The fall of Fyorlund tcoh-2

by Roger Taylor

  Dan-Tor stood on a high balcony and looked out over the City. He smiled to himself. True, he was disappointed in Urssain’s failure to obtain reliable information from within the High Guards. Their loyalties had proved remarkably resistant to his lures. But then, he shrugged, this was of no great significance. The High Guards’ very loyalty told him all he needed to know about them and how best to handle them. A little detailed information from time to time would have spared Urssain some losses and morale problems, but they were unimportant. Besides, his apparently ready forgiveness of tactical failures by Urssain was another small tie to bind the man with.

  Moving along the balcony, he sat down on a carved wooden bench and, resting his head back on the cool stone, looked out towards the haze-obscured northern horizon.

  A small movement caught his eye, gliding amongst the trees in the parklands at the edge of the City. Even at this distance he knew it would be Sylvriss. She had been an intractable problem over the years, but persistence conquers all, he thought. Now she was simply grateful to be allowed to nurse her husband after he had stabilized his condition. So grateful. Even taking an interest in ‘her’ Mathidrin. Stupid stable girl! A doubt floated into his mind as the distant figure disappeared from sight, but he dismissed it. There was no spark left in the ashes of her resistance that could flare up and rekindle the spirit that had been King Rgoric. Closing his eyes Dan-Tor listened to the faint noise of the City floating up to him.

  Through the streets a group of Mathidrin were marching. Periodically they stopped and one of them would nail a notice on a door or a tree. Following the eclipse of the High Guards by the Mathidrin, Dan-Tor judged that the notice was unlikely to cause anything more than talk. If perchance the High Guards reacted violently then they would condemn themselves. If they did not, so much the better.

  The sun shone on the side of his brown face and made him feel uncomfortable even though the breeze at that height was strong and cold. As he stood up to leave the balcony, he noted again the Queen riding to and fro across the distant park.

  * * * *

  An inconspicuous figure studied the notice painstak-ingly, nodding as he did so. It was a very simple notice. Another Edict. It disbanded the High Guards for their repeated and continuing acts of lawlessness against the King’s officers in the execution of their duties. In deference to past services, the Guards were to be allowed to return unhindered to their homes to pursue their civilian occupations, but the wearing of uniforms, congregating or drilling was forbidden on pain of imprisonment, as was failure to report such incidents. Apparently irrelevantly, the notice went on to urge the co-operation of all Fyordyn in these times of threat from enemies both abroad and at home.

  The figure moved quietly away from the notice and walked slowly down the street. He had to seek out his old friends. Something had to be done now, definitely.

  A Mathidrin patrol came round the corner, but they did not see the figure. He had faded into the shadows and stood now watching them. Although he had been retired from active service for some years, part of his Oath was ever before him. His ears had heard it, his mind had registered it, but his training and experience had merged it into his very nature.

  ‘Yatsu, you will be Goraidin until death and beyond.’

  Chapter 32

  The guard shifted his feet impatiently while Arinndier performed his daily ritual of suspiciously examining the meal and interrogating the slouching young servant who had just brought it. The delay was irritating but he had learned from experience that it was pointless to remonstrate as this was liable to start the four of them talking, and prolong the waiting even further. Let them have their games. No point in making trouble.

  ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ Arinndier asked the servant. ‘Yes, Lord,’ said the boy. He was about to continue but a cough from the guard stopped him. Arinndier overruled the cough with a smile. ‘What’s happened to the other one? Fallen sick after eating our food, has he?’

  Eldric chuckled and laid down a book he was read-ing to watch the exchange.

  ‘No, Lord,’ replied the boy, risking a nervous smile. ‘He’s been promoted. He’s over in… ’

  No cough this time. ‘Boy,’ said the guard sharply. ‘Be silent.’

  The boy’s mouth dropped open and he looked from Arinndier to the guard and back in bewilderment.

  ‘My fault, guard,’ said Arinndier. ‘I forgot.’ Then, uncertainly, he replaced the last dish cover. ‘There now. I suppose it’s all right. Would you serve it out for us please?’

  ‘Well,’ said Darek when the servant and the guard had gone. ‘That lad’s not much, but he’s an improve-ment on that surly oaf who used to fetch our food. Fancy him being promoted. The only rise in life I’d ever imagine him getting would be on the toes of someone’s boot-preferably mine.’ Uncharacteristically, he laughed. ‘His face was enough to poison most food, Arin. I hope they’ve not put him in charge of anything perishable.’ Arinndier smiled at Darek’s unusual levity, but Eldric seemed preoccupied. ‘Something’s on the move,’ he said thoughtfully, sitting down at the table.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Arinndier said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Eldric, idly pushing a knife to and fro. ‘But Darek’s given you half of it. Who’d promote that sour-faced lout? Kick him out certainly. But promote?’

  Arinndier was unimpressed. ‘Eldric, the Geadrol’s been suspended. We’ve been arrested and imprisoned without charge and for no crime. The wrongful promotion of a servant is hardly significant against that background, is it?’

  Eldric did not reply, but Darek chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Arin. You should study your history more. Kings and Princes come and go, but the servants, the officials, the secretaries-they go on forever. Eldric’s got… ’

  Eldric waved a hand gently to silence him. ‘Some-thing about that boy,’ he said, frowning. ‘But I can’t pinpoint it.’

  Hreldar looked up from his meal and stared at El-dric’s worried face. Then he looked at the table. His eyes narrowed. ‘Look,’ he said, spreading his two hands towards the table.

  ‘Look. That boy lumbered round as if he’d got two left feet, but look at how he’s laid this. It’s immaculate.’ He paused. ‘How many times have you seen some little one standing by this kind of handiwork, waiting for your judgement?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Eldric. ‘Junior cadets and their party pieces.’ He leaned back and clapped his hands together. ‘It seems such a long time ago. Little shining faces.’ Then he laughed. ‘Elementary field craft to learn how to survive in the wilds of the mountains, and elementary house craft to learn how to survive in the wilds of society.’

  Abruptly his expression became sombre, and a look of determination came into his face, so grim that the others stopped eating and watched him in silence. ‘Ask yourselves, Lords,’ he said. ‘Why would a miserable servant be promoted and replaced by a young lad, a junior cadet who, if I’m any judge, would probably be on the point of entering the Cadets proper?’

  Arinndier looked at the table. It seemed a weighty deduction from such flimsy evidence, but the neat array in front of him did indeed look like the grading display of a junior cadet. And the lad had done it with wilful awkwardness. Then, too, he had volunteered the information that his predecessor had been promoted.

  The four men sat silent and the low buzz of the globe light filled the room.

  ‘Could he be a spy?’ Arinndier offered the suggestion unconvincingly, to break the silence.

  Darek shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Who’d spy on us? Dan-Tor? He knows we wouldn’t discuss anything important in front of a servant. Besides, I don’t think he gives a night-bird’s hoot for what we might say.’

  Arinndier nodded, and started eating again.

  Eldric too started to eat but, almost immediately, he stopped. ‘We’ve no idea what’s happening outside,’ he said. ‘But we must still have friends out there or Dan-Tor would’ve disposed of us in some way by now, I’m sure.’


  ‘Maybe,’ said Arinndier. ‘But we’ve seen no sign of them so far.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eldric, ‘that’s true. But think what it means. They’ll presumably have tried various legal remedies and met with no success for one reason or another. We know we’re in the Westerclave and that it’s being used as Headquarters for these Mathidrin, so we can’t reasonably expect an armed assault to rescue us. So someone, somewhere, will be tying to contact us. And now this boy comes along. Slouching and acting stupid, but doing this little cadet exercise for us, neat as neat.’ He gestured over the table.

  Hreldar spoke again, coldly and definitively. ‘When he comes back, see if he knows the Hand Language. That’ll answer all debate.’

  Within the hour, the servant and the guard re-turned.

  Arinndier casually tried to engage the guard in con-versation, but the man would not be drawn. His eyes followed the boy constantly as he slouched around the table collecting the dishes.

  ‘Careful, boy, you’re spilling the wine on my tunic,’ Eldric said angrily, standing up suddenly. The boy started and fumbled for a cloth in his belt, nearly dropping his tray in the process.

  ‘Put it down, boy,’ said Darek testily, waving his hands emphatically. Flustered, the boy put the tray on the table and, with shaking hands, offered Eldric the cloth. Eldric waved it away with an irritable gesture. The boy dithered and hesitated, ran the back of his hand across his nose as if about to weep, and then replaced the cloth in his belt.

  ‘I didn’t see all that,’ said Arinndier when the guard and the servant had left. ‘I was busy trying to obscure the guard’s view.’

  The others were looking a little stunned.

  Darek spoke. ‘I asked him who he was,’ he said, repeating the gesture reflexively

  ‘And?’ said Arinndier.

  ‘Just two words, Arin,’ said Eldric. ‘Just two words.’

  Arinndier gazed skyward. ‘Go on,’ he said patiently.

  Eldric’s hand flicked out the boy’s reply. ‘Queen’s messenger.’

  * * * *

  The high hedges threw long shadows across the narrow lane as the Mathidrin patrol rode leisurely back towards the City. For the most part, the six men were silent. The tour had been uneventful and their leader, newly promoted, was peevishly angry that nothing had arisen to provide him with an excuse to demonstrate to his men that his leadership would be worth following.

  In the villages that lay on their circuit, they had found the inhabitants remarkably docile. Usually it was possible to provoke the odd individual into some angry response and then enjoy the administration of a little summary justice on the offender. Or some lone soul would be found wandering the fields who could be accused of spying for the Orthlundyn and pursued relentlessly while ‘attempting to escape’. But on this tour, nothing. The fields were deserted or the people were present in sufficient numbers to make too blatantly unjust a provocation a little too risky. Now they were heading for Vakloss two days early.

  The patrol leader stretched up in his saddle, his muscles aching with the day’s riding and the tension of his mounting petulance. If only some yokel would step out of one of these fields, he thought. I’d give these lads something to remember. Then, as if at the command of his thoughts, a halting figure emerged from a gateway some way along the road from them. It was an old man, the leader noted, and limping. Not much of a chase here, but anything will do after a tour like this.

  He loosened his heavy staff in its loop, running his thumb over two small notches cut in the handle. One for each of the ‘fugitives’ he had killed-struck down at the gallop with a single stylish swinging blow that earned him great praise from his peers when he was just a trooper. Even as he started to spur his horse forward, he was already receiving the plaudits of his fellows back in the barracks that evening. His stomach tightened with pleasure and anticipation.

  ‘You,’ he shouted. ‘Stop!’ Somewhat to his surprise, the figure halted and turned to face him. He could not make out the features of the man, as they were hidden under the brim of a large hat and the man was stooping and leaning heavily on a stick. Reaching him, the patrol leader found the bright setting sun shining in his face. He screwed up his eyes and peered down at the figure standing uncertainly in the flickering shadows of the wind-stirred trees and hedges.

  ‘Sir?’ said the figure timorously.

  ‘Why were you running away?’ the patrol leader demanded harshly.

  The figure gave a nervous laugh. ‘Running, sir? I can’t run. I’m lame, you see.’ And he lifted his stick a little way off the ground.

  But the patrol leader had made his decision. He had to impress his newly acquired patrol and this old fool would have to serve his purpose. He gripped his staff. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You were sneaking about, and when you saw us you tried to run away. Right, men?’

  Nodding and grinning expectantly, the members of the patrol concurred.

  ‘He’ll have to be taken in for interrogation,’ volun-teered one. ‘There’s plenty of room now the old dungeons have been opened up.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the leader, affecting concern. ‘I don’t think we need disturb this good man to that extent. After all, we’re empowered to attend to these matters as we find them.’ He leaned forward solici-tously, ‘You don’t want to go to Vakloss and face the Lord Dan-Tor do you, old man?’

  The old man was trembling visibly.

  Vermin, these creatures, thought the patrol leader. And cowards as well.

  ‘The Lord Dan-Tor’s a great Lord, sir,’ stammered the old man. ‘It would be an honour to meet him. He’s done so much for our country.’

  ‘Indeed he has, old man,’ said the patrol leader. ‘And he’ll do more when he’s rooted out all the traitorous scum that goes skulking about the lanes spying on his Mathidrin and reporting everything to our country’s enemies.’ He took out his staff with a luxurious gesture and held it almost touching the old man’s face.

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ said the old man, stepping back a little further into the shade.

  ‘Come on, get on with it,’ said one of the patrol. ‘It’ll be dark before we get back.’ The patrol leader shot an angry glance at the complainer. He’d deal with that one later. But this old fool was no use, there’d be no entertainment from him, craven old dolt.

  ‘The young sir’s right, sir,’ said the old man, reach-ing out a shaking hand and touching the leader’s boot nervously. ‘It’s going to be a dark night.’

  The patrol leader withdrew his foot furiously. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he shouted, almost hysterically. ‘This is the only thing belonging to the Mathidrin that traitors are allowed to touch.’ The vicious intent that had taken root at the first sight of the old man rose compulsively to its climax even though the route to it lacked the elegance he would have preferred. He stood up in his stirrups, raising the staff high above him, and brought it whistling down on the old man’s head.

  But the old man’s head was not there. In an almost leisurely manner he stepped to one side at the last moment and the blow missed him completely. Poised for impact, and not finding any, the patrol leader tumbled heavily from his horse. The old man reached out as if to catch him, but his action seemed only to accelerate his fall and there was a skin-crawling crack as the two hit the ground.

  The patrol leader subsided into the summer grass, his head at a very strange angle, and his face wearing a surprised, if blank-eyed, expression. The old man stood up, remarkably straight now, and looked at the patrol, momentarily stunned and motionless at this unexpected turn of events. The birds stopped singing.

  ‘A long dark night ahead, gentlemen,’ he said in a voice completely without its previous whine and tremor. Then the evening calm was broken by a sudden rush of wind followed by a sound like the falling of ripe fruit.

  With barely a gasp, the remaining five riders fell slowly from their horses, each impaled on an arrow.

  Figures appeared silently from the deepening shad-ows and quietened th
e nervous horses before moving to the fallen Mathidrin.

  The birds started to sing again, and the setting sun flooded the lane red before sinking out of sight.

  Yatsu took off his broad-brimmed hat and laid his stick on the ground. ‘Careful,’ he said to the others. ‘Careful how you draw the arrows.’

  * * * *

  Sylvriss gazed down at the key lying in front of her. ‘This is the key to their door?’ she asked, eyes wide.

  ‘Yes, Majesty,’ said Dilrap, hitching up his robe on to his shoulders.

  Sylvriss picked up the key gingerly. ‘How did you get it?’ she asked with some awe. She had just returned from riding and, dressed in her riding clothes, with flushed face and shining eyes, she looked magnificent. Dilrap basked in the radiance and beamed rather inanely until he realized what he was doing, then he stammered and fluttered alarmingly.

  ‘The cellars in the Westerclave are only part of the old servants’ quarters, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I think the King surprised more than the Lords when he had them arrested. Apparently nothing was ready, but even the Mathidrin knew that Lords couldn’t be kept in the ordinary cells, so they put them in this little suite of rooms temporarily, until the Lord Dan-Tor returned. But like most temporary arrangements it soon became permanent.’

  ‘But the key, Dilrap,’ said Sylvriss. ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘From the locksmith, Majesty,’ came the reply.

  The Queen’s face darkened a little. ‘Is he to be trusted?’ she asked.

  Dilrap’s manner was reassuring. ‘Majesty, it doesn’t… ’

  Sylvriss silenced him abruptly with a sudden but discreet hand movement.

  ‘Honoured Secretary,’ she said, quite loudly. ‘I as-sure you, you worry unnecessarily.’

  Dilrap looked nervously into those soft brown eyes for confirmation of the presence he felt behind him. The Queen stood up, and, casually placing the key in her pocket, stepped around him and walked towards the tall figure standing silently in the doorway.