The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Tell him, Goraidin,’ said Isloman powerfully. ‘How can your Rede decide without information?’

  Tel-Mindor looked up, his face pale, but his composure returning rapidly. ‘Rede,’ he said, ‘this is Isloman, one of the two brothers who rode with Dirfrin and the Goraidin in Riddin. He is Goraidin. Hawklan has his trust and his sword arm, and his word’s beyond reproach. We must accept what he says. Armed Mandrocs have been led into Orthlund by Mathidrin officers and have slaughtered the Lord Dan-Tor’s personal guard.’

  The Rede leaned forward to speak, but Tel-Mindor raised his hand abruptly for silence and moved towards the window. As he opened it, the sound of raised voices and the clatter of horses’ hooves washed into the room.

  Chapter 28

  Patterns, patterns, patterns. Dan-Tor sensed the presence of other minds working contrary to his purpose, but their shape and form, and not least, their nucleus, eluded him. He tried to shrug the idea away, but it was reluctant to leave him. The King had started the avalanche, now he, Dan-Tor, had to ride it out through the dust and uproar until all was quiet and the new shape of the land could be surveyed. It was inevitable that opposition would arise and swirl about him from time to time, but while it had no centre, surely it offered no real threat?

  These creatures do so look to a leader, he thought. One of their few virtues. They actively seek to be controlled and manipulated. He had debated with himself whether he should allow a leader to arise and then control him, or whether he should extinguish any hopefuls before they became aware of their potential. On balance, he decided, the latter was preferable. Let the crowds spend their energies milling about aimlessly. There were too many risks associated with a leader. No matter how well he might be controlled, one misjudgement and he could be free, and Dan-Tor knew too bitterly what an inspired leader could bring from the people. It was too dangerous. So much easier to douse the tiny sparks before they flared up into what could become an uncontrollable blaze.

  Now, however, he found that he could not escape the feeling that a leader had already emerged. One of cunning and experience; one who knew sufficient of the ways of men to keep himself hidden from view while he built up his strength. Working quietly in the shadows until he felt the time was ripe.

  Walking to the window, Dan-Tor looked down at the heart of the city nestling around the Palace walls. The pattern of its streets was distorted by long shadows carved out of the bright rays of the setting sun by countless tiny buildings. Even from this height he could see people walking on the sunnier streets, trailing their own great shadows with them. Is it one of them I fear? he thought consolingly. Tiny people with giants’ shadows?

  But the name Hawklan wandered relentlessly into his mind. The man was loose and was by now aware of danger. All that he heard of him in Orthlund indicated he was just a healer, but a man who commanded so much spontaneous affection was a man to be watched; and a man who saw so clearly and who so evaded his traps, aided or no, was a man who could usefully be feared, be he Ethriss or no. He was at least a flickering spark, and it irked Dan-Tor that it was his impetuosity that might have fanned him into life.

  And I’m blind, he thought angrily as he watched a small bird land on the windowsill unaware of the man’s brooding presence behind the glass. One of his birds had been bound, and it was the nature of the creature that to bind one part was to bind all. But that required great power, the Old Power. Blind or no, he could now see what that implied. Who could wield the Old Power thus except the Cadwanol? They must indeed still exist. It was a bad omen. Though it seemed they had let Hawklan escape . . .

  He shook off the thought, knowing it would lead only to a fretting labyrinth of confusion. His gaze fell again on the preening bird. To release his own birds he would have to use the Old Power himself, and massively, and He had expressly forbidden that. Hawklan even as Hawklan was proving disruptive, but if Hawklan were Ethriss then such a rending use of the Old Power would awaken him for sure, and Hawklan as Ethriss would be doom itself.

  Dan-Tor’s spies now were human – slow, foolish and unreliable. To use them reminded him too much of his own erstwhile humanity. It was a degradation.

  The bird on the sill lifted an elegant black and white wing, and its plumed head bobbed to and fro as it preened and shook itself proudly. Dan-Tor watched it for a moment then narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly. Without a sound, the bird vanished in a burst of red spray, and a cascade of black and white feathers began a long oscillating journey towards the ground far below. Dan-Tor turned away, a thin smile across his wrinkled brown face. Such a slight use of the Old Power could disturb no one – except the recipient.

  Sitting, he stared out of the window again, seeing now only a blank sky blanched almost white in the setting sun. His mind was tempted to flit and fret after the missing Hawklan, but a deeper voice forbade it. Even a pack leader must leave tracks, it said. If he seeks you, you’ll know of his presence when he has your scent, then who will be hunter and who hunted?

  He nodded reflectively and bent over the papers spread before him. They drew his mind back to his own chains. Confound Dilrap, buzzing endlessly around like a fit bluebottle. It took a considerable effort not to swat him, but he was useful, valuable almost, for all his irritating mannerisms and shrinking temperament. He knew the minutiae of the Law and of the Court procedures that were needed to manipulate events smoothly. Better at this stage to unravel the knots than cut through them. Time enough for that later, and that time would come the sooner if patience were used now.

  Strangely, however, Dilrap seemed to be thriving on it. Briefly it occurred to Dan-Tor that, although terrified of him, Dilrap seemed to be deliberately seeking his attention, going out of his way to be helpful. It was out of character surely? Then perhaps Dilrap could feel which way the wind was blowing and was ingratiating himself thoroughly with the leader of the new order that he could see coming.

  Still, it was of no matter. He was needed now, and his co-operation was fortuitous whatever its motive. Later, he would not be needed and his motivation would be irrelevant. That the mass of time-consuming paperwork, meetings and petty civic duties – ‘For the sake of appearance, Lord’, twitch – was being created by Dilrap to distract him, never occurred to Dan-Tor.

  Reluctantly he turned to the latest batch of papers that Dilrap had left for him. The first was a thick document concerning the ‘Rights and Privileges of Honourable Prisoners’.

  ‘It’s a very long time since any Lords have been arrested, Lord,’ Dilrap had said. ‘But it has happened in the past, and provision has been made within the Law for such a contingency.’ Dan-Tor had looked skyward and Dilrap had quailed.

  ‘Lord,’ he said, in a great flurry of jerks and twitches, ‘if I know of this, then those looking to the Lords’ interest will know of it. If not now, then soon.’

  ‘They have no one looking to their interests, Honoured Secretary,’ Dan-Tor replied, tight-lipped. ‘Save us. They’re held by Special Edict. They see only their guards, and any of their friends who dare to show their faces see only yourself – or me.’

  ‘This is true, Lord, but . . .’ Dan-Tor drew in a loud breath and stood up very straight. Dilrap babbled out his reservations frantically. ‘Lord. The Special Edict is an Edict of Examination, it relates only to their detention. A trial must be held eventually. They’ll have friends who’ll emerge when that happens, and those friends will be looking at the Law now, with that end in mind. If we’re faulted on small details there’s no telling what it might lead to. The people are . . .’

  ‘The people are what?’ demanded Dan-Tor stonily.

  Dilrap cast about, becoming progressively more flustered as Dan-Tor’s eyes looked through him. ‘Uncertain,’ he said at last. ‘Uncertain.’

  Dan-Tor did not speak. Dilrap became confidential, shifty almost. Carefully not looking at the Lord, he said, ‘The four Lords . . . traitors, have many friends and are loved by many of the people, albeit misguidedly. The demand for an early trial
will persist – grow, even.’ He lifted his eyes and gazed straight at Dan-Tor. ‘And only a trial will expose the truth of their treachery. We must observe the forms of the Law. If we don’t, then we undermine our case and it will be doomed from the start. You know what these lawyers are like. If then we detain the Lords, who knows what the people might do. And if the Lords are allowed free . . .’ He left the implications unstated.

  Dan-Tor felt Dilrap’s forked stick pinning him to the ground. The serpent pinned by the worm. But it would be vain to struggle. The Mathidrin could perhaps control rioting within Vakloss and some of the other large towns, but there were too few to control the whole country, and the news of an illegal detention would bring an armed and angry population down on Vakloss like a tidal wave. It was not in his interests to have Fyorlund torn by civil strife. Far better that the people be gradually wooed to him. Let the slow corruption continue. The King’s contribution must be ridden out peacefully.

  ‘We mustn’t cede these traitors their victory by tempting the people to rash action or by foolishly ensuring their release,’ he said coldly. ‘Let me have details of these provisions for the arrest of Lords.’

  Dilrap risked a brief knowing smile and, hitching his gown on to his shoulders, bowed and retreated. As he reached the door, Dan-Tor pointed a long brown finger at him.

  ‘Briefly, Dilrap. Briefly,’ he said.

  Now Dan-Tor stared at the results of this admonition. Sheet upon sheet of closely written script, laden with column annotations, footnotes, cross-references and, at a quick glance, some of the densest legal prose that the Law of Fyorlund could produce. He would have to read it of course. Dilrap’s observations had been too accurate for him to ignore. He glanced irritably at the pale light washing in through the window and clicked a globe into life. Its glare dimmed the evening sky outside and cast harsh shadows around his room. Their clarity relaxed him.

  Far below, in the darkening streets, a few people noticed the harsh white light appear in the tower wall, like an inhuman eye peering out over the City. Those who knew it for what it was were divided: some saw it as the Lord Dan-Tor working tirelessly to assuage the confusion and disorder that seemed to be sweeping the country, while others, a touch wiser, presumed he was plotting yet more schemes and devilment to undermine the ancient way of life of the Fyordyn. Both camps seemed to find less and less on which they could stand and debate rationally, let alone agree. Both noted a sourness and anger seeping into their lives that they had never known before, and each was inclined to look to the other for the cause.

  Further below still, the four Lords indeed plotted and schemed. Their brief foray from their cell, especially that of Hreldar and Darek, had told them where they were, but that knowledge was of limited value. It served mainly to confirm that, to escape their prison, they would need good fortune and more than a little help from the outside.

  After their initial euphoria, they lapsed a little into a darker mood as they pondered the problems ahead of them. They found it interesting that there had been no repercussions from their escapade. Hreldar, with Darek’s help, had made a slow and convincing recovery once he had reached fresh air, and had shown no further symptoms since, but Arinndier now made a conspicuous point of looking suspiciously at all their food, and of talking to the guards who brought it. After a while the chore devolved on to a single kitchen servant who bore Arinndier’s scrutiny with a surly indifference.

  Eldric was of the opinion that the incident had not risen very far up the ranks of the Mathidrin. ‘They made a mistake, and they don’t want Dan-Tor to find out about it, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve found an interesting weakness in our jailers with our little piece of theatre.’

  Arinndier raised his eyebrows to request an elaboration of this remark.

  Eldric obliged. ‘These people aren’t like our High Guards. They’ve not entered a service because of duty or tradition. They’ve entered it for some form of personal gain. Wherever they’ve been dredged from they’ve got all the earmarks of ex-prisoners and misfits, and there’s more than a few foreigners among them, judging by some of the accents we’ve heard. I’ll wager that such honour as they have is easily purchased.’

  ‘So?’ queried Arinndier.

  ‘So they play barrack-room politics, Arin,’ continued Eldric. ‘They’ll form cliques and factions. War amongst themselves for kudos in the eyes of their superiors.’

  Arinndier was unimpressed. ‘Our own people do that, Eldric,’ he said.

  Eldric waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, yes,’ he conceded. ‘But on the whole they put their service before themselves and, if anything serious happens, they’ll come forward and admit it.’ He levelled a probing finger. ‘Dan-Tor never heard about what we did. We’d have been moved or separated by now if he had. Someone, somewhere, stopped the news going further.’

  ‘So what?’ Arinndier maintained his indifference. Eldric scowled and Arinndier looked insincerely apologetic.

  ‘Any soldier with a grain of sense, Arin, would know that what we did should’ve been reported right up to the top. It was unusual and highly suspicious behaviour.’ He sat down by Arinndier and tapped his arm significantly. ‘They didn’t even send so much as a horse healer to look at Hreldar after he’d started to look well again.’ He paused. ‘They don’t trust their superiors. They’re frightened. Either of punishment or lack of advancement. But whatever the reason, they don’t trust them.’ Arinndier sat quiet awhile considering the implications of Eldric’s observations. The analysis seemed reasonable. The Mathidrin could well be disciplined by fear, or greed, while the High Guards were disciplined by respect and honour. The Mathidrin would be bound together reluctantly while the High Guards sustained one another willingly.

  He nodded. ‘So we learn what we can about each one individually. Encourage them in gossip. Bind them with petty corruptions where we can.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Eldric, clapping his hands together. ‘Play their own game. We know where we are now. We know our well-being’s a matter of some concern to them. Let’s find out more about who holds us. Let’s start a little more rot growing in the roots of these creations of Dan-Tor’s.’

  Above them, the City continued its uneasy life in the mellow summer gloaming, until the street globes burst abruptly into life and washed away the soft shadows with their harsh light. It was a regular evening occurrence greeted by some with relief and by others with irritation. But normally, all left the streets. It was the wisest thing to do in these troubled times. The light held exposure. The dark shadows, treachery.

  Chapter 29

  Rede Berryn glanced out of the window at the Mathidrin patrol, then picked up a pen and began writing rapidly.

  ‘Go and bring that Sirshiant up, Tel,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Don’t rush. And look pleasantly surprised,’ he added as an afterthought.

  Then to Hawklan and Isloman, ‘I can’t stop them taking you, but I think I can smooth the way a little. This lad’s a bit nasty, but he’s more ambition than intelligence and I can usually handle him.’ He looked at the two men. ‘Stay seated until I introduce you.’

  There was a discreet knock at the door and Tel-Mindor entered, followed by a sour-faced young Mathidrin officer carrying his helmet under his arm. Hawklan noted immediately that beneath the man’s arrogance was an uncertain deference.

  ‘Sirshiant . . .’ began the Rede as he rose carefully to greet the newcomer. Then he paused and looked conspicuously at the man’s insignia. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Captain, I should say. Congratulations. When did that happen?’

  The young man looked down briefly and cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Two days ago, Rede,’ he replied. Then, deprecatingly, ‘It’s only a field commission, it probably won’t be confirmed, but . . .’

  The Rede waved the disclaimer aside. ‘I’m sure it will,’ he said heartily. ‘Don’t worry. Anyway, this may be your big chance. I’m very glad you dropped in.’ He proffered the note he had just written.
‘I was about to send a messenger to you with this.’ He continued speaking while the Captain was reading. ‘These two gentlemen are Isloman and the Lord Hawklan, envoys from Orthlund with papers for the Lord Dan-Tor.’ At the Rede’s discreet signal, Hawklan and Isloman both stood up and bowed to the young officer, who started slightly as he looked up and felt the presence of the two men filling the room. He returned the bow hesitantly, as though unused to such niceties, and his eyes flickered from them to the paper and back to the jovial face of the Rede as if for guidance.

  Again, before he could speak, the Rede plunged on, his tone concerned. ‘Unfortunately, Gister saw fit to accuse them of being bandits or something, and there’s been a bit of an incident – you know what he’s like – I’ll tell you about it later. Happily, no real harm’s been done but, while these gentlemen have very generously accepted my apologies, they’re obviously anxious to have some kind of escort for the rest of their journey. Can you help . . . Captain?’

  The Captain congratulated himself on not having taken Gister’s panic-stricken message too seriously: ‘Orthlundyn spies attacking the village’. He’d deal with that blockhead later. Whatever these two were, they were no ordinary travellers, anyone could see that. A rare fool he’d have made of himself if he’d come charging in with his full troop and arrested them. That would have put paid to his promotion beyond doubt, and probably earned him field punishment, if not worse. Interfering with a messenger to the Lord Dan-Tor! The thought of the consequences chilled him.

  In his relief he quickly re-ordered his camp duty rosters. ‘Some of the men are due to go back to Vakloss in a day or so, Rede,’ he said. ‘And I have routine reports to make. I’ll escort the envoys personally.’ And it’ll give me a chance to keep an eye on them, just in case Gister wasn’t completely wrong, came a cautionary thought.