The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Yes, Majesty,’ said Dilrap, hitching up his robe on to his shoulders.

  Sylvriss picked up the key gingerly. ‘How did you get it?’ she asked with some awe. She had just returned from riding and, dressed in her riding clothes, with flushed face and shining eyes, she looked magnificent. Dilrap basked in the radiance and beamed rather inanely until he realized what he was doing, then he stammered and fluttered alarmingly.

  ‘The cellars in the Westerclave are only part of the old servants’ quarters, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I think the King surprised more than the Lords when he had them arrested. Apparently nothing was ready, but even the Mathidrin knew that Lords couldn’t be kept in the ordinary cells, so they put them in this little suite of rooms temporarily, until the Lord Dan-Tor returned. But like most temporary arrangements it soon became permanent.’

  ‘But the key, Dilrap,’ said Sylvriss. ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘From the locksmith, Majesty,’ came the reply.

  The Queen’s face darkened a little. ‘Is he to be trusted?’ she asked.

  Dilrap’s manner was reassuring. ‘Majesty, it doesn’t . . .’

  Sylvriss silenced him abruptly with a sudden but discreet hand movement.

  ‘Honoured Secretary,’ she said, quite loudly. ‘I assure you, you worry unnecessarily.’

  Dilrap looked nervously into those soft brown eyes for confirmation of the presence he felt behind him. The Queen stood up, and, casually placing the key in her pocket, stepped around him and walked towards the tall figure standing silently in the doorway.

  ‘Lord Dan-Tor,’ she said. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. We see so little of you these days. Perhaps you could assure the Honoured Secretary that his concern for me is unnecessary.’

  ‘Majesty?’ said Dan-Tor, puzzled.

  The Queen levelled a gently accusatory hand at Dilrap, who felt he was now sufficiently composed to turn and face the unexpected visitor. ‘He fears I’m too diligent in the nursing of my husband. He fears I may preserve the King’s health at the cost of my own.’

  ‘Majesty,’ said Dan-Tor. ‘The Honoured Secretary’s concern does him credit. The healer’s burden can be heavy, especially when an illness is as intractable and unpredictable as the King’s. I regret that the problems of State have prevented my helping the King as I have in the past, but—’

  Sylvriss interrupted him. ‘Lord Dan-Tor. It’s more important to the King that you continue to carry the burden of State, heavy though it may be. He’s quiet now, but far from well, and the merest mention of State affairs unsettles him. Sadly I cannot carry your healer’s burden, or I would.’ She became confidential and almost childlike. ‘But I can nurse him. I carry out your instructions meticulously. I give him his potions and tablets as you’ve prescribed and soothe him when he’s restless; it’s little enough but at least I feel that I am helping both him and you.’

  Dan-Tor looked at her enigmatically. ‘The King is indeed fortunate to have such a Queen, Majesty. But please remember that you must seek me out urgently if his condition deteriorates – no matter where I am. The King is the mainstay of the State. His well-being must override all other considerations.’

  ‘Of course, Lord Dan-Tor,’ said Sylvriss. ‘But I mustn’t burden you with the Honoured Secretary’s concerns, must I? What is it you wanted to see me about?’

  Dan-Tor affected diffidence. ‘At the risk of incurring your displeasure, Majesty, I had hoped to talk to you again about the matter of an escort for you when out riding.’

  Sylvriss raised her hand to stop him. ‘Now it’s you who’re too concerned, Lord Dan-Tor. I need no escort.’

  ‘Majesty,’ insisted Dan-Tor. ‘The times are unsettled. We’ve rioting and disturbances in our streets now, I can’t . . .’

  Sylvriss interrupted again. ‘Rest assured, Lord Dan-Tor, no one will harm me. Besides, where will you find horsemen in Fyorlund to escort me?’

  Dan-Tor conceded. ‘That’s true, Majesty. But I’m still concerned. If the situation becomes worse, I fear even your popularity won’t be shield enough.’

  ‘Lord Dan-Tor. I, above all, don’t wish to add to your many difficulties. If indeed the situation in the City worsens, then perhaps we’ll discuss this again. In the meantime, I beg of you, rest easy in your mind about my well-being.’

  Madam, you can break your stiff Riddin neck for all I care, Dan-Tor thought, but the blame would probably be laid at my feet. ‘As you wish, Majesty,’ he said reluctantly and, with a deep bow, he was gone.

  Sylvriss breathed out a long slow breath and closed her eyes briefly. Then taking out the key from her pocket she waved it at Dilrap. ‘The locksmith, Dilrap. Is he to be trusted?’

  Dilrap, still fidgety from the sudden intrusion of Dan-Tor, smiled nervously. ‘He doesn’t need to be trusted, Majesty. The key’s of a type that’s used for many rooms, he’s constantly making the like to replace lost ones. The boy noted the number when a guard dropped it.’

  Sylvriss nodded. ‘We must get it to the Lords immediately,’ she said resolutely.

  Dilrap threw up his hands in agitation. ‘Majesty, that will serve no purpose. The boy tells me that the door is bolted as well as locked. Besides, it couldn’t be done. He’s constantly watched when he’s with them and only able to communicate very cautiously with the Lords, using some secret sign language. We must be careful how we . . .’ He paused.

  ‘How we use him.’ Sylvriss finished his sentence. Dilrap bowed his head. ‘It’s a shameful word to admit to, Dilrap,’ she went on. ‘But it’s true, for all he’s a willing agent. We must be careful what we ask of him, and you’re right to remind me. I mustn’t let my distance and security make me callous.’

  Or careless, she thought. If the boy were exposed, then so also would be Dilrap and herself, and Sylvriss knew that if that happened, Dan-Tor would take delight in destroying her helpers while leaving her untouched. He would relish silently laying their agony at her feet.

  She slipped the key into her pocket. ‘This is important even if we can’t use it immediately,’ she said. ‘Tell the boy he’s done well, and to take great care.’

  * * * *

  A group of Mathidrin rode into one of the small squares that were liberally dotted about Vakloss. The brightly decorated houses and shops looked gay in the strong sunshine, and the trees swayed busily in the breeze. The square was littered with stalls and a large crowd was milling around, buying, selling, bartering, arguing, laughing.

  The hubbub fell slightly as the Mathidrin entered, a small knot of black intruding into the coloured throng, but it picked up almost immediately, and seemed in fact to rise to a new pitch.

  The leader of the Mathidrin looked around bleakly at the happy crowd. Over at the far corner of the square he saw another group of Mathidrin sitting drinking in front of a shop. He sniffed, and his mouth curled in an unpleasant sneer. Then, casually, he raised his right hand and idly rubbed the side of his nose. Nearby stood a stall which glittered and sparkled with mirrors and crystal ornaments. The stallholder looked up at the black rider thoughtfully for a moment and then walked towards him, his face breaking into a broad smile.

  ‘Welcome to our little market, sirs,’ he said. The Mathidrin made no response. Unabashed, the man continued, addressing the whole patrol through its leader. ‘May I offer you a drink, gentlemen? Or perhaps I can find you bargains for your ladies.’

  He winked.

  The leader looked down at him contemptuously, sighed and then, turning away, jerked his horse’s reins. The horse moved sideways and bumped into the smiling man. He staggered and muttered something.

  The Mathidrin leader spun round, eyes blazing. ‘What did you say?’ he growled.

  The stallholder held his gaze, all smiles gone. He spoke loudly and clearly. ‘I said, be careful what you’re doing with your nag, cockroach.’

  There was a gasp from the crowd in the immediate vicinity and a space opened around him. The two men stared at one another and slowly the square be
came quiet. Women started to lead their children away urgently. The Mathidrin drinking on the far side of the square stood up to see what was happening and several of them began to move forward expectantly, pushing their way deep into the crowd.

  Then, into the silence, came the harsh, rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps. The rider and the stallholder paused and within seconds a Mathidrin foot patrol entered the square. The insulted leader stood in his stirrups and signalled to it. It turned towards him urgently, but its formation soon became extended and fragmented as it manoeuvred along the congested aisles between the stalls. The crowd closed silently around it like water round the hull of a passing ship.

  The rider watched this disintegration passively then, making a small hand signal to the stallholder, he swung his foot from the stirrup and aimed a seemingly vicious kick at the man’s head. The man, however, caught the extended foot easily and with a great heave pushed the Mathidrin out of his saddle.

  Yatsu affected a conspicuous attempt to retain his seat before slithering from sight down the far side of his horse with a loud cry. A roar went up from the crowd around him.

  The leader of the foot patrol turned to urge his men forward, only to find them scattered and isolated. He started to shout angrily but, even as he did so, hands seized him and the roar of the crowd crashed over him like a great tidal wave.

  At the far corner of the square, Yatsu turned briefly to check that the attack on the Mathidrin patrol was well under way then, with a quick signal of thanks to the stallholder and the now silent crowd around him, he and his men slipped quietly away. They had other diversions to set in train that day.

  Chapter 33

  Since his journey to the Gretmearc, Hawklan had ceased to be surprised by his knowledge of places that should have been strange to him. It was intriguing, as were many other aspects of his life, but with so much mystery surrounding him he knew that nothing was to be gained from arbitrary questioning. His approach was pragmatic. The knowledge was there and it was indisputably useful, and that would have to suffice for the time being.

  However, as he travelled across Fyorlund with his Mathidrin escort, an uneasiness began to seep into that very knowledge – an uneasiness that deepened profoundly as they neared Vakloss.

  The City seeped into view as they travelled through Fyorlund’s relatively flat and fertile central plain. At first it was exposed and hidden alternately by minor features in the landscape but, as they drew nearer, it began to dominate the surrounding countryside.

  It was built on a great isolated hill and its towers and high buildings, culminating in the towering edifice of the Palace at its central and highest point, topped it like a many-pointed crown. Hawklan realized that he knew the country, but not the City. But even his knowledge of the country was . . . dark . . . fearful?

  The Palace was no Anderras Darion, but it soared majestically above the City’s lesser buildings, although these also were of no mean worth: Vakloss had been built by craftsmen of great skill. It seemed to Hawklan, however, that the splendour was inappropriate. This place troubled him. It was a focus for something dark inside him.

  ‘You’ve no cities as fine as this in Orthlund, I’ll wager,’ said the Mathidrin Captain, riding to his side. Hawklan started out of his reverie and stared about foolishly for a moment. The Captain’s tone had an unpleasant edge and reflected his continuing uncertainty about Hawklan, but Hawklan ignored the inflection and took the comment as if it had been a pleasantry.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘we’ve no cities in Orthlund. Only villages. I’ve never seen a city before. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in one. It seems to be rather a strange idea, but I suppose if you’ve a great many people in your land, then the ways in which you live together will inevitably be different from ours.’ The Captain smiled uncertainly. Hawklan’s constant willingness to accede to his boastful assertions about Fyorlund unsettled him, left him off balance. There was nothing there for him to argue about or defend. He had the feeling that he was both winning and losing at the same time.

  ‘I find it strange to imagine a country that’s only farms, countryside and villages,’ he said weakly.

  Hawklan smiled. ‘That probably means we’re both victims of our histories,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how old is Vakloss?’

  The Captain frowned. This man asked the strangest questions. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘It’s always been there.’

  ‘Always?’ said Hawklan, raising his eyebrows humorously and fixing the Captain with his green-eyed stare. The man avoided the gaze by looking back and rebuking one of his men for some non-existent offence.

  ‘Always?’ repeated Hawklan, turning to the front again.

  The Captain looked embarrassed. This man had an unnerving way of drawing confidences from people. ‘Learning’s not encouraged in the Mathidrin,’ he said brusquely. ‘And too close an interest in the past would be viewed very suspiciously. We’re told it’s just been one long tale of abuse of the people by the Lords and the Geadrol, and treachery against the Kings. It’s our job to put it right, not debate it.’

  Hawklan raised a placatory hand. ‘Just an innocent question, Captain,’ he said. ‘It looks such a splendid sight I was naturally interested in who would build such a place.’

  Mollified, the Captain volunteered, ‘When I was a kid, they used to say it was built after the First Coming. I suppose that just means it’s very old and no one really knows.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘It’s certainly very old, but . . .’ his voice tailed off. A dark swirling and roaring surged round him and he heard a distant, failing, trumpet call. A sense of horror overwhelmed him and he felt a cry of unbearable despair forming inside him.

  ‘But?’ The Captain’s voice brought him back to the day’s sunshine.

  Hawklan shook his head apologetically. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Reining his horse back discreetly, the Captain fell behind Hawklan slightly, so that he could study him again.

  Tall and straight, Hawklan rode his splendid black horse with an ease that the Captain had only seen before in Queen Sylvriss. He was relaxed and easy in everything he did and almost always good-humoured and acquiescent. But, nevertheless, he gave the impression of being very much his own man; unassailable. And, deep inside, the Captain sensed that to provoke him to anger – no, that somehow, would be unlikely – but to provoke him to violence, would be to risk a very swift death. That bow. That sword. Those damned green eyes. The man gave him the creeps. It came to him abruptly that he had similar feelings when near the Lord Dan-Tor. He would be glad when he was back in the City. Ambition or no, people like that were best avoided.

  The Captain consoled himself with his assessment of Isloman. Big, powerful, easily a match for several men. Superficially affable, but with his eyes ever watchful and unable to hide their suspicion. Easier to provoke than his companion if need arose, Isloman was more . . . normal. That was it. He was more normal than Hawklan.

  On the whole, he thought, he’d done the right thing giving them an escort and coming along himself. He couldn’t see how any reproach could be levelled at him for that. If it transpired they were unimportant then he’d been sensibly cautious, while if they were important then his action would be duly noted.

  Certainty, however, continued to elude him, and he eased his horse forward to come by Hawklan’s side again. On reflection, he thought, the man’s not quite like Dan-Tor. He’d helped two of the horses that went lame, and very effectively, too. And he’d pitched in with the work in their overnight camps. Then, of course, he’s bound to behave like that if he’s looking to make a favourable impression.

  ‘What’s that smoke, Captain?’ Hawklan’s voice broke into his reverie. Screwing up his eyes against the summer glare, he followed Hawklan’s extended arm. As if aspiring to join the soaring towers and spires of Vakloss, a single column of dense black smoke was rising from the City.

  ‘A celebration perhaps?’ offered Hawklan.

  The Captain shook hi
s head. ‘No,’ he said definitely. ‘But I don’t know what it is. Probably a house fire.’

  ‘It’s a big one, Captain,’ said one of the men. ‘Look how high it’s going.’

  The Captain nodded and then shrugged. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’m sure someone knows it’s there.’ This shaft of wit seemed to go down well with the men but, as they rode on, the smoke grew more dense and all eyes were fastened on it.

  The party became very quiet, disturbing the country stillness only with the sound of lightly treading hooves and the soft creak and clatter of tackle and arms. Abruptly, the rising column of smoke seemed to gather momentum and, disregarding the vagaries of the rooftop breezes, began to billow upwards relentlessly, until it was well above the Palace towers. Soon it was dominating the entire sky in front of them.

  ‘That’s no house fire,’ someone said hoarsely, mirroring all their thoughts.

  Hawklan realized he was craning back his head to see the top of the column. Faintly a distant sound reached him. ‘Quiet,’ he said, raising his hand and reining his horse to a halt.

  Without thinking, the Captain halted the troop as if the order had been passed to him by a senior officer. The group stood motionless and silent as if paying homage to the towering manifestation before them. Across the intervening fields a confused jumble of sounds mingled with the birdsong and the hissing of the gently waving trees. Hawklan’s hand remained in the air. Then, quite distinctly, the rapid tolling of a bell reached them. The urgency of its tone galvanized the Captain.

  ‘It’s the General Alarm,’ he said, almost in disbelief. For an instant he looked flustered. He gave Hawklan and Isloman a worried look then, turning his horse around to face his men, he shouted, ‘You three, no, you five, escort the envoys into Vakloss. Straight to the Palace and notify the Lord Dan-Tor of their arrival. The rest of you come with me at the gallop.’ Then, to Hawklan, ‘I’m sorry, but if the General Alarm’s being sounded, something serious must’ve happened. We have to ride to it as fast as we can. These men will escort you safely to the Palace.’ And then he was gone, together with the rest of his patrol, leaving the seven men staring after them through the dust they were raising.