The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Urthryn looked at him sharply.

  The two guards, as stunned as everyone else, bent down to help Drago, but he shook them off angrily and staggered to his feet unaided, his face riven with fear and rage. He pointed a shaking hand at Oslang and his mouth opened and shut several times before he managed to speak. Yengar frowned in sympathy with the man’s massive distress.

  ‘You’re the same,’ Drago managed eventually, his voice hoarse and cracked. ‘I’ll . . .’

  Oslang lifted his hand and Drago fell silent. ‘Take your seat, Drago,’ he said again, gently.

  The Morlider did as he was bidden.

  Oslang caught Urthryn’s eye and looked quickly at the guards. ‘It’s all right, lads,’ Urthryn said to them. ‘You can wait outside. I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble.’

  As soon as the two men had left, however, Olvric made a brief signal to Yengar then, drawing his knife, he swung round and held it to Oslang’s throat. The movement was hypnotically fast, and no one reacted except Yengar who, at the same time, drew his sword and levelled it at Drago.

  Urthryn started up, but Sylvriss restrained him.

  ‘Explain,’ Olvric said grimly. ‘Very quickly. Make no movement. If I feel any force acting on me, I’ll kill you without further warning.’ Oslang’s eyes widened in terror at the simple unemotional resolve in his voice and in the cold steel against his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed after a moment. ‘It was a reflex. He startled me when he jumped up. I didn’t mean to . . .’ His voice faded.

  ‘Goraidin, you abuse your rights here,’ Urthryn said angrily, but still Sylvriss restrained him, though she too was wide-eyed and anxious at this sudden development. Yengar and Olvric had been so sensitive to her needs on their journey, tendering her many subtle kindnesses, yet now they were threatening this seemingly harmless old man. But was he harmless? Something had knocked the Morlider down. She realized abruptly that it was the Goraidin’s very sensitivity that gave them such appallingly clear vision and the freedom to act on it.

  Olvric ignored Urthryn’s outburst, his gaze never once wavering from Oslang’s frightened face. ‘The only person we know who can deliver a blow at a distance without a weapon is Dan-Tor,’ he said quietly but coldly. ‘This one just did the same. Perhaps he too could raze a city if he wished. We can’t afford the risk of him being one of Dan-Tor’s lackeys. I’ll give him the opportunity to explain himself, but a hint of any such power again and he dies.’

  ‘Please . . .’ gasped Oslang.

  ‘Are you here to do Dan-Tor’s will?’ Olvric asked simply.

  ‘No,’ Oslang replied, swallowing. ‘Truly. We oppose him and his Master, utterly.’

  ‘But you use his weapons,’ Olvric pressed.

  ‘Yes – no – they’re not his weapons. They’re anyone’s. Anyone with the knowledge of how to use them,’ Oslang replied. ‘You could kill friend and foe alike with your dagger, couldn’t you, Goraidin?’

  Olvric did not reply.

  ‘You’ll not face Dan-Tor, let alone Sumeral, with any chance of victory without those beside you who can use the same power,’ Oslang gasped. ‘You must have learned that already.’

  Olvric’s eye narrowed, then he withdrew the knife. Oslang slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. He was shaking violently. Only Sylvriss and Yengar noted that Olvric’s hand too was shaking as he sheathed his knife.

  When Oslang sat up, he was white-faced and still trembling. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I’m a student of lore, not a warrior. I feel sick – let me have a moment to recover myself.’ He looked at Olvric. ‘You’re a terrifying man, Goraidin,’ he said softly.

  ‘I take no pride in it,’ Olvric replied. ‘It’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of our calling. But it’s saved my life and others’ before now. Another aspect is to use my instinct and it’s that which has saved your life. But we still need an explanation from you.’

  Oslang nodded. ‘In a moment,’ he said, still disturbed.

  Urthryn looked on doubtfully, still angry at the Goraidin’s savage threat to his guest. Only his daughter’s silent support for Olvric had restrained him from calling to the guards waiting outside. Yet he too was alarmed by the demonstration of power that Oslang had inadvertently given.

  ‘I’ll have the Morlider taken away before we do any more talking,’ he said. ‘We can deal with him later.’

  ‘No, Ffyrst,’ Oslang said, anxiously. ‘With your permission I’d like to ask him something.’

  Glancing first at Olvric, Urthryn nodded his assent.

  Drago, still with Yengar’s sword at his breast, looked at Oslang like a trapped animal.

  Oslang cleared his throat. ‘Why’ve you come here, Drago?’ he said gently. The Morlider did not reply. Oslang looked puzzled. ‘Just twelve of you, in that little boat. Your raiding parties used to be much bigger.’

  Drago shot an anxious glance at Urthryn. ‘You have our boat?’ he asked.

  Urthryn nodded, then in response to the almost paternal concern in the man’s voice said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s unharmed. We want you away from here as soon as we can. Just tell us why you were here. Did you get lost or something?’

  Drago seemed grateful for Urthryn’s news about his boat but curled his lip at his last remark. ‘Lost,’ he said. ‘I’m Morlider. I don’t get lost at sea. For what it’s worth to you – which is nothing – we were here looking for suitable landing places for our fleet.’

  Urthryn’s eyes widened at this unexpected admission.

  Drago looked at him. ‘I’m not a fool, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I know what I’ve told you. But it’ll make no difference. Not this time.’

  Urthryn seemed inclined to pursue the matter but Oslang spoke again. ‘Tell us about your new chief then, Drago,’ he said casually. ‘You’re a quarrelsome and fractious people if history tells aright. I’d be interested to know about a man who could bring together not only the tribes of one island, but the tribes of all the islands.’

  Drago started. ‘I said nothing about that,’ he said defensively.

  Oslang shrugged. ‘What else could you have meant?’ he asked. ‘You allied yourselves after a fashion last time when chance brought you together. Now I presume what Yengar said is true: one of your chiefs has taken over an entire Island. He’s also persuaded some of the other islands to join him in another assault on Riddin.’ He looked impressed. ‘It’s not the first time that a strong man has brought disparate tribes together,’ he went on. ‘And I don’t suppose it’ll be the last. But it’s rare, and the men who achieve it are usually fascinating people. Is he a young man? A great fighter in personal combat? Or is he a thinker? An organizer?’

  ‘It’s more likely to be an old woman,’ Olvric inserted acidly.

  Drago gritted his teeth, and levelled his finger at Olvric. ‘If you were my greatest friend, High Guard, I’d drag you behind my ship for the sharks before I’d wish Karios’s attention to fall on you,’ he said viciously. Then, suddenly, he looked desperate, as if the very mention of his leader’s name were likely to bring some dire punishment down on his head immediately.

  Oslang raised his hand gently and when he spoke his voice was low and thoughtful, almost rhythmic. Drago leaned towards him attentively, as if he were listening to a voice that none of the others could hear. His anxious look gradually faded.

  ‘It sounds to me as though your leader is a fearsome fighter, Drago,’ the Cadwanwr said. ‘A man who cut his way up through the ranks of the tribe unexpectedly. A younger son perhaps? Killed his brothers?’

  Drago shook his head, his manner becoming increasingly relaxed and calm. ‘He’s not one of us,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea where he came from. A boat brought him from the battle shore during the war.’

  ‘A slave has taken charge of your people?’ Oslang asked in amazement.

  Drago shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘He was a healer. He saved my old chief. Dragged him out from under a pile o
f bodies on the battle shore, got him to a boat and back to his ship and then nursed him until he was well again.’

  Oslang nodded his head steadily. ‘And then?’ he prompted.

  Drago shrugged. ‘He just became part of the tribe. Doctoring people, then advising, then tending to tribal matters when the chief was sick again.’

  Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances at this brief telling, with its similarities to the progress of Dan-Tor through the government of Fyorlund.

  ‘Your chief’s illness kept recurring?’ Yengar asked.

  Drago did not seem to hear him. Oslang repeated the question.

  The Morlider nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fighting fit one minute. Down the next. But never bad enough to be set aside by acclaim.’ He grinned, as if at old memories. ‘Any sign of any real opposition to his authority and he was out, axe swinging. Soon put paid to anyone looking to take his place.’

  ‘How did this Karios become chief of all the islands, Drago?’ Oslang asked softly.

  Drago frowned, as if confused. ‘The chief was murdered,’ he said. ‘His other advisers were jealous of Karios. They turned on him for some reason . . .’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Oslang probed gently.

  Drago hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was at sea. It was all over when I got back.’ The alarm came back into his face. ‘It’s as well I was,’ he said. ‘A lot of the chief’s men died that day, one way and another, fighting for or against him . . .’ He fell silent.

  Oslang prompted him gently.

  ‘They say Karios protected him with his own body,’ Drago began again. ‘But there were too many attackers, and although they were all killed in the end, it was too late.’

  ‘And Karios took command?’ Oslang asked.

  Drago nodded. ‘He was the only one who could,’ he said enigmatically. ‘But he was changed.’

  ‘In what way?’ Oslang asked.

  Drago looked up, his eyes fearful. ‘He had . . . power,’ he said, as though the words were being dragged from him. ‘Terrible power.’ Then, anxious at even this slight betrayal of his leader, ‘But he uses it only on his enemies, those who oppose him. He’s changed many of our ways . . . for the better.’ His voice became strident. ‘Now we’re one people. He’s united us. Promised us our old country back.’

  Oslang’s gesture prevented Urthryn intervening. Drago’s voice dropped and he became confidential.

  ‘He has power over the waves,’ he said. ‘Now the islands move at his will, not the whim of the tides.’

  He fell silent again.

  Oslang, now seemingly fully recovered from Olvric’s threat, went pale again at Drago’s last remark. He moved his hand gently from side to side, and the Morlider leaned back in his chair and fell asleep.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Urthryn said, his voice low in amazement.

  Oslang, preoccupied, started slightly. ‘Oh. Just deceived him a little,’ he said.

  ‘You have some surprising skills,’ Olvric said.

  Oslang looked at him nervously. ‘He was frightened and alone,’ he said. ‘And his ways of thinking are simpler, more primitive than ours. Even so, it wasn’t easy. Have no fear, it’s not a device I could use on you.’

  Olvric raised an eyebrow. Sylvriss looked between the two men. ‘You must understand, Oslang,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor smashed houses, streets, people, with a wave of his hand. We’re ordinary people. We’re frightened enough by swords and spears, but these – powers – that you and he seem able to use, take us far beyond that fear and our thinking becomes primitive in its presence.’

  Oslang looked at her. ‘I do understand, lady,’ he said. ‘And I’ll explain as best I can, but you must understand also: Sumeral will have to be opposed both with swords and spears, and the Old Power.’ He turned to the two Goraidin. ‘You know that, don’t you? You’d not have let me go if you hadn’t already asked yourselves how an army of men could stand against the destructive force that Oklar used against Vakloss.’

  Olvric eyed him narrowly. ‘Have you the power to oppose Dan-Tor’s strength?’ he asked.

  Oslang smiled ruefully. ‘To oppose, yes. To survive, no,’ he said, looking round at the others. ‘Not alone. Any more than you could oppose a cavalry charge and live. My skills, like those you possess – riding, fighting, ruling – are such as can be acquired by one man with a lifetime’s hard study and practice. Dan-Tor’s . . . Oklar’s . . . were acquired over generations, under the tutelage of Sumeral Himself. I’m little or nothing compared to him, but there are many in our Order and such skills as we have between us we will ally with yours to oppose Him. Your swords, our knowledge, are all we have, be they inadequate or no.’

  Olvric leaned forward to speak, but Oslang continued. ‘Now we have another consideration. Now we must ask whose power is it that can move the Morlider islands against the ways of the ocean?’

  This abrupt reversion to Drago’s remark brought an uneasy silence to the room.

  ‘No riddles, Oslang,’ Urthryn said, cutting through it. ‘Let’s hear this tangled saga to its end, then we can debate conclusions.’

  Oslang nodded an acknowledgement, but it was Olvric who spoke.

  ‘Karios barely disguises his real name,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s Creost the second of the Uhriel. He could be no other. Who else could oppose the tides? And his rise to power and his control over such a people parallels almost exactly that of Oklar over the Fyordyn.’ In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, he put his hands to his head. ‘Every step we take along this road sinks us further and further into ancient horrors.’

  No one seemed inclined to dispute Olvric’s opinion, and the room become silent again.

  Then Urthryn leaned forward and conspicuously pinched himself.

  ‘Just making sure I actually woke up today,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Unfortunately, it seems that I have.’

  He sat back and surveyed his guests. ‘I said before, it was children’s tales we were listening to and I’ve not changed my mind. However, children’s tales or no, they appear to be true.’ He looked at his two advisers who had remained virtually silent throughout. ‘However ludicrous it all seems I can’t doubt either my daughter’s word or the words of two Goraidin. That, plus this fellow’s tale,’ he nodded towards the sleeping Drago, ‘and Oslang’s party tricks, set aside any serious doubts we’re entitled to.’

  Agreth spoke. ‘I fear you’re right, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to laugh all this to scorn; it defies reason. But, as you say, the witnesses are too weighty by far. We can’t do other than accept what they say at its face value, ridiculous though it seems. I think all we can do after that is find out from Drago here what the strength of the Morlider is, when their invasion is due, and then make plans accordingly.’

  Urthryn nodded. ‘That’s our major problem for sure. If they come in force they’ll outnumber us as before, but if they’ve learned to fight in “lines and squares, like the Fyordyn”’ he mimicked Drago’s harsh accent – ‘then we’ll have desperate problems. We’ll have to defeat them as they land. If they get any kind of a foothold, it’s going to be grim indeed.’

  He turned to Olvric and Yengar. ‘Can you stay and advise us, Goraidin?’ he asked.

  Yengar looked relieved. ‘Yes, Ffyrst,’ he replied. ‘But we can’t advise you on how to deal with Creost. Even now, Lord Eldric and the others go in fear of Dan-Tor – Oklar – approaching alone, and destroying their strongholds as easily as he did Vakloss.’

  Urthryn turned to Oslang and then back to the two Goraidin. ‘Can you three work together in some semblance of peace and trust?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Olvric replied without hesitation. ‘He frightened me badly when he knocked down the Morlider, but neither before nor since did I feel any evil in him.’ He extended his hand to Oslang. ‘I won’t apologize for what I did,’ he said. ‘You know I’d no alternative, don’t you? But I’ll accept any rebuke you care to offer me, an
d if you wish’ – he looked quickly at Yengar, who nodded – ‘we’ll share our knowledge with you, and work with you in every way to defeat this abomination that’s leached back into the world.’

  Oslang took the hand. ‘I’ve no rebuke for you, Goraidin,’ he said. ‘I’m just glad I survived, and glad you’re on our side. I’d be honoured both to teach you, and to learn from you.’

  ‘Good,’ Urthryn said vigorously, clapping his hands and looking increasingly businesslike. ‘We’ll have to sort this out with the heads of the Houses and the Decmills before we call a Moot, but for the time being we can double the coastal patrols – and tell the fishing villages that the Morlider are near again.’

  Hiron intervened. ‘We’ll have to make arrangements for looking after the villagers,’ he said. ‘They won’t go to sea once they hear that.’

  Urthryn nodded. ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ he said, his eyes wrinkling in self-reproach. ‘But we can’t not tell them.’ He fell silent.

  ‘Why won’t they go to sea?’ Yengar asked.

  ‘Their boats can’t outrun the Morlider ships,’ Urthryn said, almost offhandedly. ‘Some of the villages lost nearly all their menfolk as slaves just before the war started. The fishing’s never really been the same since.’

  Yengar grimaced and looked angrily at the sleeping Morlider. Innocent fishermen – fathers and sons – snatched away from their families to slavery! A host of feelings swept through him quite suddenly, but dominating them was one he had not felt for a long time. Satisfaction. Satisfaction that he, at least, could fight; that on occasions he had been able to put his skills, sometimes his sharp steel, between such innocents and their harrowers; that perhaps he might be able to do so again.

  ‘We have Drago’s boat,’ he said. ‘He and his men can’t be allowed to return to their island yet – not knowing what he knows now.’

  Urthryn looked uncertain ‘It’s not our way, Goraidin,’ he said.

  ‘Times are changed, Ffyrst,’ Yengar replied. ‘And many of our ways will be changed whether we like it or not. I think you have enough disadvantages against this foe without him knowing in advance that he may be facing Fyordyn, Orthlundyn, and someone who can use the same power as their new leader.’