The Waking of Orthlund

by Roger Taylor

  Dan-Tor tried to set this inconsistency aside, but from it a single thought rose to dominate his mind.

  Who fires your resolve, Lords?

  The name Hawklan floated inexorably in its wake. Had that green-eyed abomination indeed survived and rejoined the Lords? Was he once more hunting him? Using the Lords now as once he had used the people of Vakloss? Would he be there, at the head of their ranks, spurring on the High Guards, or would he be skulking in the rear, plotting some more devious assault?

  Dan-Tor found himself quailing at the thought of Ethriss’s sword flashing and singing again in the forefront of battle, cutting swathes through his warriors. It was only with a great effort that he set the vision aside. That image, though it returned vividly, even after the countless millennia of darkness, did not portray the true danger of Hawklan. No single man, however ferocious, could swell the ranks of the Lords’ army to the size of the army that would greet and crush them. And there was always a random arrow or a whirling axe to end their riot. The true danger lay in just such assaults on Hawklan’s person. If the terrible clamour of battle did not awaken the dormant Ethriss, the impending death of his mortal frame surely would.

  Dan-Tor’s concern deepened abruptly. The die was cast utterly now. At his instigation, the Lords had launched their army towards Vakloss. Nothing now could prevent a major battle. And if Hawklan were there, in its midst . . .

  For a moment, he felt as he had felt at Eldric’s accounting: trapped. There he had been faced with the risk of having to use the Old Power to quell the crowd at the revelation of the use of Mandrocs in Orthlund, though, ironically, Eldric’s own commanding presence had actually saved him. Now, he could not prevent any lethal physical assault on Hawklan occurring if he were anywhere within the Lords’ army. Had he made yet another error? Pedhavin, Eldric’s accounting, and now this?

  Dan-Tor turned back to the window and looked to the north.

  Or had he been manipulated by some subtle hand into ensuring the waking of Ethriss?

  The thought chilled even the black heart of his Uhriel’s soul.

  And yet . . .

  It couldn’t be. If Ethriss had such awareness, such dormant skill, he would surely have directed it to guiding the Cadwanol, his ancient servants. They could have wakened him. He would not have jeopardized the lives of thousands of men in battle . . .

  The thought came like a sudden wind blowing away a stifling mist.

  Nor would Ethriss have wantonly provoked the Old Power at Eldric’s accounting when so many innocents must inevitably have died.

  How could he not have seen it? People had died for Ethriss in their hundreds of thousands, but Ethriss would not sacrifice a single unknowing soul for any end!

  Hawklan could not be Ethriss!

  Who he was and how he came to possess the key to Anderras Darion and Ethriss’s black sword and bow were enigmas, but their solutions could perhaps be untangled at some other time. What mattered now was that he was not Ethriss. He was a mortal man; gifted in some strange way, and indisputably dangerous, but a mere man!

  Dan-Tor closed his eyes and felt the burden of Hawklan at last pass from him. If the creature was in this army he would probably be slain with it, leaving Anderras Darion tenantless, and the sword and bow in His possession. If not, he could be hunted freely, and bound, or slain later. It was no longer of any consequence.

  A white smile greeted Urssain as Dan-Tor turned back to him.

  ‘What action have you taken, Commander?’ he said, knowing the answer. Urssain’s speed in galvanizing the defence of the City was to his credit.

  Urssain feared his master’s smiles more than his frowns but this seemed to be devoid of menace. He responded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve sent out messengers to all the companies between here and the Lords, ordering them to pull back to Vakloss as soon as the Lords reach them,’ he replied.

  Dan-Tor looked at his protégé. ‘Withdraw?’ he said with wilful uncertainty.

  Urssain nodded. ‘Yes, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘The reports we have say that the Lords are coming in full force – Eldric’s High Guards, Arinndier’s, Hreldar’s and Darek’s, plus their civilian reserves, the remains of Evison’s High Guards and quite a lot of deserters from the other Lords . . .’

  Dan-Tor raised a hand to stem this flow. ‘Did you manage to ensure that some of your people were with the deserters?’ he asked, again knowing the answer from his own endeavours to obtain information from the east.

  Urssain’s enthusiasm faltered. ‘No, Ffyrst,’ he replied. ‘We sent several in with plausible enough tales, but none returned. Nor have we received any messages from them. Not that that’s proved significant. The Lords never disguised their intentions or their activities, and now they’re actually flaunting their strength. We need no secret intelligence to find their measure.’

  A fortunate quirk of circumstance, Dan-Tor replied inwardly, a conspicuous foe just when we’re blind. But after the Lords had been defeated he must travel to Derras Ustramel and tell Him of the growing hazards of such blindness, not least the Cadwanol. The birds must be freed if His work is not to be so hampered again; but let Him determine that.

  With a flick of his hand, he returned Urssain to the mainstream of his telling. ‘Why are you withdrawing your forces, Commander?’ he asked pointedly. ‘Why aren’t you opposing them at every step.’

  Briefly, fear welled up inside Urssain’s stomach but, riding high, he ignored it and plunged on.

  ‘They’ve committed their every resource, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘To oppose them with individual companies would be to lose men, materials and morale for no useful purpose.’

  ‘You doubt the courage of your men, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked.

  ‘No, Ffyrst,’ Urssain replied, surprised at his own spontaneous faith in the Mathidrin troopers. ‘They’re afraid of nothing. Remember the Mandroc tribes they subdued when we first moved out of your estates and into Narsindal? I doubt the High Guards are expecting such ferocity. But courage is no match for overwhelming odds. If our men stand and fight in small companies they’ll be destroyed, and probably without inflicting any serious harm on the enemy. But if they withdraw, they’ll be here fresh and ready for action alongside all the other companies, and . . .’ He smiled knowingly. ‘. . . they’ll tempt the Lords into maintaining their present pace in anticipation of an equally easy final victory.’

  Dan-Tor stood silent for some time. Involuntarily Urssain licked his lips.

  ‘Good,’ said his tormentor eventually. Urssain breathed out, discreetly.

  ‘I’ve also recalled some of the companies in the south and west,’ Urssain added. ‘Those from the estates of our friendlier Lords, though I doubt they’ll arrive in time.’

  Dan-Tor nodded. ‘And in the City?’ he asked.

  ‘The City’s sealed, and under curfew,’ Urssain replied briskly. ‘All food supplies have been commandeered, the Militia and all the auxiliaries have been fully mobilized, and the main Mathidrin companies are moving to their defensive stations on the eastern approaches.’

  ‘Good,’ Dan-Tor said again. ‘And how are the people responding?’

  Urssain shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. We imposed a full curfew immediately we had definite news, so there’s been little chance for any rumours to start. I think a simple public announcement will end what little speculation there is. The Youth Corps can make it, they’re already patrolling the streets to ensure the curfew’s being maintained. I don’t think the people are going to be any problem.’

  Dan-Tor stood silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Have two of the reserve Mathidrin companies stationed in the Palace, Commander. We may have no spies in the enemy’s camp, but they’ll have many in ours for sure, and they’ve shown in the past they’re quite capable of reaching into our very midst.’

  Urssain hesitated.

  ‘Just because they’ve turned to face us at last, Commander, doesn’t mean they’re above treachery,’ Dan-Tor said coldly. ‘There are many new faces i
n the City – in the Palace itself, since my . . . accession. We mustn’t become careless when such a major victory is within our grasp. Attend to it right away.’

  When Urssain had left, Dan-Tor returned to the window and resumed his vigil. For some time he stood silently staring towards the hazy northern horizon. Then he turned away and moved through a nearby door.

  A long winding stairway took him high up one of the palace towers until eventually he reached a narrow landing. Opening a door, he stepped out onto a broad observation balcony.

  In the streets far below the weather was a cool, rather dank autumn. Around the high balcony, however, a wind blew always, and now it was cold and raw. But Dan-Tor was unaffected. Standing motionless, he stared out towards the east.

  Now were all his years of silent toil bearing fruit. Not in the manner he had envisaged, admittedly, but far sooner. Briefly the image came to him of a spring flower bursting suddenly into bloom after a long dark winter, but it was distasteful and his head twitched involuntarily to free him of it.

  And yet the past months had been a strange, turbulent period, full of change and struggle and mystery: he himself deceived by the aura of that sinkhole Anderras Darion into imagining he had found, and could bind, Ethriss; Rgoric slipping his leash and running amok after almost twenty years of carefully sustained decline; and that horse witch weaning him back to normality and strength. Even getting herself pregnant, if rumour was to be believed. At the thought of Sylvriss, Dan-Tor’s lip curled back to reveal his clenched teeth, white and predatory.

  But it had all been salutary: a timely reminder that these creatures were, after all, Ethriss’s creation, flawed and dangerous. And, too, the Cadwanol had appeared on the fringes of events. That was of major importance. Perhaps in reality they lay nearer the centre than appearances indicated. They were not a force to be lightly ignored. When this was over, He would doubtless look to have them sought out and crushed before their infection spread.

  The cold wind tugged at Dan-Tor’s robe. He laid his conjectures aside. Soon, very soon, there would be time for a retrenchment, a quietening of the turmoil and a new beginning. When his army had crushed the Lords he could divide an acquiescent Fyorlund amongst his senior Commanders and turn his mind to the gradual destruction of Orthlund and Riddin; back, if possible, to slow corruption by stealth and smiling deception.

  And of course, to lighten these tasks, there would be the hunting of Hawklan.

  It was an agreeable prospect, Dan-Tor mused. Violence and war had their uses, but they were too hazardous; too uncontrollable and unpredictable. They represented the very pinnacle of humanity’s flawed and inconsistent nature. They were not his favourite tools, though admittedly he wielded them with some relish when need arose.

  Even now, there was risk. Small forces had routed larger before now. The thought was haunting and persistent, but he set it aside. Aelang had done his work well; the Lords were moving in anger; an emotion that would have wasted their energies utterly by the time they reached Vakloss to face the vastly superior numbers of the Mathidrin and the Militia.

  Granted, the Militia were of uncertain value, but they would burden the Guards in many ways, leaving them the wearier when they finally hacked their way through to the Mathidrin.

  He smiled as the thought came to him that the loss of so many Fyordyn men would cause great social upheaval and ease the subsequent governing of the land. It was an advantage he had not considered before.

  He brought his mind back to the present. Below him, the City was unnaturally silent; its stillness disturbed only by the Youth Corps’ patrols and the occasional rider or runner. In the distance he could see some of the activity as his troops transformed the eastern edge of the City into a defensive enclave.

  Slowly he stilled his mind and set forth his power. Out to the north under his own extensive estates to touch the comforting roots of the cold dark mountains that separated Fyorlund from Narsindal. Tentatively to the south where it shied away from the ominous shadow of Orthlund. Then east, out under the bustling preparations of his own army until eventually it felt the purposeful tread of the advancing High Guards.

  Ever guarded, Oklar mused. How easily you could be destroyed, in your pathetic strutting arrogance, without the protection of forces you know nothing of. Once it would have been Ethriss or Theowart, or some cadre of potent Cadwanwr, now He Himself guards you from my wrath.

  As a reminder of this protection, Hawklan’s arrow hung heavy in his side; a terrible, waiting presence. He knew no hurt would return to him while his Power was quiescent and watching, but should he use it . . .

  Oklar withdrew his Power lest the nearness and vulnerability of his enemies tested his patience too far. To strike them thus would be to shatter his own mortal body.

  Let these creatures hack and hew each other, he thought. It is the way it always was and in itself would be a passing amusement for him. It would also be a valuable exercise for the Mathidrin; it was a long time since they’d faced angry, armed opposition. It would thin out their weaker fry and leave him with a battle-hardened nucleus around which could be built His real army.

  Briefly he felt a wave of weariness pass over him, but he ignored it. It was just another remnant of his own erstwhile humanity. His eternal solace lay in the knowledge that one day these flawed and erratic creatures would be no more, and he would stand by His side in a world of perfection; shaped by Him and peopled by His creations. It was a heady thought, and he allowed it to soar freely.

  * * * *

  Eldric was tired after the day’s marching and riding, but he had spent the evening walking around the camp: talking to the sentries slowly pacing the perimeter; talking to cadet runners, excited and anxious, homesick yet glad to be there; talking to troopers and officers alike in their tents and shelters, resting after the day’s rapid march; talking to grooms and ostlers, tending the cavalry horses and remounts, and the great draught horses that were hauling the supply and baggage wagons in relays to keep pace with the swiftly moving army. Talking . . . and listening. Answering questions. Asking questions. Lifting up the jaded and fearful, calming the over-heated.

  Though a soft and hazy mist filled the camp and the surrounding countryside, the stars above shone sharp and clear. He looked up at them.

  I envy you your cold clarity, your certainty, he thought. Silver and aloof in your rich purple darkness.

  Then he cleared his throat self-consciously as if he had inadvertently spoken this poetic sentiment out loud.

  Two passing troopers saluted him.

  He returned the salute and wished them goodnight as they faded into the darkness.

  Around him was the dwindling hubbub of the quietening camp. Torches and shadowy figures moved hither and thither, though without menace; snatches of conversation, laughter, even some singing, floated to him. Then a dog barked somewhere and, far in the opposite direction, a horse neighed. Standing alone in the darkness he felt as though he were one strand in a huge moving tapestry of sound and quietly bustling life.

  He had stood thus many times before, during the Morlider War, and even, occasionally, when on the Watch in Narsindal, though there had always been an indefinable unpleasantness about that place and a different quality of tension had pervaded the Watch camps. Now at least he knew why.

  This is a good place to be, he thought. The quiet unity of purpose, the caring companionship of fellows in arms. A good place. Would that it could last. Would that this time it might not end in horror. Other familiar thoughts returned to him unbidden. Armed conflict was an obscenity; a loathsome catharsis, like vomiting, but infinitely worse. Infected, the nation fretted and fumed in discomfort, then in pain, then it retched and heaved until, uncontrollably, in a terrible spasm, it shed the offence, leaving itself exhausted but perhaps renewed amid stench and degradation. The analogy pursued itself. Sometimes it was not an end, but a beginning; even a presager of death.

  Eldric let the thoughts pass him unhindered. They held nothing new for hi
m. It grieved him deeply that he and his companions were now the seeming aggressors, but he took solace from the knowledge that if an acceptable alternative presented itself at any time they would take it, and gladly.

  He drew in a deep breath of the cool autumn air. It was scented with dampness and browning leaves, dying in preparation for the cold winter and the distant spring.

  This is a good place to be, he thought again, then, pulling his cloak about him, he set off for his own tent.

  It was indistinguishable from all the other tents except for the standard that hung motionless in the stillness. The Lords and people were never far apart in Fyorlund but both tradition and experience dictated that more than ever they should share both favour and hardship in such difficult times.

  Arinndier rose as Eldric entered.

  ‘I’m sorry, Arin,’ Eldric said. ‘I’m a little late. I’m afraid I was . . .’

  ‘Talking.’ Arinndier finished his apology for him with a wry smile.

  Eldric conceded. ‘Talking,’ he admitted. ‘And thinking.’

  Arinndier raised a mocking eyebrow.

  Eldric ignored the taunt. ‘The others are ready?’ he asked, affecting a briskness he did not feel.

  ‘In the command tent,’ Arinndier replied, indicating the entrance through which Eldric had just passed.

  Darek and Hreldar were sprawled out in their chairs when Eldric and Arinndier joined them in the command tent. Both confined their welcomes to a cursory nod.

  Eldric smiled broadly. ‘A good day’s march, gentlemen,’ he said.