The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  There, dominating the distance, was Vakloss, chief city of Fyorlund, standing high on its isolated hill, and crowned by the towers of the King’s palace. Its familiar skyline was unchanged, but Sylvriss was aware of some ominous difference, though for a moment she could not make out what it was. Two scars, seemingly rooted at the palace diverged across the city, as though a powerful flood had struck a massive rock and split irrecoverably into two lesser streams. At isolated points, smoke was being swept up and dissipated by the wind.

  ‘What . . .’

  ‘Mount up.’ Isloman’s command cut across Sylvriss’s question, and forestalling any further discussion, he swung up on to Serian. Immediately, the horse began walking along the road.

  Scowling, at first with annoyance and then with pain, Sylvriss mounted her own horse and rode after the retreating stallion, which had now broken into a trot. Catching a gust in the wind, Gavor opened his wings and rose straight into the air to follow them both.

  ‘What’s happened in the City?’ Sylvriss finished her question as she reached Isloman.

  Isloman shook his great head, trying to order his thoughts. ‘I can scarcely remember,’ he replied. ‘I remember getting involved with a crowd and arriving at the palace somehow, then Hawklan was talking to this Dan-Tor, and . . .’ He screwed up his face in concentration, then laid his hand uncertainly on the bow hanging from Serian’s saddle. ‘Then Hawklan shot him . . . for some reason . . .’

  Sylvriss’s eyes widened. ‘Shot him,’ she gasped. ‘Shot Dan-Tor!’

  Isloman nodded uncertainly.

  Hopes began to form in Sylvriss’s mind. Was she fleeing now from something that no longer existed? Were these two men simply fleeing an anticipated retribution?

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked anxiously.

  Isloman turned to her, his face fearful again. ‘How can a thing like that die?’ he asked. Then, almost to himself, ‘It’s so confused. Hawklan’s never used a bow in his life. And he’d never strike anyone . . .’ Memories returned to give him the lie. Memories of Hawklan wielding the sword like a great warrior to hack down Mandrocs as the two of them had fled from Aelang’s patrol in Orthlund, Hawklan defeating Mathidrin in the smoke-strangled streets of Vakloss. ‘Well, not without provocation,’ he added hesitantly.

  Sylvriss leaned across to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘What did you mean – a thing like that?’ she said.

  Isloman started slightly. ‘Hawklan’s arrow struck him, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘He twisted away, but it hit him. Sent him staggering. I’m certain it did, and yet . . .’ His voice faded away as he struggled again with the confused images that were vying for his attention.

  Sylvriss waited.

  ‘I remember Dan-Tor standing there, changed somehow, standing there radiating a terrible power, malevolent, like . . .’

  He shuddered. The words did not exist. ‘He . . . it . . . lifted its hand and pointed at us, then everything around us was heaving and rumbling . . . even the ground.’

  Imperceptibly, Serian’s trot became a loping gallop.

  Unthinkingly, Isloman’s hands clutched nervously at Hawklan’s limp body draped in front of him, like a child trying to wake a parent for reassurance that his recent vivid torment had been just an evil dream. But there was no response.

  Sylvriss took his arm again. ‘What happened?’ she said softly.

  Isloman shook his head. ‘It’s gone, it’s gone,’ he said. ‘I remember Hawklan holding out the sword, keeping back some awful . . . I remember cowering behind him as he sank to his knees. Then everything’s confusion, screaming and pain. Everyone’s screaming. Every thing’s screaming. Even the stones. Pity help me, even the stones.’

  Isloman’s head went back in a spasm of despair. Sylvriss flinched away from his pain.

  ‘Then I was on Serian. Galloping through panicking crowds. Galloping through heaving streets . . .’ Isloman’s eyes widened, and Serian’s gallop increased. ‘They were cracking open in front of us. Like great yawning mouths. And buildings were falling. Debris clattering around us everywhere, and great clouds of dust blowing.’ He drew a hand across his mouth. ‘And all the time, it was behind us, pursuing us. A great howl like a monstrous, demented animal . . . So much hatred . . . So much evil.’

  Abruptly Sylvriss realized that they were riding almost at full gallop. Isloman’s relived terror had wakened Serian’s own. Her Muster instincts set aside the confusion that Isloman’s telling had produced in her and leaning over, she spoke softly to the black horse; gentle words of reward for tasks well done and rest well earned. Gradually, Serian slowed until he was trotting steadily again.

  Isloman seemed unaware of the incident and sat motionless in his saddle, staring blankly ahead, apparently with nothing further to say. Sylvriss was content to ride in silence for some time, while she tested the reality of his bizarre tale. Dan-Tor attacked! And by Orthlundyn. Orthlundyn riding a Muster horse. The City raked by some terrible force released seemingly by Dan-Tor. A Dan-Tor transformed into . . . What?

  She had felt the fringes of whatever had happened in the City and had been terrified. There was no doubting that reality. To be near its heart could indeed have overwhelmed even as fine a horse as Serian and such a man as Isloman seemed to be. As for his stricken friend, Hawklan – a man whose presence could be felt even though he was at the very edge of death – who was he and what had he borne as carrier of that awesome sword, at the very centre of the horror?

  For a moment, she felt as though her mind was going to break free from all restraint and plummet shrieking into an abyss. She had grown used to living in a world of treachery and deceit, a world of political manipulation and intrigue, of power-seeking ambition. It was repellent and oppressive, but it was human. Now what was she fleeing from? A man – a thing, as Isloman called him – who could shake and destroy the very roots of a city?

  A chilling thought crystallized abruptly. She seized Isloman’s arm. ‘Isloman. My husband. What’s happened to my husband?’

  Isloman turned and looked at her, his eyes focussing slowly as Sylvriss repeated the question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t know your husband, Muster lady. I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name, for all I’m in your debt.’

  Sylvriss closed her eyes irritably at the tiny worm of vanity that intruded into her concern. Of course, this man was an outlander, how could he be expected to recognize her?

  ‘I’m sorry Isloman,’ she said. ‘I’m Sylvriss, daughter of Urthryn, Ffyrst of Riddin, and Queen to King Rgoric.’

  Isloman stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Your voice marks you out as Riddinvolk and your riding and your horse would mark you out as Muster trained even if you weren’t wearing their field uniform. But why would Rgoric’s Queen be fleeing the City? he asked.

  Sylvriss’s eyes blazed. ‘How do Orthlundyn come to be riding a Muster horse?’ she shouted, suddenly angry. ‘And take pride that they’ve tried to kill a Fyordyn Lord?’ But before Isloman could speak, her tone changed. ‘For pity’s sake Isloman. What of Rgoric? He must have been with Dan-Tor when you arrived.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Isloman replied. ‘The only other people with Dan-Tor were Mathidrin – it’s difficult, but I don’t remember anyone else.’ He searched for more comforting words. ‘The palace seemed undamaged when we looked back, didn’t it? Dan-Tor’s harm flowed out away from it. Your husband will probably be all right.’

  Sylvriss recalled the terrible chill that had possessed her soon after she had brought Serian to a halt. She shuddered. No, she thought, she must not give way to doubts. Isloman’s words were all he could possibly offer. And he was probably right. Perhaps even now Rgoric was on this same road with Eldric and Jaldaric at his side. She could serve him best by doing his bidding; by riding to Eldric’s mountain stronghold and raising his High Guards.

  ‘Where are you going, Isloman?’ she asked.

  ‘The horse chose the road,’ he replied. ‘As it’s eastward I
’ll go to Lord Eldric’s stronghold. There’s nowhere else in this land I can go. And there are people there who need to know what’s happened.’

  ‘Good,’ Sylvriss said simply. ‘That’s where I go.’ High above, Gavor rode the boisterous air with a relentless purpose, his eyes fixed on the tiny figures below and their precious burden.

  Chapter 3

  Dilrap made no pretence at dignity as the two Mathidrin manhandled him along the palace corridors back towards the Throne Room. In fact, he felt oddly grateful to the two men for supporting him on this inevitable journey, as his own legs seemed incapable of the task. Strangely however, though the strong hands that gripped him and propelled him along were none too gentle, he sensed little malice in them. Their contact was human and felt comforting for all its harshness.

  Glancing at his two escorts he saw that both were struggling to maintain the blank stony features typical of their kind when on palace duty. Catching the intermittent eye signals that were passing between them, he realized that they too were afraid and that, in their fear, there were even elements of compassion and regret for what they were now doing. What was to happen to him could happen to them also.

  Their reservations however, were not sufficient to prevent them doing what they were doing and, all too soon, Dilrap found himself before the open doors of the Throne Room. Around him, the Palace echoed with the sounds of people running and shouting, though as he looked to the left and then the right, the corridor he was standing in was deserted except for a few restless Mathidrin.

  A push propelled him forward uncertainly into the Throne Room. He gasped. Not at what he saw, for he seemed to be having difficulty in focussing, but at the aura that filled the hall. It was like coming out of the hot summer sun into an inner room expecting to find a shaded coolness but finding instead that a large fire had been left burning. Here however, was not an unexpected and unpleasant heat, but a crawling malevolence that seemed to pass right through him. He felt his legs beginning to shake uncontrollably.

  ‘Ah, Honoured Secretary.’

  The voice was familiar, though it seemed distant and coldly inhuman, and as it spoke, the air around him seemed to vibrate and press in upon him with each syllable.

  ‘Come forward.’

  Dilrap did not move; for a moment he had forgotten how to walk. The air around him vibrated again, appallingly impatient, but before any voice could speak, Dilrap’s legs found their wits and he stepped forward uncertainly.

  The scene before him was little changed from what it had been when he had finally fled from his vantage-point at the latticed panel. The King’s body had been removed, but the slaughtered Mathidrin were only just being dragged away by their fellow assassins, unceremoniously trailing blood and viscera across the ancient floor.

  A sweet and unmistakable smell rose to Dilrap’s nostrils and he felt the room swirling around him as his stomach heaved with revulsion. Some residue of regard for the erstwhile dignity of the hall managed to prevent him from vomiting but a great roaring rose up and filled his head. He did not remember falling, but suddenly he was surprised to find himself in the grip of powerful hands again, lifting him up from his knees.

  With an incongruous gentleness they held him upright until he was sufficiently recovered to stand alone. He needed to breathe deeply, but that smell.

  ‘Come forward, Honoured Secretary,’ came the voice again, pressing in on him. Still it was cold and distant, but there was a note of scorn in it which lessened its chilling inhumanity, and deep inside Dilrap the spirit of his long silent defiance stirred again tentatively.

  Blinking to clear his vision, Dilrap brought into focus the image of his lifelong tormentor. Dan-Tor was sitting in the chair that had been used to carry him away from his fateful confrontation with Hawklan. He had sat in it when he ordered the murder of the King and had been trapped in it by the dying monarch to hear his enigmatic last words. He was both changed and unchanged. His posture radiated an all too human pain, and from time to time his teeth grimaced white in his creased brown face as some spasm passed through him. Yet though his body and pain were human, he was beyond doubt the source of the malevolence that was filling the Throne Room.

  Beside him stood a white faced and very still Urssain. Dilrap walked forward awkwardly. Here is my death, he thought.

  Please let it be quick, please let me not whimper. Father, I loved you. Sylvriss, I love you still . . .

  ‘Ffyrst,’ he said, interrupting his own silent last declamations.

  Dan-Tor looked up at him. As their eyes met, Dilrap flinched away. The Lord Dan-Tor had terrified him, but this was not Dan-Tor, this was just an image of Dan-Tor floating on the surface of something . . . unspeakable. The King had spoken truly. Dilrap knew he was indeed standing in the presence of a being whose very existence he would have laughed to scorn but hours ago.

  His earlier promise to the King floated before him, mocking his impotence and insignificance. ‘I’ll corrode his new Order as he corroded the old one.’ Then, terrifyingly, from somewhere inside him came the realization that he had no choice. He could not allow this abomination to be. He must oppose because its loathsome machinations would spread beyond all control; spread across all Fyorlund and out into the world. Faced with the reality of the Uhriel, Dilrap faced also its implications. If the Uhriel were among people, then somewhere He too must exist. This . . . creature was but a herald.

  The awful clarity and certainty of this revelation froze Dilrap’s heart, so loud was it. It was as if he had just cried it out at the top of his voice for all to hear. His rational mind struggled to tell him that there was nothing he could do against such a power, but the inner certainty persisted. He fixed his eyes on the floor. While he was as nothing, he might yet survive.

  ‘Why did you not tell me that the King was restored to health, Honoured Secretary?’ Again, the scorn in Dan-Tor’s voice heartened Dilrap rather than dismayed him. This was familiar. This was human.

  Tell as few lies as you must, he thought. This . . . creature . . . will smell them out.

  ‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ Dilrap replied, his voice shaking.

  There was a long tingling silence, then, ‘Look at me, Dilrap.’ The voice was heavy with malice, but its icy inhumanity was fading, as if the wakened Uhriel were retreating, withdrawing its attention from trivial considerations.

  Dilrap felt his reluctant head rising as if under the influence of some will other than his own. His gaze met Dan-Tor’s. He could not move. Dan-Tor’s eyes seemed to fill his very soul.

  ‘Tell me again, Dilrap.’

  Dilrap’s heart sang out to Sylvriss in thanks that she had had the foresight to keep all knowledge of the King’s well-being from him.

  ‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ he repeated.

  The eyes probed further. ‘You were that horse witch’s confidant, were you not? She would have told you of such a joyful change, wouldn’t she?’

  Speak against us if you must. Sylvriss’s words returned to Dilrap.

  ‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ Dilrap said again, his mind frantically clutching the flimsy straw of truth that was keeping him afloat. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Abruptly, though Dilrap felt that more and deeper questions were intended, the gaze was gone, and he was released. He breathed deeply to recover himself, despite the reek pervading the hall. He could not have withstood that scrutiny had the questions turned to his quiet conspiracy with the Queen, or the help he had given to Eldric and Jaldaric but minutes ago.

  In front of him, Dan-Tor was staring upwards, grimacing in pain, his long hands clutching at his side around the protruding black arrow, but shying away from touching it.

  To his surprise, Dilrap felt a flutter of sympathy for the man in his agony. Again the air around him seemed to stir, like a hunter scenting a distant and hated prey. Dilrap crushed the sentiment and substituted self-interest.

  ‘Ffyrst, I didn’t see you were wounded,’ he said, his voice – his whole manner – full of concer
n. ‘You must not exert yourself. Let the healers remove that . . .’ He pointed a trembling hand towards the arrow. ‘Such a wound could become infected.’

  Dan-Tor’s gaze left the scenes of ancient history that decorated the ornate ceiling, and returned to the King’s Secretary. Dilrap felt the impact of its scorn, but it was still the gaze of his old enemy. Terrifying, but again human. The demon was gone . . . for now.

  Nonetheless the gaze was grim and penetrating, and Dilrap let out a long soft breath as Dan-Tor turned to Urssain. ‘Help me stand,’ he said, his hands releasing his side and gripping the arms of the chair. Urssain bent down and placed the injured man’s arm around his shoulder, at the same time signalling to one of his men to assist. Slowly and painfully, Dan-Tor rose.

  Dilrap watched but kept his eyes from Dan-Tor’s face, fearing the retribution that might fall on him at being seen to watch his master’s weakness. But the image before him was not one of human frailty, commanding sympathy; it was repellent. The lank brown figure not so much being supported by, as wilfully burdening the two Mathidrin in their black, bloodstained liveries, his arms spread wide and his hands clawing their shoulders as if he drew sustenance from their oppression.

  Is this what you and your Master will do to the world, you monstrous blight? Dilrap found himself thinking unexpectedly. He lowered his gaze in case the thought showed in his eyes.

  ‘This wound is infected beyond your imaginings, Dilrap,’ Dan-Tor said, his neck stretching forward to make him look even more like a grotesque carrion bird. ‘It will trouble me for some long time but, have no fear, it’ll neither kill me nor blunt my purpose.’ A spasm of pain shook him. ‘However, you’re right in one matter. I must rest. Take heart, Secretary, that your final piece of advice to me was accepted.’

  Dilrap’s stomach, tight and pained by the restraint of his reaction to the gore around his feet, became icy and leaden.

  ‘Final piece of advice, Ffyrst?’ he said faintly. ‘Am I dismissed my office? The King . . .’