by Roger Taylor
Their impatience at last overriding their discipline, several of the men signalled to Yatsu for permission to speak, but Hawklan overrode them. ‘Gentlemen. This isn't a debate. The Lord Eldric's last order was unequivocal, and it alone commands your obedience. Its confirmation by these other Lords and the Goraidin makes that command absolute. I tell you what I tell you because it is the truth and because you need to know it to understand those orders.’ He leaned forward resting his weight on the table. ‘Sumeral is risen, and the Lord Dan-Tor is His agent. Through Dan-Tor His corruption has reached into Orthlund and into Riddin, and has riddled your own society. We have no proof but, if your heart can't feel it, then let your heads ask why the Watch has been abandoned, why your Geadrol has been suspended, why your Lords arrested. Ask why the High Guards have been disbanded and replaced by liveried thugs. Ask why your society seems to be crumbling at the least touch. And if the answers to these questions don't convince you that a great evil is abroad, then ask how an entire troop of your own kind came to be slaughtered.’ He paused. ‘Slaughtered by ... Mandrocs.'
The word hung in the air but, before anyone could react, Hawklan bent down and took hold of the armour that had been retrieved from Lord Evison's. Straightening up he threw it on to the table. ‘Mandrocs, equipped thus,’ he finished. The heavy, metal-clad jerkin, torn and bloodstained, together with the iron cap and a short vicious-looking sword, lay on the plain polished wood like a scar, ugly and ominous.
The Lords and the Goraidin sat virtually unmoved at this demonstration. Both had already come to accept the new reality that was dawning. Their traditional image of Sumeral as a storybook ogre had slowly faded and was being replaced by an image of an all too solid and powerful leader who could order troops out to battle and who could build great roads and instigate the opening of vast mine workings for His needs. The massacre of Evison and his men had, ironically, proved to be a reassurance, for all its unexpectedness and the power and ruthlessness that it represented. The menace offered by some ancient, intangible demon had the quality of a poisonous mist that corroded the will, but soldiers were soldiers, and be they Mandrocs or men, soldiers could be fought.
Before anyone else could respond, a distant trumpet call sounded, winding its way through the castle. Varak cocked his head on one side. ‘Rider coming, Commander,’ he said to Yatsu. ‘Alone. And fast.'
* * * *
The rider was Yengar. Yatsu ran down the broad stone steps from the meeting hall to greet him as he clattered into the courtyard. Slithering down from his horse, he kept hold of his saddle for support. The horse was foaming and steam was rising from it profusely.
Hawklan followed the example of the other Goraidin and Varak, and remained at the top of the steps to watch the conversation between the two men. Yengar was exhausted, but he had the same driving momentum that had propelled Ordan in his charge against far superior odds, and it apparently surged on in his speech as Yatsu had to spend a little time coaxing him into greater coherence.
Hawklan watched as Yengar gradually recovered himself. Relinquishing his hold on his saddle, he straightened up stiffly and began talking in a manner that had Yatsu listening attentively. After a moment, Yatsu raised a hand to stop him briefly and turned to look up the steps. ‘Commander Varak,’ he called. ‘May I ask your help?'
Varak cleared his throat and left Hawklan's side to join the two men. Hawklan put his foot on a balustrade and, leaning on his knee, watched as the conversation became more businesslike. Yengar was talking and pointing, and Varak was nodding.
Then Yatsu and Varak spoke a little and abruptly Varak saluted and called out to a group of men who were standing discreetly in attendance nearby. Yatsu made a slight hand movement, and two of the Goraidin by Hawklan moved down to join him.
Almost immediately, Yengar seemed to relax, and both he and Yatsu turned to mount the steps as the courtyard broke into a flurry of running men and shouted commands.
'Is Olvric in serious trouble?’ Hawklan asked as the two men reached him.
Yatsu gave him a long look. ‘Have you mastered our Battle Language so easily, Hawklan?’ he said.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied.
Yatsu took him by the elbow and ushered him to the door. ‘Come. Tell,’ he said bluntly.
In spite of the tension that the day had brought so far, Hawklan smiled; he liked Yatsu's manner. He put his arms around the shoulders of the two men, the hand resting on Yengar instinctively reading signs of tension and fatigue.
'You left Yengar and Olvric to observe Lord Eldric, didn't you?’ he said. ‘Against his express orders, I might remind you.’ Yatsu ignored the remark. ‘Now Yengar comes back alone and exhausted, his horse nearly dead. Obviously desperate. He tells his tale and relaxes only when a patrol is mustered for his friend's relief.’ Yatsu raised his eyebrows, but Hawklan ploughed on. ‘Now, the patrol's not too big, so any pursuing force is itself not big, but it is being mustered quickly, so Olvric is in some danger. I'd say he's out there acting as rearguard or diversion.'
Yatsu smiled slightly and nodded appreciatively. ‘Indeed, Hawklan, indeed. A fair Gathering from very little. So much for our Goraidin inconspicuousness.’ He accented each syllable of the word.
'It's a Mathidrin patrol, Hawklan,’ said Yengar. ‘Only a small one, but good. They've stuck with us all the way. It's been a bad journey. We daren't lead them any nearer so Olvric's got them pinned down in a valley a few hours away.'
Hawklan looked concerned. ‘Pinned down,’ he said. ‘One man? A few hours away? He'll be long out of arrows by now.'
Yatsu did not share Hawklan's concern. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Olvric's as good a slinger as he is an archer and he'll have ammunition aplenty where he is. The main problem is that he's liable to be outflanked. It's not all that good ambush country.’ The distant clatter of galloping horses leaving the castle reached them as they walked down the long corridor.
Hawklan was pensive. He inclined his head towards the sound. ‘Those men know not to take any unnecessary risks, don't they?’ he said. ‘And to make sure that none of that patrol get back to Vakloss? Preferably by taking them all prisoner.'
A faint hint of irritation showed briefly on Yatsu's face. ‘Of course,’ he replied, managing to keep it from his voice. ‘Two of them are Goraidin. Our main function is to gather information, and where possible confuse the enemy's information. And we never take risks without a deal of calculation.'
Hawklan nodded apologetically.
When they entered the meeting hall they were met by a barrage of questions.
'Gentlemen.’ Yatsu's voice filled the room, as he strode purposefully back to his seat. ‘Yengar is fresh from Vakloss. We'll hear his news, then we'll talk. Not before. Be silent. This is not a Festival Feast.'
A rather shamefaced silence descended on the room and Yengar, still breathing heavily, told of Eldric's Accounting and his subsequent seizure by the Mathidrin together with Lord Oremson.
When he had finished Yatsu leaned forward, frowning sadly. ‘And there was nothing you could do, Yengar?’ he asked.
Yengar shook his head. ‘No, Commander. Nothing. They moved in, in force, very quickly and very quietly. We barely got away as it was. What we managed to see was from a nearby hill. Vakloss is full of Mathidrin and ringed tight. We couldn't even estimate their numbers, there were so many and we had to move so fast. Ethriss knows where Dan-Tor's been keeping them. Besides, you know Oremson's place. It couldn't be defended by a battalion.'
Hawklan felt the man's pain. Yengar knew that he and Olvric had had no alternative but to flee, but that knowledge was a poor antidote to a poison as potent as abandonment of an ally.
'What happened to the people who were in the grounds?’ he asked. Yengar grimaced. ‘Those who were unlucky enough to wake quickly and offer resistance were cut down. The rest were rounded up and marched away.'
Hawklan leaned back and looked at the grim faces around the table. Oddly, the mood of the meeting had
changed abruptly and a heavy silence had descended on the hall as each individual began to search for his own way to face the implications of what he had heard that day. The Goraidin and the Lords had made their own peace already, but for Varak and the High Guards it was a considerable ordeal.
Under other circumstances, the normal momentum of their ordered lives would have made them dismiss such tales out of hand as nonsense, but the presence of the elite Goraidin and three grim-faced and respected Lords stood against this momentum like a cliff face looming over the sea. Then there was Isloman; one of the two Orthlundyn who had served with the Goraidin in the Morlider War, the only outlanders ever to do so, a figure almost of legend. And, finally, the tall gaunt figure of Hawklan, whose green-eyed presence seemed to dominate both Lords and Goraidin alike.
The testimony of these people could not be doubted, nor the accuracy of their observation. Terrible changes were afoot and, while each would have preferred to turn and flee into the comfort of his past routines and tasks, that was effectively forbidden. Of the ways that lay before them, none led back to the relief of the familiar.
Hawklan felt the pain pervading the hall. Standing up, he spoke again. ‘Speak out now, gentlemen. Your questions and doubts; your anger and fear. Speak now. Root out your uncertainties and see them in the light or they'll destroy you from the inside and you'll yield at some future, more critical time, like a rotten-hearted tree. We've little time. Many more than you have to be convinced, and those present here will be the spreaders of the word. If you fail, you condemn yourself and countless others to who knows what dreadful tyranny.'
The room went suddenly dark as a cloud obscured the sun. The torches, touched by the unexpected gloom, bloomed gently into life and lent an unseasonable evening quality to the scene.
Hawklan pointed towards the windows. ‘This shadow will pass,’ he said. ‘But the darkness that's coming is blacker by far. Out of the past comes your worst fear. A nightmare so awful that it's been relegated to the tales of children has come alive and is seeking you out. You, and all you hold dear.'
He leaned forward and seemed to stare into the heart of each man there. ‘You cannot flee,’ he said slowly. ‘Accept that. Arm yourself with your fear and the light that truth sheds, and prepare to face the enemy.'
The room seemed to go darker still, as if some presence were oppressing even the glow of the torches. ‘No man will be burdened with more than he can carry,’ Hawklan said. ‘You hold between you the wisdom of long-gone days if you'll but search for it. You're stronger than you know and your very doubts prove it. But speak them now.'
As if at Hawklan's bidding, the cloud moved from the sun and the bright summer light swept through the hall like a far-flung wave rolling and spreading over a waiting shoreline. And like the clatter of stones and pebbles buffeted by such a wave, a babble of voices rose up, sweeping aside the leaden uneasiness that had permeated the gathering.
* * * *
It was some time before the stream of questions petered out, but as it did, Arinndier rose to his feet and called for silence.
'Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We've spoken of this as much as we can, and each of us alone must make his own peace with what he's learned. However, before we turn our minds to how we can implement the order that the Lord Eldric gave us, another matter has to be decided.’ He paused and looked down at his hands. When he looked up again, his face was pained. ‘We've no Geadrol now, so I'll give you, High Guard and Goraidin, my Accounting. I speak also for the Lords Darek and Hreldar.'
Hawklan and Isloman exchanged glances in the uneasy silence that followed this remark.
Arinndier continued. ‘We admit to failing in our duty as Lords of Fyorlund and Lords of the Geadrol. We have not maintained the vigilance that was expected of us. We should have inquired into the origins of our King's “saviour” many years ago. We should not have allowed the Watch on Narsindal to fail. We should not have allowed the decay of our High Guards into foppish shadows of their forebears. In short, we should have looked properly to our duty. Had we done this, then what has happened might never have come to be, or at least we might have been better able to contain it. Now we face an enemy who has infiltrated the very heart of our country and beyond, and who has armed forces at his command that we can't begin to measure.'
He pointed to the Mandroc armour lying on the table. ‘The Mandrocs are a savage, nomadic race. But I don't need to tell you that this is from a heavy infantryman. One whose companions defeated a High Guard troop fighting to defend its very home. That betokens either great numbers, or great discipline. Perhaps even both.’ He paused to judge the response to the harsh reality of the sunlit armour lying before his audience. ‘Its presence in Fyorlund, the fate of Lord Evison, the destruction of our ancient ways all lie at the feet of our negligence. That same negligence may yet bring death to you.'
Hawklan could not forbear to interrupt. ‘Lord Arinndier, you're too harsh on yourself,’ he said. ‘This is no ordinary foe you're facing. His treachery and cunning are...'
Arinndier raised a hand to silence him. ‘This is our way, Hawklan,’ he said firmly. ‘We...’ He indicated Darek and Hreldar, ‘are nothing without the judgement of our men.'
Isloman laid a hand on Hawklan's arm. ‘Leave them,’ he said. ‘They know their own kind best. They need a reaffirmation.'
Hawklan's protest died on his lips, and he sat back reluctantly.
Arinndier moved away from the table. Head bowed, he knelt on the wooden floor. Hreldar and Darek joined him. There was a long silence in the room until Yatsu rose and moved to confront the three men.
'Lords, we've discussed this amongst ourselves already. Your guilt is indisputable.’ Hawklan started, but the Lords remained unmoved. ‘As also is ours,’ he continued. ‘We saw the wrongs and knew them, but did nothing. To look to the leadership of the Lords does not absolve any of us from our duty to each other. Blame and judgement, however, are matters for another time, another place. Too few of us are here and too little is known for a true Gathering. Commander Varak and his men may choose otherwise, but we Goraidin offer you our loyalty unchanged: to yourselves, the King, the Law, the Geadrol and the people, until the day when an Accounting can be called of us all.’ Then he drew his sword and offered it, hilt first, to the kneeling Lords. Each in turn laid his hand on it and bowed his head.
Varak, a little disconcerted at being brought to this debate between Lords and the elite Goraidin, spruced his uniform and walked stiffly forward to join Yatsu. He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Lords,’ he began uncertainly. ‘I'm a simple soldier. It's my experience that rights and wrongs usually spread themselves fairly evenly when all's been said and done. None of us escape without blame. All I know is that the country's been going the wrong way for a long while, and matters had to come to a head sooner or later. This is no time for changing horses, especially when the ones we have are tried and trusted.’ Drawing his sword, he offered it to the Lords, as Yatsu had, then, turning to his men, he spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice. ‘If any of you disagree, then go now. Go freely and with my blessing. I want no reluctant swords guarding my back.'
None of the officers moved.
'Tell your men the same,’ he continued. Then, raising an admonishing finger, ‘No reproaches of any kind. No debates. Let those who wish to go, go.’ And in a pragmatic echo of Hawklan's words, ‘Their doubts will get your throats cut one day.'
The atmosphere in the hall was almost tangible. Looking round at the standing men, Hawklan knew that he could be looking into the eyes of Sumeral Himself so much did His teachings pervade the group. He knew that in time the hideous reality of mutilated and torn flesh stinking in the churned earth would be lost in the glow of the storytellers’ ringing phrases, and the terror and agony would simply be forgotten, as glory and heroism raised their treacherous standards. And yet, such false inspiration would carry young men and women through the training they would need to face the enemy who would surely confront them in time. He
put his hand to his head.
Yatsu noted the gesture. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Hawklan nodded. Just a touch of conscience, he thought.
* * *
Chapter 48
The group in the hall talked for a long time, provoking more than a few wry asides from Isloman about the seemingly endless ability of the Fyordyn to talk and talk.
'And listen,’ Hawklan offered by way of defence. ‘They need to shake their thoughts loose. They can come to only one conclusion, but they'll need to come to it their own way.'
And they did. Inexorably, the consensus formed round Eldric's last order like a pearl around a tiny irritation, solid and purposeful. Around it in turn would grow an even greater mass. An army of Lords and High Guards and ordinary people who would stand against Dan-Tor's baleful influence, because his actions had taken him beyond the realm of reasoned dispute. He offered them now only his tyranny, using the King's name as its sole disguise. It was not possible to mount a small operation to rescue Eldric, if indeed he was still alive, so the tyrant himself had to be assailed. With the great web of lies and deceit that Dan-Tor would spread, this could mean civil war. Kin would fight kin, and kin would slay kin. And all with that peculiar viciousness that the righteous possess when fighting for the truth that they alone possess. It was a grim conclusion, but the Fyordyn reached it and faced it.
'Perhaps this time we'll be able to prevent Sumeral spreading from His fastness in Narsindal,’ said Yatsu afterwards to Hawklan. ‘Stop Him reaching the world beyond.'
It was the first time Hawklan had heard Sumeral spoken of as a mortal enemy. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied.
His hope lay in Yatsu's remark, but a deeper voice told him he might not have glimpsed the strategy of the Great Corrupter. There were marks of impatience and haste in Dan-Tor's actions which sang a false note to him. The thought nagged at him that, with the Fyordyn being so subtly lured from their old watchfulness and discipline, the knowledge of His awakening could have been hidden for aeons yet. His strength could have been marshalled in the mists of Narsindal, unseen and unknown, while His poisons leached ever outwards to corrupt and weaken His old enemies. A harsh voice rose inside him. Perhaps they already have, it said.