Into Narsindal by Roger Taylor

Author:Roger Taylor [Taylor, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Fiction, Fantasy, Epic, epic fantasy, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781843192763
Google: hovLFegFEVQC
Amazon: B004I1KNDQ
Publisher: Mushroom eBooks
Published: 2002-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

‘In the name of pity, Hawklan, help us!’

The voice was that of Ynar Aesgin. It rang in Hawklan’s head and possessed his body, though the images in his eyes were still those of the Helyadin and Morlider locked in savage and bloody combat about him.

A great rage and fear surged through him.

‘What have you done?’ he roared, though no sound was heard in Riddin. ‘Release me. I will die here, or others will die protecting my helplessness. Release me!’

‘This is not my doing,’ came the reply.

‘Release me!’

‘I do not bind you, neither can I release you,’ said Ynar. ‘Would I had such skills at my command, I’d have sought you before this extremity.’

Faint and distant voices impinged on Hawklan, calling his name frantically as the images of his friends battling the Morlider around his helpless frame came before him with fearful clarity. An ancient part of his mind struggled desperately for release, but none came.

‘Help us, Hawklan,’ intruded Ynar again. ‘Hendar Gornath understood the great truth of the sword you bear and he has held firm. The Soarers Tarran have repelled Dar Hastuin’s terrible hordes . . . at great cost . . . but now he takes his tormented land to the higher paths . . . He will crush us . . . Destroy us utterly. Help us.’

The despair in the Drienwr’s voice appalled Hawklan. ‘I cannot help you, Ynar,’ he cried.

‘He will destroy us!’

‘I cannot help you!’

Ynar’s pain filled Hawklan. ‘What do you want of me?’ he cried.

‘Your strength, your knowledge, your wisdom, to guide us.’

‘If you understand the sword you are wiser than I am. You have what you need. Search your hearts.’

Ynar’s despair did not abate.

‘But tell us what to . . .’

Hawklan screamed. ‘Do what you must, Drienwr. I know nothing of your ways. You sought no conflict. You have the right to be. No one, no thing, can deny you that. Do . . .’

Ynar was gone.

The din of the battle broke over Hawklan deafeningly; Isloman’s voice roaring his name, others screaming and shouting, swords and shields clashing.

He tightened his grip on the black sword but something struck his helm a ringing blow and the impact toppled him from Serian’s back to leave him rolling in the cold damp snow beneath the flailing hooves of friend and foe alike.

A figure crashed down beside him, screaming and clutching a partly severed arm. The screaming stopped as a horse’s hoof struck the man’s head.

Hawklan rolled away to avoid the same fate and then, leaning on his sword, staggered to his feet and shook his head to still the roaring in his ears that the blow had left. A horse buffeted him, and only some ancient reflex twisted him away from a descending sword blade. The same reflex cleared his vision and drove the black sword upwards under his attacker’s chin then tore the blade free from the ghastly grip of the man’s skull.

Then Serian was there, rearing and prancing to keep his foes away.

As

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