by Roger Taylor
'Explain,’ he said flatly.
Again there was a long silence before Isloman spoke, and Hawklan sensed the tension building in his friend.
A small furry animal scuttled its bedraggled way across the road in front of them. The movement seemed to dislodge Isloman's pent-up words.
'Being in a battle is terrifying and degrading,’ he said suddenly. ‘I know that—with both my head and my...’ He tapped his chest with his fist. ‘Everything. It's a thing to be avoided. But a part of me enjoyed it, Hawklan, and, I think, might enjoy it still. It's precious little clearer now than it was then. Part of me enjoying what was obviously wrong. And yet it wasn't wrong, was it? Here was an enemy—people who'd killed and robbed, and worse, people who couldn't be reasoned with and who broke such promises as they made, people who'd kill you and your friends if you didn't stop them. What do you do in those circumstances—when all other alternatives have been unsuccessful?'
He did not wait for an answer. ‘And then there's the fear. Horrible. Your heart thumping, your mouth dry and sour, your stomach churning. Until...’ He reached out and took Hawklan's arm in a powerful grip. ‘Until you fight. Then ancient forces within you rise and say “This is good". All around is mayhem and destruction, and you don't care. You carry on killing—and revelling in it.’ Isloman shuddered as his muscles and sinews recalled long-forgotten deeds. ‘And when it's over, when everywhere's full of the sights and sounds of the wounded—crawling and writhing, groaning and screaming—you have to crush your remorse underfoot to stay sane.’ He fell silent and gazed down at the bouncing rain. ‘Your only solace,’ he said after a while. ‘Is that all other forms of ... entreaty had failed.'
Hawklan searched for some way to help his friend. Isloman's words had struck a strange chord within him; brought to his mind a dark place full of horror and noise and death. But it was too deep, too distant, and it flitted away from him uneasily when he tried to examine it. None the less it left a faint after-glow of understanding.
'We act to preserve ourselves,’ he said, finally. ‘It's the most ancient of laws; written deep into all living things. And who can answer the question that that poses?'
He turned to look at Isloman and a small stream of water cascaded from his hood like a tiny waterfall.
'But there are other things. It's also written in us to avoid violence. It's too arbitrary, too open to chance. Too open to appalling consequences.’ He leaned across to his friend. ‘But if others strip that protection from us, then they take the consequences. If it can't flee, life will fight against all odds and with any means it can, to survive.'
Isloman straightened up. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I remember the old Sirshiant I first served with. “Once you're committed to combat,” he said, “it's the most violent who'll prevail. You have to be worse than your enemy. Don't think otherwise, or you'll die.” Said we shouldn't worry about it. We were good lads and when we'd won we'd “stay our hands from excess".’ Isloman shook his head reflectively and smiled slightly. ‘Fancy remembering him after all these years.’ He turned to Hawklan and nodded. ‘And we did too. Stayed our hand from excess. It's something, I suppose.'
'It may well be everything,’ Hawklan said.
Isloman seemed lighter in his saddle. His unease was still there, but it had been faced and he saw that time had in fact made it clearer for him. It was not a dilemma after all. It was simply the stern, cruel consequence of life asserting itself against those who would deny its right to be.
Hawklan felt the tension leave his friend but noted again his own ambivalent response. He was happy that Isloman's pain had been eased, but that cold part of his mind was happy also. Isloman's heart would now be uncluttered by hidden doubts should the need arise for him to fight. In the dry shade of his hood, Hawklan scowled to himself.
Gradually the rain eased into a light spring drizzle, and eventually stopped. The clouds receded over the mountains and the sun illuminated their path again, glistening off the wet road and raising clouds of steam in the distant woodlands.
Like enemy camp fires, thought Hawklan.
Hoods were pushed back, horses shook their heads, showering tiny rainbow-decorated sprays about them, and casual conversation sputtered back into life again.
Jaldaric trotted up to Isloman and Hawklan, screening his eyes against the bright light from the shining road. Then he pointed.
'Riders coming,’ he said.
* * *
Chapter 8
Jaldaric's expression grew more and more puzzled as the riders approached, but he replaced it with a smile of welcome as the two groups stopped opposite one another.
The visitors were six in number and clad in a black livery. They were grim-faced and had obviously been riding hard. One of them wore insignia which, together with his general demeanour, identified him as their leader. His face was lean and would have been handsome had not narrowed eyes and a curl in his thin mouth given him a cunning and treacherous expression.
Jaldaric saluted, but the gesture was not returned and an uneasy silence fell between the two groups.
The leader of the new arrivals frowned. ‘You're Jaldaric?’ he demanded, his voice harsh.
Jaldaric bridled slightly at the man's manner, but replied pleasantly. ‘Yes I am. May I ask who you are?'
The man ignored him, and gazed around as if looking for someone. ‘Where is the Lord Dan-Tor?’ he asked, just as Jaldaric was about to repeat his question. His voice was a little softer, but still unpleasant, and Jaldaric's face flushed at this further incivility.
'The Lord Dan-Tor has returned to Fyorlund,’ he replied. ‘Now, may I ask again, to whom I am speaking and what is your concern with the Lord Dan-Tor?’ His voice was harder, and this time it was the visitor who bridled, as if unused to being spoken to thus.
'My name's Urssain,’ he said. ‘Captain Urssain of the ... King's High Guard.’ Then, before this could be fully registered, ‘Did the Lord Dan-Tor receive a messenger from Commander Aelang before he left?'
Jaldaric's innate politeness overcame his immediate surprise. ‘We've had no messengers from anyone ... Captain,’ he said. ‘But that's hardly of any relevance. What's more to the point is why are you, Fyordyn, marching armed and liveried in Orthlund, inquiring about the Lord Dan-Tor and calling yourselves, of all things, a King's High Guard?'
Urssain seemed disconcerted by the news that Dan-Tor had not received Aelang's message and, for a moment, his face showed his uncertainty. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward in his saddle radiating arrogance. ‘It's unfortunate that neither we nor our messenger met the Lord Dan-Tor, though it's understandable enough in this benighted country. However, it changes nothing and, in answer to your question, we're here on the King's orders to arrest you. I must therefore ask you to surrender your sword immediately.'
The suddenness of this reply as much as its content made Jaldaric jerk back in his saddle and for a moment he seemed almost inclined to laugh. It was anger, however, that dominated his reply.
'Captain Urssain,’ he said. ‘Even a child knows that the King can have no High Guard.’ He paused, and his eyes narrowed. ‘I have no idea from where you come, or what I'm supposed to make of your rambling—nor have I any intention of wasting my time trying to find out—but your very presence here constitutes a considerable offence in itself, and it's not I who will be surrendering to you, but you to me.'
He made a discreet gesture and his patrol quietly spread itself across the road. Urssain watched the manoeuvre with disdain.
'A larger patrol is close behind us, Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘Our various messages may have gone astray but I can at least give you the opportunity of surrendering with dignity. If you offer me violence while I'm on the King's business then it'll go much worse for you.'
Jaldaric ignored the comment, but his jaw stiffened. ‘Enough, Urssain,’ he said angrily. ‘Your sword.'
Urssain made no move. ‘Jaldaric,’ he said, almost conciliatory in tone. ‘Understand. We are the King's H
igh Guard, whatever you might think about it. We were formed in secret because of the treachery of some of the Lords. You're to be arrested at the King's express command, because your father, the Lord Eldric, was at its heart. He and his co-conspirators are now in prison in Vakloss awaiting trial.'
Jaldaric put his hand to his head. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said uncertainly.
Hawklan looked round at the faces of Jaldaric's patrol. Esselt's eyes were gleaming, as were those of his friends, but all the others seemed to be as shocked and disorientated as their Captain.
Jaldaric shook his head as if to waken himself. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This isn't nonsense. It's madness. My father's no traitor. With whom would he conspire and for what? He's an old man and a respected member of the Geadrol.'
'The Geadrol was a sink of conspiracy. It no longer exists. The King has suspended it,’ said Urssain contemptuously.
A babble of voices broke out at this, and Jaldaric's patrol surged forward almost involuntarily to gather around their leader. Esselt and his friends, however, though also surprised, stayed aloof and watchful. Isloman indicated their response to Hawklan with his eyes, and Hawklan acknowledged with a slight nod.
Jaldaric called out for silence. ‘I can make nothing of this. The King cannot have High Guards. The Geadrol cannot be suspended. And how can I be arrested without charge or authority? What crimes have I committed?'
'The King can do all things,’ came Urssain's reply, ‘and this uniform is authority enough for your arrest. I'm just a Captain obeying orders. I know nothing about your crimes except those you're committing just by arguing with me. I've told you once, surrender now or it'll go much worse for you later.'
For a moment Jaldaric seemed inclined to draw his sword and lay about him, but other counsels prevailed and when he spoke his voice was hard and coldly purposeful.
'The longer we stay away from Fyorlund, the more strange questions accumulate for answering. I'm about to continue my journey to Vakloss, Urssain, together with my guests from Orthlund.’ He indicated Hawklan and Isloman. ‘You'll accompany us, either peacefully or bound, that choice is yours. When we're there we'll all stand before the Geadrol and, if necessary, the King himself, and you can spin your babbling fancies to your heart's content.'
Urssain cast a quick glance at the two Orthlundyn, then turned away with an insolent shrug. ‘As you wish. The rest of my patrol is nearby. I'll complete my orders when they arrive.'
Jaldaric's eyes blazed momentarily, but he walked his horse forward quietly until he was by the side of the black-liveried Captain. Then, turning swiftly, he drew his sword and placed the point against Urssain's throat.
'Listen carefully, Urssain,’ he said very softly, ‘whoever you are, and whoever's bidding you're doing. You wear a livery unknown to us, you defame the King, you bring arms into Orthlund, then you threaten us, the Lord Dan-Tor's personal escort, and finally you defame both my father and myself. As far as I'm concerned you're just a criminal. I've no doubt you've got friends lurking in ambush somewhere along the road, but be under no illusions as to who'll die first if we're offered violence by anyone.'
Urssain looked uneasily down the length of Jaldaric's sword, and then at the bows the Guards were carrying. His arrogance faltered. Jaldaric smiled grimly.
'We'll dispense with the formalities,’ Jaldaric concluded grimly. ‘You may keep your sword, for what good it'll do you. I guarantee you'll have no time to draw it.'
Then, without apparent instructions, Jaldaric's patrol moved forward and surrounded Urssain's group. Jaldaric rode across to Hawklan and Isloman.
'I don't know what's happening,’ he said, his round face incongruously furrowed. ‘Either these people are quite insane or something terrible's happened at home while we've been away.'
Hawklan looked at him without replying.
'I fear it's probably the latter,’ continued Jaldaric. ‘I can't see six men coming against fifteen of us with that attitude without some resource behind them. We need to get back quickly.'
'I agree with you,’ said Hawklan. ‘But take care. Whatever's happened in Fyorlund, that man expected his livery alone to command absolute obedience.'
Worry clouded Jaldaric's face. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it's none of your affair. I can only recommend you head back for home. It looks as if I may not even be able to escort you as far as the border safely, let alone Vakloss. I'm sorry.'
Hawklan stretched his legs lazily and nodded. ‘Thank you for your advice, Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘It's sound. But Isloman and I are very anxious to speak to your Lord Dan-Tor and we'll be heading for Vakloss no matter what happens. For what it's worth I suspect our questions and whatever political upheavals have been occurring may well be related.'
Jaldaric shrugged and let out a resigned breath. ‘If we run into trouble I'll try and talk us through it, but if it comes to a fight I may not be able to protect you,’ he said.
Hawklan smiled reassuringly and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘We understand,’ he said. ‘Don't worry. We'll make our own judgement about when and who to fight. You look to yourself and your men.’ He laughed gently. ‘We absolve you from your duties as host.'
Jaldaric smiled unhappily but could find no reply. Shrugging his shoulders nervously again he turned back to his men. Hawklan signalled to Gavor who was listening in a nearby tree, and the bird took off silently towards the north. Echoing this action, Jaldaric sent two men out into the adjacent fields to scout the road ahead. The remainder of the patrol restarted their leisurely progress.
'You're getting very bold, healer,’ said Isloman anxiously, riding alongside Hawklan. ‘Smiling and joking in the face of a possible battle against Fyorlund High Guards.'
'Well,’ said Hawklan, ‘the lad needed reassurance. He really doesn't know whether he's coming or going at the moment. I don't want him worrying about us. Anyway, I told him no more than the truth. Whatever happens, you and I go north, don't we?'
Isloman rubbed his hand and nodded.
The patrol moved steadily forward for some time until, passing through a wooded stretch of road, they emerged to find themselves at the top of a rise which gave them a commanding view of the countryside for many miles around. Straight ahead of them, fringing the distant horizon, Hawklan could just make out the white peaks that formed the southern border of Fyorlund.
Jaldaric's face creased in distress when he too saw the mountains. So much had changed since he had been chosen to lead the Lord Dan-Tor's escort into Orthlund and thence to lands further south. Now it seemed that every step they took led them into more and more confusion and difficulty, not to say danger. The sooner he could reach Vakloss and hand this whole mess over to his superiors, the sooner he could see his father and settle back into his ordinary life.
Unnecessarily he stood up in his stirrups and peered into the distance. The road twisted and wound through fields and woods, disappearing from sight for long stretches.
'I see no sign of your patrol, Urssain,’ he said.
'You will soon enough,’ replied the man, certainty filling his surly reply.
Jaldaric looked at him and then frowned. ‘Dismount and rest,’ he said. ‘We may as well take advantage of the high ground and the trees while we're here. Our Captain here seems convinced his friends will come looking for him.'
Taking their horses with them, the men dispersed skilfully into the surrounding trees and foliage so that they could both rest and watch the countryside ahead of them.
Hawklan caught Isloman's look of approval. The men were well trained, without doubt. He dismounted and Serian wandered off into the trees with Isloman's mount.
Hawklan lowered himself on to a grassy bank and stretched out luxuriously. Isloman sat down heavily beside him and drew his sword. He looked critically along its gleaming edge and fumbled in his pocket to retrieve a small slab of stone. He twisted the sword round repeatedly and, hefting the stone, offered it to the blade several times indecisively. Then he returned his sword to its scabbard a
nd the stone to his pocket.
'Just nerves,’ he said apologetically. ‘There's no way a stone crusher like me can improve on an edge that Loman's made.'
Hawklan smiled then sat up suddenly and cocked his head on one side. Abruptly, Gavor was on them. He was jumping up and down with agitation, his eyes wild and distant, and his black spurs twitching and glinting ominously in the sunlight.
He was jabbering.
'I can't understand you, Gavor,’ said Hawklan frowning. ‘Speak normally.'
But Gavor continued with the noise and Hawklan shook his head despairingly. Finally the bird let out a raucous cry and flew off up into the sky where he circled, crying out strangely every few seconds. Hawklan stood up and watched him.
'What's the matter with him?’ Isloman asked.
Hawklan put his hands to his head almost desperately. ‘I don't know. He's speaking a language I've never heard him use before. I can't understand it, but it sounds like something very old.'
He shouted to Jaldaric and the young man ran across to him. Hawklan took him by the arm.
'Prepare your men. Gavor's seen something that's either frightened the wits out of him, or made him angry beyond belief; I can't tell which. But something terrible is coming.'
Jaldaric signalled to his men, and such as could be seen disappeared from view. The six black-liveried men sat dolefully by the side of the road, though Urssain still affected an arrogant indifference. Nervously loosening his sword in its scabbard, Jaldaric took up a position opposite them so that he could see the road ahead and also be seen by anyone travelling along it.
Hawklan cast a glance up at Gavor who was gliding round and round in a wide circle above the scene, crying raucously. Hawklan still could not determine whether the sound was one of rage or fear, but he suspected the former as it was undeniably alarming. Shaking his head and gesturing to Isloman, the two of them faded into the undergrowth.
Then followed an eerie, silent and timeless interval in which everyone seemed to be held in reality only by Gavor's persistent cry growing fainter and fainter as he rose ever higher in a great spiral.