by Roger Taylor
As the day drew towards evening and the sun dipped beneath a cloud-lined horizon, the three men eased their pace to a steady walk. Gradually, and without debate, both Loman and Isloman slowed down even further, and then eventually stopped and dismounted.
'What's the matter?’ asked Hawklan.
'Nothing,’ said Isloman. ‘But according to Ireck, we're not far from the camp now, and they'll have plenty of sentries looking out for us if your guess is right and it's you they're waiting for. We'll have to leave the road and move very carefully from now on.'
Hawklan nodded. Gavor glided silently out of the darkening sky and landed on his shoulder. Hawklan held out his hand, palm upwards, and Gavor jumped onto it. Speaking softly, as if his voice might carry to the enemy across the still evening, Hawklan said, ‘While there's still a little light, go and see if you can find their camp and how many of them there are. We'll stay here and rest until you return.'
Gavor flew off without speaking.
The three men settled themselves down to wait in the shade of a nearby copse, each too preoccupied with his own thoughts to indulge in conversation.
Hawklan felt strange stirrings within him as he lay in the darkness. His stomach felt uneasy and he had difficulty in controlling his breathing, frequently having to stifle a yawn. Then he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and a quietness came over him. Pre-battle nerves, he thought, without wondering where such a thought could have come from.
At last Gavor returned and the three men sat around him while he recounted his tale. Fifteen men altogether, seven on watch, seven doing nothing in particular, and a leader, Jaldaric presumably. And Tirilen.
Loman started. ‘She's there?’ he asked breathlessly.
Gavor stepped back a pace. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And she's well,’ he added before Loman could ask.
Loman breathed out almost as if he had been holding his breath since his daughter's disappearance. His face wrinkled as if he were going to weep. Isloman placed an arm around his shoulders, but Loman recovered his composure almost immediately.
Hawklan nodded. ‘This confirms that they're not interested in Tirilen. She could have been in Fyorlund days ago. She's just being used as bait, I'm sure. Are you sure she's all right, Gavor?'
'Certain, dear boy. She can't get away and she's not happy, but it looks as if she's being treated more like a special guest than as a prisoner.'
After some further discussion, Gavor took off again into the night, Hawklan spoke softly to Serian, and the three men disappeared into the gloaming like shadowy night predators.
A slow hour later they were at the High Guards’ camp.
Gavor flew down and whispered to Hawklan. ‘His perimeter guards are constantly moving.'
Isloman nodded. ‘They'll have prearranged checkpoints. If we attack one, however quietly, the others will know within the minute.'
Hawklan turned to Loman enquiringly. They had been able to get quite close to the clearing where the Fyordyn had camped, but the trees and foliage that had hidden their approach also prevented their seeing all of the camp clearly. Gavor's information was timely, for without it they would surely have encountered one of the slowly strolling guards.
Loman pursed his lips. ‘Shrewd young man, this Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘Assuming his men are up to scratch, which I imagine they will be, he could destroy a large group of disorganized villagers without even being seen in this terrain, but even so he's taken the trouble to guard his camp like a fortress.’ He gave a soft bitter chuckle. ‘Someone must have told him something about you, Hawklan.'
Hawklan winced slightly at the implications of Loman’ s comment. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And our second task, after rescuing Tirilen, is to find out who that someone is.'
However, the rescuing of Tirilen would be no easy matter. Even with the element of surprise, Hawklan knew that against such odds they could not fight their way in and out again. And if they were able to rescue Tirilen by stealth, there would be the problem of pursuit, bringing the soldiers down on their backs or into direct conflict with Ireck and the villagers. The matter had to be ended now, Hawklan decided. They must strike at the head of their enemy.
The two brothers took little persuading.
'All the protection is centred on Tirilen. We must seize Jaldaric and then negotiate some kind of a peace with them.'
So close to his daughter, Loman was in a mood for cracking heads, not negotiating, but he agreed reluctantly that Hawklan's reasoning was correct.
They skirted around the camp seeking some weakness in Jaldaric's defences, using the breeze rustling through the swaying branches overhead and the occasional scufflings of night creatures to disguise the slight sound of their movements.
'Ah,’ sighed Isloman eventually. ‘Shrewd he might be, Loman, but he's got no shadow lore. Look.’ He pointed out into the clearing.
Hawklan followed his gaze, but could see nothing. Loman stared intently. Although a smith, he was, like all the Orthlundyn, no mean carver. He glanced up at the moon and then into the clearing again.
'Yes,’ he said at last. ‘You're right. There'll be a dark path along that edge of the clearing...’ He looked at the moon again. ‘In about ten minutes I'd think.'
'And the rest of the clearing will be brightly lit,’ said Isloman. ‘Which will make it difficult for the guards to see into the shadow.'
'I can't see what you mean,’ said Hawklan.
'Trust me,’ said Isloman. ‘We'll be able to go straight to the back of Jaldaric's tent in a few minutes. You watch.’ He hesitated.
'What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
'The way they're moving, we might have a guard to deal with,’ replied Isloman. ‘It'll slow us up and might raise the alarm.’ Hawklan thought for a moment and then spoke quickly to Gavor who flew noiselessly up into the night. Minutes later there was a startled cry from the far side of the clearing as the raven descended on the head of an unsuspecting guard, ruffled his hair a little and then flew off with a great flapping of his wings. Three guards emerged silently from the shade and ran in the direction of the cry. There were more cries as Gavor repeated his trick. Then came laughter as the guards decided that it must have been a bat or an errant owl. While the laughter and noise continued, the moonlight in the clearing grew brighter and, as Isloman had predicted, one edge of the clearing disappeared into inky darkness.
'Now,’ he hissed, and the three men ran low, swift and silent to the rear of Jaldaric's tent. The shadow here was less deep and they had only a little time to act before they would be seen by the guards. Hawklan raised his finger needlessly to his lips and placed his ear against the tent wall. Someone was laughing and describing what had just happened.
Hawklan drew his sword quietly and, signalling his intention to Loman and Isloman, cut a vertical slash in the tent wall with a single silent stroke. The three men burst into the tent simultaneously, Loman moving to the right, Isloman to the left and Hawklan commanding the centre.
The surprise was total. Hawklan found himself unopposed and looking across a simple trestle table at Tirilen and a fair-haired young man with a flat, round, innocent-looking face, whom he presumed was Jaldaric.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Isloman's great hand rise and fall twice rapidly, each movement being followed by a thud, indicating that one of Jaldaric's guests had been excused after-dinner conversation.
To his right he sensed the stocky, more enraged figure of Loman restraining an urge to crush together the skulls of two men he had seized by the neck. Instinctively, the two men offered no resistance to his iron-bending grip.
Hawklan was aware of these actions in an instant, but he also saw Jaldaric knock over his chair and seize Tirilen's wrist as he rose, his face showing fear and surprise, then, almost immediately, anger at his negligence.
It was Jaldaric's brief flash of self-reproach, and the look of concern for the injured men, mingled with the alarm and relief in Tirilen's face, that made Hawklan pause.
> It was a pause sufficient for Jaldaric to draw a knife and twist Tirilen's wrist expertly so that she could not move. He offered the knife to her throat and looked at the trio in front of him: two hulking villagers who had dealt with four of his men in no more time than it took him to stand up; and this terrifying man with penetrating green eyes and grim face, gaunt in the torchlight. He felt his knees quaking and hoped desperately that it did not show in his face, or sound in his voice.
'Hawklan, I presume,’ he said. ‘I congratulate you on your surprise, but I have the advantage, I think, and you can't hope to master my whole patrol. Lay down your arms and surrender peacefully and all this can be forgotten. We want only you. These people can return to the village.'
Hawklan answered quietly. ‘And you must be Jaldaric. I'd heard the High Guards of Fyorlund were honourable men, not brigands. Not betrayers of hospitality. Kidnappers of womenfolk. What value shall I put on your word, High Guard?'
Jaldaric's jaw tightened angrily. ‘Enough,’ he said harshly. ‘We are High Guards, and we must obey our Lord. I regret what I've had to do but you're an enemy of Fyorlund and I've been ordered to seize you in this way to avoid conflict with the local villagers and the consequent loss of life. Believe me, it's been no pleasure for me to resort to this kind of conduct. The Lady Tirilen will confirm that she's had nothing but courtesy and honourable treatment from us while we've held her captive.'
Hawklan's green eyes searched deeply into the young man and found he was probably telling the truth. Tirilen showed no signs of ill-usage, and her eyes showed alarm rather than real fear, even though Jaldaric's knife was at her throat.
Hawklan spoke quietly. ‘Jaldaric. I'm no man's enemy, let alone a country's. You've been deceived. A person who'd give you such orders would be unlikely to stop at lying, would he?'
A doubt flickered across Jaldaric's face, but he tightened his grip on Tirilen's wrist and rested his knife against her throat. ‘Release my men and surrender yourself. I'm not here to debate, I'm here to ensure you're taken to Fyorlund to account for your treachery. Surrender now or this girl's blood will be on your heads.'
Hawklan's manner changed imperceptibly, but the tent seemed to fill with a terrible aura of menace. ‘No, Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘I doubt that your loyalty to whatever oath it is you've sworn will enable you to do that. But, even so, you must realize that if you injure Tirilen, your men will die on the instant as will those outside, and nothing could protect you from Loman's wrath.'
Jaldaric glanced at the two unconscious figures sprawled at the feet of Isloman, and at the two with their heads held effortlessly against the table by Loman. He scarcely heard Hawklan's words, or noticed the look on Loman's face, but the tone of Hawklan's voice and his unwavering green eyes chilled him to his heart. This time he could not keep the fear out of his voice.
'So be it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We're High Guards. If we've to die then that's ... unfortunate. The manner of our dying is rarely ours to choose. Our orders must be obeyed. We've some honour left.'
Hawklan realized, to his horror, that he had driven the young man too far. Now, impulsively, Jaldaric had steeled himself to face death, and his actions would be unpredictable. Hawklan did not allow the uncertainty into his face but an eerie silence descended on the group.
Abruptly an unearthly shriek filled the tent and a black thrashing shape burst through the gash in the tent wall and made straight for Jaldaric's face. Involuntarily he raised his knife hand to protect himself from this screaming apparition.
Isloman took one step forward, seized Jaldaric's wrist and wrested the knife from his grip as if it had been from a child. Then he immobilized him in a great bear hug. Jaldaric was almost the same height as Isloman, but less heavy and far less powerful. He made a token effort to drive the back of his head into Isloman's face, only to find he was suddenly unable to breathe in the huge man's embrace.
Loman casually threw his two captives to the floor, and moved quickly to Tirilen, who had also been deposited on the floor when Jaldaric was seized by Isloman.
Hawklan let out a long breath and put his sword back in its scabbard. Other High Guards appeared in the doorway of the tent, attracted by the noise. Two rushed forward but Hawklan's hands went out like striking snakes and the two men received blows which rendered them so instantly unconscious that they fell to the floor like dropped meal sacks.
The speed and ease of this action stopped the other High Guards in their tracks. Hawklan gazed at the uncertain faces in front of him, as they slowly registered the implications of what they were looking at: their expert defences silently breached, their leader taken and six of their compatriots incapacitated with apparently contemptuous ease, Loman standing protectively in front of Tirilen, his hand on his iron-bound club. The two men Loman had held were massaging their necks and twisting their heads ruefully, but they remained on the floor, loath to make any move that might bring down further punishment on them.
Without taking his eyes off the group in the doorway, Hawklan spoke. ‘Loman, explain to these young men that we need to have a little talk.'
Loman shot a baleful look at Jaldaric, then Tirilen touched his arm and his manner softened. He put his arm round her again and looked across to his brother, eyebrows raised. Isloman nodded and released Jaldaric who fell, gasping, to the ground. Then Loman spoke to the men in a language that Hawklan had never heard before.
Without exception, surprise suffused the faces of the watching men. Loman, an Orthlundyn, was speaking their Battle Language, the language that was known only to the Fyordyn High Guard. Sometime during his life this Orthlundyn had done service for, or with, the High Guard.
Jaldaric staggered painfully to his feet, his young face riven with confusion. He gestured to his men. ‘Lay down your arms,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We must talk. This has been a sorry affair from the start. We must talk.'
There was some hesitation.
Jaldaric leaned with one hand on the table while the other tenderly rubbed his ribs and stomach. ‘Do as you're ordered,’ he shouted angrily. He waved his arm towards Loman. ‘Didn't you hear him? It was an ill thing to kidnap a woman for whatever reason. Now we find we've made war on the daughter of an Orthlundyn who speaks the Battle Language. We've violated the hearth of one of our own. Lay down your arms now! We must talk.'
* * *
Chapter 6
While some of the High Guards righted the disarray in the tent, Hawklan busied himself with the injured. With a little massage he very quickly revived the two men he had knocked unconscious, and they seemed none the worse for their experience, physically at least. The victims of Loman and Isloman, however, had to be advised, after examination, that they could look forward to several days of discomfort.
Briefly, the child still in Tirilen showed itself as she embraced her three rescuers, but it was only they who felt it, and it was a composed young woman that turned away from them and moved her attention to Gavor, now proudly displaying his spurs.
'You look very dashing, Gavor,’ she said.
Gavor acknowledged the praise with a toss of the head and a bow and then, jumping on to her head, looked down beadily at Jaldaric who returned the gaze nervously.
'Is that bird safe?’ he asked.
'Oh, yes,’ said Tirilen. ‘Perfectly safe. It's you who's in danger.’ Then unexpectedly she laughed and ruffled his hair.
Her laughter lightened the atmosphere and Hawklan could not forbear smiling both at her powers of recovery and at Jaldaric's discomfiture as he stood up and occupied himself with straightening his tunic until he had stopped blushing.
In spite of what this young man had done, Hawklan felt no real evil in him. He was certainly not the instigator of what had been happening. Nor were any of the others, although one or two of them seemed to be of an angry and surly disposition.
However, knowing or unknowing, Jaldaric was a player in this game and was, so far, Hawklan's only contact with whoever was manipulating events.
&
nbsp; 'Good,’ Hawklan said, dismissing his last patient and dropping into a seat. ‘We've reached this point without serious injury or damage to anything other than our peace and our pride. But it's been a near thing. I'd welcome an explanation, Jaldaric, as would Loman and Isloman.'
One of the surly-faced individuals spoke out. ‘The Lord Dan-Tor's decreed this man an enemy of Fyorlund, Jaldaric. We shouldn't even be talking to him. Tell him nothing.'
Jaldaric answered him wearily. ‘Esselt, sit down. This is a truce. Don't dishonour us further with your foolish talk. I'll be responsible to the Lord Dan-Tor for my decision.'
His attitude seemed to find favour with most of the High Guards present, and Esselt sat down and folded his arms sulkily without further comment. Hawklan was about to ask a question when Jaldaric spoke again.
'Hawklan, are you an enemy of Fyorlund?'
The question was put so positively that Hawklan started.
'Brilliant,’ said Esselt sarcastically. ‘Such mastery of the subtle techniques of interrogation.'
The men on either side of him eased away slightly, as if to avoid an impending impact.
Jaldaric rounded on him. ‘Esselt, keep that wicked tongue of yours to yourself or you'll find your much vaunted favour with the Lord Dan-Tor won't protect you from severe field punishment, and I'd remind you that we're a long way from home. I'll ask such questions as I see fit and we'll all judge the answers for ourselves.'
Esselt held Jaldaric's gaze for a moment and then lowered his eyes without replying. Jaldaric turned his still angry face back to Hawklan enquiringly.
'I'm an enemy to no thing and no creature as far as I know,’ Hawklan said. ‘But I see this Lord Dan-Tor of yours imagines I am. I'd like to meet him and ask him why he should think this and why a Lord of Fyorlund should pose as a prancing tinker and bring corrupted wares to our village.'