The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  And tightening the bonds of fear was ignorance: ignorance of the truth of the fate of their King and Queen, and ignorance of the deeds and intentions of the Lords. It was ignorance which fed the whispering web of lies and mistrust that grew daily, bringing rumours of unseen violence and horror from the dark heart of the Mathidrin’s power, the Westerclave; bringing rumours of massacres of innocents by High Guards in distant estates, and rumours of Orthlundyn armies massing on the borders, led by a terrible warlock Lord. It was ignorance that brought the darkness and confusion through which only Dan-Tor seemed to offer a way.

  Yet other threads mingled with the choking gossamer of this web – threads based no less in ignorance but with a truer, sounder, feel: Dan-Tor had poisoned the King for years and had murdered him when he attempted to regain his power and released Eldric and Jaldaric; the Queen had fled to the Lords for safety, carrying Rgoric’s child inside her; and, sibilant under these, were whispered words such as ‘Mandrocs’, ‘Narsindal’ and, softest of all . . . ‘Sumeral, risen again’ . . . and was not Dan-Tor, Oklar, His erstwhile lieutenant, come to prepare a way for Him? And was it not Dan-Tor who had destroyed the city to silence the accusation of the strange Orthlundyn?

  But the darkness dominated. Fear of unknown informants, unheard denunciations and silent arrests seeped into every aspect of the people’s lives, cracking apart old friendships, straining and even destroying families. Yet the very darkness itself hid the opposition to their new ruler that bubbled within many of the Fyordyn, so that it waited, silent and watchful, until eventually his step would falter.

  A voice roused Dilrap from his reverie.

  ‘The people grow more enthusiastic with each demonstration, don’t you think, Secretary?’

  The voice was Dan-Tor’s, normal now, and it brought Dilrap sharply and coldly back to the present.

  ‘Indeed, Ffyrst,’ he said, bowing and stepping forward. ‘Your spirit fires us all.’ He looked down at the interchanging columns and ranks of marchers with their swaying banners and blazing torches.

  Dan-Tor watched him intently, but without the awful eyes of his true self. ‘Yet you yourself do not seem inspired by the sight of our growing army,’ he said.

  Dilrap did as he always did when opportunity allowed, he spoke as much of the truth as he dared.

  ‘I’m not a military man, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I find the prospect of war frightening and these displays of your power quite overwhelming.’

  Unexpectedly, Dan-Tor almost sneered. He waved a dismissive hand across the bellowing scene in front of him. ‘This is not my power, Dilrap,’ he said. ‘This is the puny ranting of a crushed people. When they have destroyed the Lords, then you will begin to see my power: the true power.’

  Dilrap said nothing, but held his breath close. His stomach turned over. Why does he talk to me like this? he thought. Why does he come so near to saying who he truly is?

  Abruptly, Dan-Tor turned. Dilrap’s chest tightened. But the Ffyrst ignored him. ‘Stay here and watch,’ he said brusquely to the people around him, then he strode from the platform. Dilrap bowed hastily, as did all the others, then, turning back to the crowd, he gripped the guard rail and, closing his eyes briefly, let out as long a breath as he dared.

  When he opened his eyes, Urssain was standing beside him. He looked at the Mathidrin Commander. The man was changing perceptibly. Learning from his master, Dilrap thought. He was becoming less surly, and seemed even to be developing a peculiar charm at times. It made Dilrap’s flesh crawl. Urssain as an ambitious thug was bad enough, but at least it had a certain honesty. Now, with his greater authority and power allowing more rein to his true nature, the civilized veneer he was affecting was repellent in the extreme.

  Ironically, though, it made Dilrap feel easier with the man. It gave him a measure of the Mathidrin’s monstrous ego. It was a weakness. Dilrap had begun looking for weaknesses in the moths that fluttered around Dan-Tor’s dangerous flame. As Urssain learned from Dan-Tor, so, inadvertently, Dilrap followed the example set by Sylvriss, by wilfully ingratiating himself into the favours of anyone who could be remotely useful. This he did not by obsequious fawning, but by simple straightforward courtesy and by ensuring that where favours were sought, they would be granted if possible. But always he left a gentle, unfelt, barb in his debtor. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to do something for me one day,’ he would say, smiling, and waving his hand airily, while his eyes said, equally dearly, ‘These are difficult times. We who see this reality must help one another when need arises. Be prepared.’

  It would have been an ineffective device once, when he was Rgoric’s flustered and flapping Secretary, but now, because he had not only survived the demise of Rgoric but also retained his old office, and because Dan-Tor would speak to him alone on occasions in conspicuous privacy, it was assumed that he had the Ffyrst’s ear and that he was thus a man to be both courted and feared. In reality, no one had Dan-Tor’s ear, and Dilrap was meticulous in never claiming such a privilege; but equally, he did nothing to disabuse people of the idea. It was far too valuable a misunderstanding. Indeed, it left even Urssain uncertain.

  ‘Is the Ffyrst angry, Secretary?’ Urssain asked.

  Dilrap looked at him enigmatically, but did not reply. This was another device that he was finding increasingly valuable. What was not said could not be argued and could not be repeated or distorted.

  ‘He left so suddenly,’ Urssain tried again, following the lure. ‘I thought his speech and the marching went down well.’

  Dilrap turned away from him and looked down at the still marching figures. ‘The Ffyrst is the Ffyrst, Commander,’ he said. ‘Who can tell what he’s thinking?’

  Urssain nodded. ‘It’s just that he spoke to you,’ he said affecting a casualness that Dilrap could smell was far from the reality of his inner feelings. Dilrap’s earlier suspicions returned. I wonder if this is the first he’s heard of this imminent assault on the Lords, he thought.

  ‘Just a small administrative matter,’ Dilrap said off-handedly, then, turning to the Mathidrin, he smiled nervously and attacked. ‘I didn’t realize your battle plans were so advanced, Commander. I thought your intention was still to fight a defensive war – letting the Lords move to Vakloss, rather than risk moving across country to attack them on their own territory.’

  Urssain’s eyes narrowed briefly at this unexpected observation, then he remembered his new persona and Dilrap’s uncertain status. ‘I can’t discuss that with you, Dilrap,’ he said, managing a nice balance of menace and regret.

  Dilrap looked understanding, and bowed his head respectfully. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it if you did. The sooner the whole business is over, the better, as far as I’m concerned. Then we can get on with running the country properly.’

  We, noted Urssain. Sooner or later, Dilrap would have to go, without a doubt. If only he could be certain of Dan-Tor’s response to such a deed.

  He gave Dilrap a curt bow and returned to Aelang.

  You didn’t know, did you, Commander? Dilrap thought with some glee. Your precious leader prods you along like cattle, doesn’t he?

  He looked again at the weaving mass of Mathidrin, Militia and Youth Corps below him. He had no concern for the Mathidrin; let them take their chances against the Lords’ High Guards. But the Militia? That was only a sad aberration. Didn’t he himself respond to the drama of Dan-Tor’s rallies? And he knew what the creature was! How could weaker, less knowledgeable souls resist such rousing blandishments? But it would be tragic indeed if they came to be pitched into battle.

  He pushed the thought away painfully. The fate of the members of the Militia was in their own hands and in any event was beyond his control. Once battle lines were drawn, many terrible things would happen, and they would only end when the conflict ended. It was his self-appointed duty to ensure that the Lords knew as much as possible about the Mathidrin so that such an end came as swiftly as it could.

  Wh
en he next saw Lorac or Tel-Odrel, he would give them his impression of Urssain’s response to Dan-Tor’s announcement, but he could still tell them nothing in answer to the question that concerned the Lords most. How could Dan-Tor’s – Oklar’s – terrible, city-wrecking power be faced and overcome by ordinary flesh and blood?

  He turned, and with a pleasant bow to those around him, made his way down the long winding stairs into the glaring globelight of the courtyard.

  * * * *

  Part of Urssain told him that he would be happier pottering about Fyorlund as he used to do, surviving on a judicious mixture of small-scale thieving and occasional employment. It was only a small part however, and only made itself heard with any force when he was facing the prospect of speaking, or worse, questioning Dan-Tor, as now. At all other times it was well submerged, lost under his desire to attain the goals that Dan-Tor had shown him at their very first meeting: goals of wealth and power.

  Now, however, it was proving extremely alluring even though he knew it was an illusion, and a foolish one at that. His itinerant life held charm only in retrospect and in any event could not have been pursued in these troubled times. Besides, he was trapped; willingly, admittedly, but trapped nevertheless. He could go nowhere now but where Dan-Tor led; knives waited in every other direction.

  He took a deep breath and crushed the foolishness utterly. Walk forward, he forced himself to think. Better I hold this position than someone else.

  Gradually he took control of his unease. It was not, after all, unfamiliar; he had never relished talking to Dan-Tor. Against the likes of Aelang and the other senior Mathidrin officers he would risk cunning for cunning, steel for steel. Dangerous and ruthless though such men were, they were no more so than he, and he had always had the wit to learn as he moved through life. But Dan-Tor! Words such as dangerous and ruthless dwindled into insignificance, so inadequate were they, and no knowledge could assail him. And since that Orthlundyn had attacked him! Since his . . . transformation . . . Urssain shuddered inwardly and raised his hand . . .

  ‘Come in, Commander,’ Dan-Tor’s voice spoke before Urssain had struck the door. He started and almost lost the inner balance he was maintaining so precariously. Then he straightened up and pushed the door open.

  A faint, familiar scent pervaded the room. Familiar now because it lingered wherever Dan-Tor had been. It was delicate perfume, underlain by the smell of blood.

  The palace servants did sterling and silent work to eradicate all signs of the Ffyrst’s slight but relentless bleeding, but traces always remained. Urssain had long stopped asking himself why Dan-Tor would not allow the arrow to be drawn, or why the wound did not either heal or fester. One day, when Dan-Tor appeared, the shaft of the arrow had been mysteriously broken, but there was an aura about the Ffyrst that forbade all questions, and the barbed head still protruded from his back.

  What kind of a creature are you? Urssain’s mind still screamed at times, when the inhuman reality of Dan-Tor and his affliction touched some still uncalloused part of his nature. How can you live impaled thus? And where in your fragile human flame hides the power to destroy a city? But the answer was always: he is your future, Urssain, your only future.

  Dan-Tor was standing by the window, staring northwards out over the City. His posture was slightly stooped as usual and, as he turned to face Urssain, his eyes were still focussed in the far distance. Briefly, Urssain thought he felt a fleeting sense of homesickness, a longing for other places, other times, but it passed almost before he was aware of it as Dan-Tor turned his attention to him.

  ‘You come to quiz me about my speech, Commander?’ he said, almost good-humouredly.

  Urssain hesitated. ‘I have come to ask if you could clarify it for me, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Last night was our most effective rally so far – very exhilarating. I was concerned that in the excitement I might have misunderstood what you were saying.’

  Dan-Tor’s eyes narrowed and Urssain felt a ripple pass through his already pervasive terror. That was wrong, he thought, bracing himself for the reproach that must inevitably come.

  But no soul-searing glance came to mark his folly. A wave of relief passed over him. The Ffyrst was in a quiet, seemingly straightforward mood. The force of his presence dominated the room as ever, but there was little if any of the terrifying malevolence that the Orthlundyn’s arrow had seemingly released: the malevolence of Oklar. Occasionally, Urssain allowed himself to think of that name when he was in the Ffyrst’s presence, but not often, and not for long. The implications of the name were more than terrifying and he knew he must gradually school himself to them if they were not to overwhelm him. Rumours were all over the City about the true nature of Dan-Tor but, like the King in his death throes, Urssain knew the truth. He had been too close to the unleashing of Oklar for it to be otherwise.

  ‘Urssain,’ Dan-Tor said coldly. ‘Is palace life addling your wits that you think to flatter me? Don’t do that again if you wish to remain of service to me. I need your obedience, that is all. Ask your question.’

  He turned away to recommence his vigil, and Urssain breathed out softly. He knew that to apologize now would be to compound his error, so he gave Dan-Tor what he required: obedience.

  ‘Is it your intention now to mount a campaign against the Lords in the east, Ffyrst?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Dan-Tor replied simply and without hesitation.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘The logic for a defensive stand against the Lords is sound, is it not, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked brusquely, still looking out of the window.

  Urssain hesitated. Dan-Tor turned slowly and looked at him. ‘It is still valid, is it not?’ he pressed. ‘Better they weary themselves trekking across the countryside to face an entrenched defensive line than we, surely?’

  ‘For armies of men, Ffyrst, yes,’ Urssain said awkwardly. ‘But . . .’ He was aware that his eyes were widening in fear as his thoughts began to form into words, but he knew he could do no other than plunge on. It had been discussed by the Mathidrin but it was the first time it had been spoken of before Dan-Tor. ‘But you have . . . weapons far beyond the limits of sword and spear. You could destroy their enclaves with a gesture. I thought . . .’

  A glimmer of red shone faintly in Dan-Tor’s eyes and Urssain’s voice tailed off. He quailed.

  But the distant storm came no nearer.

  ‘You would reduce your Ffyrst to a siege piece, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked flatly. Urssain’s mouth opened, but as Dan-Tor’s tone betrayed neither humour nor reproach, he could find no reply.

  Dan-Tor released him. ‘Look to no such aid from me, Commander,’ he said, moving to a nearby chair. ‘The Orthlundyn was a darker force than you can know. What was done was necessary, but men must fight men. The new Fyordyn must prove themselves in battle if they are to be of any value to me. Those who survive will become the heart of the even mightier force that will be needed for our future conquests. Those who do not survive will serve a useful end simply by wearying the enemy.’ Involuntarily, he placed his hand over the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his side. ‘And we face more enemies than you know, Commander,’ he added enigmatically.

  Urssain chose to ignore this last remark. ‘But you spoke of a blow against the Lords, Ffyrst,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed I did,’ Dan-Tor replied. ‘Indeed I did.’

  He fell silent.

  His euphoria following the death of the King had gradually faded. He was more whole now, his truer self, but the limitations imposed on his use of the Old Power by his Master and by Hawklan’s embedded arrow weighed on him appallingly.

  It gave him little consolation that he knew the restraint was the result of his own weakness, and that a far greater punishment could have been meted out to him. Everything since Rgoric’s madness in suspending the Geadrol and bringing the Mathidrin to Vakloss had betokened too much haste. That, and his own folly in disturbing Hawklan in his lair at Anderras Darion, had obliged him to move with, and ma
nipulate, events, rather than dictate and control them. That was almost inexcusable in His schemes.

  Now His icy grip had ensured His favourite Uhriel would not easily commit a similar folly again. Hawklan’s arrow would return upon him much of the consequences of using the Old Power and only He could remove it. Dan-Tor looked down at his hand. A great weal ran across it where he had seized the shaft of the newly fired arrow, but that wound at least had healed eventually, though it was still painful from time to time. Ironically, the arrow itself and its eternally bleeding wound, gave him no pain except when he used the Old Power; rather, it burdened and wearied him, as if it were constantly drawing him to some other purpose.

  And he was blind still! One of the birds was bound and his precious, hard-crafted, Vrwystin A Goleg, with its all-seeing eyes, was impotent and useless. He should have torn it free when he had the power, he thought. Then he tightened his hand painfully on the livid scar in atonement for this persistent residue of his too human impatience and impetuosity.

  It would have to be sufficient recompense for the loss of his spies that he had learnt that the Cadwanol still watched, for surely no others could have the knowledge and the power to do such a deed? And if the Cadwanol had survived the millennia, how great now was their knowledge and power? Not great enough to prevent the corruption of Fyorlund and the re-awakening of Narsindal, it seemed, but it would have been folly to pit himself against them with Hawklan roaming free to be an accidental beneficiary of the Old Power that would have been levied to such a battle.

  And, inexorably, the thought of Hawklan took Dan-Tor along a well-trodden pathway. Who was the man, and what had happened to him? True, Ethriss had not risen, grim and terrible out of the maelstrom to thank his wakener by dashing him into oblivion, but neither Hawklan’s body nor that of his oafish companion had been found in the debris, and still Dan-Tor sensed him watching, waiting.