Roger Taylor - H5 Return of the Sword

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 by Headline Book Publishing in 1999.

This Edition published in 2003 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 184319239X

The Return of the Sword

Roger Taylor

Mushroom eBooks

Chapter 1

The water had travelled a long and ancient journey, Andawyr mused as he dipped his hand into the

stream and splashed his flushed face; mountain, sea and cloud, over and over, ever changing, ever the

same. And though it shaped the land, it ran through his fingers unresisting. He gave a grunt of approval at

the coolness it brought, then sat back, closed his eyes, raised his face towards the sun and took a long,

slow breath. As it filled his lungs, the mountain air seemed to carry the sunlight through his entire frame. It

mingled with the bubbling clatter of the stream and he felt the tension brought on by his too-rapid walking

through the hills ease.

‘Simple pleasures,’ he said to the flickering shapes dancing behind his eyelids. ‘Simple pleasures. Being

here is enough.’

It was no new thought, but it had as much meaning for Andawyr now as whenever it had first come to

him. Not that he could remember when that had been, he reflected. It was as though he had always

known the truth of this. But that could not have been so, for such a realization could only be attained after

a great struggle. Or could it? Children often had it – that sureness of touch in their lives. Eyes still closed,

Andawyr’s nose curled. He compromised. Perhaps the realization – the insight of the child – could only

be rediscovered after a great struggle. Yes, that would do. He chuckled softly – he already knew that,

too.

‘You’re rambling, you old fool,’ he said into the warm air. He’d not come here to mull over his own

long-learned ways of dealing with his life . . .

He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Being here is enough,’ he said again, testing

the words thoughtfully. They were all that could be said, but necessarily they were only a pale reflection

of a truth that was, perhaps, inexpressible.

Many things were thus, but not all were so easily accepted. Or so benign.

Andawyr scowled in self-reproach. What he had come here for was to do nothing, not continue along

the ruts his mind had been ploughing relentlessly for . . .

How long?

Too long . . .

He rolled on to his stomach and, resting his head in his hands, stared down into a small sheltered pool at

the edge of the stream. An oval, battered face stared up at him unsteadily through the gently wavering

water. A blade of grass floated idly around the image, then drifted back out into the main flow. It was

followed by a scuttling insect that left brief dimpled footprints in the water as it pursued some urgent

errand.

Andawyr’s image looked rueful.

Not the face of a great mage, he thought, tweaking his broken nose, then running a hand through his

bushy grey hair, leaving it quite undisturbed. Such a person should have a conspicuous dignity. He should

be patriarchal and stern, with a looming presence and a gaze to quell men.

Lips pursed, the image weighed this uncertainly.

Or perhaps he should be beatific, saintly; exuding the inner tranquillity that came from years of devoted

study and a deep and profound understanding of the world. The image raised its eyebrows knowingly

and, with a self-conscious cough, Andawyr withdrew from the debate.

If only, if only . . .

If only his years of study had brought him that kind of knowledge.

The image broke and scattered as Andawyr prodded it with a knowing finger. He supposed they had, in

a way. He had learned what was of real value to him and that indeed gave him an ease of mind and a

clearness of vision that many would envy. Nor was he disturbed by the fact that his endless searching for

knowledge had brought with it a measure of the vastness of what he did not know; it was, after all, in the

nature of things that questions bred questions; children soon learned how to destroy their parents with the

simple question, ‘Why?’

It did not even disturb him too much that, at the limits of his understanding of the inner nature of things to

which his searching and his conventional logic had led him, there was apparently paradox – and certainly

bewilderment. That was simply another challenge to be met and wrestled with joyously.

Or would have been.

But now, a darkness was tingeing his discoveries; a darkness that possibly might not allow him the luxury

of a scholar’s leisurely debate; a darkness that could be growing even as he lay here and that might burst

forth all too brutally out of the realms of academic consideration and into the world of ordinary men.

He swore softly and sat up. Just beyond the shoulder of the mountain he knew he would be able to see

the maw of the great cave that was ostensibly the entrance to the Cadwanen – the Caves that were the

home of the Order of the Cadwanol – the Order of which he was the Leader – the Order charged

originally by Ethriss with opposing Sumeral and, on His destruction, with seeking the knowledge that

would guard the world against His coming again.

For come again He must, Ethriss had known, though of how he had known he never spoke. Suffice it

that, although Sumeral took mortal form, He was no mere man. He had come in the wake of Ethriss and

the other Guardians from the Great Searing that had been the beginning of all things and, with lesser

figures that had emerged with Him, had set out to destroy the world that the Guardians had created.

Though His mortal body had eventually been destroyed, after a long and terrible war, there were many

places within the warp and weft of the fabric that formed all things where His dark and festering spirit

could find sanctuary.

And come again He had, for the Cadwanol had failed in their charge as generations of stillness and

peace had taken Sumeral from the minds of men and reduced Him to little more than a myth, a tale to

make children tingle. Yet some sixteen years or so ago He had again taken form in this world. Silently,

His ancient fortress, Derras Ustramel, had been built again in the bleak, mist-shrouded land of Narsindal

and it was as much good fortune as courage that had eventually brought Him down before, it was hoped,

His corruption had spread too far out into the world. Nevertheless, much harm had been done and many

had died.

No special reproach had been offered to the Cadwanol, for others had failed in their vigilance as well,

and all had paid a bitter price. But a day did not pass without Andawyr thinking of the events of that time

and, whenever a problem taxed him to the point of despair, it was these memories that returned to spur

him on. For ignorance and the darkness of the mind and heart that it brought were the greatest of

Sumeral’s weapons and only knowledge could prevail against it.

But what was Andawyr to do now? At the very heart of his work lay a maelstrom of confusion and

illogicality; conclusions which, though reached through modes of thought and observation that were

unimpeachably correct, led to consequences that seemingly defied the reality of the world as ordinary

men knew it. As he knew it, for pity’s sake, he mused bleakly, throwing a small pebble into the stream

and watching the ripples spread and disperse. No one would claim to understand what this strangeness

truly meant, but until now it had not really mattered. It was sufficient that it was consistent and that it

worked: it could be used to predict the outcome of experiments and went a considerable way towards

explaining many once-mysterious things, not least the powers that the Cadwanwr themselves possessed.

But what had once been a vague suspicion had grown of late. It could no longer be dismissed as an

inadvertent aberration twisting and curling at the distant edges of their calculations. And it could no longer

be ignored.

There was, beyond all doubt now, a flaw deep in the heart of the way the world was made. Something

that, even within the terms of the strange nature of the Cadwanol’s work, could not be. As an academic

exercise it had been speculated upon from time to time for many years, but in the surge of learning that

had followed the war it had been confirmed and accepted.

Fortunately, though disconcerting, it should have been of no pressing significance. It was something that

would manifest itself in the world very rarely and then only fleetingly and in the smallest ways. But now

there were signs that for some reason it was growing, signs that it might manifest itself much more

conspicuously, that it might bring great destruction. And, too, there were indications that something else

was pending, something rare and ominous, though whether the two happenings were associated could

not be determined.

Andawyr growled irritably and threw another stone into the stream. He was ploughing the old ruts again

after all. He had come out here to clear his mind, to rid himself of its interminable circling arguments and

now he was teetering back to them again. He felt as though he were trapped in an hourglass, scrabbling

to escape the sand being drawn inexorably to the centre.

Abruptly he let the thoughts go. He was sufficiently aware of his own way of thinking to know that he

had reached a stage where pounding incessantly at the problem would merely drive any solution deeper

into hiding. Like a shrewd predator, all he could do now was mentally wander off – do something else –

anything else – knowing that eventually the prey would quietly reappear, probably quite unexpectedly. He

smiled broadly and looked again at the stream. The sunlight sparkling off it in endlessly varying patterns

and its clattering progress down the hillside were indeed an antidote for his preoccupations.

As he watched the stream, his gaze was drawn to a ripple piled up over a large stone. It wobbled from

side to side as if trying to shake itself loose, but generally it maintained its shape and position. Tongue

protruding, Andawyr tossed a pebble towards it. It missed. He closed one eye, put out his tongue a little

further and tried again.

This time the pebble landed squarely in the ripple with a satisfying plop. As he had known it would,

nothing happened apart from a few bubbles drifting to the surface and floating away. The ripple would

only change if the rock that was causing it was moved, and then another would form elsewhere. Until that

happened, the ripple would remain unchanged while changing constantly; indeed, it could not exist

without that change – who could shapestill water thus? From his sunny vantage, Andawyr could see

many such ripples in the stream. And other parts, which, though fed by smooth, untroubled waters, were

turbulent and disordered, never settling into any single pattern.

This stream’s cleverer than I am, he thought. Without a moment’s thought it knows how to form strange

and complex shapes that I couldn’t predict if I did calculations for a year. The idea amused him. It was

the kind of example he delighted in slapping his students’ faces with when they became either too

involved in something or too sure of themselves.

Forget it, he reminded himself, putting his hands behind his head and lying back on the soft turf. Get on

with your wandering.

And wander he did. But though he assiduously avoided the concerns that had sent him out of the

Cadwanen for relief, the thoughts that came to him were scarcely lighter as he found himself pondering

the Second Coming of Sumeral and all the changes that had happened since His defeat.

The Orthlundyn, for example, were now like a people awakened from a long sleep. They travelled far

and wide and had a seemingly insatiable thirst for knowledge. They had become very much the guiding

spirit of the Congress that followed the war. The Fyordyn, by contrast, were less steady, less confident

than they had been; cruelly hurt by the civil war that had followed Oklar’s murder of their king and his

near-success in seizing power for his Master. A lesser people might well have descended into a spiral of

disintegration, but many things sustained them through their trials, not least their finally having come

together to face Sumeral’s terrible army in Narsindal. And, too, their almost universal affection for their

queen, Sylvriss, and her son Rgoric, named after his ill-fated father. Less emotively, the Geadrol, the

Queen’s Council of Lords, the actual government of Fyorlund, also played no small part, with the stern,

truth-searching discipline of its deliberations. The Riddinvolk, with their fanatical love of horses and

riding, seemed to be the least changed, but even they felt the guilt of their failure to note the return of

Sumeral.

And what about the Cadwanol? Andawyr thought as the old memories rehearsed themselves again.

Where do we stand in this great analysis?

Like all the others, wiser by far, he supposed. Wiser in their understanding of themselves, and certainly

much wiser in the ways of the Power. First there had been the shock of accepting what had happened,

and the ordeal of their frantic and futile search for Ethriss. Then, while his fellow Cadwanwr had stood on

the battlefield, using their skills to protect the army against the Power used by Sumeral’s lieutenants, His

Uhriel, Andawyr himself had accompanied Hawklan and his companions to the very edge of Lake

Kedrieth in the middle of which Derras Ustramel had arisen again. Despite the sunlight, Andawyr

shivered at the memory of Sumeral’s presence in that place. For him, it had hung in the air as tangibly as

the mist that shrouded that awful lake.

Such experiences brought insights in a way that nothing else could and subsequently, in quieter times,

many old, intractable problems had been solved with an almost embarrassing ease.

The memory of Hawklan brought the healer’s words back to Andawyr. ‘There is no healing for this, any

more than there is truly for any hurt. Time will blur and cloud the memory of the pain, but your lives

cannot be as they were. Make of it a learning and you will become whole, and worthy teachers of your

children. Cherish it as a grievance and you will twist and turn through your lives seeing only your own

needs, and burdening all around you.’ Wise words, timely uttered. Words that had proved to be a

healing salve for many.

‘Always the healer, Hawklan,’ Andawyr said quietly. ‘Always the healer.’

Hawklan’s touch perhaps more than any other single thing had ensured that killing hands were stayed

after the battle. Without doubt it had ensured that the three allied nations determined to learn what they

could about the dank land of Narsindal and its wild inhabitants, the Mandrocs, rather than simply

crushing them in a war of mindless vengeance.

Andawyr propped himself on his elbows again. It was a long time since he had thought of Hawklan. He

clicked his tongue. Everywhere he looked, paradoxes. In his studies, in the little rock-formed ripple

where water flowed upwards, even in what he was doing now – ignoring his questions in order to answer

them. And now, Hawklan. Healer, warrior, ancient prince – what was he? How had he come to this

place, this time? Andawyr let the questions go. They might well be intriguing, but they were neither new

nor answerable. What Hawklan knew of himself he had shared freely, and that had raised more questions

than answers. Besides, attempting to analyse a friend thus was somehow distasteful. It had to be sufficient

that he had been there. More than sufficient. For what would have happened without him? He had been

pivotal. He it was who had appeared out of the mountains years before and opened Anderras Darion,

Ethriss’s great fortress in Orthlund. And it was the opened Anderras Darion that had disturbed Oklar into

the precipitate and reckless actions that had led ultimately to the exposure and downfall of his Master.

Hawklan’s quiet words had affected so many decisions. And, in the end, it was Hawklan that Sumeral

had sought, not to destroy but to turn to His cause.

Pivotal.

The word lodged in Andawyr’s mind.

Why would he perceive Hawklan in this way? It was not something that Hawklan would have claimed

for himself. He was always a reluctant leader. And, logically, Andawyr knew well enough that any one of

the countless actions and decisions made by countless people at that time would have brought about a

different outcome. It was rarely possible to trace a single line of cause and effect to any one happening,

and least of all in the chaos of armed conflict, where chance ran amok. As someone had once said to

him, ‘Ifs were strewn everywhere.’

Andawyr’s face became unexpectedly resolute. Ifs notwithstanding, Hawklan loomed large in all

considerations of those events.

Pivotal.

Andawyr recognized that something in his wiser self was prompting him. The word ‘paradox’ had come

too glibly; it had misled him. The water over the rock was no paradox, he knew. It was simply the

outcome of forces within and without the water which, at least in principle, were calculable. His

relinquishing of fretful questions in order to reach an answer was a little more mysterious but was at least

based on his own tested and quite consistent past observations. And Hawklan? Healer and warrior. No

real paradox there – no inherent contradictions. It was the duty of those who had the ability to stand

between the less fortunate and harm, be it with poultice or sword. Hawklan was simply skilled at both,

and skilled far beyond the average. He was . . .

Pivotal.

The word lurched Andawyr back into his deeper concerns. Although clarity was being denied him in

these he had throughout an impression of movement, of turning, of innumerable spiralling ways coming

together, joining. He trusted such instincts. Many times, vague though they were, they had pointed him in

a direction that had subsequently proved fruitful. They were not enough in themselves to lead to

conclusions but he knew that nothing else would be forthcoming. His walk through the hills had been

helpful after all.

He would follow this instinct. He would go and see Hawklan. At the least, it would be good to see him

again. And good to see Anderras Darion again too. The prospect brought him to his feet. There was a

considerable interchange of visitors between Anderras Darion and the Cadwanol but somehow there had

always been something here that needed his immediate attention whenever he had thought about returning

there himself.

‘Always allowing the urgent to displace the important,’ he said, repeating the reproach he frequently

gave to others. Well, not this time. This time he would go and see his old friend – and talk – and talk –

and talk. And prowl around that marvellous old citadel.

He nodded to himself, well satisfied.

Then, suddenly, he started, alarmed.

Something had touched him – touched his mind. Something feather-light and cautious – but strange . . .

and disturbingly feral.

There were no dangers around here, a faint breath of reason whispered to him. Not of any kind. But his

older senses gave the assurance the lie. And it was a very alert leader of the Cadwanol who slowly

turned round to see silhouetted on an outcrop above him, and watching him intently, a large grey wolf.

Chapter 2

Andawyr started violently and only just managed to prevent himself from lashing out with the Power to

defend himself. The effort left him breathing heavily but with icy control.

Too quick, he reproached himself savagely. Too quick to reach for the easy way. Angrily he forced

reason to take control of his fear. The animal had not menaced him, he told himself slowly. Nor was it

likely to. There was plenty of food around here so it could not be hungry, and, besides, wolves were far

from being stupid; they rarely attacked people. It was probably as startled as he was.

Nevertheless, it was still watching him and it had not moved. And its hackles were raised, albeit only

slightly.

Probably in response to his own initial reaction, Andawyr decided uneasily. Either that, or it was sensing

his own anger at himself. He would have to take the initiative.

He made himself relax. Then, briefly, he met the animal’s gaze and turned his head away slowly and

deliberately.

As he did so, he found himself looking into the eyes of another wolf, crouching low on the ground barely

five paces from him. Despite the fact that he was counselling himself to move carefully and slowly,

Andawyr jumped back. The wolf did not move.

‘Very thoughtful, old man. A nice gesture.’

The voice filled Andawyr’s head, further unbalancing him and making him stagger backwards. Still the

watching wolf did not move, though it continued to stare at him fixedly.

‘Don’t be alarmed. We didn’t mean to startle you.’

There was reassurance in the voice, but it resonated with strange, wild overtones unlike anything

Andawyr had ever heard. It took him a moment to realize that he was not actually hearing it, but that it

was really in his mind. He had no time to ponder this discovery.

‘But you’re unusual, aren’t you? We felt you some way away, and there was a control, a refinement, in

your manner that’s rare in humans. We thought we’d see who it was.’

Was there a hint of mockery in the words?

Andawyr’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he cast a quick glance at each of the wolves in turn. What

was happening here? Carefully he tested his responses. It was deep in the nature of his training to see

things as they were, not as others or perhaps his own errant mind might wish them to appear. It occurred

to him that perhaps one of his colleagues was playing a joke on him – they were not above such antics

from time to time when life in the Cadwanen became boring or fraught. But how could they be doing this?

There was no hint of the Power being used and even he had not known where he was going to walk

when he set out. It was not a prank. And he was definitely not hallucinating. The voice in his head was

unequivocally real. It left him with a bizarre conclusion. Somehow these creatures were talking to him!

‘Creatures, indeed. How churlish.’

Mockery, without a doubt.

‘Wh – what are you? Who are you?’ Andawyr stammered, his voice sounding harsh and awkward in his

own ears.

Surprise washed over him. ‘Youare a Cadwanwr, aren’t you?’ came the reply, full of sudden realization

and no small amount of excitement. ‘Just wait there a moment.’

And, in a flurry of grey urgency, both wolves were gone. Andawyr shook his head as if to reassure

himself that, notwithstanding his vaunted clarity of vision, what he had just seen and ‘heard’ had actually

happened. It helped him that he could hear occasional barking in the distance.

Wolves that spoke directly into his mind! He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand. But he had heard

what he had heard. Then the memory of Hawklan returned to him again. Hawklan could both hear and

speak to most animals. But then, Hawklan was Hawklan and an exception to many rules.

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. He was still who he was, leader of the Cadwanol, much respected

counsellor to the wise, learned in the ways of the Power, blah blah – and he couldn’t hear or speak to

animals. Nor did he have any idea how Hawklan did, despite lengthy discussions with him.

All of which left him no alternative but to investigate the matter.

Straightening his scruffy grey robe Andawyr set off quickly up the steep grassy bank in the direction the

second wolf had taken. Briefly it occurred to him that not being unreasonably afraid of wolves was one

thing, chasing after them quite another, but the thought was lost amid the curiosity that was now powering

him forward. He stood for a moment on the rocky outcrop that the first wolf had chosen for a vantage

and looked down at where he had been sitting.

Crafty devils, he thought. Pack hunters. If they had been inclined to attack him he would have had

precious little chance. Even though he had sensed the one above him, the other could have seized him

effortlessly. Tactics, tactics, he mused. And where was your awareness, your sensitivity to the nuances of

your surroundings, great leader? As scattered and disordered as that damned stream, he concluded, with

a scowl. He stooped down to examine the immediate terrain.

A dark stain of dampness on a small stone showed that it had been turned over recently and some

scuffing of the grass bounding the merging rock indicated which way the animals had gone. It was not up

the hill but along the contour towards the shoulder of the mountain to his right. Andawyr sniffed

thoughtfully and massaged his squat nose. A little caution managed to force its way into his thoughts

again.

Chasing wolves across the mountain. Is this a good idea?

He rationalized. They’d run away once, they’d probably run away again. Besides, he had the Power if

he really needed it, and he wasn’t going to be taken unawares again. And why not go this way, anyway?

It was still early, the weather promised to be marvellous for the rest of the day, and while this was not the

way he had originally intended to go, it was as good as any. He quickly ran mentally through a route back

to the Cadwanen to confirm to himself that he was not being recklessly impulsive, then he dismissed the

caution completely and strode off towards the distant skyline.

Questions bubbled through him, matching the rhythm of his steps. These animals had touched his mind!

How could that be? Had he suddenly, unknowingly acquired Hawklan’s gift? Was it some inadvertent

consequence of his latest studies into the Power? And if so, would there be others? And would they all

be so benign? It was not a particularly welcome idea. He stopped the self-interrogation abruptly. It was

going nowhere and it was serving only to cloud his thoughts. He went over what had happened again,

capturing his reactions after the strange first touch he had felt. He had sensed nothing new in himself and

such a change in his ability could not have happened without some prior indication even if it only became

apparent in retrospect. And it did not. There was nothing. The contact – the voice – had come from

outside. It had definitely been initiated by the wolves; or at least by one of them.

Then he remembered their parting remark.

‘Just wait there a moment.’

What had that meant?

Perhaps they’ve gone for their friends, declared part of him malevolently. He ignored it. But he stopped.

As he did so, he realized he had been walking too quickly, and that a combination of the sun and his

excitement had conspired to make him feel unpleasantly warm.

Calm down, he instructed himself, flapping his robe indecorously. They were running when they left,

you’re not going to catch them unless they’ve stopped.

He took a drink from his water bottle. He had filled it at the stream and the water was still very cold.

‘Simple pleasures,’ he reminded himself with a chuckle as he wiped some across his face. ‘But what

about complicated ones – like talking wolves? Just as good!’ And he was off again, his pace unchanged.

As he rounded the broad shoulder of the hill a cool breeze greeted him. It was drifting up from the

shallow valley now spread out before him. Green and lush, the valley was hemmed protectively by

rugged peaks and ridges, bright and clear in the sunlight. Cattle and sheep were reduced to tiny dots by

the distance and the small orderliness of a few cultivated fields marked some of the farms that served the

Cadwanen.

‘You really should get out more often, Andawyr,’ he said as he took in the sight.

Then he felt again the soft touch in his mind that had heralded the arrival of the wolves. There was the

same wildness about it and, though it carried no menace, it nevertheless startled him. He looked around

anxiously, screwing up his eyes to peer through the brightness. Almost immediately, he saw horses in the

distance. Three riders and a pack horse, he judged after a moment.

And two dogs . . .?

But that question was set aside by others. From the direction the riders were moving in, it seemed they

had dropped down from a col between two all-too-familiar peaks. Andawyr frowned. That meant that at

some point they must have travelled along, or at least crossed, the bleak Pass of Elewart. The thought

brought a momentary darkness to him. Even on a day like this, the Pass of Elewart was barren and

inhospitable. The only people who travelled it were those who had to, and they were mainly Cadwanwr

and others who studied the land of Narsindal to the north. And, whatever else they were, these riders did

not look like Cadwanwr.

They were heading directly towards him, the dogs, if dogs they were, trotting ahead of them. He half

expected to hear the wolf’s voice ringing through his head again. But there was nothing other than the soft

wind-carried sounds of the valley. He sat down on a rock and waited.

The two ‘dogs’ were indeed the wolves, he decided as the small group drew nearer. Strange

companions for men, he thought. So wild, so shy, so free. Not tame, surely? No one could tame a wolf.

Train it, perhaps, but never tame.

Other impressions began to displace his thoughts about the wolves and he leaned forward intently as if

that might bring the riders closer. Then he stood up and began walking towards them, every now and

then breaking into a little run. In their turn the riders urged their horses to the trot.

‘Itis you,’ Andawyr cried out as they reined in alongside him. The first two riders dismounted excitedly.

‘Yatsu, Jaldaric . . .’ Andawyr extended his arms wide as if to encompass the entire group, horses and

all. His face was beaming and his mouth for some time was shaping unvoiced greetings as he embraced

each of the men in turn.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ he managed eventually. ‘Where have you been? What have you been doing?

What . . .’ His voice fell. ‘What in the name of all that’s merciful are you doing coming back this way?

Did you come through the Pass?’

‘We crossed it,’ said the elder of the two. ‘We didn’t mean to return this way, but . . .’ He stopped and

shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’

Andawyr made a gesture that indicated they had all the time in the world, then impatiently seized the

hand of the second rider. Taller and younger than his companion, he had fair, curly hair and a round face

which, for all it was weather-worn and had lines of strain about it beyond his age, had also an unexpected

hint of innocence.

‘Jaldaric. You’re getting more like your father every day,’ Andawyr advised him, as much for want of

something to say as anything else. He clapped his hands excitedly, then put his arms around both of them

again. Yatsu disentangled himself and indicated the third rider, who was still mounted.

Andawyr looked up at him. In age, he was perhaps between his two companions but, though he sat

straight and upright, he had the aura of someone much older. And he had black-irised eyes that returned

Andawyr’s gaze disconcertingly.

‘This is Antyr,’ Yatsu said. ‘A valued friend. He’s been travelling with us and I think, like us, he’d value

some simple hospitality – or at least a soft bed.’

Antyr dismounted and offered his hand to Andawyr who clasped it with both of his own. ‘Welcome to

Riddin, Antyr, valued friend of Yatsu and Jaldaric. Welcome to the Cadwanen and to whatever

hospitality we can offer you.’

‘Thank you,’ Antyr replied, bowing slightly.

‘Remarkable.’

The voice filled Andawyr’s head causing him to look around quickly. The two wolves moved to his side

and began sniffing him energetically. He decided to stand very still for a little while.

‘This is Tarrian and this is his brother, Grayle,’ Antyr said, touching the heads of the wolves gently as if

to restrain them. ‘Grayle doesn’t say much, and Tarrian usually says too much. They’re my Earth

Holders, my Companions. They’re also very impolite,’ he added sharply, looking down at them. The two

wolves ignored the rebuke and continued sniffing.

Questions lit Andawyr’s face.

‘We’ll explain it to you later,’ Yatsu said, not without some amusement. ‘Or at least Antyr will try. But I

have to warn you, he’s not managed to make either of us understand so far.’

The wolves finally retreated. Andawyr pointed at them and then lifted his hand to his head vaguely as he

Roger Taylor - H5 Return of the Sword

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