The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

Several others joined in. ‘That’s right, Rede. They’ve done nothing. Gister accused them of being spies and Uskal started the fight.’

  ‘But the horse won,’ came a delighted laugh, which again had Gister searching the crowd. Many of the others joined in, but several were still quiet and unsure.

  ‘I know you all,’ shouted Gister petulantly. ‘Don’t think I don’t see you. You’re all traitors, I’ll repo . . .’

  ‘Gister.’

  The Rede’s interruption stopped the man in mid-sentence. For a moment the two men locked gazes and, although it was Gister who turned away first, Hawklan noticed that the old man was uncomfortable in his authority. He felt again that Gister drew his confidence and power from others, presumably outside the village.

  The Rede came down the steps and walked across to Hawklan; he had a slight limp. Hawklan had rendered Uskal unconscious in order to set the bones that Serian’s hoof had so casually shattered and, laying the man down gently, he stood up and spoke to the watching Rede.

  ‘I’ve set the damaged bones, but he’ll have to be strapped up and properly nursed,’ he said. ‘He should be taken to your healer right away.’ He looked down at the unconscious figure. ‘I’m afraid that arm’s never going to be quite right though,’ he said.

  The Rede grunted non-committally and then gestured in a direction over Hawklan’s shoulder. Turning, Hawklan saw a pale-faced, lightly built man moving through the crowd. He wore what Hawklan took to be a robe of office although, from the stains and dust on it, it was obviously also a working robe. Followed by a group of excited children who had obviously summoned him, the man moved straight to the fallen Uskal, confirming Hawklan’s first impression that he was the local healer.

  Hawklan bowed slightly to the Rede. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said and, kneeling down by the healer, he explained what he had done to ease Uskal’s immediate distress. He took the man’s hands and moved them over Uskal’s arm and shoulder. The healer closed his eyes and then opened them with a start. They were wide with surprise. In an awed whisper he said, ‘You must be Hawklan from . . .’ But a look in Hawklan’s green eyes silenced him.

  ‘Shh, please,’ said Hawklan under his breath. ‘I gave your friends a false name. You can tell I mean no harm, but it may be difficult with the others. They’re in a strange mood. Tend to your charge. I have to speak with your Rede.’

  Like a humble acolyte at the feet of a great master, the man nodded and quickly gave orders to some of the men in the crowd for the removal of Uskal to his home. Then, turning to Hawklan, ‘Your healing . . . we must speak, sir. Before you leave the village. Please. There’s so much I could learn from you.’ Then, a little abashed at his forwardness, ‘I’d consider it an honour.’

  Hawklan smiled at the man. ‘If I can,’ he said. ‘But . . .’ He cast a quick glance at the watching people.

  Standing, he found that the Rede had moved away and was contending with a now recovered Gister, who was hovering at his shoulder.

  ‘They’re spies, Rede. Look at them,’ he said, his eyes flicking from the Rede to Hawklan.

  The old man waved him to silence irritably but offered him no other rebuke.

  ‘I apologize for your welcome to our village, sir,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘But times are troubled and there are many strange rumours in the air. I have to confess that your appearance is unusual, with your fine bow and sword, and . . .’ He looked at Serian intently, and a note of considerable surprise came into his voice, ‘and your Muster horse if I’m not mistaken.’

  Hawklan sensed this was a sop being thrown to Gister for some reason.

  ‘But that’s no reason for treating you as we have,’ the Rede continued. ‘Please join me for a meal then we can talk at our leisure and sort out any misunderstandings.’

  Hawklan accepted the offer gratefully and with a conspicuous show of relief.

  ‘Go back to your homes,’ said the Rede to the crowd. ‘I’ll find out who these people are, make amends for our discourtesy and do what is necessary.’ His remarks however were largely superfluous, as the people were already drifting away, some talking excitedly, some quietly, and others affecting amused tolerance of the children who had now appeared and were running among them mimicking Uskal’s crouching advance with the sickle and Serian’s mighty kick.

  Gister stood alone, fists clenched, irresolute and lowering.

  The Rede spoke to him with a barely contained anger. ‘Gister, you know what I think of your ranting and your foolish ideas. I’ll tolerate a lot, but you go too far. You should have more sense. Uskal’s a half-mad dog at best, without you encouraging him.’

  Gister burst out. ‘I go too far. I go too far. It’s you who go too far. Consorting with enemies of the King. Helping them evade justice . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ said the Rede, his anger exploding. ‘Or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’ said Gister in a tone that amounted to a sneer. ‘You’ll call a Pentadrol? Talk the enemies of the King to death?’

  ‘The Pentadrol is for restrained and reasoned argument, Gister. If I thought you were amenable to that I’d call one without hesitation,’ replied the Rede, but as the old man turned away and beckoned him to follow, Hawklan knew that he had lost his argument with Gister. He presumed that the Pentadrol was some form of village forum whose effectiveness Gister had somehow contrived to undermine. What was happening in this country?

  The Rede walked carefully up the steps to his residence. He signalled to a young man standing nearby and asked him to attend to the newcomers’ horses.

  Hawklan intervened. ‘Thank you, Rede,’ he said. ‘But we must attend to our own horses.’

  The old man nodded and smiled knowingly. ‘Of course,’ he said after a moment. ‘Tel-Mindor will show you to the stables.’ He raised his hand and a well-built, loose-limbed figure appeared at the top of the steps. Although the man was probably middle-aged, Hawklan was reminded immediately of Jaldaric and the other High Guards. His carriage showed he was active and vigorous, but there was another quality about him which Hawklan could not readily identify. The man returned Hawklan’s smile of greeting easily, but Hawklan was intrigued. The young man would have made a perfectly adequate guide to the stables, but the Rede obviously wanted someone of his own to accompany them. To eavesdrop? To restrain? The man’s movements were unusually fluid and economical and something deep inside Hawklan began to whisper that he was not a man to be assailed lightly. Protection? Probably the most likely reason. Gister and his following did not look like the type of people who would refrain from ambush on moral grounds. Then again maybe the old man was just protecting his political flank from subsequent accusations. In any event, whatever the reason, it showed him to be a man of some discernment, and one worth cultivating.

  A little later the three of them joined the Rede in his private rooms where he offered them food and drink. The room was cluttered with papers, documents and all manner of objects which indicated a full, active and acquisitive life. It needed no great powers of observation to see that no woman blessed the Rede’s life and that he had once been a military man. The sheer disorder of the place demonstrated the first, while the second was apparent from the quantities of swords, knives, bows, axes, pieces of armour and countless other military relics that littered the place.

  Hawklan noticed that those weapons which were obviously decorative and ceremonial were scattered about indiscriminately, lying on chairs, under tables, idling on shelves or standing sentinel-like in corners, while a handful of others, scarred and bruised in real earnest, were solicitously mounted in cabinets around the walls.

  Pride of place seemed to go to a battered helm with a great leering dent spreading down from its crown to just over the left eye. Hawklan’s gaze flickered to the Rede’s forehead in search of a scar, but the man was sitting with his back to the window, and it was difficult to see his face.

  ‘We ran into Mandrocs on one of the Watch Patrols into Narsindal,’ said the old man, answering the unspoken question and ru
bbing his head ruefully. The remark seemed to bring back old memories and the rubbing became pensive. ‘It was odd you know. Usually if we saw any at all they’d keep their distance – disappear into the mist. But this lot came out of nowhere, went straight for us, and then vanished before we could recover fully. Like skirmishers almost . . . organized . . . as if they were practicing on us. I’ve always felt that very strange . . .’ He fell silent.

  Hawklan watched him for a moment before speaking. ‘I thought perhaps you’d been in the Morlider War,’ he said.

  The Rede came out of his reverie abruptly. ‘Oh, I was,’ he said. ‘Later on.’ Then tapping his finger on the side of his nose, ‘But I was older and wiser then. Never let anyone get that close again, I can assure you, Hawklan.’

  Hawklan’s eyes widened at the sound of his name and Isloman casually rested his hand on his club. Tel-Mindor, sitting near the door, noted the movement and smiled briefly.

  Rede Berryn leaned forward. ‘I was a training officer in the High Guards, Hawklan. I can hear a smart-alec whisper from eight ranks back.’

  Hawklan shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he managed awkwardly.

  The Rede picked up a small fruit from a dish by his arm and chuckled as he began to nibble it fastidiously, his eyes watching Hawklan steadily.

  ‘I think the wisest thing you could say, Hawklan, is “Rede Berryn, I’m the worst spy and the worst actor in the whole world”, then perhaps the two of us can talk some sense. Truth for truth.’

  Hawklan smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. ‘I’d prefer it,’ he said. ‘I don’t sit easily with deceit.’

  The Rede chuckled. ‘No, you certainly don’t, Hawklan. You might be a fighter, but you’ve never been a ranker with an officer to deceive.’ Both he and Tel Mindor laughed loudly but good-naturedly.

  As they subsided, Hawklan conceded. ‘You’re right, Rede, I am indeed a poor actor, and I do owe you an apology. But I’m neither spy nor fighter. I’m just a healer.’

  The old man looked at him narrowly for a moment, then, stretching his right leg stiffly, he massaged his knee with his hand and rested his foot on a well-worn stool nearby.

  ‘We’re very near Orthlund here,’ he said. ‘There’ve been tales for years of a great healer, Hawklan, living in some village by the mountains. Even thought of going to see him myself . . .’ He paused reflectively then shrugged off his digression. ‘Anyway, I’m inclined to believe you. You’ve got a healer’s way about you, and I’ll trust our little healer’s response to you; he’s a good man, very perceptive.’ Then, almost in spite of himself, he laughed again. ‘Poor lad looked as if he’d met one of the Guardians when you took hold of his hands and he’s quite incapable of anything other than an honest response.’ His laughter subsided and he went on, more seriously, ‘As for you being a fighter and a spy, well you’re no ordinary traveller, that’s for sure. Nor your silent friend here.’ He indicated the watching Isloman. ‘That little charade with Uskal and Gister wouldn’t fool anyone with half an eye for a warrior. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were sorely tempted to use your sword on that oaf’s head at one stage, weren’t you?’ He did not wait for an answer, but patted his knee and eased his foot back down on to the floor. ‘Anyway, I’m not too bothered about that. You’ve got your own reasons for doing what you’re doing and you’d be hard-pressed to hurt Fyorlund much more than it’s hurting itself at the moment.’ His voice was bitter. ‘What’s more to the point is what we’re going to say to the Mathidrin when they arrive.’

  ‘Mathidrin?’ queried Hawklan.

  The Rede’s face was still in shadow, but the bitterness and anger in his voice was clear enough. ‘They started off calling them King’s High Guard. King’s High Guard no less. Then when that provoked a storm they changed the name. That’s a fine way to legalize a crime, don’t you think? Change its name.’

  Hawklan offered no comment. ‘And these Mathidrin will be coming for us?’ he asked.

  The Rede nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Gister will have sent one of his fellow worms along the valley to their camp.’

  ‘I presume it would be unwise of us to attempt to avoid them?’ Hawklan said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Rede. ‘It’d be difficult, even if you knew the mountains. And Gister’s people will be watching for you as well.’ He hesitated.

  ‘And?’ offered Hawklan.

  ‘And I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay here until they arrive. Gister has a growing following. If I were to release you against orders, that would play right into his hands, and what little authority I still have here would be gone.’ His voice was firm, but unhappy.

  ‘Orders, Rede?’ Hawklan said in some surprise. ‘What orders? What’s happening here?’

  The Rede turned away from Hawklan’s gaze and the sun illuminated an embarrassed and worried profile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t talk like this, but seeing you out there, dealing with those louts . . . I don’t know what’s happening. It’s like some kind of madness. Dissension and argument everywhere. The Geadrol suspended. Lords arrested. These . . . Mathidrin . . . arresting and intimidating people. And all seemingly with the King’s blessing – or Dan-Tor’s. And rumours everywhere, even that the Orthlundyn are preparing to attack us. Have you ever heard such rubbish? Good grief, there’s only a handful of them down there . . .’ Then the bitterness and anger burst out briefly. ‘But it’s too much to ask someone from Vakloss to go and look, isn’t it? That’s far too simple a solution. As for listening to people like me, who live here and could tell them . . .’

  Hawklan let the outburst pass unremarked. ‘What do these Mathidrin want of us, Rede?’ he asked.

  The Rede’s tone quietened. ‘Ethriss knows, Hawklan, but you’re strangers from Orthlund, and I’ve quite unequivocal orders from Vakloss that all strangers are to be detained and handed over to the Mathidrin. I’m sorry.’

  Hawklan leaned his head on his hand. ‘Detained eh?’ he said with a surprising smile. ‘I thought there was more to Tel-Mindor than met the eye.’

  The Rede shrugged regretfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  Isloman grunted and turned to look at Tel-Mindor sitting casually by the door. The man returned his gaze steadily but pleasantly. Isloman’s eyes narrowed slightly as if he were looking for something. Then he made a brief series of small hand movements. Tel-Mindor’s composure disappeared and his eyes widened in disbelief. Isloman raised a finger to silence him, then turned back to Hawklan.

  ‘Tell the Rede why we’ve come, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We’ll get an honest hearing and it’s going to be difficult to tell friend from foe soon.’

  Rede Berryn watched this exchange closely, his fingers idly running around a raised embellishment on the plate by his side. He looked enquiringly at Tel-Mindor.

  ‘Listen,’ Tel-Mindor said. The Rede nodded.

  Hawklan looked at Isloman. ‘Quickly, Hawklan,’ said the Carver. ‘We may not have much time.’

  Hawklan glanced then at Tel-Mindor, who nodded. He turned again to the Rede. ‘Rede, I’m sorry about the false names, but I was uncertain about the mood of the crowd and from what’s happened to me recently I thought our names – mine in particular – might not be helpful.’ He leaned forward. ‘We came here to see what’s wrong in Fyorlund and to find your Lord Dan-Tor.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the Rede.

  Hawklan took a deep breath. He had no way of judging this man’s loyalties, he would just have to trust Isloman’ s judgement. Briefly he outlined how Dan-Tor had twice tried to capture him and how his second attempt had resulted in the slaughter of his entire personal guard at the hands of a patrol led by Mathidrin officers. Some inner voice held him silent about the true nature of this patrol.

  As he spoke, it occurred to him that even now, sitting in this chaotic room, looking into the face of his jailer host dark against the sunlight, he might still only be following a carefully laid bait. He set the thought aside uneasily.
<
br />   The mood in the room had changed. Without looking, Hawklan could feel a new intensity in Tel-Mindor, and he knew too that the look in Rede Berryn’s shaded eyes had hardened.

  ‘Who was the leader of this personal guard?’ the Rede asked coldly.

  ‘Jaldaric,’ replied Hawklan. ‘As I told you, it was him the patrol came for, and it was only him who survived. The last we saw of him he was tied over a horse and being taken to Fyorlund.’

  A long silence weighed heavily in the room.

  ‘Hawklan,’ said the Rede eventually. ‘I’ve had it whispered to me by a trusted friend in Vakloss that the Lord Dan-Tor was on a friendly mission to Orthlund and that he was driven out by the Orthlundyn. Frankly I didn’t believe it. I think my friend has been misinformed, perhaps deliberately so. As I said, we’re very close to Orthlund here. But your story verges on the ridiculous. Why in Ethriss’s name would anyone want to capture some Orthlundyn healer, however well known? And as for a Mathidrin patrol attacking the Lord Dan-Tor’s personal guard . . .’ He made a gesture of angry dismissal.

  Hawklan looked at Isloman and then back at the Rede. ‘Rede, there’s something about the patrol I didn’t tell you, because even without it I knew my story would be difficult to believe, but . . .’

  Isloman interrupted. ‘No, Hawklan,’ he said firmly, ‘he won’t believe you, but he might believe me.’ And standing up he walked across to the battered helm that had caught Hawklan’s eye earlier. He lifted it down respectfully and, holding it in front of him, he spoke to the Rede in the High Guard’s Battle Language. Hawklan did not understand it, but twice he caught the word Mandroocai.

  The reaction was explosive, as the Rede angrily rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his leg as he did so. ‘You’re lying,’ he burst out. ‘And you profane our Oath with such a swearing.’ Then he stopped, suddenly uncertain. His confusion made him belligerent. ‘How do you know our Battle Language and our Oath, Orthlundyn?’

  Isloman did not reply, but turned and looked at Tel-Mindor. ‘Goraidin,’ he said quietly. ‘I release you from our Oath of Secrecy. Tell him who I am and whether I would lie.’ Tel-Mindor’s easy composure had left him at Isloman’s speech. Shock, diagnosed the healer in Hawklan. Fairly massive shock at that. And the Rede too. Tel-Mindor hesitated.