The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice sounding odd in her own ears. She took hold of her helper and, leaning heavily on him, dragged herself slowly to her feet. It was a painful exercise, but some cautious probing of her own confirmed the man’s diagnosis. She was bruised – badly bruised from the feel of it – but seemingly not otherwise injured. She uttered a silent prayer to her oft-maligned instructors of the past. Closing her eyes she felt her stomach tentatively. Yes, all was well.

  Turning, she looked at her helper. He was tall, and powerfully built – rock-like almost – perhaps the same age as Rgoric, though it was difficult to judge from his craggy, dust-covered face. And despite his gentle aid to her, he was fretful and restless.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  The man started slightly as if his mind had flitted on to some other matter. ‘My name’s Isloman,’ he said almost irritably. ‘I’m sorry. Come on, we must get away. We must keep moving.’ He took hold of Sylvriss’s arm, but she shook it free. The man’s manner had no menace in it but it exuded fear and it alarmed her. His great hands had been shaking. A host of questions surged into her mind.

  ‘You’re an outlander aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Orthlundyn from your speech.’ Isloman did not reply, but turned to his horse which was standing nearby, sweating and steaming in the blustering wind. It too was fretful and anxious, pawing the ground, but otherwise remaining still to avoid disturbing the figure draped over its neck.

  Sylvriss pursued her questions. ‘What are you running from?’ she asked. ‘Where did you get that horse? What’s the matter with your companion? What . . .’

  Her voice tailed off at the look on Isloman’s face as he turned to her. ‘My friend’s alive, we can look to him later,’ he said, looking fearfully towards the City, still hidden behind the hill. ‘Please mount up and ride. We mustn’t delay here, please hurry.’ He nodded in the direction of Sylvriss’s horse which was also standing patiently nearby.

  Mindful of her own journey and seeing that nothing was to be gained by further questions, Sylvriss painfully clambered on to her horse. As she eased into her saddle, a terrible pain, far beyond her immediate bodily discomfort, ran through her and she gasped out loud.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s voice was distant. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone, leaving in its wake a cold and fearful emptiness as though something precious had been torn from her forever. The tremulous life inside her fluttered agitatedly, but somehow she soothed it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s question came again.

  She ignored it. She had no words to describe what had just happened. ‘As you’re travelling this road, it seems we’re both going the same way, Orthlundyn,’ she said grimly. ‘So trot your horse gently if you’re anxious to cover a great distance quickly. Match my speed. Talk when you’re ready.’

  For a while they rode on in an uneasy silence, though Sylvriss noted that the black horse was still carrying its rider rather than being ridden. Every now and then, it would increase its speed and ease forward, but Sylvriss reached over and took its reins.

  ‘You’re not whole yet, horse,’ she said. ‘Your duty’s done for now. Take my guidance.’ Isloman did not interfere.

  Gradually the horse became quieter, and Isloman too seemed to lose a little of his fearful preoccupation, though he kept turning round.

  ‘I’m sorry, Muster woman,’ he said, eventually. Sylvriss looked at him sharply, but did not speak.

  He continued. ‘I saw you come out of the trees like a saviour out of an old legend. I thought you’d kill yourself for certain, riding down that hillside the way you did. It was unbelievable.’ He looked down. ‘I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You were hanging on to the horse,’ Sylvriss said, understandingly.

  Isloman nodded his head a little and then looked at her sadly. ‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help you because I was petrified. I was so frightened I scarcely remember leaving Vakloss.’

  Sylvriss looked at him intently, questions again bubbling up inside her. ‘Shouldn’t we look to your friend now?’ she said.

  Isloman hesitated. ‘He’s alive,’ he repeated. Then, almost childishly, ‘I don’t want to stop. Not yet.’

  Sylvriss’s eyes opened in a mixture of horror and anger at the man’s tone. Even in this fearful state, Isloman did not radiate cowardice. Further, a black sword and a black bow hung from the horse, indicating that he or his inert companion was a warrior of some kind. And the horse was a splendid line leader. What could have happened to reduce such a trio to such bewildered and terrified flight? And again, why would such a beast willingly carry them?

  Reaching across, she reined the black horse to a halt. ‘Dismount, Orthlundyn,’ she said firmly. ‘Like your horse, you’re not yourself. We must look to your friend, and you must tell me your tale before we go any further.’

  There was a glimmer of resistance in Isloman’s eyes, but Sylvriss outfaced him. ‘The horses will warn us if anyone comes near,’ she said. ‘And we can outrun anything the Mathidrin could send after us.’

  Reluctantly, Isloman climbed down from his horse and gently lifting his companion, carried him to the grassy roadside. Sylvriss followed and, as Isloman laid his friend down, she found herself looking at a narrow and high cheek-boned face that seemed to radiate a powerful presence even in unconsciousness. But was the man simply unconscious, for the face was also as pale as a death mask? Hesitantly, she reached forward and placed her hand against his throat.

  ‘I can feel no pulse,’ she said anxiously. There was no reply. Turning, she saw Isloman lifting the sword down from his horse, and in the corner of her vision a black shadow came from nowhere.

  Chapter 2

  Crouching in a shaded alcove, Dilrap shook and shook as if the only way his body knew to quell his whirling mind was to destroy itself. Dismissed from the Throne Room by the King with a soft blessing and a loudly proclaimed curse to give him some little protection, Dilrap had watched the ensuing scene through the intricate carved tracery that formed a panel in one of the side doors. Watched the entrance of the strangely transformed Dan-Tor impaled on a black arrow. Watched Rgoric move to slay him, only to fall victim himself to Dan-Tor’s Mathidrin, perishing as he cut a hideous path through them towards their evil Lord.

  Rigid with horror, his hands pressed against the sharp edges of the carved wood, Dilrap had watched the Kingship of Fyorlund rise grim and determined from its years of sullen decay only to fall in a welter of primitive blood-lust. With it fell his own hopes and dreams. Now he was alone. Appallingly alone.

  Fear and self-pity took alternate command of his mind, though rage seemed to dominate both. Rage at his father for bearing such a poor scion to carry the Secretary’s burden, rage at Dan-Tor and his years of silent, evil scheming, rage at the King for his futile death, at the Lords for their neglect, at the Queen for deserting him, and at this last, rage at himself for the injustice of such base thoughts.

  Cowering small in the alcove, it seemed to Dilrap that he was entering a darkness that could only deepen, and that it would be beyond his soul to bear. And yet, even in this terrible extremity, bright threads flickered and he reached out for them in the hope that they might grow and bind together to form a desperate lifeline.

  For he had heard too the King’s strange last words. That Dan-Tor would die at the very height of his power; die at the hands of an ancient and insignificant assassin. And that the ancient line of Kings was still unbroken, for the Queen now carried his heir.

  Heartening words. But what of the King’s final eerie utterance into the dreadful waiting silence that filled the hall as he had crawled agonizingly towards the fountainhead of all his ills? ‘Nothing shall end the reign of your Master.’ A desperate, doom-laden avowal. And yet it was not uttered as such – ‘It is not what it seems’ – and the King had laughed softly with his last breath, as at some private jest.

  What could it mean? And who could be Dan-T
or’s master? Then the name that the King had uttered returned to him.

  Oklar.

  A name from myth and legend. Oklar, the earth corrupter, greatest of the Uhriel, the servants of Sumeral, the Great Corrupter.

  A chill possessed Dilrap that set his previous terrors at naught. It couldn’t be. Such creatures could not exist. It was contrary to reason. They were ogres for children, old tales embellished through the ages. But the chill persisted. Hadn’t he seen Fyorlund deteriorate in his own lifetime? Hadn’t he seen the great tower fortress of Narsindalvak and its Watch abandoned, and the ranks of the Lords’ High Guards softened into foppery. And now its King was slain, its Queen was fled, and its Lords were arming for a conflict that could only set brother against brother. And who could account for the force that had just shaken the palace, perhaps even the City, to its very roots? But, rising above all this, came the vision of Dan-Tor being carried into the Throne Room; changed, but unchanged. Dilrap knew it was no human creature that now occupied that familiar lank form.

  Resting his flushed and tear-stained face on the cold stone of the alcove, Dilrap struggled with his grief, and the enormity of his revelation. Powers were awakening that were beyond human understanding. His sense of loneliness and isolation deepened but, strangely, he felt comforted. He remembered the Queen’s words: ‘Even your father couldn’t have stood against the wiles of Dan-Tor.’ The memory made him smile bitterly. How could she have known the measure of the creature that they were opposing?

  And yet they had opposed him, and done so successfully. Dilrap had fouled and encumbered his path with his seeming helpfulness. The Queen had restored her long-sick King. They were achievements in which to take no small pride, even if now they would doom him.

  Scarcely had the thought occurred to him than the curtain of the alcove was pushed roughly aside and two white-faced Mathidrin troopers confronted him.

  * * * *

  Sylvriss spun round, and rising rapidly to her feet, drew a large hunting knife from her belt. ‘I must have been too long in the Palace,’ she said menacingly. ‘If a Lord can usurp the King, and thugs the High Guard, then I suppose bandits could return to the highways. Well, you’ve no soft maiden here, outlander.’ And she called out to her horse which reared up and flayed out wildly with its forelegs, narrowly missing Isloman’s head.

  Gavor squawked and hopped a considerable distance away, while Isloman’s mouth fell open at the sight of this suddenly wild woman with her glittering knife and an indisputable will shining in her eyes. The horse jostled him violently.

  ‘Lady,’ he said, staggering under the impact, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sylvriss retorted. ‘Lay down your sword before one of us kills you.’

  Isloman hesitated, bewildered. Sylvriss’s horse moved towards him, forelegs dancing, but Isloman watched it uncomprehendingly. Abruptly, Serian neighed, and Sylvriss’s horse stopped. The Queen shouted to it again, but it did not move.

  Sylvriss faltered at this unexpected intervention by the great horse. Who were these people? At her hesitation, Isloman seemed to come to himself and, bending down, he laid the sword gently on the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  Sylvriss bridled. ‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied. ‘That damned bird startled me, landing so close.’

  Gavor put his head on one side but did not speak. Then he walked over to Hawklan and peered at him intently. Sylvriss caught the movement in the corner of her eye and, without taking her gaze from Isloman, swung a foot in Gavor’s direction.

  ‘Shoo!’ she shouted.

  Isloman stretched out a hand and stepped forward. ‘It’s all right . . .’ he began, but the Queen levelled her knife at his groin.

  ‘Really,’ came a fruity voice from behind her. Startled she turned. But there was no one there, just the lifeless black figure – and that damned bird again, standing by the body and staring at her.

  Without thinking, she moved towards it angrily. Gavor spread his wings and flapped away. ‘Really,’ he repeated. ‘Do something, Isloman. These Fyordyn women seem to do nothing but kill people when they get hold of a knife.’

  Sylvriss stopped, eyes wide. Then, turning, she found Isloman standing next to her, but with his hands raised in surrender.

  ‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry I startled you with the sword, but I think it might help Hawklan.’

  Sylvriss glanced from Isloman to the motionless figure and then at Gavor.

  ‘The bird spoke,’ she said, ignoring Isloman’s explanation.

  Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, that’s Gavor,’ he said, then, ‘Please call your horse off, so that I can pick up the sword.’ Sylvriss looked at him. He looked powerful enough to have wrestled the horse to the ground had need arisen, but his power was lost in his anxiety and concern. She sheathed her knife.

  ‘Your horse has called mine off already, Orthlundyn,’ she said. Then, sadly, ‘Attend to your friend if you wish, but I fear he’s dead.’

  As Isloman recovered the sword and moved to Hawklan’s side, Sylvriss walked slowly to her horse. Patting its cheek, she said. ‘Why did you disobey me, old friend?’ The horse lowered its head, and Serian bent forward and nudged her gently. Turning to him, Sylvriss saw that fear still flickered in his eyes, but it was being well mastered. So many questions. She stroked his neck. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘but thank you, line leader.’

  She looked at Isloman, now kneeling by Hawklan and trying to place his hand around the handle of the sword. He kept wincing, as though the sword were burning him.

  She patted the horse again and walked back over to Isloman. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, kneeling beside him.

  There were tears in Isloman’s eyes, and his hands were shaking. ‘I can’t hold the sword,’ he said. ‘I can’t touch the handle. It’s too . . . charged . . . too . . .’ His voice faded. Then, thrusting the sword towards her, he said, ‘Will you try? Please.’

  Sylvriss looked helplessly down at the plain black scabbard that held the sword, and then back at Isloman’s pleading gaze. She did not take it. ‘Your friend’s dead, Isloman,’ she said. ‘I could find no pulse.’

  Isloman shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He can’t be. Try again.’

  Sylvriss laid her hand on Hawklan’s throat and closed her eyes to shut out all distractions. Very faintly, like the distant stirring within herself, she felt the flutter of Hawklan’s heart.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, as if the sound of her too-loud voice might extinguish the tiny flame. ‘You’re right. But what can I do? I’m no healer. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Isloman replied. ‘But give him the sword. It’s. . . important . . . it’s saved me in the past, and it’s saved us all today. Give it to him.’

  Reluctantly, Sylvriss held out her hands to receive the weapon. Isloman placed it gently on to the outstretched palms. As the hilt of the sword touched her, Sylvriss felt the wind-blown Fyorlund countryside disappear in a great soaring song. A myriad voices singing a myriad tales of triumph and despair. There she was, riding by her father’s side across the open Riddin countryside, flirting and teasing the besotted Rgoric in summer orchards, withdrawing into herself over the long bitter years as Dan-Tor poisoned her husband, prowling the Westerclave, slaying the Mathidrin Sirshiant in the streets of Vakloss, at once exhilarated and degraded by the deed. And other tales were there. Everything was there. Everything. Even the life song of her unborn child.

  With a cry she let the sword fall. ‘What is this?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘Who are you? And who is this to own such a thing?’ She looked down at the motionless Hawklan.

  ‘Help him, please,’ said Isloman again, taking her arms in his powerful hands. ‘I’m sure the sword will help him.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s . . . too near the end to hear . . . that.’ She clasped her hands together to stop them trembling as she
looked at the sword.

  Then she leaned forward and took hold of Hawklan’s hand. It was cold and lifeless; a terrible contrast to the great celebration that had just possessed her. Almost without realizing what she was doing, she pressed it gently against her stomach. ‘He needs a softer song to draw him back from wherever he is,’ she heard herself saying.

  The wind buffeted the motionless group, ruffling Gavor’s feathers, and blowing Sylvriss’s hair across her face, but it could not disturb the deep stillness that descended on them all as they watched and waited.

  Then Sylvriss laid down Hawklan’s hand and placed her fingers on his throat. ‘His heartbeat’s a little stronger,’ she said after a moment, almost disbelievingly. ‘Still faint, but definitely stronger.’

  Isloman checked for himself. ‘It is, it is,’ he whispered. ‘And his face is less pale.’ However, despite his obvious relief at this improvement in his friend’s frail condition, the momentum of his journey seemed to return to him and without further comment he lifted Hawklan up quickly and began carrying him to his horse.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Sylvriss in alarm. ‘He’s very weak. I don’t think he should ride any more.’

  ‘He’s ridden this far and lived,’ Isloman said, almost callously, although his tone contrasted markedly with the gentleness with which he laid Hawklan across Serian’s neck. ‘We have to get away quickly.’

  Sylvriss seized his arm and dragged him round to face her.

  ‘He might die yet, Isloman,’ she said angrily. ‘What are you running from that’s worth such a risk?’

  Isloman looked down at her, his eyes full of concern and gratitude, but still impatient and fearful. He cast around for an explanation. It was there, in the west.

  ‘We’re running from that, Muster lady,’ he said, gently taking her hand from his arm, and turning her round to look at the place they had just so desperately ridden from. ‘We’re running from that. And the man . . . the creature that caused it.’