The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘But I still don’t know who I am,’ said Hawklan. ‘Or who I was, or why this Dan-Tor thinks I’m so important. Come to that, who is Dan-Tor?’

  Gulda looked at him enigmatically. ‘Andawyr said he thought you were Ethriss himself; didn’t he?’

  Hawklan waved a dismissive hand. ‘Andawyr was very disturbed. What happened in that pavilion had shaken him badly.’

  Gulda nodded understandingly, but persisted. ‘Just as Sumeral slept and has seemingly been wakened, so Ethriss may sleep somewhere in human form. And he too can be wakened. If I judge Sumeral truly, I fear He may have been awake a long time, spreading His corruption silently while His agents searched for Ethriss’s sleeping form so that it could be destroyed or bound.’

  Hawklan felt momentarily disorientated. ‘This is nonsense, Gulda,’ he said, his voice suddenly harsh and angry. ‘Surely I’d know if I were Ethriss? An all-powerful . . . Guardian . . . from the beginning of Creation.’

  Gulda flinched a little, but offered him no resistance. ‘Consider, Hawklan. You arrive mysteriously in Orthlund bearing the Key and the Word to open Anderras Darion, Ethriss’s greatest fortress. You know the Castle. You have great skill in healing and you know the speech of animals, Ethriss’s own sword seeks you out.’ She paused, still looking at him penetratingly. ‘Once the Orthlundyn were a great and noble people. Their sacrifice was appalling, but it sounded the beginning of Sumeral’s doom. It’s said that as the last of their Princes fell before His army, Ethriss swept him from the field of battle and locked him in a deep sleep, to waken only when the need of Orthlund cried out again.’

  Hawklan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling me now that I might be such a man?’ he said.

  Gulda pursed her lips. ‘Possibly,’ she replied, laying a hand on his arm. ‘But that Dan-Tor is an agent of Sumeral is beyond doubt, and maybe even . . . well, no matter. But had he thought you just an ancient Prince awakened in some way by the arising of Sumeral, he’d have destroyed you with barely a thought, and precious little effort. But he didn’t. He lured you hither and thither with great caution. He used the Old Power very carefully when he tried to bind you at the Gretmearc, and when that failed he didn’t risk using it again. Instead he lured you northwards using your simple human affection for Tirilen.’

  Hawklan held her gaze.

  ‘Dan-Tor thinks you’re Ethriss,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But who do you think I am?’ Hawklan ventured after a moment.

  Gulda eyed him narrowly. ‘Ethriss alone knows, my lad.’ she said abruptly. ‘And it doesn’t matter. Whoever you are, I’ve no power to stir you. You must go to the Cadwanol as Andawyr said. Give them his message and let them decide who you are. He’s in great danger.’

  She leaned forward. ‘In the meantime. You’re Hawklan. Hawklan the healer. An ordinary man, heir to all the ills of mortal flesh, and one chosen by the Orthlundyn to advise them.’ Then, more urgently, ‘From now on you must search for ever more knowledge and you must be forever on your guard. You’ve already found that your body has resources of which you were unaware. Don’t be afraid of them. You’ll need them and more. It’s a terrible and relentless predator that’s hunting you, Hawklan.’

  She hesitated. ‘In the end, you’ll have to face him in his lair to free yourself.’

  Chapter 23

  Hawklan was uncertain how the gathered Orthlundyn would respond to the tale that he now had to tell them. He knew they were not a people overly given to studying history and lore, except as it pertained to their particular crafts, and he feared they would laugh him to scorn in their gentle way.

  Gulda however, had no such qualms. ‘Don’t be a jackass,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘Have you learned nothing about them in your twenty years here? Look at their carvings . . . or any of their other work. Look at the way they live, the way they tend the soil, everything. They’ll accept anything once they feel its truth.’

  Hawklan still hesitated and Gulda softened a little.

  ‘Hawklan,’ she said resignedly, ‘they’re an exceptional people. Believe me. I’ve been amongst many races. No amount of fear of me or respect for you would make them accept even the lightest falsehood, but they’ll accept any truth, however bleak. Tell them. You’ll see.’

  So, the next day, Hawklan told them, omitting only the conjectures about his own history. Sitting around on the tiered seats of a spacious circular hall, the Orthlundyn listened silently and respectfully. Small torches hidden in the sweeping ceiling brightened the gloom that a leaden-clouded sky brought in through the colonnaded windows, but Hawklan felt another lightening in the atmosphere as his tale unfolded, just as he had when Isloman had told the villagers about the battle with the Mandrocs.

  They feel the ill, but it’s their ignorance of its cause that disturbs them, he thought. They not only accept the truth, they need it. Twenty years is a long time to be so blind.

  The old man from Wosod Heath was called Aynthinn and he seemed to have become the spokesman for most of the people there. He shook his head sadly when Hawklan had finished.

  ‘These are dark and fearful things you tell us, Hawklan. The Second Coming of the Creator of Evil; a creature that hitherto we knew only in our children’s tales. I doubt any but you could have told us this and been listened to, and I can see it’s not been easy for you. Still, the truth of your telling is apparent, and for some of us, the older ones in particular, it answers some long unspoken questions. I remember as a boy, watching my grandfather working.’ Hawklan looked anxiously at Gulda, nervous that the old man was about to ramble off into some protracted reminiscence. She raised her hand slightly to indicate he should be patient.

  ‘I can see him now as clearly as if it were yesterday. Then I look at . . .’ He cast around the room for a moment, ‘Isloman for example.’ He pointed to the Carver, who returned him a gaze of mild suspicion. ‘Isloman’s the finest carver we have. No one disputes that. What happened to him in Riddin twenty years ago somehow transformed his work and set him above us all. But it’s not much better than my grandfather’s work, and it’s less than most of what our forebears have left us.’

  He lapsed briefly into the Carver’s argot apparently to explain this remark further, causing both Hawklan and Gulda to lean forward anxiously. Seeing their reaction, the old man apologized.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friends,’ he said. ‘I forgot myself. However, accept my judgement. Our work has deteriorated through the years. It has become coarser, more impatient, as if we were hurrying towards something. We live in the shadow of those who went before when we should have learnt their lessons and moved forward.’

  He paused and looked around the room. ‘Ironically, it’s been particularly apparent over the last few days. Staying here, among all this.’ He pointed to the carvings and pictures covering the ceilings and walls of the circular hall. ‘This is something we’ve all known, but we always seem to avoid talking about it. It’s not easy. It’s a subtle, elusive thing. But now, let me bring out from the shadow what should be said.’

  His voice became strong, belying his frail appearance. ‘Consider, my friends. We can’t deny our own failings, but doesn’t even the land seem to bruise more easily under our feet? Our food grow more reluctantly? Our animals come less close?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence in the hall, but no one ventured to disagree with him. Then, very quietly, but very clearly, his words hanging in the waiting air:

  ‘Is not the Great Harmony itself less sure?’

  Silence.

  ‘My friends, only a most awesome power could so disturb the Great Harmony.’

  With these words the tension in the hall seemed almost to vanish and Hawklan saw many of the listening people nodding their heads in agreement.

  Aynthinn turned to Hawklan. ‘We’ve been losing our sight for many years, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Now, with your dark news, you bring perhaps a little light to etch out our faults more clearly for us.’ He chuckled. ‘Subtle shadow lore, yours, outlander.
Subtle.’ And he looked round the hall, his old face wrinkling into an infectious smile that spread through his audience like a ripple of wind over a cornfield. Chuckling again, he said. ‘Forgive us, Hawklan. Carver’s humour. Now you must tell us what to do.’

  Hawklan’s hands came up in a gesture of refusal. ‘No, no, Aynthinn,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell no one what to do. We’ll all talk and then we’ll decide what to do. I’ll not be bound by you, nor will I allow you to be bound by me. Whatever’s to be faced we’ll face together. None can pass his responsibility to another.’ This last remark was said with some sternness, and Aynthinn raised his own hands in acceptance.

  As the day wore on, the storm clouds dispersed, although without the redeeming freshness of a downpour, the air outside was laden with a lingering sense of regret. It did not, however, linger in the high-ceilinged hall, and with new-found loquaciousness the Orthlundyn talked and talked.

  Hawklan found himself hard pressed to get a word in, and he was forced to smile at his fear that they might follow him blindly.

  Gulda, though, was silent by choice, her eyes flitting from one speaker to the next in relentless scrutiny. Later, Hawklan learned she was ranking them in order of reliability with judgements that were swift, ruthless and invariably accurate.

  Tapping her temple with a purposeful finger, she said: ‘They’re in here. Labelled. “Duffers”, “Windbags”, “Incompetents”, etc.’

  The setting sun was throwing its red dusty light through a few remaining black strands of cloud when the meeting finally ended. The gathering had roamed over many topics and through many moods, but for all their trust in Hawklan, implicitly sustained by Gulda’s buttressing presence, the Orthlundyn still felt the dearth of information. Rock song as they called it.

  ‘We can’t know what to do until we see more clearly what’s happening,’ they concluded. ‘And, as the problem stems from Fyorlund, that’s where we must go for information.’

  Hawklan realized that this conclusion had been more or less inevitable, but it placed him in a dilemma. On the one hand, he wanted to go to Fyorlund and find this tinker Lord who had hounded him so and wrought such havoc amongst his friends. But, equally, he wanted to seek out the Cadwanol to give them Andawyr’s message and perhaps learn his true identity.

  Gulda saw the indecision in his face but offered no counsel.

  Finally he decided he would ride to Fyorlund for the Orthlundyn. The threat from there was tangible and bloody. He had seen it with his own eyes. The threat mooted by Andawyr was what? No more than a dream? It might be more, he knew, but he would have to live with his unease. Besides, the healer in him had to move to where it felt the centre of the ill. He had little real choice.

  His decision made, Hawklan spoke out against a formal delegation. ‘If all the King’s new officers are such as we encountered, then I doubt that reasoned discourse will yield much. In fact I think that a formal delegation might well be in some danger.’

  Eventually it was agreed that he and Isloman would retrace their recent journey northwards and continue it cautiously into Fyorlund as ‘watchful travellers’. Gavor would act as messenger should they be detained in any way, and horses and riders would be posted along the road for the rapid carrying of the news back to Pedhavin, and thence through the land.

  Aynthinn had reservations about such secrecy and prevailed upon Hawklan to carry with him a document which would enable him to speak for all the Orthlundyn if need arose. Reluctantly, Hawklan agreed.

  The Elders departed in a mood almost of excitement, full of promises to take the advice Gulda had given to Hawklan, namely, to learn their history and their lore. Gulda made no comment on this, but her expression was eloquent. Aynthinn, however, conceded everything.

  ‘Gulda. Our lack of curiosity is a willingness to accept ignorance. We see that now. It must end. We must apply ourselves to the knowledge of our past as we apply ourselves to our crafts.’

  Gulda’s look of withering doubt faltered slightly at Aynthinn’s tone and the old man took the advantage with a fleetness that made Hawklan look away to hide a smile. ‘You will help us, won’t you, Gulda?’ he asked.

  Somewhat dourly, Loman agreed to remain in Anderras Darion to tend to the needs of the Elders and anyone else who came to study, though Hawklan sensed some relief in the smith that he would thus be able to remain near his daughter.

  Later, however, Hawklan sought him out and, together with Isloman, they strolled idly round the Castle grounds. A soft warm breeze carried the scent of the mountains and a hint of the coming summer heat. High above them, visible in the moonless sky only where they hid the stars, soared the towers and spires of the Castle. To the keen ear, night birds could be heard gliding through the quiet air, but the darkness of Anderras Darion was the darkness of comfort and rest, not menace, and the night was undisturbed by the shrieks of dying prey. Occasionally, clear in the stillness, a dog would bark, or a door close, or a small bud of distant laughter would bloom and fade.

  ‘I appreciate that it’s frustrating staying here to look after these people,’ said Hawklan to Loman, his voice soft in the darkness. ‘But you know the Castle better than anyone, and what the Elders will be doing will be important. However . . .’ his voice fell almost to a whisper, ‘there’s another reason why I want you here.’

  Loman looked at him but did not speak.

  Hawklan turned to Isloman to ensure he was included in the conversation. ‘When the messengers go out tomorrow to tell the villages what’s been discussed and decided here, I want you to send private letters to those men who fought with you in the Morlider War. Ask them to come here, quietly, but quickly.’

  The starlight caught the glimmer of a smile on Loman’s face.

  He nodded, though still did not speak.

  ‘When you’ve all finished your reminiscences, I want you to set down everything you can remember about the way the war was fought. Weapons, dispositions of men, tactics, supplies, command structures . . . everything.’

  Isloman chuckled, and Loman’s smile broadened. Hawklan looked at both of them quizzically.

  ‘I think you must have eaten some of those books, Hawklan,’ said Isloman. ‘Dispositions, command structures, indeed.’ His tone was full of mock disparagement and Loman laughed out loud in agreement. For an instant Hawklan felt inclined to be indignant but the mood passed almost immediately and he smiled.

  ‘All right, all right, you two seasoned warriors. Have your fun.’ Then poking Loman in the chest with his forefinger, ‘But get your old comrades in arms here and get the job done. Then you can take my place in the Library and start looking for all the books you can find on the same subjects. Then see if you feel like laughing.’

  His tone became more serious. ‘Aynthinn spoke as only the very wise and the very foolish can. He told us the obvious. He showed us what was in front of our faces. We must learn from the experiences of the past. There’s no point in relearning bitter old lessons the hard way. It’s not a rule confined to carving. I doubt any of those High Guards ever lifted a sword in anger before, but they were trained and disciplined, and they took a considerable toll of those Mandrocs. We’ve none like that if we should ever need them.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think we’ll need to defend ourselves like that, do you?’ said Isloman anxiously.

  Hawklan shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘But misled though they might have been, those High Guards came deep into Orthlund for no good cause, and those Mandrocs marched in, in armed force, prepared to commit murder. Only through good luck did we stop the one, and we could do nothing about the other. I think it’d be unwise to note those two facts and then imagine they couldn’t happen again.’

  He started up one of the broad stairways that led up the main wall. The two brothers followed him in silence.

  ‘After the Morlider War, we want nothing to do with fighting, Hawklan,’ said Loman unequivocally.

  Hawklan stopped and, turning round, looked down at them. ‘I know
,’ he said. ‘I understand. But we may not have a choice. Sometimes people’s best endeavours can’t prevent it. You wouldn’t have spent part of your youth in Riddin doing what you did had it been otherwise, would you?’

  No answer coming, he turned round again and continued slowly up the stairs.

  ‘Hawklan, you’re not thinking about training an army, are you?’ said Isloman.

  The words seemed to hover in the soft night air, as if fearful of spreading their message.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking about, Isloman,’ said Hawklan. ‘But consider. If they’d wished to, those Mandrocs could’ve swept through a dozen villages before anyone knew what was happening. And then what resistance could we have made?’ He stopped on a landing where the stairway met one of the buttresses to the Great Gate. A sudden surge of anger rose up inside him and with a grimace he slapped his hand hard against the wall.

  ‘None!’ he exclaimed viciously.

  Loman and Isloman both started at the unexpected violence of this ejaculation.

  Hawklan swung his arm in a horizontal cutting movement. ‘None at all. The only thing that would’ve stopped those Mandrocs sweeping over the entire country in a matter of days is fatigue.’ He slumped against the wall, frowning.

  Neither Loman nor Isloman seemed inclined to argue this statement. There was little point. Hawklan was right, even though his implied conclusion left them more than uncomfortable. Isloman ran his big hand over the stonework tenderly, seeking solace in its ancient crafting.

  ‘Aynthinn was right,’ he said. ‘We must have been going downhill for generations. It’s all around us in this Castle. We should be better than our ancestors, not worse. Whether we’ve lost something or whether it’s been stolen doesn’t really matter, does it? Somewhere we’ve betrayed a trust. We’ve let the old crafts deteriorate to the point where even the Great Harmony suffers. And, now, ill things come in from the outside and we’re unprepared.’ He sat down slowly on the steps and rested his head against the wall.