No Fragments Archive 10: Diskmags/nf_archive_10.iso/MAGS/BOS/BOSMAG1B.MSA/BOS_HAWKE1

Text File | 1987-04-21 | 16KB | 286 lines

                Jon Hawke - Tale of the Unicorn.

                         L B Sutherland



               Chapter One. The Ruins of Taw Royar.

                       Part One (8.4.92).


   Upon the top of the abandoned tower,  upon the tumbled parapet
of  the  south-facing  side,  there stood the figure  of  a  man,
cloaked  tightly against the chill breeze that was born amid  the
frozen  wastes  of  the north,  and hooded against  the  eyes  of
watchers. Unmoving he stood, as a statue, gazing intently towards
the moon-silvered heights of the Amyroth Hills.
   To  the  warrior who puffed up the crumbling steps  some  time
later,  the  scene appeared to him as though the night  had  been
shattered by lightning for a split instant,  an instant that  had
never ended,  freezing the night-world for all time in  brilliant
radiance.  He  stood there at upon the top  step,  regarding  the
still figure there with some anxiety,  taking the opportunity  to
catch his breath.
   He  was a young man,  but recently entered into  his  manhood,
slightly taller than most men and solidly built.  His long,  pale
hair  was tied back by a leather thong.  He wore a black  leather
tunic  with a white shirt,  above breeches of the same  material,
with  leather  boots  upon  his feet.  A  wide  belt  of  leather
encircled  his waist,  and from one side there hung a  broadsword
within  its  scabbard,  from  the  other  there  was  a  sheathed
shortsword.  Across  his back there was strapped a round  shield,
emblazoned with the stylised image of a stooping hawk.
   For several minutes,  the hooded figure stood silent,  staring
into  the  distance,  seemingly  unaware  of  the  young  warrior
standing behind him at the top of the tower stairs.  The  warrior
sighed  silently  to himself,  and looked about the  top  of  the
tower,  bored.  But just as his impatience had grown sufficiently
to  overcome  his nervousness,  and he had  prepared  himself  to
speak,  the hooded figure raised its head suddenly, as if sensing
him for the first time.
   "Yes, Hawke?"
   The  voice was dry and soft,  like the whisper of  the  breeze
through  the creepers that engulfed the ancient  tower,  but  the
words were well-rounded.
   The hooded figure swung around to watch Hawke as he picked his
way  carefully amid the debris  towards him.  Hawke glanced  once
into  the deep shadow of the other's hood,  quickly averting  his
eyes to gaze beyond the other towards the far off hills.
   "You  are troubled." remarked the figure from deep within  the
cowl,  regarding  the  warrior for a moment before  turning  away
once more.
   There was a silence then, that lasted for but a few moments as
they both studied the moonlit land below them.  Hawke could sense
that  the  other  was waiting for an answer  to  his  soft-spoken
comment.  He  could also sense that he was also willing  for  the
time  being  to  let the young warrior  gather  his  thoughts  in
silence. Hawke, not yet trusting his voice to remain steady, took
several  deep breaths,  savouring the heather-scented  night-air,
trying to remain calm.
   "The men are troubled, my Lord Tarlwin," stated Hawke finally,
injecting  a  sense of determined defiance into his voice  as  he
added,  "They  grow impatient,  anxious that Pietre has  not  yet
come."
   Lord  Tarlwin smiled gently within the confines of  his  hood,
and though his words were also gentle,  there was an undercurrent
of menace.
   "They must wait,  as we all must wait.  Are you impatient, Jon
Hawke?"
   "I am merely anxious that your orders are executed  correctly.
That  I ensure to the best of my abilities that they are  carried
out." he replied stiffly,  straightening himself to an alert, yet
dignified  stance.  But  Tarlwin  detected  the  tone  of  firmly
suppressed apprehension in his words.
   "Indeed."  he murmured coldly,  and Hawke winced,  fearing  he
might have said far too much in his few indignant words.  He shot
a quick, nervous glance at the other, who remained motionless and
silent, studying him.
   After  a  few minutes of unbroken silence,  Hawke  had  become
decidedly  uneasy.  He  chewed nervously upon  his  knuckle,  and
frowned as he kept his gaze upon the highlands,  unwilling to let
his  gaze meet that of the other,  afraid of what he   might  see
there.
   But  presently,  unable  to bear the tension  any  longer,  he
lowered  his hand,  seizing the hilt of his broadsword as  if  to
derive strength from the familiar touch.
   "Where is he?" he burst out,  glaring recklessly at the hooded
figure  who stood there impassively,  "He's late!  He  should  be
here! When he gets here, I'll have words with him!"
   Tarlwin,  who, as a matter of fact, had been perfectly content
to  stand still and silent next Hawke,  and who had felt none  of
the tension that the young warrior had been experiencing, stirred
with  the  faintest  of  irritation.  With  a  slow  and  careful
movement, the figure drew back his hood.
   "Peace, Jon Hawke!" he hissed softly, eyeing the young warrior
with  a  tangible disfavour.  Hawke  blanched,  lapsing  into  an
immediate silence,  and stepped back hastily as Tarlwin raised  a
hand  as  though  to blast him from the top  of  the  tower.  But
Tarlwin  merely  waved  his hand with a  cold  vehemence  in  the
direction of the hills.
   "Pietre will be here, that is a certainty. He is a greedy man,
and  greedy men always arrive in time for their rewards.  Do  not
worry yourself about him." he hissed.
   Then he muttered to himself in angry tones, wrapping his cloak
back about himself.
   "Go back down and wait, man!" he finally snapped, turning away
from the warrior and back to his surveillance.  Hawke delayed not
in  the slightest as he almost ran down the old stone  steps.  He
was not craven,  he had stood up to many foes without  faltering,
but he had no desire to face Lord Tarlwin in a fury.
   Up on the parapet, Lord Tarlwin calmed himself, coldly annoyed
with  himself that he should have allowed Jon Hawke to goad  him,
even  inadvertently.  Then  he gave a smile that  totally  lacked
warmth.  How  afraid  Hawke  had been of  him  during  those  few
moments!  Love  ensured loyalty,  right enough,  but  love  could
change  to hate,  and as it did,  there died loyalty.  But  fear!
Whether Jon Hawke loved or hated him, fear ensured his loyalty.
   Then his eyes became slivers that glittered in the  moonlight,
and his lips became narrowed and bloodless as he considered the
mercenary for whom he awaited.
   "Pietre  had better arrive,  lest he wants that I  have  words
with him!  And my words will be far, far more unpleasant than any
words  Jon  Hawke could find!" he murmured,  and  an  evil  smirk
seemed to flash across his thin lips.
   Then,  an  image  of the Unicorn came into his  mind,  and  he
grinned with anticipation.


   Hawke stumbled to a halt at the bottom of the steps, aiming an
ill-tempered kick at a broken bit of stonework upon which he  had
almost turned his ankle.  He leant against the wall,  mopping his
brow.  One day, he would say exactly the wrong thing, and Tarlwin
would blast his bones for him, by Isbard!
   "Get your fingers rapped, hey?"
   Hawke  wearily  raised his head to glower at the  gnarled  old
warrior,   who  leaned  upon  his  crossbow,   a  not  altogether
sympathetic smile showing amid the grey of his beard.
   "Some times,  not often, I would be rid of our respected Lord.
And  I'm  thinking how swift a sword can move,  given  the  right
man."  remarked Hawke flatly.  The crossbowman shifted  uneasily,
glancing about himself furtively.
   "Best you bury them words and thoughts deep, lad." he growled.
   "And  then  I  remember how his eyes can  look  when  he  gets
seriously angered. Then I tell myself, I can put up a lot more. I
tell myself,  now is not the time." added Hawke almost  dreamily,
as if he hadn't heard the older man's words. Then he straightened
up,  eyeing the other with an unfriendly gaze,  a stare that  the
warrior returned calmly.
   "Aye, I would not be the one to cross Tarlwin." stated the old
warrior,  nodding his head  sharply, once. Then he leaned forward
to murmur in Hawke's ear,  "I would also not shed a tear, were he
to meet a sudden end!"
   "But you'll stay and take his coin, Cromarly!" grinned Hawke.
   "Aye,  coin does wonders for your patience,  Jon.  Your's  and
mine both,  Jon!" Cromarly growled, and he lifted his crossbow to
his  shoulder,  disappeared  into the gloom  without  a  backward
glance.
   Hawke  stared viciously after him,  fingering the hilt of  his
sword, and wondering what it was that held him back from striking
Cromarly down.  Then he shrugged,  crouching down in the  shadows
near the steps that climbed the crumbling tower.  There would  be
time enough later.  He idly studied the courtyard,  lit by a  few
smoking  torches thrust into crevices in the tumbled  stones,  or
into the rusted remains of torchholders mounted on those bits  of
wall  that  were still standing.  Everything was  ready  for  the
arrival  of  Pietre,  but they must now wait  for  the  mercenary
captain to appear.  Hawke had posted some men outside,  among the
heather and bushes of the sloping barrens.  They would give ample
warning of Pietre,  indeed,  of any other trouble that may occur.
Yes, with any luck, this masquerade would soon be done with, then
he could relax.
   Suddenly,  his head came up, listening intently. Yes, there it
was  again!  He craned his neck to gaze in the direction  of  the
sound. He carefully slid his swords from their sheaths as he came
smoothly   to  his  feet,  and stood,  relaxed and  wary  in  the
shadows.
   There was a sudden startled cry from the sentry that Hawke had
posted  at the tumbled mound of rubble that had long ago  been  a
gatehouse,  and Hawke could clearly make out the sound of a horse
galloping over the turf outside the overgrown rubble.
   Hawke gave vent to his anger.  Had those he had posted  fallen
asleep?  Or perhaps they had just sneaked away into the night? He
uttered another obscenity,  as the steady beat of horses'  hooves
rapidly  grew in intensity,  suddenly changing to a loud  clatter
that  echoed  among the ruins as a horse galloped  into  the  old
courtyard,  slithering to a sliding halt in a shower of dust  and
stones and sparks,  not five yards from where he crouched,  ready
to spring.
   He  was forced to turned his face away to protect it from  the
flying debris, and so did not at first see the rider peer down at
him, with a wide grin on his face.
   There was an abrupt silence,  interrupted only by the  panting
of the animal, and the sound of running boots as several warriors
pounded along in the wake of the horseman.
   Hawke  strode angrily forward to scowl up at  the  rider,  who
acknowledged his presence with a great guffaw.
   "Hawke! My friend! Good to see you, boy!" he bellowed.
   "You damned fool,  Pietre!  You could have been killed,  man!"
snapped Hawke, sheathing his blades once again, "And what did you
do with my sentries?"
   "I? What would I do with sleeping guards?" demanded the other,
feigning indignant surprise.
   Hawke stared at him with unfriendly eyes.
   "I know you, Pietre, all too well!" he grated.
   Pietre gave an expansive shrug and grinned.  He hauled back on
the  reins  and the weary animal reared up,  pawing at  the  air.
Hawke danced back, clear of the flying hooves.
   There  was a faint ripple of laughter,  which was silenced  as
soon as Hawke swung around threateningly to scowl at the men  who
had gathered around in the courtyard.
   "You are late, Pietre of Dirke!"
   The  words  were quiet,  but they seemed to  cut  through  the
clamour  like  a knife,  killing the racket as immediately  as  a
bucket of water flung onto a fire.  In the disturbance created by
Pietre's  arrival,  no-one  had noticed the hooded  Lord  Tarlwin
picking  his way carefully down the crumbling  tower  steps,  his
eyes flat with barely contained fury.
   Hawke  groaned  to himself,  contenting himself  with  another
scowl at the rider.  He  gave an urgent signal to the men,  which
Tarlwin seemed not to notice,  so single-minded was his attention
to the mercenary captain. But the watching men saw it, and obeyed
at  once,  cautiously backing away and moving out of sight  among
the outer ruins of the deserted fort.
   Pietre  gazed  uneasily  at the  approaching  figure  of  Lord
Tarlwin, reining in the nervously curvetting animal with a savage
jerk of his wrist.
   "Aye,  Lord. I had to take a long detour, around an area where
there'd  been a lot of outlaw activity." he mumbled,  "Seeing  as
how you'd made it plain how you'd treat me should the item become
lost."
   His  eyes  glowed with resentment at the memory  of  Tarlwin's
words.  But  he carefully reached into his pouch and drew  out  a
cloth-wrapped  object,  which Tarlwin all but snatched  from  his
hands, turning the the object over and over with trembling hands,
carefully folding the rags away from the item within.  He held up
a long,  white object,  shaped as a horn.  Hawke edged closer  to
Tarlwin,  and by craning his neck,  he could see that its surface
was finely carved.
   Lord Tarlwin's eyes devoured the object greedily,  studying it
with  all  the  devotion  of a  religious  fanatic  studying  the
likeness of his deity.
   Pietre shifted impatiently.
   "My Lord, if I might ask for the gold you agreed to pay?"
   Tarlwin whirled about, his reply merely a wordless snarl. Both
Pietre  and  Hawke drew back involuntarily,  for  at  that  exact
moment there was nothing human in him at all.  Suddenly his  eyes
had  a demonic slant,  and in their depths there appeared  to  be
raging flames. Tarlwin turned away again, bent over the object.
   Pietre's eyes went flat with anger, his face darkening. At the
same time, Hawke recognised his intentions, and his hands flashed
down to seize and draw his blades.
   But then,  before he could move, Tarlwin had raised the object
up  before  him as though he was offering up his  thanks  to  the
gods, though it was certain that they would have accepted none of
his gratitude.  In the same instant,  digging his heels  brutally
into the horse's sides,  Pietre urged the animal towards Tarlwin,
reaching out to snatch his prize from him.  The Lord was  tumbled
to the stone as Pietre's steed barged past,  just as Hawke  raced
across the yard, yelling for his men to rouse themselves.
   There was an inhuman shriek of rage and despair from the prone
Tarlwin,  and his hand fastened,  clawlike,  into the material of
Hawke's tunic as the warrior crouched by him.
   "Hawke!  Get the Unicorn back!" hissed the Lord,  pushing  his
bloodied face close to the warrior's,  an evil light in his eyes,
"Bring back that mercenary to me! Alive, do you hear? Alive!"
   His  grasp  on Hawke's tunic slackened,  and he fell  back  in
exhaustion  even as Hawke nodded and prepared to race  after  the
fleeing horseman.
   But  before  he had moved ten feet,  there was  the  sound  of
running men, and the clash of sword on sword, and several screams
rang out above the confused din.  Several warriors raced into the
yard,  turning where they could find cover.  Even as he  watched,
startled,  he  heard  the angry spiteful buzz of a  bolt,  and  a
warrior  nearby  cried  out,   spinning  from  his  feet  to  lay
motionless across a pile of rubble.
   Hawke  spun around,  attempting to see where the  missile  had
come  from,  and  found  that he was  confronted  by  a  horseman
crouched low, lance levelled at his chest, galloping at full tilt
across the shattered flagstones towards him.


Next time, Part Two.

In which a battle is resolved, and Hawke is free to fly.