Whistler

by Roger Taylor

  Within minutes he came racing along the street to examine the paper for himself.

  Thus it was that the people of Troidmallos heard of the invasion of their land by Tirfelden. Not from a solemn-voiced official crier, but from a hastily produced and very simply worded Sheet – smaller than usual and at an increased price.

  While Canol Madreth had no army it nonetheless had a much revered tradition of a civilian militia. Every male save the young and the old was obliged to have ‘and maintain’ a bow, thirty arrows, a sword, a knife, a ‘sturdy’ staff, a rope of at least twenty paces in length, plus various other accoutrements which, should need arise, would serve to make him a formidable and self-sufficient mountain soldier. All this was laid out in great detail in the Annex to the Militia Statute – a copy of which he was also supposed to have, together with the Santyth, of course.

  Unfortunately, tradition was almost all that was left of the militia now as, apart from the occasional flurry of social conscience, the authorities took little trouble to fulfil their obligations towards the militia in maintaining a programme of levying and training. And men, being men, naturally preferred to talk a war than actually risk fighting one so, apart from a few conscientious enthusiasts, the militia was more a glowing word, similar in character to ‘a united Gyronlandt’, than a practical reality.

  Nevertheless, it was a word that came suddenly into popular usage as Privv’s Sheet spread the news through and beyond the town. Many a shed and attic was ransacked that day for ‘that old bow’ and ‘those arrows of mine,’ and so on…

  Eventually, the caretaker, a lowly government official, arrived to open the office to which the ultimatum had been delivered. A fine, sour-faced example of Canol Madreth’s janitocracy, he scowled for quite a time at the now-creased and soiled document lying on the step before picking it up and, with an obligatory grumble, pushing it into his pocket unread. It was not, after all, his job to deal with such things. Only when he had performed his morning routine of lighting unnecessary fires in all the rooms, transferring boxes of files to their wrong destinations, and re-distributing the dust – brushing was the only activity he pursued with any vigour – did he deign to hand the document to anyone. The anyone he chose was a junior clerk, who, new to the service and thus rather rash, read it. Seeing confirmed under the Crest and Seal of Tirfelden what he had fearfully read in the Sheet earlier, he compounded this initial rashness by taking it upon himself to deliver the document personally to the chief adviser to the government rather than commit it to the internal mailing system – that is, to the ultimate charge of the same individual who had just given it to him.

  The chief adviser was an educated and cultured man who ‘never read Privv’s Sheet,’ so his copy of it was still concealed in his documents, pending an opportunity arising which would allow him to read it without fear of disturbance. He was thus one of the few people in Troidmallos who did not know what had happened. So he would have remained, had not the junior clerk slammed his own copy of Privv’s Sheet in front of him with the observation, ‘It’s just like it says ‘ere. Wot are you goin’ to do?’

  The chief adviser was not disposed to enter into a debate on the matter. A man not without resource in a crisis, it took him only a moment to realize where his responsibility lay and, with barely a flicker of hesitation, he snatched up both the Sheet and the ultimatum and fled with them to his political master, currently in the form of the bemused and rapidly failing leader of the Castellan Party. By coincidence, this worthy was on a like errand. They met in a corridor halfway between their respective offices. It was an internal corridor and thus rather dark, as the caretaker, being too busy lighting the lanterns in other, windowed, corridors, had neglected to light those that hung there. The two men, Sheets in hand and held high, moved towards one another like short-sighted army signallers in the gloaming of second-hand daylight that seeped through from the doors of adjacent offices.

  Prior to this momentous meeting however, other events had occurred, inadvertently set in train by Privv who, following some Sheeter’s instinct, had personally delivered a copy of his Sheet to the Haven Meeting House. He stood silent as Cassraw read it, Dowinne looking nervously over his arm.

  ‘You’ve actually seen this ultimatum?’ Cassraw asked, turning towards him.

  ‘Of course,’ Privv said, risking a little indignation.

  Cassraw’s face became a mask. ‘You were right to bring this to me,’ he said. ‘Those who follow me will be rewarded.’ Somewhat to his surprise, Privv then found himself ushered quickly out before he could begin to interrogate Cassraw. As he rode away he wondered where he had heard Cassraw’s last comment before. It sounded like something out of the Santyth, but it wasn’t, he was sure.

  When Privv had left, Cassraw went out into the grounds of the Meeting House. Dowinne followed him. He stood motionless for a long time, his gaze fixed on the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. Dowinne did not move either, though her gaze was fixed on her husband.

  ‘I’ve been uneasy these last few days,’ Cassraw said eventually. ‘It’s been as though His presence about the mountain has been disturbed in some way.’ His face became pained. ‘I’m striving to the limits of my ability,’ he went on. ‘The clarity of my vision of the future, my insight into the true meaning of the Santyth, grow daily. As do these strange powers which flow from me.’ He looked at his hands. ‘And people are flocking to the new way. But…’ He turned to his wife. ‘Could He be abandoning me? Am I failing Him in some way?’

  ‘You will not be abandoned, my love,’ she said. ‘These doubts are surely nothing but a testing.’

  When Cassraw did not reply, Dowinne stepped close and gripped his arm fiercely. ‘A testing, Enryc,’ she hissed. ‘How far have you come these past months? Your old self was a mere shadow to what you are now. But how can you expect to become His arm in this world, to fulfil His great purpose, if you are not constantly tested and re-forged?’

  Cassraw nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right. These doubts are weakness and I must tear all weakness from my soul if I’m to prepare the Way for His Coming.’

  ‘And you must see His hand in all things,’ Dowinne urged, her grip still tight about his arm, her look significant. ‘Others than you have to be tried and tested if they’re to serve truly.’

  Cassraw nodded again, then his expression changed to one of urgency. ‘His chosen land is assailed by unbelievers,’ he said, his voice filling with anger. ‘The Felden must be envoys of the Great Evil of which He spoke. It’s upon us already, and we’re unprepared.’ He drove his fist into his hand in frustration. ‘This is the fault of those weaklings in the PlasHein,’ he fumed. ‘Had they held firm yesterday and pursued their original intention, the Felden would not have dared to act thus. And they’ll do nothing about them now, except beg and plead with them to go away, wringing their hands and saying it was all a misunderstanding. Such is the consequence of deviation from His ways. The Madren lie leaderless, like scurrying sheep before the Felden wolves.’

  ‘The Madren lie leaderless at His will,’ Dowinne said, her voice soft and insinuating and her eyes gleaming. ‘He’s shown them the worth of the leaders so that they may choose others.’

  * * * *

  Following their impromptu, paper-waving dance in the twilit corridor, the leader of the Castellan Party and his chief adviser eventually calmed one another down sufficiently to set about putting to rights what had occurred. Obviously the Felden had not heard about the Heindral’s decision of the previous day, and informing them of it was a matter of urgency. It should be no great problem to reassure them that it had all been a matter of purely local politics and that there had never been any serious threat of action being taken against Tirfelden nationals. That done, the Felden would surely withdraw their army, then arrangements could be made for future discussions to resolve this matter sensibly.

  Ministers, party leaders and senior officials were hastily gathered to agree an appropriate response and, by noon, li
veried government gallopers were leaving Troidmallos for the borders, while official criers were being sent about the town to announce what was under way to the anxious crowds that were already gathering.

  His political horizons widened once again beyond the cockpit of the Heindral by this action from outside, the leader of the Castellans demonstrated a little redeeming wisdom by declining to issue an order for the precautionary levying of the militia, on the grounds that it would be both provocative and ineffective. Toom Drommel, however, seeing an opportunity to present himself yet again as a sternly patriotic politician, spoke against this, citing the ‘long and proud tradition’ of the Madren militia and the need to ‘make a stand’. He was ignored. He might have been instrumental in causing the turmoil in the Heindral, but he was still only the leader of a minority party and the Castellans and Ploughers took great delight in making this silently clear to him. His new bass voice eventually rumbled off into a pouting silence.

  ‘Now we can only wait,’ the leader of the Castellans said as the gallopers left. He reached into a pocket, unearthed a large flask and took a long drink from it.

  * * * *

  The gallopers reached Bredill without mishap and not all that long after the Felden envoy and his escort had finally found their way back. They were brought before the officer commanding the company, to whom they handed a personal letter from their government together with sealed letters which were to be carried to the Felden authorities. The officer read the letter carefully, then smiled and stood up.

  ‘A storm in a pot then, gentlemen,’ he said to the gallopers. ‘I can’t say I’m unhappy that it’s blown itself out before blows were struck. My men and I will have to remain here until I hear from my own government, of course, but I doubt that’ll be very long. Then the diplomats can sort it out.’ He looked resignedly about the crude tent he was occupying. ‘And then we can return to the comparative comfort of our barracks.’ He was about to offer the Madren a drink when he remembered that it was the inability of the Madren to cope with Felden liquor that had played no small part in this affair. ‘Will you dine with us before you return to Troidmallos?’ he offered. ‘Only field rations, I’m afraid, but we’ve lost no one so far.’

  But the gallopers were less than enchanted at the prospect of spending the night in what they regarded as the wild outlands of their little country, and took their leave.

  ‘Humourless beggars,’ the officer muttered to his aide as they rode off. ‘They’d have soured any ale we gave them anyway.’

  And that was the end of the negotiations.

  Seeing a successful and painless conclusion to their adventure, the Felden caroused late that night and either feeling no need, or just forgetting, set up no sentries and allowed their fires to sink when they retired.

  * * * *

  It was a full and cold moon that rose over the sleeping camp, draining the colour from it and spreading long shadows of unfathomable darkness. Grey wisps of smoke rose secretively up from the dying fires before escaping silently sideways into the night. Slowly, figures began to approach the camp. They were carrying what appeared to be sticks, though here and there moonlight flickered on polished blades. This was not, however, the approach of skilled soldiers; there was a great deal of whispering and the figures moved with no ordered pattern of mutual protection. Yet they moved with a clear and single intention, and someone amongst them was obviously in charge.

  As they approached the Felden tents, the whispering fell away, and all that could be heard was the sound of the sleeping men.

  Then a single soft word sped around the group and, shouting and screaming, they fell upon the tents, hacking through guy ropes and clubbing and stabbing anything under the tossing canvases that moved. There were fewer attackers than Felden soldiers but, drowsy with ale and dazed by the surprise and ferocity of the assault, the Felden stood little chance of defending themselves. One of the tents caught fire when a lantern was knocked over, and at the height of the killing it became a ghastly funeral pyre, its flames throwing grotesque dancing shadows through the fearful melee.

  Suddenly, a figure burst out of the blazing tent, his clothes alight. It was no scream of terror he was uttering, however, but one of battle-crazed rage. Confronted by two attackers, he unexpectedly threw himself to the ground then, maintaining his momentum, he rolled over, simultaneously overturning both of them and dousing his burning clothes. He was on his feet immediately and a single blow lifted another attacker off his feet to drop him dead, with a broken neck, three paces away. Then he was gone, fleeing into the darkness beyond the flame-lit camp.

  One of several figures hovering about the edges of the scene watched his flight then circled wide after him.

  The man paused only momentarily in his bull-like charge, to look for somewhere where he might evade pursuers. He chose a large stand of trees and reached them without hindrance, for there was no one at his heels; the unexpected resistance and the downing of three of their own so easily, had dampened the killing fervour of such of the immediate attackers as had seen him leave. He crashed a little way into the sheltering darkness of the wood, then stopped and turned to look round at the burning camp. Instinctively, he put his back against a tree. Weals, livid even in the leaf-filtered moonlight, scarred his face, and his clothes were still smouldering. He shook his head violently to clear it, then seemed for a moment to be debating whether he should return to the fray to help his lost comrades. It took him only a little time to realize that he could do nothing except save himself and get back to Tirfelden to spread the news of what had happened.

  As he made to move away from the tree, a taunting voice nearby said softly, ‘Turn and die, defiler.’

  He spun round. Some way from him, fully visible in the moonlight, stood a dark figure. The man started, not so much at finding someone there as at the fact that the figure’s face was blank, save for two lifeless eyes. A mask, he realized almost immediately, though the shock remained with him even as he crouched low, expecting others to emerge and surround him. None came, however. He glanced quickly through the trees towards the still-blazing camp. As far as he could judge through the flailing shadows, the attackers were still concentrated there. This one must have followed him on his own. The Felden soldier’s anger returned to brush aside his initial alarm. Well, there’d be one less Madren celebrating this murderous treachery when the daylight came! He took in the waiting figure. Though rendered bulky by a cloak, his challenger was obviously no great size.

  Yet there was something unsettling about him. The Felden hesitated.

  Then the figure stepped back uncertainly as if to flee. The action drew the Felden forward like a hunting dog and he charged recklessly. His hands were almost about his victim’s throat when he caught a glimpse of a blade emerging from underneath the cloak and his ears filled with the sound of a deep breath of pleasure being drawn in. He tried to step aside and at the same time swing his arm to deflect the blade, but to no avail; he was moving too quickly. He felt a dragging blow on his arm and, though there was no pain, he knew that the knife had cut through sleeve, flesh and muscle in one stroke, for almost immediately he could not use his fingers.

  Very sharp, he thought incongruously. A butcher’s edge. He had miscalculated. Yet he felt no fear, only more anger – at himself, at his attacker, the Madren, his officer, at many things. It whirled round the dominant thought that now he faced a journey back to Tirfelden badly wounded. He must finish this assailant quickly and do something to bind this hurt before he started to lose blood seriously.

  But his mind blundering into the future left his body leaderless in that Madren wood, staggering under impact after impact as the attacker moved about it, almost leisurely at first, and then with increasing speed, cutting, hacking, then finally and frenziedly, stabbing, until the Felden slumped to his knees then fell forward on to the ground, his terrified mind gone to regions beyond any knowing.

  The figure squatted down a short distance away and waited for all movement in
the body to cease. It took a little time. Then, like a carrion-seeking animal, it crawled towards the corpse and, removing its gloves, began running its hands over the open wounds, until they were completely covered in gore.

  ‘Let this be the destiny of all Your enemies, Lord, and let this offering repair the renewing of the Way, so foully desecrated,’ it whispered, its voice trembling ecstatically. It held up its moonlit blackened hands as it spoke. There was a brief sound, like a sighing wind, and abruptly the hands were clean again.

  The figure stood up and moved off silently into the trees.

  Only two men survived the attack on the camp and that was because they were deliberately spared. Surrounded by the masked victors, they stood dazed and shocked, desperately afraid of what was about to befall them. The circle opened and a stocky, well-built figure entered and approached the two men. It was Cassraw, his face alive with exultation, his eyes blazing with zeal. ‘On your knees!’ he said harshly. ‘On your knees and pray.’

  One of the men hesitated, but the other dragged him down. Cassraw bent towards them and extended an arm to encompass the destroyed camp. ‘Pray thanks to Him that you have been privileged to see the fate of all those who oppose His will and who choose to follow the Great Evil.’ His speech was punctuated by an erratic chorus of, ‘Thus let it be,’ and ‘Praise Him,’ from the onlookers. ‘Pray thanks to Him that you have been spared to carry news of this to His enemies. Tell your people that His coming is nigh, and that Gyronlandt shall once again be united under His banner. Tell them this, and that if they do not return to the paths of righteousness then this night’s work shall be writ across your whole land. Tell them that the choice is theirs, and to choose well.’

  He took the chin of each in turn in his hand and stared into their eyes.

  ‘Go now. He will speed your flight.’