The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  Hawklan looked round at his reduced entourage. The past few days had taught him a great deal about the Mathidrin and, sadly, this confirmed what he had learned from his encounter with Urssain and Aelang. They were for the most part loutish and brutal, caring little for the animals they rode, nothing for the terrain they lived off, and precious little for the people they had encountered on their journey. Hawklan suspected that it was only his presence that had saved the animals and some of the villagers they had met from casual acts of gratuitous violence – sadism even. Admittedly they were well disciplined, but it was a discipline patently derived from fear. Such glimmers of intelligence as he had seen were heavily larded with cunning and dedicated to self-interested opportunism. It had been hard to keep his feelings to himself. Now, he did not feel disposed to accept the authority of this frayed remnant.

  ‘If that fire’s as big as it looks, there’ll be a lot of people hurt and needing help. Quickly now,’ he said authoritatively. ‘You two lead the way. Full gallop.’ The men hesitated. Hawklan glared at them. ‘Quickly, I said,’ he repeated menacingly with a flick of his head in the direction of the City. He could almost see the men’s reflexes crushing their doubts. Fear is an important key with these people, Hawklan reminded himself again.

  * * * *

  Sylvriss burst into the room unannounced. ‘Lord Dan-Tor. What is this? What’s happening?’

  Dan-Tor, tall and very still, was standing at the window, staring out at the smoke rising high above the City. His gaze was baleful and, as he turned to face his Queen, a lingering residue of malevolence hung in his eyes like morning frost reluctant to obey the sun’s bidding. Sylvriss almost started under the impact of this look, but neither her face nor her posture showed any sign of alarm. Resolutely she reminded herself that this was the true nature of the man, and she forgot it at her peril.

  ‘With your permission, Majesty,’ he said, indicating Urssain and a group of other senior Mathidrin officers standing stiffly by. Sylvriss nodded her consent.

  ‘You have your orders,’ he said curtly. ‘I want the fire and the people under control with maximum dispatch. And I want the ringleaders taken alive if possible. There’s more to this than a spontaneous outburst. Dismissed.’

  The men saluted and, after bowing to the Queen, left as stiffly as they had stood.

  ‘Lord Dan-Tor, what’s happening?’ the Queen repeated as the door closed.

  ‘Majesty,’ said Dan-Tor, his face now more composed. ‘I’m afraid a small number of troublemakers have started a disturbance over in the west of the City. Unfortunately they’ve also started that.’ He indicated the view from the window.

  Sylvriss went to the window and stared up at the towering column of smoke. ‘The King nearly saw it,’ she said anxiously. ‘I managed to get him to a room on the other side. He’s asleep now.’

  Dan-Tor nodded solicitously, his eyes indifferent.

  ‘What is it that’s burning?’ Sylvriss continued.

  ‘One of my workshops,’ Dan-Tor replied.

  ‘But that smoke. So black, so dense, and that awful smell.’

  Dan-Tor did not reply.

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ Sylvriss asked, turning away from the window.

  Dan-Tor allowed himself a small sigh of resignation, just sufficient to reach but not overstep the bounds of insolence. ‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘The Geadrol was suspended because enemies within were weakening us. We have the leaders of those enemies in our hands, but their followers, those they’ve deceived, are still at large, working their will.’

  ‘Surely the Lord Eldric and the others wouldn’t sanction such . . .’ She gestured to the window, ‘such destruction?’

  Dan-Tor gathered some documents together. ‘Majesty, my evidence tells me so.’

  For a moment the Queen considered arguing the point, but changed her mind. Conflict with Dan-Tor at this point would serve no useful purpose, and he was in an odd mood. With a distressed look on her face, she turned back to the window and stared out again at the rising column of smoke. Then, looking down, she saw large numbers of Mathidrin, mounted and on foot, in the courtyard below. A faint spark of an idea formed in her mind. It threw its dim light on plans that she and Dilrap had laid. Plans laid mainly to allay the frustration of their impotence, but thorough for all that.

  ‘What are the Mathidrin doing?’ she asked.

  Dan-Tor put his hand to his head. ‘Majesty, I’m afraid the disturbance is a large one. I suspect that there may be disaffected High Guards involved. It will have to be stamped out quickly and effectively or we may have serious and widespread violence to deal with.’

  Before Sylvriss could speak, there was an urgent knocking at the door.

  ‘Enter,’ said Dan-Tor. The door opened immediately and a young Mathidrin trooper marched in. His face was blackened and a livid red graze above his right eye glistened painfully. His uniform was scuffed and crumpled, and he was breathing heavily. Saluting, he handed two notes to Dan-Tor whose face darkened as he read them.

  Bad news, I trust, thought Sylvriss. Then, aloud, ‘Lord Dan-Tor. I can see you’ve the matter well in hand. I must return to the King. I’ll not disturb you further.’

  Dan-Tor looked up. ‘Majesty,’ he acknowledged offhandedly.

  Sylvriss turned and walked to the door ignoring the slight implicit in his tone. An odd mood indeed. As she passed the young Mathidrin she said, ‘Young man, when the Lord Dan-Tor has finished with you, go and have that gash attended to.’ The Mathidrin saluted smartly and there was a brief look of gratitude in his eyes.

  Once outside the room, Sylvriss moved quickly to one of the upper rooms of the Palace. Throwing open a window, she leaned out and listened. Alongside the column of dense black smoke, another, equally dense, but of a deathly white hue, was rising. She could both hear and feel muffled concussions in the distance. What in the world has he got in those workshops? she thought. The man pollutes everything he touches.

  Faintly, she could hear another sound coming from the same direction. Eventually she identified it as people shouting. Not in fear or alarm, but in anger. A great many people shouting. Dan-Tor’s disturbance must be a full-blown riot, she realized, though she found it almost impossible to conceive the Fyordyn, with their painstaking patience, resorting to such indiscriminate violence.

  The tainted summer breeze blew her hair across her face and she swept it to one side. At the same time, the spark of the idea she had had flared up brightly, filling her mind with an uneasy mixture of excitement and fear. She craned further out of the window and peered down into the courtyard far below. It was seething black with Mathidrin, as were most of the streets she could see.

  She looked intently at a marching column and then superimposed the image on those gathered in the courtyard. A quick calculation confirmed her earlier, more subjective impression formed in Dan-Tor’s room. Almost the entire City garrison was being committed to deal with this minor disturbance.

  Her informants in the City had mentioned nothing of any planned disruption, but she was inclined to agree with Dan-Tor’s assessment that this was not a spontaneous outburst.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered to herself. Any Mathidrin remaining in the Palace would probably be guarding the gate. The Westerclave would be virtually empty.

  She took a deep breath to quieten her racing pulse, but it had little effect. Reaching into her pocket, her moist hand closed around the cold key which she had kept with her since Dilrap had given it to her. Two images merged in her mind. One, of the Mathidrin officer she had knocked over for maltreating a horse, and the other, that of her father’s face smiling anxiously when, unusually for one so young, she had been made a junior messenger towards the end of the Morlider War. ‘Nothing worth doing’s easy, girl, and some chances only come once.’ The memory tipped the scale for her.

  She waited a little longer, carefully watching the comings and goings below. The sounds in the distance grew louder, and eventually the courtyard belo
w became still except for a few guards by the gates and the arrival of the occasional messenger. Now, she thought. Now.

  Clattering along corridors and down stairs, it came to her suddenly that even if she were able to release the Lords, they would have difficulty in escaping the Palace. She swept the thought away. There was no time for detailed planning. This was pure risk and dependent on speed above all. Besides, there was havoc out there. Who knew what other opportunities might arise? And the Palace was a big place.

  Gently she opened the door of her chamber. Rgoric was still asleep, an open book on his lap. Softly she tiptoed across the room to an alcove where she kept some of her outdoor cloaks.

  ‘Sylvriss.’

  She froze. It was the King’s voice. Oh no, my love, she sighed inwardly, not now. He would want to talk. Sometimes he needed reassurance when he was awakened suddenly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, torn between his need and the opportunity that fate had placed in her hands. Composing her face into a smile, she turned round and looked at him.

  He was still asleep. ‘Sylvriss,’ he said again, shifting slightly in the chair. The heavy book on his lap started to slide. Without thinking, she strode forward and scooped it up just before it hit the floor. She dared not breathe as she placed the book gently on a nearby table and walked back to the alcove.

  Minutes later, she was moving silently along the lower corridors of the Palace towards the Westerclave. Dressed in the plain grey cloak and hood that she sometimes used when she wanted to pass unnoticed in the City, she flitted through the shadows, walking as normally as she could to avoid attracting attention.

  Just one of the maids, she repeated to herself. Just one of the maids. But the hiss of her clothes and the muffled pad of her soft shoes sounded like thunder to her.

  Eventually she came to a door which would lead into the cellars. For a moment she hesitated with her hand on the latch. The Palace was deafeningly quiet. She had seen no Mathidrin, and such servants and officials as were about seemed for the most part to be gathered in the upper rooms watching the distant fire, but once through this door she would have no excuse for being where she was. Each step forward from now would be a step nearer to exposure. Then, gripping the latch tightly, she pushed the door open and stepped into the cool stillness of the cellar.

  She had never been in the Palace’s extensive cellars before, but she had studied plans found for her by Dilrap and had frequently travelled this route in her mind, never realizing that it might actually come to pass. The difference between the flat sketches and the solid reality, however, gave her a frightening jolt, and it took her a little while to relate the images she had seen to the gloomy array of walls and passages now facing her. With an effort she forced herself to be calm and, after agonizing minutes, she reached the door she wanted. The door through into the cellars of the Westerclave.

  Now, Dilrap, she thought, let’s see if you’ve kept your promise. The promise that this door, lurking in an unused part of the cellar, would be unlocked against the possibility of this plan being put into operation. Tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently eased the latch and pushed the door.

  It did not move. A reproach formed in her mind but she dismissed it guiltily. Please let it open, she prayed, then, grimacing anxiously, she put her shoulder against the door and pushed harder. It moved abruptly and the bright light of the Westerclave burst through the narrow crack. She closed the door quickly and leaned her forehead against it nervously. Spreading out Dilrap’s sketches in her mind she went over the final part of her route again. First right, second left, first left, third door on the right. Each step taking her nearer to the more used parts of the cellar.

  Then, cautiously opening the door again and screwing up her eyes against the increased brightness, she peered down the long passage in front of her.

  It was empty.

  She reached into her pocket and felt the two objects there. The key to the Lords’ cell and her old Muster knife. Whether either of them would be of any use to her remained to be seen. She had few illusions about her ability to use the knife against a Mathidrin guard if she were caught and could not talk her way out, but . . .

  With a last deep breath, she stepped out of the gloom and into a final commitment.

  Heart racing, she walked her memorized route in long, quiet strides. Just one of the maids. Just one of the maids. It kept other thoughts at bay a little but offered little real solace. No maids ever came to the Westerclave cellars.

  At each junction she paused and listened before turning the corner. No echoing voices or sounds of movement added to her terror. What can be happening in the City to have emptied this place so totally? she thought.

  Then she was at the door to the Lords’ cell. Carefully she eased back the two heavy bolts and, with trembling hands, fumbled the precious key from her pocket. Her hand was shaking so much that she had to seize it with the other to still it sufficiently to insert the key in the lock. The clatter of the key against the keyhole seemed to be deafening. As she was about to turn the key, a shadow fell across her. She felt the blood drain from her face and instinctively she jerked her hood further forward. Turning round she found herself looking into the cold, grim eyes of three Mathidrin.

  Chapter 34

  Hawklan and his escort rode at full gallop after the main body of the patrol. The huge column of smoke loomed over the whole City, ominous and bloated, dwarfing even the towers of the Palace. Then, like a sinister giant raising its hoary head, a second column, white in colour, began to rise beside it. Strange sounds drifted towards them and a foul smell began to mar the summer scents. Hawklan reined Serian to a halt, his nose wrinkling.

  ‘What unholy creation could make such a smell?’ he said, largely to himself.

  Isloman’s face was stony. ‘It has the feel of that tinker’s work,’ he said. ‘No natural thing would die like that.’

  Hawklan turned to the nearest Mathidrin. ‘What buildings are burning? Can you tell from here?’

  The man looked uncertain and then spoke briefly to his friends. ‘It’s difficult to say, sir,’ he replied. ‘But the Lord Dan-Tor has many workshops in that part of the City.’

  Hawklan nodded and then spurred his horse forward.

  The young officer came alongside him. ‘Sir, I’m supposed to take you to the Palace. The Captain ordered . . .’

  ‘I’ll explain to your Captain, young man,’ Hawklan replied resolutely. ‘It seems to me that that,’ he pointed ahead to the smoke-filled horizon, ‘is somewhat out of the ordinary and very serious. I imagine that most people at the Palace will be too busy to deal with visiting envoys at the moment. Whether we arrive an hour or so late will be of no consequence. On the other hand, I am a healer, and healers will be needed at that fire, don’t you think?’

  The young man hesitated, but Hawklan kept increasing his pace steadily, leaving the man little choice but to follow. He heard Serian chuckle. The other horses were breathing heavily and beginning to sweat, but Serian was taking the long uphill way into the City effortlessly. High above, Gavor flew ahead, spurs unsheathed, maintaining the silent vigil he had kept since they left the village.

  When they entered the City proper, Hawklan found himself badly disorientated by the numerous streets. ‘Which way – quickly!’ became his watchword to keep his escort on the move and prevent their having time to think.

  The two great columns of smoke now filled the sky and were spreading out at a great height to cover the sun and throw the City into a premature twilight. The sun drifted in and out of view, round and sickly yellow.

  As the group neared the fire, the streets became more crowded and the noise of the blaze could be heard. But it was mingled with another noise – fighting. Hawklan looked at the crowds milling round. Some seemed to be running away from something, while others seemed to be running purposefully towards it.

  He leant down from his horse. ‘What’s happening?’ he shouted to a man running by.

  The man,
breathless and red-faced, pointed back the way he had just come. ‘The Mathidrin,’ he said. ‘They’re attacking the people.’ Then with a fearful glance at Hawklan’s escort he ran off before Hawklan could speak to him again.

  Hawklan looked at the young officer who shrugged off his unspoken inquiry, though he was beginning to look decidedly uneasy.

  At the end of the street they came to a large square, and a scene unfolded before them like a waking nightmare. People were running in every direction, shouting and screaming. Faces flickered in front of Hawklan, faces alight with terror, with rage, faces blank and lost with bewilderment and shock. The healer in him reeled at the pain. The jangling of the alarm bell filled the air, echoing from rooftop to rooftop, but above it rose the crackle and roar of the blazing buildings, even though they were still some distance away and could not be seen. The whole was pervaded by a retching smell and a sinister half light formed by the unnatural cloud.

  As he surveyed this sight, Hawklan felt the jarring impact of two concussions and looking up he saw a misshapen ball of yellow fire climbing rapidly up the white column like some fearsome escapee. It bathed the crowd in a shimmering jaundiced hue and for a moment there was silence as everyone turned to watch its scrambling ascent. Then the noise broke out again, louder than ever.

  Hawklan was uncertain about what to do. Looking at the milling crowd, he thought he saw some pattern, some order to it, but it was too fluid for him to define. A cry by his side made him turn. One of the Mathidrin was holding a hand to his forehead, blood running between his fingers. Then a stream of missiles engulfed them, and a section of the crowd closed around them roaring and shouting.

  * * * *

  ‘The Lords, girl. Where are they?’ The Mathidrin officer’s tone was icy. Sylvriss looked up at him, her voice frozen within her by the menacing presence of the three men. The Mathidrin closed his eyes briefly as if looking inwards for patience. Then opening them, he peered into the darkness of her hood. ‘The Lords, girl. Where are they?’ he repeated slowly and distinctly, as if to a foolish child. ‘They’re to be moved to safer quarters and no one’s bothered to tell us what room they’re in.’