The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Yengar caught the light in her eye, and motioned her to silence.

  ‘Be discreet, but keep your hands by your weapons,’ he whispered to the others as, with wilful awkwardness, he struggled to his feet. ‘Look pleasant and watch for commands.’ Then, crouching, he stepped through the entrance to join Olvric.

  ‘It’s the Muster,’ Olvric said to him brightly, then turning to the semi-circle of watching men, ‘You gave us quite a fright,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen anyone all day. We were beginning to think that the Muster didn’t patrol this far north.’

  A large, bearded individual holding an axe stepped forward. He was a little taller than Olvric but considerably heavier and his whole demeanour was menacing. He seemed, however, a little taken aback by Olvric’s affability.

  ‘The Muster patrol here, have no fear,’ he said. ‘But who are you, and what are you doing here?’ His voice was as rough as his weather-beaten face and his accent confirmed his origins.

  ‘We’re travellers from Fyorlund,’ Olvric said, affecting to ignore the drawn weapons. ‘To be honest, I’m afraid we’re a little bit lost. We were hoping we’d run into you,’ he added confidentially, wiping the rain from his face, and pulling his hood forward.

  The man scowled and knocked back Olvric’s hood roughly. ‘No need to be afraid of the water,’ he said. ‘Let’s see your face.’ Olvric stepped back a little and contrived to look bewildered, but otherwise made no response. Then the man pushed him to one side and, bending forward, peered into the shelter.

  Following Yengar’s order, the four High Guards managed to return his gaze with interested courtesy, but Sylvriss, her face flushed, kept her head bowed.

  A second, younger man stepped forward. There was a curl to his mouth which, combined with his blond hair matted wet across his forehead, conspired to give him a vicious, unstable presence.

  ‘Anything worthwhile, Drago?’ he asked.

  The bearded man did not answer, but pointed to Sylvriss. ‘You,’ he said roughly. ‘Woman. Here. The rest of you stay where you are!’

  Despite her best endeavours, Sylvriss’s feelings showed briefly in her expression as she stood up.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, woman, unless you want your face reshaping,’ Drago said, raising a ham of a fist towards her. ‘Come here.’

  Olvric stepped forward. ‘Now look . . .’ he began, but the blonde man turned suddenly and, with a spectacular flourish, produced a large knife. He placed the point under Olvric’s chin. ‘We are looking,’ he said, his face expectant.

  Olvric, looking alarmed, turned as if in appeal to the others standing around. Yengar watched the manoeuvre: his comrade was assessing the extent and strength of the force ranged against them. While Sylvriss and Olvric had been attracting attention he had surreptitiously done the same, forcing discipline and experience to master the familiar fear and self-reproach that were even now tearing his stomach with griping pains and making his whole body shake. He was glad Olvric was there. Both deliberately and instinctively he began to relax his body, to free it for movement.

  As Olvric had signalled originally, there were at least twelve of them, all with weapons drawn; too many to be tackled at the moment, without putting the Queen at risk. In addition, there was no telling how many more might be out in the darkness awaiting events. They were a mixture of young and middle-aged men and unmistakably Morlider both in their features and their random array of clothing and arms. Yengar noted, however, that those who were not hooded had a driven, harassed look about them.

  They’re running and hiding, he thought. But this revelation told him little else. What was such a small group doing so far from the coast? In the war, the Morlider had sent deep penetration groups inland to gather information, but this couldn’t be the case here. These were making no attempt to disguise themselves, and had refused to accept the pretence of being Muster riders that Olvric had offered them.

  A more chilling thought occurred to him. Had they been separated from an army in some battle? It seemed ridiculous. If the Morlider had returned in force again, some message would surely have reached Fyorlund? But it could have, he realized. The normal route for messengers from Riddin to Fyorlund was further south and led into the estates of the southern Lords – whose loyalty was unknown! The fear in his stomach twisted again – they could have led their Queen into the middle of a war!

  These conjectures flooded through Yengar’s mind in the brief moments it took Sylvriss to step out of the shelter and face the man Drago. Other thoughts came even more quickly. What was to be their fate? Prisoners? Hostages? No. Twelve men would not burden themselves with six and a woman. Victims? Possibly. Some Morlider had a reputation for a rudimentary chivalry and a sense of honour; others hadn’t. Yet these were talking; had their intent been purely murder, they would have waited until the camp was asleep. He looked at them again. Bedraggled and dispirited, they were beyond doubt hunted, but they were far from defeated. They probably just wanted supplies, he decided cautiously. Here was a bargaining space. The only serious problem would be Sylvriss. What danger was she in? Still . . .

  Yengar noted that his fear had changed. The trembling that had been his initial response had diffused itself through his entire body, and he knew that he was now free to respond immediately to whatever threat presented itself. Two stray thoughts fluttered momentarily across his mind: one, that he was too old for this kind of thing; the other, that he was now wholly himself and had never been better equipped. He ignored both, and stepped forward.

  ‘Commander Drago,’ he said. ‘Is this the way the Muster treat strangers? Weapons and threats?’

  Drago ignored him. He looked Sylvriss up and down appraisingly.

  ‘Fyordyn, eh?’ he said to Olvric, without taking his gaze from Sylvriss.

  ‘Yes,’ Olvric said nervously. ‘We’re only servants, sir. On our way to join our Lord down here, but the snows caught us in the mountains and . . .’

  ‘Servants?’ said Drago, showing his teeth and reaching out to grip Sylvriss’s cloak. ‘In clothes like these?’

  Olvric looked surprised. ‘We have a kind and generous Lord. He looks after us well,’ he said.

  Drago turned to him scornfully, then threw open Sylvriss’s cloak. ‘A very kind Lord indeed,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Who expects a pregnant “maid” to drag herself over the mountains to tend to him.’

  Eyes blazing, Sylvriss wrenched herself free and pulled her cloak about her.

  Olvric retreated from his story hastily before the Queen could speak. ‘It’s his child,’ he said confidentially, man to man, but looking suitably contrite at the exposure of his deception. ‘We’re taking her to friends in Riddin to get her away from his wife.’

  This version provoked some obscene laughter from the watching men, and even Drago chuckled. ‘Well, she’s ours now. And the kid,’ he added, almost reluctantly, Yengar thought. ‘Still, we’ve no time to play the fool with you, whoever you are,’ Drago went on. ‘We need horses and food.’ He swung his finger between Yengar and Olvric, at the same time pointing his axe into the shelter. ‘Don’t give us any trouble and you’ll not get hurt.’

  The blond man turned sharply. ‘Are you crazy, Drago?’ he burst out. ‘We can’t leave them alive. They’ll tell the Muster we’ve been here.’

  Drago shook his head. ‘The Muster probably know near enough where we are,’ he rasped. ‘If they find corpses, they’ll be out in real force and we’ll have no chance. Do as you’re told. Get the horses.’

  ‘We could hide the bodies . . .’

  ‘Do as you’re told, Symm,’ Drago erupted suddenly and furiously. ‘You and that stinking knife will get us all killed yet.’

  The blond man’s face contorted with anger, and he turned the blade towards Drago.

  Drago looked at him icily. ‘Use it or put it away. Count of three,’ he said softly but without hesitation. The hand holding the axe went behind his back, leaving his front seemingly defenceless.

  ‘
One.’

  Yengar and Olvric watched intently. Symm did not move.

  ‘Two.’

  Symm’s eyes flickered over the watchers, most of whom had taken a pace backwards. He swallowed nervously.

  Drago formed the word ‘three’, but Symm’s left hand went out before he could speak it. ‘Peace,’ he said, his voice hoarse and bitter. Drago did not move.

  Slowly Symm replaced the knife in its scabbard, his jaw working.

  ‘My friendship for your father won’t save you if you do anything like that again,’ Drago said angrily. ‘You give me one more problem, Symm, and the Muster’ll find your corpse. Now get those horses and start looking for food.’

  The blond man nodded to some of the others, and they wandered off into the darkness.

  Drago took hold of Sylvriss’s arm. ‘You’re ours now, woman,’ he said. ‘Don’t be frightened. No one’s going to hurt you if you behave.’ His tone was incongruously paternal.

  Sylvriss caught Yengar’s eye and in response to his urgent appeal she remained silent.

  ‘If you’re running from the Muster, you don’t want her with you,’ Yengar said. ‘She rides like a duck and has to stop and rest every two minutes. That’s why the snows caught us. She’ll hold you back.’

  Drago looked at Sylvriss uncertainly. ‘She doesn’t look like the complaining type to me,’ he said. Then, taking her chin roughly, he turned her face so that the torchlight from the entrance to the shelter fell on it. A tremor went through her body and Drago tightened his grip as if he were shaking a wilful dog.

  ‘No,’ he said confidently. ‘Look at those eyes. This one doesn’t complain. She’s more likely to knife you in your sleep.’

  ‘Either way,’ said Yengar with a shrug. ‘She’s a problem.’

  Drago looked inclined to agree, but, ‘It’s the new Chief’s law,’ he said resignedly. ‘It’s more than my neck’s worth not to, especially as she’s pregnant. We need the breeding stock.’ He dismissed his hesitation. ‘Anyway,’ he said scornfully, ‘I don’t need advice on how to handle women from some Fyordyn servant who can’t even find his way across dry land. I’ve not met a woman yet that couldn’t be brought to heel with a whipping if need arose. You save your concern for yourselves. It’s a long way to anywhere from here.’

  Yengar was about to reply when there was a crash nearby, followed by a series of colourful curses. Suddenly a brilliant light flared up. Yengar turned away quickly, but not until he had caught a glimpse of a man picking himself up off the ground while another, holding the unusually brilliant torch, was reaching down to help him. Various other individuals were struggling to harness the now startled horses.

  ‘Put that out,’ Drago thundered. ‘It’ll be seen miles away.’

  The light dimmed, then vanished and a reproachful voice came out of the darkness. ‘Drago, we can’t see a damn thing out here,’ it said.

  Drago was unsympathetic. ‘Neither can I now, you fish head,’ he said angrily, screwing up his eyes. ‘Just get those horses here.’

  Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances. That torch . . .?

  But that would have to be considered later. Now, other thoughts were more pressing. Losing the horses would be bad enough, but the Morlider couldn’t be allowed to take the Queen.

  Yengar took a chance. ‘How long is your ship going to wait for you, Drago?’ he said. ‘If the Muster know you’re here, they’ll be patrolling the coast for it. Can you really afford to burden yourself with this?’ He nodded towards Sylvriss.

  Drago’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I was a cadet runner at the end of the war,’ Yengar said, answering the unspoken question. ‘And I’ve got kin in Riddin. I know something about your people and I know how the Muster work. It’s an ill tide that’s brought you here, but if you’ve not hurt anyone there’s a fair chance that even now they’ll let you reach your ship and leave. But if they see you’ve taken a woman . . .’ He looked significantly at Drago and pitched his voice in the tone of a friendly adviser. ‘I don’t know what law obliges you to take her, but I’d put the law of survival above it if I were you.’

  Drago looked uncertain again, but before he could speak, Symm and the others returned with the horses. Their appearance seemed to decide him.

  He looked distastefully at the horses. ‘I don’t like these things,’ he said. ‘But they’ll be quicker than walking and might even confuse the Muster at a distance if they think we’re still on foot.’

  He thrust his axe into his belt, and took Sylvriss by the arm. ‘You’d better ride with me,’ he said, pulling her forward. Then, turning to her, ‘I don’t know how you behave with these minnows here, lady, but you give me any trouble and you’ll travel unconscious across my lap.’ He offered her his fist again in token of this promise. ‘It’s your choice. Now mount up.’

  Head bowed, Sylvriss walked to her horse and, with elaborate clumsiness, hoisted herself into the saddle. Yengar noticed her whispering to the horse in the process.

  Drago reached up and prepared to join her, but as he did so, Sylvriss cried out and tugged on the reins. Screaming, the horse reared and spun round several times, knocking Drago to the ground and scattering both men and horses. Then she was gone, the sound of her horse pounding into the night.

  Yengar had expected the Queen to take some action once she was mounted, but even so, the suddenness of her response left him gaping momentarily.

  Angry roaring from Drago brought Yengar back to the present. There would be no more debate now. He swung round and struck the nearest man in the face with the edge of his clenched fist. The blow did little harm but it stunned the man sufficiently for Yengar to seize the large knife that was thrust in his belt.

  Olvric was less considerate. Symm’s eyes lit up savagely at the change in temper of his leader and he strode towards Olvric, purposefully reaching for his knife. He drew it with the same elaborate flourish he had used before. It was obviously a habit he had cultivated for the purpose of intimidating his victims, and as such it was a mistake, as Olvric demonstrated by delivering a brutal blow to his jaw in the middle of the performance. The impact sent Symm sprawling face downwards on the ground and there was a quality in the sound of it which told Yengar that Olvric had used his iron knuckle protectors.

  Instinctively, the two Goraidin moved back to back, but they were joined almost immediately by the four High Guards who had tumbled out of the shelter as soon as the first blow was struck.

  Swords were handed hastily to the two Goraidin, and the six men formed themselves into a close circle.

  Recovering quickly, the Morlider formed a larger, more hesitant circle around them.

  ‘You’re High Guards, all of you,’ Drago snarled contemptuously. ‘I should’ve smelt it.’

  He pointed to Yengar. ‘Cadet runner.’ He spat. ‘If you were anything, you were one of Rgoric’s infantry. I should’ve cut you all down when you crawled out of your hole.’

  Yengar made no sign.

  Drago’s fist opened and closed. ‘I lost kin and friends at the hands of your people,’ he said.

  ‘As did I at the hands of yours, Morlider,’ Yengar replied, unable to keep his own anger from his voice but still searching for a peaceful conclusion to the confrontation. ‘Do you want us both to lose more here? You shouldn’t have come then, and you shouldn’t have come now. Take the horses and go while you’ve the chance.’

  ‘Not until I’ve settled my debts,’ Drago replied, hefting his axe. ‘Old and new.’

  ‘That woman you manhandled was no Fyordyn Lord’s plaything,’ Yengar said. ‘She’s a Muster officer and the daughter of one of Riddin’s most respected homes. She also knows the country round here – she’ll have the Muster down on you within hours. Run while you can.’

  Most of the Morlider seemed inclined to agree, but Yengar knew that having been humiliated by a woman, Drago would have to make some mark on his adversaries, no matter what the consequences. The questions was, what?

  The answer
became immediately apparent as the big man drew his axe and pushed aside the man to his right to leave a space in which he could swing it. Yengar knew that when he threw it, he couldn’t fail to bring someone down.

  ‘You should’ve brought your shields, High Guard,’ Drago said.

  Olvric spoke in the battle language. ‘Yengar, feint straight at him, then take the man on his right. I’ll feint left and then deal with him when you move across. When we go, the rest of you keep together, charge the opposite side of the circle. Get out into the darkness and hide until they’ve gone. No stupid heroics. Your duty’s to the Queen. Find her and get her to Dremark.’

  The four Guards acknowledged the order.

  Drago grimaced at the meaningless chatter, but said nothing. His arm started its upward journey, the honed edge of his axe damp and glinting in the rain-streaked torchlight. Yengar felt the movement, as well as saw it, and he knew that Olvric would be responding the same way. Just before the axe reached its zenith, the two of them would surge forward across the treacherous wet ground, to strike at both Drago and the man to his right who was preparing to follow his leader’s example. There would not be even the briefest hesitation, nor any pity; that could mean their deaths. The man had committed himself to this path and had thus placed his own life as forfeit in the game.

  The arm and its lethal burden seemed to continue upward for an eternity. Though Yengar knew he would be giving no outward sign, he felt both his body and his mind tilting towards the balance point.

  Then it was there!

  ‘Stop!’ A powerful voice cut through the intensity.

  Drago faltered, and the moment was gone.

  Yengar almost lurched forward, then he turned in dismay. The voice was Sylvriss’s. What’s she doing? he thought desperately. She’ll get us all killed and herself taken for sure.

  Slowly Sylvriss emerged out of the darkness and stood at the edge of the torchlight, horse and rider a strange shadowed vision.