by Roger Taylor
‘You ride well,’ she said, reaching up and supporting one of them as he slithered stiffly out of his saddle. Several hands took the burden from her. ‘I’ll give you some instruction later, when you’ve rested,’ she added.
Isloman, helping the other two, smiled. ‘I don’t think they’re listening, Majesty,’ he said.
Sylvriss looked round at Eldric’s stronghold, solid, traditional and reliable, like the man himself. The wet courtyard glistened in the bright torchlight which shone like so many welcoming smiles out of windows and doors now filling with inquisitive heads.
Come soon, Rgoric, she thought. This is the real Fyorlund – your Fyorlund. From such as this we can stop Dan-Tor, whatever he’s become.
Grooms moved forward to take her horse, but she shook her head. ‘No no, I’ll tend to my horse, thank you,’ she said, then looking at Isloman, tenderly lifting Hawklan down from Serian. ‘And yours, Isloman. Get Hawklan to Eldric’s healer right away.’
* * * *
Isloman woke up with a start. For a moment he could not remember where he was, then the memories of recent events flooded in on him reproachfully. Hawklan! How could he have dozed off like that? He sat up suddenly, but the movement sent his head spinning and he slumped back, eyes closed and hands clasping at his bed until the darkness itself stopped whirling.
There was a low chuckle from nearby. ‘Relax, Isloman,’ said a voice. ‘Relax. Just lie still. The dizziness will pass.’
Slowly he opened his eyes and turned towards the speaker. It was a slight, thin-faced man, with sparse grey hair and grey bushy eyebrows currently arched ironically over amused brown eyes.
Isloman screwed up his face in concentration, and gradually recognition dawned. Eldric’s chief healer, fetched hastily from his lowland home when Yatsu saw Isloman bearing the inert form of Hawklan.
‘Hylland,’ he said slowly. Mockingly, the man mouthed the name as Isloman spoke it, and then laughed outright. ‘Well, you’ve not lost all your wits, have you, Orthlundyn?’ he said. Isloman lay back again and stared up at the ceiling. It was skilfully decorated with a simple rural scene and he smiled appreciatively as he noticed how the painted foliage that fringed the scene blended imperceptibly into an intricate carved wooden tracery which decorated the upper part of the walls. He recognized it as belonging to the room he had occupied on his earlier stay at Eldric’s stronghold, and he remembered remarking to Commander Varak that it reminded him of Orthlund. He appreciated the man’s thoughtful gesture in putting him there again.
Hylland followed his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Varak said you liked this room. Not many left who can do that kind of work I’m afraid.’ He stood up and walked to a nearby table. ‘Bit of a carver yourself, I believe.’
‘A bit,’ replied Isloman, cautiously levering himself into a sitting position.
Hylland placed a tray of food on his lap. ‘You’re hungry,’ he said.
Isloman shook his head and lifted a hand to wave the food away. Hylland’s eyebrows went up again. ‘That wasn’t a question, Isloman. Or just idle conversation. It was a statement for your information. Eat!’
‘But . . .’
‘Eat!’ repeated Hylland firmly. He swung a chair round and sat down by the side of the bed. ‘Lord Eldric’s instructions to his healers are unequivocal,’ he said. ‘“Keep the men in fettle whether they like it or not,” he says. And we do.’
Isloman could not help smiling at the man’s manner.
‘I must go to Hawklan,’ he said.
Hylland shook his head. ‘What could a bit of a carver do that we couldn’t?’ he said, adding, more seriously, ‘Shortly, Isloman, shortly. I’m afraid there’s no hurry. Hawklan’s unchanged. No better and no worse. Still . . . asleep.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I think we’ll all have to talk later on. Perhaps we’ve all got part of the answer.’
Isloman concurred reluctantly and made a tentative start on the food in front of him. His memory of the immediate past was becoming clearer. Despite the entreaties of Sylvriss, Yatsu and various others, he had sat by Hawklan’s bed for hour after waking hour, waiting anxiously for some sign of movement apart from the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Hylland and his assistants had moved patiently round him, and finally pronounced Hawklan fit and uninjured.
Finally he had a vague recollection of slithering into a delirium of fatigue and an equally vague memory of being manhandled argumentatively along interminable corridors and stairways.
He looked at Hylland guiltily. ‘Did I give you a lot of trouble?’ he said.
‘You’re heavy,’ said the healer pragmatically.
Isloman cleared his throat and was about to return to his food when the door opposite his bed opened slightly. No one entered, but he heard a characteristic clunking step and, abruptly, Gavor flapped up to perch on the end of his bed. He shook his wings noisily, and tilting his head first one way then the other, examined Isloman critically for some time.
‘Love the robe, dear boy,’ he said finally. ‘Very fetching.’
Isloman followed his gaze to find himself clad in an embroidered orange gown. He glared at Gavor and then at Hylland.
The healer looked insincerely apologetic. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was the nearest thing to hand. And we’d other things on our mind at the time.’
‘Yes,’ purred Gavor. ‘Who’s a naughty boy, then? You were a problem the other night.’
The remark deflected Isloman’s response. ‘The other night?’ he said. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘A couple of days or so,’ Hylland replied casually.
Isloman’s eyes opened wide and he made to remove the tray from his lap. With an air of resignation, Hylland stood up and levelled a finger at him. ‘Stay there until you’ve eaten,’ he said, in a tone that would accept no dispute.
Gavor chuckled, and Isloman glowered at him.
Hylland continued. ‘You were worn out when you arrived, Isloman, physically and emotionally. You declined suggestions that you rest and, nuisance though you were, I let you have your way until your condition rendered you more amenable.’ He leaned over Isloman purposefully, making the big man cringe slightly. His eyes narrowed with professional relish. ‘And when you finally went out, I kept you out until I was satisfied you were rested enough.’
Isloman quailed. ‘How is the Queen?’ he said weakly by way of distraction.
‘The Queen’s fine,’ Hylland said, sitting down again. ‘Being female, she has more sense than you in such matters, not to say, probably, in most matters. She rested when her body told her to. Now, apart from worrying about her husband, she’s fine.’
Isloman sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Hylland nodded. ‘Well, never mind that,’ he said. ‘Eat your food, then get up. I can’t have you idling in bed all day. Your clothes are over there.’ And with that, he was gone.
Silently, Isloman did as he was bidden, Gavor standing by his elbow expectantly. Slowly, he swung out of the bed and stood up. This time, the room stayed still, though he still felt a little unsteady. ‘Lack of food,’ Gavor diagnosed definitively when he mentioned it. ‘I myself haven’t had anything for . . . hours,’ he said, looking balefully at Isloman’s empty plate.
There was a soft tap on the door, and Yatsu entered. Standing in the doorway he looked Isloman up and down appreciatively. ‘Not a word, Commander. Not a word,’ said Isloman menacingly, carefully untying the laces that secured his gown. Yatsu pursed his lips, his face now taut and stern. ‘Hylland said you were with us again. Are you feeling better now?’
Isloman nodded.
‘Good,’ continued Yatsu. ‘We’ve all got a lot to discuss.’ He raised his hand casually, to cover his mouth. Isloman eyed him suspiciously. ‘Perhaps you could come down to Varak’s office, when you’ve . . . changed your frock.’
Isloman’s boot hit the suddenly closed door with a loud thud.
* * * *
As Isloman reached Vara
k’s office a clamorous trumpet call rang out. Reaching forward to push the door he nearly stumbled as it opened urgently and unexpectedly. He found himself confronting the neat form of Eldric’s High Guard Commander. Yatsu was standing just behind him.
Suddenly impeded by the Orthlundyn’s bulk, Varak stopped abruptly and looked up at him. ‘Ah. Isloman. You’re looking better for your rest,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Come along. This sounds like Dacu’s group coming back.’
Despite his meticulous and formal manner, Varak’s eyes betrayed his excitement, and Isloman found he had to stride out to keep pace with him as they walked towards the courtyard.
Nor did the pace lessen when they reached it, for Varak strode straight across and trotted neatly up the stone steps to the battlements. A Sirshiant ran up to greet him and saluted smartly. ‘It’s Goraidin Dacu’s group, Commander,’ he said. ‘They’ve got two riders with them. They’re about an hour away.’
Isloman moved to the wall and peered out over the valley. The morning air was clear and fresh after the recent rains, and laden with the scents of mountain trees and vegetation. In the distance, he could just make out a column of riders moving steadily along the wide track that would bring them eventually to the castle. They did not seem to be an hour’s ride away, but Isloman was sufficiently familiar with the deceptive perspective of mountain regions to accept the Sirshiant’s assessment as being correct.
‘Commander Varak. If you’ve a horse to spare I’d like to ride out and meet them.’
Varak grunted curtly and then nodded. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you.’
Within minutes, the two men were mounted and clattering through the main gates. High above, Gavor circled lazily in the sunny sky.
Varak rode with the same upright formality that characterized most of his actions, though, Isloman began to notice, what seemed to be stiffness was in reality extreme economy of effort, each movement the man made being small and efficient. As they trotted along the steep-sided valley, it came to Isloman that Varak was a man who habitually husbanded his resources jealously against some future need. A legacy of the Morlider War, he thought suddenly. The man had been in some extremity in which prodigality would have meant death, for him, or others, and the survival habits he had learned there had struck deep enough to last him for the rest of his life.
The clarity of the thought startled him. In so far as he had considered it at all, he had assessed the blight of war as being that it left conspicuous pain in the heart and the mind, or did permanent visible damage to the body. This sudden awareness of subtler harms disturbed him unexpectedly. Varak was a healthy tree grown from a wilfully bent sapling. I wonder what signs I carry to be read by those with the eyes to see, he thought. His troubled introspection did not last long, however, as the calm of the mountains eased into his carver’s soul. He looked up at the surrounding peaks. ‘I must do some carving while I’m here,’ he said. ‘The rock sings a different song from that of Orthlund.’
Varak turned to him, puzzled at first by this unexpected direction in the conversation. He followed Isloman’s gaze and his face lightened. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Of course, keen stone carvers the Orthlundyn, aren’t they? It’s not common in Fyorlund. Temperament, I suppose. We’re not as patient as you are.’
Isloman laughed as he thought of the hours he had sat listening to arguments being diligently sifted and debated by the Goraidin and the Lords.
‘Temperament possibly,’ he said. ‘Patience no. You people can talk the legs off a table, and you misjudge your own wood carvers, Commander. I’ve seen some fine work here. Often tucked away quite casually, as if you didn’t want anyone to see it.’
Varak smiled shrewdly and cleared his throat. ‘Oh. You’re striking too near the nerve there, Isloman,’ he said, unexpectedly relaxed. ‘I used to do some wood carving myself. Still do occasionally, when the mood takes me. But you’re right. It’s for my own benefit, not for others.’
For the remainder of their short journey, the two talked pleasantly about their different arts, Varak’s stern face and manner softening under the influence of the open-hearted Orthlundyn, and Isloman himself finding solace both in listening to this professional soldier give a measure of his inner worth and in simply remembering his own carving again. It was a brief and happy interlude in the midst of stormy times and as such it would help sustain both men in the future, even though it might well be forgotten to their conscious memories.
Then the tide of present events washed over them again as the approaching column came into sight. At its head were Dacu, Eldric and a bearded individual that Isloman just managed to recognize as Jaldaric. Both seemed to be on the point of collapse.
Isloman held back a little as Varak greeted Dacu and then Lord Eldric and his son. He was formal again but he could not keep the emotion out of his face at the sight of his Lord.
Eldric focussed uncertainly on Isloman.
‘It’s good to see you, Isloman,’ he said distantly.
‘It’s good to see you too, Lord Eldric,’ Isloman replied gently. ‘And your son, safe and well, if a little the worse for wear.’
He reached across and took Jaldaric’s hand in both of his. The young man’s weary face broke into a smile, but Isloman could see that their meeting revived memories of their last parting and the horror that had taken his friends while he had lain unconscious.
‘A decent meal and a wash will repair any damage that just being free hasn’t cured,’ Eldric said with strained heartiness before Jaldaric could speak.
‘And a sleep,’ Isloman added, promising himself that he would talk to Jaldaric later.
Eldric shook his head and his face became grim. ‘No, Isloman. Not yet. Young Jal needs one, but I’ve far too many questions clattering around in my head to be able to sleep. You must tell me everything that’s happened, then we can start detailed planning. Dacu’s told me what he could.’ He put his hand to his head, and his eyes glazed slightly. ‘That was a bad business at Evison’s, Isloman, a bad business. He was a tough old devil. And what in thunder’s name happened in the City?’
Isloman glanced at Dacu, who shrugged and cast a significant glance towards the castle. With a move of his head he ordered the column forward again. Isloman snatched at a Fyordyn word to stem the Lord’s questions. ‘Lord Eldric. I’m no Gatherer, you know that. Let’s get to your home. Let Hylland have a look at you and your son, then we can talk in an orderly manner.’
Eldric waved the idea aside. ‘There’s too much to be done, Isloman,’ he protested. ‘We can’t be idling in our beds like sick children.’
Isloman retreated. Eldric was far too exhausted to be reasoned with and after his own recent behaviour he was well content to leave the matter to someone else – anyone else.
The someone else proved to be the Queen. Arriving at the castle, Eldric, scarcely able to stand once he had climbed down from his horse, had proposed an immediate discussion, and Isloman’s earlier conversation with him began to be repeated.
Very quickly, voices began to be raised, and the Queen took him aside firmly. ‘You set a poor example, publicly arguing with Commander Yatsu, Lord Eldric,’ she said quietly but with great force. ‘You’ll put yourself in the hands of healer Hylland immediately, and do exactly what he says.’
Eldric looked at her defiantly.
The Queen’s eyes widened and her jaw set. ‘Would you argue with me, Lord?’ she said.
Chastened, Eldric departed with Hylland.
When he had gone, Sylvriss turned to Dacu, ‘What news of the King?’ she asked.
The Goraidin shook his head. ‘None, Majesty, so far. I’ve left men on the road, and Commander Yatsu’s sent such reinforcements as we dare, but . . .’ He faltered. He had no words of comfort for his Queen. Both Eldric and Jaldaric had been too shocked by their desperate flight from the City to give any indication of the fate of the King, and from what he had seen of the damaged City in the distance, who could tell what might have happened t
here?
Sylvriss lowered her gaze. ‘Thank you, Goraidin,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll be in my room. Please let me know if he’s sighted. I’d like to ride out and greet him.’
There was an uneasy silence in the room after the Queen had left. Yatsu cut through it. ‘We’ve all got as many questions as Lord Eldric,’ he said. ‘And we’re all worried about the King. However, conjecture will get us nowhere. We’ve done all that can be done for the time being.’ He lifted a hand before anyone could speak. ‘I know, I know. It’s not much comfort, but it’s all we’ve got. We’ve waited before and we’ll wait again. I can’t imagine it’s ever going to get any easier. In the meantime, those of you who’ve got duties, get back to them. Those of you who haven’t . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Wait as best you can.’
Belonging to the latter group, Isloman returned to the battlements and spent some time leaning with his arms on the cool stone and gazing into the distance as if that alone might speed the King on his way. But the valley was deserted and still, the only movement visible being that of the shadows of the clouds drifting silently by. Everything seemed to be waiting. After a while he abandoned his post and returned to the room in which Hawklan had been placed.
He found Hylland there, sitting in a low chair and staring thoughtfully out of the window. He turned as Isloman entered.
‘How are Eldric and Jaldaric?’ Isloman asked.
‘Sound asleep,’ Hylland replied.
Isloman nodded. As he did so he caught the flicker of the man’s gaze rapidly and intuitively appraising his whole presence. It was a healer’s trick and it reminded him of Hawklan.
‘You’re better,’ Hylland said.
Isloman smiled. ‘Is that a question or just another statement for my information?’ he asked.
Hylland returned the smile and stood up. ‘You’re better,’ he said conclusively, moving over to the bed where Hawklan lay. ‘Which is more than we can say for your friend here.’
Isloman looked concerned, but Hylland made an effort at a reassuring look. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s no worse. But he’s no better, and that’s almost as bad.’