed now that all his men were looking round

uncertainly, and an unfamiliar silence filled the clearing. Even the birds were silent.

He repeated his question.

The nearest man to him was Fel-Astian. Fair-haired and strongly built, he was not unlike Jaldaric, though

his face was leaner and lacked the seeming innocence of Jaldaric’s.

‘There was a rumbling sound, then the ground seemed to move,’ he said cautiously, as if not believing his

own words.

‘Did move,’ someone corrected, more confidently.

Fel-Astian nodded.

Then, as if signalling a release, a bird began to sing and the uneasy disorientation pervading the clearing

faded. The men all began to talk at once, debating this strange phenomenon.

Jaldaric craned his head back to ease a stiffness in his neck. The brightness of the spring sky made him

narrow his eyes and he noticed a small brown bird flying just above the tops of the trees. Strange, he

thought. It was one of those charmless, drab creatures that the Lord Dan-Tor seemed to be able to tame

and bring to his hand. Yet their flight was normally arrow-straight and almost alarmingly purposeful, while

this one was bobbing and dipping from side to side, as erratically as a swallow.

A little way from the clearing, Dan-Tor stood on the rocky outcrop that he had made his private domain

since he had returned from the village of Pedhavin with his unexpected order to halt and make camp.

However, it was not the Lord Dan-Tor that Jaldaric or any of his men would have recognized, even

allowing for the fact that his mood had been uncertain of late, and his normal commanding charm had

been marred by uncharacteristic bursts of irritation.

His body was rigid and quivering, and his eyes glowed red and baleful with a gaze that no ordinary man

could have met and stayed sane. Around his feet the rock was shattered and broken as if wrenched apart

from its very heart; innocent victim of his immediate response to the news he had received.

He was consumed with alternate waves of fear and rage. Hawklan had escaped the trap at the

Gretmearc leaving his, Dan-Tor’s, minion there demented and broken. Worse still, someone had aided

Hawklan in his escape and he it was presumably who was now assailing the birds, his messengers, his

eyes. Someone with knowledge of the Old Power, and no fear of using it.

Dan-Tor had been locked in tormenting internal debate ever since his decision to lure Hawklan to the

Gretmearc to be bound and carried to Narsindal. Now it surged around him in a frenzy like a

wind-whipped sea overwhelming a rocky shore.

Grimly he fought off the onslaught, and brought his pounding emotions under control with an icy will that

belied the awesome glow in his eyes.

Whatever else had happened at the Gretmearc, Ethriss had not been wakened. He would not be stood

debating with himself in this accursed land if that had happened. He would be bound again in the

darkness, to wait another eternity, another Coming. He shuddered involuntarily.

His calmer counsels told him that much could be gained from this disaster.Must be gained, mocked a

voice within him.Must be gained, if you are to account to Him for your folly. He grimaced and dismissed

the tormentor.His anger must be faced in due course, come what may, but actions taken now could

perhaps alleviate it, and such actions would not benefit from fretful worrying.

Who or what Hawklan was remained an enigma. And one that spread further mystery in its wake. The

message brought to him by the failing bird was scarcely intelligible, but it was clear that Hawklan had

played little or no part in his own salvation, and was now fleeing the Gretmearc. And yet his saviour, too,

had fled, though by some route unseen, pitting his strength against one of the birds. The thought was

comforting. You’ll find the bird no easy prey, he thought, maliciously. It has strength beyond your

imagining, and when it defeats you, I’ll know you, and I’ll find you at my leisure.

Standing like a column of rock in the Orthlund sunshine, Dan-Tor’s turmoil eased gradually and the

unfettered hatred faded from his eyes. Nearby, birds began to sing again. He had been right. Hawklan

was a creature of some importance. True, he had not been bound, but his very presence had at once

exposed and perhaps immobilized a hitherto unknown enemy capable of wielding the Old Power against

Him. And now Hawklan himself was alone and presumably scurrying back to Anderras Darion like a

frightened rabbit to his burrow.

Caution seeped into Dan-Tor’s momentary ease. The man must still be bound and examined. But how

alert was he now? To risk the Old Power again would be unforgivable folly. He sensed a presence

approaching.

‘Captain,’ he said, without turning round.

Jaldaric stopped, surprised as always at the Lord’s awareness.

‘Lord, we heard rumbling and felt the ground shake. I thought perhaps there might have been a rock fall.

Dan-Tor turned and looked at Jaldaric. At the sight of the Captain’s fair hair a memory of long blond

hair glinting in the sun came to him, and a device for Hawklan’s binding came to him that was truly

earthbound and far from the deep powers of older times.

He smiled broadly, a white banner of welcome lighting up his creased brown face. ‘That was most

thoughtful of you, Jaldaric,’ he said, stepping forward appreciatively. ‘But I was in no danger. It was a

small earth tremor, nothing more. Unusual and most interesting.’

Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but Dan-Tor raised a hand and assumed an expression of almost

fatherly concern.

‘I have to leave unexpectedly, Captain,’ he said. ‘And I’m afraid I must leave you and your men with a

task as difficult and perhaps as distasteful as you’ve ever had to do.’ He looked deeply into Jaldaric’s

eyes. ‘I rely on your loyalty, Captain, as does the King.’

* * * *

‘Ah, Fyordyn are you?’ Loman said, looking up from the horse he was tending. The recipient of this

remark stood framed in the sunlit doorway of Loman’s workshop. He was tall and well-built with fair

curly hair and a round face which exuded a worried innocence. Loman judged him to be about

twenty-four years old.

Jaldaric and his companions had ridden into Pedhavin down the River Road just after dawn, in search of

a smith to re-shoe one of their horses.

‘How did you know that?’ he asked, in surprise.

Loman smiled and winked. ‘No great mystery, young man. It’s very characteristic work,’ he said,

handing him the shoe. ‘Quite well made too. Your smithing’s improved in the last twenty years.’

‘Oh,’ came the reply. ‘I’m afraid all horseshoes look alike to me. I know very little about smithing.’

Then, changing the subject, ‘Have you ever been to Fyorlund?’

‘No, no,’ said Loman quickly. ‘But I’ve seen quite a lot of Fyordyn work in my time. A lot of people

have passed through here over the years. Here we are.’

His last remark was spoken to the horse as he moved to the side away from the young man and started

busily preparing one of its hooves. The Fyordyn work he had seen had been during the Morlider War

and he did not want to become involved in relating sad old tales to sate the inevitable curiosity of this

young man and his friends.

He regretted slightly his little demonstration in identifying the shoes and decided not to ask to which Lord

this group were High Guards. They wore no livery, but their whole bearing told what they were as clearly

as any uniform to one who had fought by the side of the High Guards. Loman paused in his work and

screwed up his face as he forced down the old memories that came to his mind vivid and clear.

The young man walked around the horse to join him. ‘My name’s Jaldaric,’ he said, extending his hand

and smiling nervously.

Loman looked up and, returning a reassuring smile, took the hand. ‘Are you journeying to the south?’ he

asked.

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re just spending some leave-time in Orthlund before we go

back on duty. We’re High Guards.’

Loman nodded understandingly and bent to his work again.

‘We’re due for the northern borders when we get back, and it’s miserable up there at the best of times,’

Jaldaric continued.

Loman was surprised to find he was relieved at this voluntary admission, and he reproached himself for

harbouring suspicious, albeit unclear, thoughts. He attributed these to ‘too many changes going on round

here these days’.

‘You must be my guests for the day then,’ he said, to salve his conscience. ‘And tonight you must join in

our little celebration.’

Jaldaric seemed taken aback by this offer and protested that he and his friends did not wish to be a

burden to the smith.

‘Nonsense,’ said Loman. ‘We take a pride in our hospitality in Pedhavin. And, as it’s unlikely that you’ll

come here again for a long time, if ever, you’ll need someone to show you round or you’ll miss a great

many interesting sights.’

In common with most of the other people of the village, Loman felt he was emerging from the dark cloud

that the tinker and his tainted wares had cast over the village, and the feeling of lightness, of returning to a

welcome normality, had made him quite loquacious. Jaldaric’s half-hearted protestations were easily

swept aside.

‘I’ve one or two things to do up at the Castle. Join me there in an hour and I’ll show you round. Well,

I’ll show you a little of it anyway. It’s a very big place.’

The young men were amazed by the Castle and plied Loman endlessly with questions, many of which he

could not answer.

‘I’m a humble castellan and smith, not a warrior lord – or a builder,’ he said eventually.

Jaldaric laughed. ‘A child could defend a castle like this,’ he said. ‘It’s the most incredible place I’ve

ever seen. You can see for miles and miles, and you’re completely unassailable behind walls like these –

and this gate.’

They all expressed surprise that the occupant of such a castle was not a great lord, but simply a healer –

and a healer who had just decided to travel on foot all the way to the Gretmearc. But Loman just

laughed.

‘We’ve no lords in Orthlund,’ he said. ‘We just tend our crops and practice our simple crafts.’

Jaldaric looked troubled. Loman thought he understood.

‘There’s a Great Harmony in Orthlund, Jaldaric,’ he said, ‘which most people from other lands can’t

understand, even though they might sense it. No one knows why it is. Perhaps we’re a special people in

some way. We accept Hawklan for what he is. Whatever he might have been once, he is beyond doubt a

very special man, and a great healer.’

Jaldaric nodded vaguely.

Loman was spared further questioning by the appearance of Tirilen. Her presence took the young men’s

minds well away from matters military. Loman smiled to himself as he watched his daughter’s light grace

draw the satellites away from his own more solid presence. He wondered what her new-found escorts

would think if they had seen her in the not-too-distant past when she would crash down the stairs three at

a time, or wrestle a village youth to the ground for some slight, real or imagined.

Strangely, Jaldaric did not lead the admiring throng, but kept himself a little aloof, and Loman noticed

that he frowned occasionally as if some troublesome thought kept recurring to him.

The celebration that Loman had referred to was not intended to be anything special. The need for it

seemed to have been agreed by an unspoken consensus among the villagers as an attempt to dispel the

remaining gloom left by the tinker. However, the presence of strangers struck the powerful chord of

hospitality present in all the Orthlundyn, and turned it into a very special occasion indeed.

Jaldaric and his troop found themselves overwhelmed with food, drink, and merriment, in a bright ringing

whirl of dancing and singing and laughter, the predominant feature of which seemed indeed to be Tirilen,

flying through the lines of clapping hands and jigging flutes and fiddles.

Eventually Jaldaric had to concede defeat. Flopping down next to Loman, red-faced and panting, he

said, ‘You dance and sing harder than we do our military exercises. I think your daughter would make an

excellent training officer for our cadets.’ He took a long drink. ‘Not to mention some of the Guards

themselves.’

Then they had to leave. In spite of all protests. Jaldaric held his ground valiantly. They had to be back in

Fyorlund soon or they would be in serious trouble. They would not forget the friendship of Pedhavin and

would surely return one day when time was pressing less on them. They refused all offers of hospitality

for the night, saying that, leave or no, they were bound to certain ways as High Guards, and had to spend

their nights in formal camp.

As Jaldaric leaned down from his horse to take Loman’s hand, the light from the fire seemed to make his

boyish, innocent face look briefly old and troubled and, as he rode away, he seemed ill at ease, not

turning to wave as most of the others did.

* * * *

Too tired to face the long steep climb back to the Castle, Tirilen had begged a bed from Isloman. Now

she revelled in the feel of a different room with all its shapes and shadows and smells: familiar, but free of

her own personality.

Pausing before a mirror, she raised her chin, pushed her head forward and carefully examined the small

scar on her throat. It was noticeably less inflamed and she touched it with a cautious finger. It was

healing, but only slowly. How strangely persistent it had been, like the cut on Loman’s hand. Then she

caught sight of her face in the mirror, incongruous, with lips pursed and chin extended. She put out her

tongue and tossed her hair back with a spectacular flourish before setting about it vigorously with a

delicate metal comb that her father had made for her many years earlier. It shone and sparkled, sending

tiny lights about the room as she swept it repeatedly to and fro, unpicking the dance-swirled tangles.

She jigged about on her seat and sang softly to herself as she combed her hair, her head still full of the

music that had been playing all evening, and her feet still full of dancing. Impulsively she stood up and

swirled round, sending her hair and skirts flying out like canopies. Then, dousing the torchlight, she went

over to the window and stepped out onto the balcony.

The sky was bright with moonlight and hardly any stars could be seen. Looking up she could see the

Great Gate of Anderras Darion gleaming silver, like a star fallen to earth, while looking down she could

see the streets and rooftops of Pedhavin, glistening in the moonlight.

There were still a few people wandering about, talking and laughing, and she acknowledged several

friendly calls with a wave. For a few minutes she stood and watched as the moonlight moved across a

small carving on the edge of the balcony. The shadows within it made it look like a bud slowly opening

into flower. So realistic did it seem that she had an urge to lean forward and sniff its night scent.

‘Oh! Too much dancing, girl,’ she said to herself, catching the strange thought and, spinning on her heel,

she went back inside, continuing her dance across to the bed.

She lay very still for a long time, allowing warm, tired limbs to sink into the bed’s sustaining softness as

she watched the moonlight’s slow march across the room.

Normally she would fall asleep immediately, but the dancing and the pleasant, strange familiarity of the

room left her drifting gently in and out of sleep. Each time she opened her eyes, the shadow patterns on

the ceiling had changed as the moon continued its journey through the sky. Not for the first time, she

wondered why the Orthlundyn were not content simply to make beautiful carvings, but had to fill every

carving and every cranny in the village with endlessly shifting shapes in which different scenes appeared

with each change of moonlight or sunlight. Sometimes she felt overwhelmed by the massive history that

seemed to be wrapped hidden in these carvings, even though it never made a coherent whole. She often

felt an ancestral presence reaching far behind her into a strange distant past.

Drifting back into consciousness, with half-opened eyes and a half-closed mind, she noted the shadow

of a man’s profile on the wall. It was vaguely familiar, but she could not identify it, and it was already

looping in and out of her incipient dreams.

When she opened her eyes again, it was gone.

Instead there was a darker, much more solid shadow there, not lightened by reflected moonlight but

cutting it out. It was the figure of a man, standing in the room.

Suddenly she was awake, eyes wide, at first in bewilderment and then in mounting terror as a powerful

hand was clamped over her mouth, and a soft hissing voice exhorted silence.

Chapter 2

In contrast to his leisurely journey from Pedhavin, Hawklan strode away from the Gretmearc as

vigorously as he dared without making his progress seem too conspicuous. His long legs carried him

easily through the throngs crowding the roads near that bustling, hectic market, but he was troubled and,

while he tried to use the steady rhythm of his walking to quieten his thoughts, it was of little avail.

He had journeyed to the Gretmearc seeking answers to a question he had scarcely formulated. Now he

came away beset by countless questions that were all too clear. He was a healer, not a warrior and yet,

almost effortlessly, he had overcome four of the men who had attacked Andawyr’s tent. Then he found

himself angry because he had fled, despite his flight being at Andawyr’s express command. Fleeing –

leaving others to do his fighting. He felt degraded, dishonoured in some way that he could not

understand.

Where had these strange fighting skills come from, and from where this feeling of disloyalty at his

desertion of the field? And, perhaps even worse, from where the deeper voice within, coldly telling him

that this desertion was necessary for a greater good?

Then there was Andawyr himself. The strange little man who had undoubtedly saved his life. Andawyr

who had referred to him as Ethriss. ‘First among the Guardians,’ he had said. Some strange god-like

creature from the mythical past. Hawklan wanted to dismiss the idea as a foolish old man’s rambling, but

Andawyr had radiated a sincerity and demonstrated skills that precluded such an easy escape.

But it must surely be nonsense? For all his ignorance of his own past, Hawklan certainly did not feel he

was anything other than a very frail mortal. Yet Andawyr had seen that too. ‘You may be our greatest

hope,’ he had said. ‘But at the moment I’myour greatest hope, and you, along with everyone else, are in

great danger.’ Then, ‘Great forces have already been set against you. You need protection until you can

be taught to know yourself.’ And finally, ‘Watch the shadows, your days of peace are ended.’ The

words were chilling. There was solace in none of them.

And, unbidden, a new awareness had grown in him, making him seek for enmity as well as friendship in

strange faces, danger as well as quiet calm where trees threw the road into dappled shade, treachery as

well as hospitality when they passed through some village.

But for all his sombre preoccupations, the journey down through Riddin was uneventful. There seemed

to be no pursuit from the Gretmearc and neither he nor Gavor saw any of the sinister little brown birds

following them. None the less, the further they moved from the Gretmearc the easier Hawklan began to

feel. It seemed that just as some compulsion had drawn him to the Gretmearc, now something was

drawing him back to Anderras Darion. He longed to hear familiar voices talking of mundane matters, and

to see familiar faces and surroundings, and he found himself almost elated when they turned from the road

and began moving westward along the lesser roads and pathways through the grassy foothills that would

lead them back into the mountains and towards Orthlund. Gavor, too, rose high and joyous into the

spring sky.

The following day was windy and sunny, with white billowing clouds flying busily across a blue sky.

Hawklan had been continuing a relentless pace uphill and had stopped for a brief rest and a meal. He

was lying on a grassy bank at the side of the road, staring idly over the Riddin countryside spread out

beneath him and half-listening to the happy babble of a family who were picnicking nearby. The sun was

warm on his face and he felt very relaxed, in spite of his dark anxieties.

He had made a small truce with himself – whoever I am, or have been, and whatever I did or have yet to

do, and whatever has happened or will happen to me, there is nothing to be gained in endlessly fretting

over it, other than confusion and dismay. All will become clear in time . . . probably. Just watch and wait

and learn.

Looking up at the moving clouds, he realized that the image of dark and distant clouds lingering

persistently at the edges of his mind seemed to have gone. Now, like the real ones above him, they were

overhead. But they contained no spring lightness; they were dour and menacing. He knew that what he

had been fearing had arrived, but he could not yet see what it was.

Suddenly he noticed that the noise of the picnicking family had stopped and he turned to see what had

happened. Apparently the father of the group had called for silence and he was slowly rising to his feet

and staring up into the sky intently. As he rose, he lifted two of the children to their feet and, with an

extended finger, directed their gaze out across the countryside to where he himself was staring. The

whole family looking in one direction, Hawklan found his own gaze drawn inexorably the same way.

At first he could see nothing unusual, then a familiar black dot came into view. Surely the group couldn’t

be staring at Gavor? he thought, resting his cheek on the cool sweet-smelling grass and looking at them

again. Then Gavor landed clumsily and hastily by his side in a state of some considerable excitement.

‘Look, Hawklan,’ he said breathlessly, thrusting his beak forward, pointing in the same direction.

‘Where?’ said Hawklan.

‘There,’ replied Gavor impatiently. ‘There. Where I’m pointing.’

‘I can’t see anything,’ began Hawklan. ‘Only clouds and sk—’

He broke off as his gaze, working through the moving tufts of white, fell on the cause of all the attention.

The sight dispelled his sun-warmed lethargy and drew him first into a sitting position, and then to his feet,

though slowly, as if fearful of disturbing the wonder he was looking at. For a moment he felt disorientated

and he glanced down briefly at Gavor. The gleaming black iridescence of his friend against the soft green

grass reassured him and he looked up again at the large white cloud in the distance.

For a large white cloud is what it appeared to be, one of the great wind-borne flotilla gliding silently and

gracefully overhead. Except that rising from its upper surface were rank upon rank of towers and spires,

like a vast and distant echo of Anderras Darion, glinting white and silver in the sunlight.

As he stared, Hawklan saw that the surface was etched with a fine mosaic that could be smaller

buildings though it was too distant for him to identify any details.

As the great shape moved, so, like any other cloud, it changed, and Hawklan saw the distant towers

slowly, almost imperceptibly, rising and falling in response.

‘What is it?’ he whispered, unconsciously imitating the hushed tones of the nearby Riddinvolk.

‘Viladrien.’

Gavor spoke the word at the same time as the man in the group, and the effect, combined with the

almost unbelievable sight in front of him, made Hawklan start. Before he could speak again, Gavor said,

‘One of the great Cloud Lands.’

Gavor’s tone also reflected the awe of the other watchers and Hawklan himself sensed it was a time for

watching and not talking.

‘I must go to it,’ said Gavor and, without waiting for any comment from Hawklan, he stretched his great

blue-sheened wings into the breeze and rose up into the spring air.

‘It’s too far,’ Hawklan whispered softly to himself, without understanding why he said it. ‘Too far. You’ll

break your heart.’

As he watched Gavor go, flying straight and purposefully in the direction of the strange and stately Cloud

Land, Hawklan thought he caught a faint sound floating softly in the air all around him but, as he strained

to hear it, it slipped from him.

For a long, timeless moment, Hawklan and the picnicking Riddinvolk stood on the sunlit hillside in silent

communion as the great shape floated by. Less captivated than the adults, the children alternated their

attention between the Cloud Land and their silent parents but, sensing their mood, they remained still and

quiet.

In the silence, Hawklan seemed to hear again the strange soft singing all around him but, this time, he

allowed it to move over him and made no wilful attempt to listen to it. He had never heard such a noise

before, nor could he understand it, but he knew it for an ancient song of praise and rejoicing, though now

it was filled with a strange regretful longing. Eventually, as the Cloud Land faded into the distance and

was lost amongst its neighbours, the children began to tug tentatively at their father and ask questions.

The man knelt down and put his arms around his two boys. Hawklan eavesdropped shamelessly, his own

immediate sense of wonder being slowly overcome by curiosity.

‘It’s one of the Viladrien,’ the man said, almost reverently. ‘Where the Drienvolk live. The sky people.

They float in the sky like the Morlider islands float in the sea.’

‘Are they bad people like the Morlider?’ asked one child anxiously.

The man smiled; rather sadly, Hawklan thought.

‘Not all the Morlider are bad,’ the man said. ‘I’ve told you that. But no, the Drienvolk are kind and

friendly. They’ve never harmed anyone.’

‘Will any of them come down?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. From what my grandfather used to tell me, they don’t like being on the ground. The

air’s too thick for them. They feel closed in, crushed. They need the space of the skies to be happy.’

Hawklan’s curiosity overwhelmed him totally and he walked over to the group and introduced himself.

The man welcomed him. He was rubbing his neck and wriggling his shoulders.

‘I couldn’t keep my eyes off it,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘How long have we been watching it?’

Hawklan shrugged. ‘Some experiences can’t be measured in ordinary time,’ he said enigmatically.

The man looked at him thoughtfully and then nodded a slow agreement.

‘Did you hear that noise?’ Hawklan asked.

The man shook his head. ‘No, I heard nothing,’ he said. ‘I didn’t dare to breathe for fear of disturbing

the silence. Did you hear anything?’ He turned to ask his wife.

‘Someone was singing,’ volunteered one of the children casually. ‘It was all around.’ She met Hawklan’s

green eyes squarely and openly.

Roger Taylor - Hawklan 2 - Fall Of Fyorlund

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