by Roger Taylor
Yatsu took the admonishing hand in both of his and pressed it to his face affectionately.
‘Go on with you, you daft thing,’ she said as she retrieved her hand and scuttled off to attend to some culinary chore.
Yatsu looked distastefully at the helmet he was carrying, then laid it down on the floor by his chair. When he looked up he found himself staring along the table at Isloman. The man was more familiar than ever, but the memory still would not click into place. He saw, however, that Isloman recognized him. ‘Well I’m damned,’ said Isloman. ‘I thought my shadow-lore was deceiving me out in that murk, with you hiding in that black . . . soup bowl, but it is you. Yatsu?’
Yatsu half rose. Pieces of memory juddered together. ‘Is-lo-man,’ he articulated slowly as his mind arced back through the years. ‘Of course. That rock for a head. And that club. Who else could it have been? How could I have forgotten?’
‘You forgot because you were once young and stupid, and now you’ve grown old and stupid,’ said Isloman. ‘As opposed to me who was young and wise, and am even wiser now.’
Yatsu walked round the table and, seizing Isloman by his short cropped hair, shook his head from side to side, laughing. Isloman wrapped his arms around him and lifted him well clear of the floor.
‘Enough, enough,’ cried Yatsu almost at once. ‘Never let it be said that I didn’t know when to surrender.’
Isloman lowered him effortlessly and the two men stared at one another affectionately.
‘It was no wise thing to come to Vakloss in the middle of a riot . . . old man,’ said Yatsu eventually. Then, before Isloman could reply, Yatsu turned to his men who were open-mouthed at the bizarre spectacle they had just witnessed.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘stand up.’ One or two pushed their chairs back hesitantly. ‘Up, up, up,’ Yatsu repeated, gesturing. Then, placing an arm around Isloman’s shoulders, ‘Men. Raise your . . .’ No glasses! ‘Raise your mugs. A toast to Isloman here. The Isloman. With his brother Loman, the only outlanders ever to ride – and fight – with the Goraidin.’
There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then the room was alive with applause and the babble of countless questions. For a while Yatsu and Isloman both found themselves recalling and recounting many long-hidden memories – funny, bewildering, tragic – all the personal paraphernalia that combat leaves in its wake. Their discourse was interrupted only by the insistence of the woman of the house that they attend to the really important business of eating the considerable quantities of food she was steadily placing in front of them.
Suddenly Yatsu slapped his forehead angrily and swore. ‘I was so engrossed, I forgot,’ he said. ‘What’s happened to the Lord Arinndier and Dacu?’
‘Your friend has a broken shoulder bone, some lacerations and some bad bruising.’ It was Hawklan’s voice. He had been standing quietly in the doorway for some time listening to the hubbub of reminiscences filling the room. ‘I’ve set the one and bound it up, and given him something to soothe the others. He’ll be all right if he does as I say, as will the Lord Arinndier. Right now, they and your other Lords are sleeping. I think we’d all better do the same as soon as possible. I suspect the next few days are going to make heavy demands of us.’
The room had fallen suddenly silent at Hawklan’s entry and all eyes were on him.
Isloman cut through the uneasiness with forced joviality. ‘Men,’ he said, ‘this is my friend Hawklan. A healer by inclination, but quite useful in a fight if sufficiently provoked.’ Then, more earnestly, ‘I consider it a great honour and privilege to ride with him.’
Yatsu, who had faced Hawklan directly in the alley, leaned back in his chair and nodded quietly to himself. He was watching the response of the others. The Goraidin was a close-knit group, its strength lying not least in the knowledge of the severe training that each member had undertaken. They would accept Isloman on his recommendation and because he and his brother had their own special niche in Goraidin lore. But this man was different, even though he had faced down their Commander, done service to Lord Arinndier and one of their own, and had Isloman’s loyalty. Courtesy he would certainly be given, but acceptance? That was another matter.
One of the men stood up and offered his chair. ‘Lord Hawklan,’ he said, ‘please join us. You must be hungry yourself after your unusual welcome to Vakloss.’
Hawklan thanked the man, but declined the seat. ‘I’m no Lord,’ he said. ‘There are no Lords in Orthlund. I’m just a healer, as Isloman said.’
‘Well, healer,’ said another with a laugh. ‘You still need to eat. Put down your sword and any other tools of your healing trade, and join us in the meal the good lady has prepared.’
Hawklan conceded and, leaning his sword against the wall, he pulled up an empty seat and helped himself to a large portion of bread from a great brown loaf in the centre of the table. Yatsu watched carefully to see what his men would do next. He knew that in spite of his approval of the man they would test him in some small way, even if they were not aware that they were doing it.
Isloman watched also, sensing the same, and, as the conversation picked up again, various remarks headed Hawklan’s way which might have provoked a more defensive spirit. He knew that Hawklan would not lose his temper, but he was far from sure how the Goraidin would interpret his apparently placid acceptance of their wilful probing.
Then, to the considerable surprise of both Isloman and Yatsu, Hawklan started to laugh. Not laughter clanging with hollow defiance, but open and full of genuine amusement.
He’s going to test them! Yatsu realized, and he could not forbear smiling to himself a little.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Hawklan, ‘we’re all too old for this cadet’s game, aren’t we? You’re uncertain because I’m not one of you. I’ve shared neither your training nor your experiences. I’m not one of the spiritual descendants of the men who guarded Ethriss at the Last Battle. And it worries you that your Commander didn’t just ride right over me in that alley, doesn’t it?’
An uncomfortable silence filled the room at this sudden declaration.
Hawklan pointed to Isloman and continued. ‘We came to Fyorlund because of certain evil deeds done by your Lord Dan-Tor in Orthlund. Now we find a sickness in your land that will spread and corrode far beyond your borders if it’s not stopped.’ He stood up. ‘What I need to know is what kind of men you are. Are you good enough to help us fight against this ill?’
Some of the men were beginning to scowl angrily, but Hawklan’s voice had a power that commanded their attention.
‘I’m prepared to accept Isloman’s word as to your worth as fighters, but time is against us and I’m not prepared to wait for all of you to come to the same conclusion about me.’
What’s he doing? thought Yatsu, in mounting alarm.
‘Look at me, each of you,’ continued Hawklan. ‘You value truth and openness. Speak your minds, now. Look into your hearts and form your conclusions now, for there’ll be precious little time later and I want no doubters around me when I have to seek out Dan-Tor and hold him to account for what he’s done.’
Reaching out, he picked up his sword, drew it and held it out along the table. It gleamed jet black in the torchlight. Slowly he looked from one man to the next. None spoke, but each stood up as his gaze met theirs.
‘This is an ancient sword,’ he said. ‘Let the resolves in your heart be sealed by the sight of it. It’s an enemy to the enemies of life. It will serve you if you will serve it. I will serve you if you will serve me. The threat to Fyorlund is not to Fyorlund alone, and lies deeper by far than the machinations of one evil Lord. Its destruction may be the work of many generations.’ Then, looking round again at each of the standing men, ‘If this work, this service, is beyond you, speak now and go in peace, without reproach.’
The atmosphere in the room heightened perceptibly. Unknowingly, Hawklan had used the very words spoken to each Goraidin after his successful training and before his acceptance into the corps. N
o one moved or spoke and the distant comings and goings of the householders filtered into the room. Yatsu stood up and looked at his men, his friends, standing in two uncertain ranks either side of the extended sword.
‘My apologies, Commander Yatsu,’ Hawklan said. ‘But time is not with us. I don’t know whether I chose this road, or whether I was chosen for it, but I am here, and I must set the pace, not follow it.’
Yatsu looked straight at him. ‘Hawklan, we’re Goraidin. No slavish followers of any man. But you fit no mould – neither Goraidin nor Lord, nor anything I’ve ever met. You leave us at a loss.’ He looked again at his men and seemed to receive some subtle acquiescence. Gently he laid his hand on the black blade, and bowed. ‘Until time shows otherwise we’ll trust you to guard our backs,’ he said.
Hawklan bowed in reply. The Goraidin had given him the highest accolade they could. He returned it. ‘And I’ll trust you to guard mine, Commander – men.’
Chapter 37
It was a baleful sight that greeted those who looked across their City the following day. Early morning mist often swathed the plains around Vakloss, lapping like an idle tide at the foot of the great hill which bore the City, but today it had seeped up into the very streets and above, curling around the rooftops, its normal soft whiteness now a pale infected yellow. A single mottled plume of smoke rose straight into the air like a slender column supporting the hazy sky.
The sun shone a feeble and watery light over the scene as if the previous day had prematurely aged it into winter. No street traders jostled the morning quiet with their ritual contests for the most favourable places. No craftsmen or servants purposefully marched the streets to start their daily tasks. The streets were empty and quiet except for an occasional flitting shadow scurrying for safety and the rhythmic tramp of Mathidrin patrols seeking out such stragglers, and inexorably binding the City in a web of black intent.
Dan-Tor smiled, his teeth predatory white. The sight beneath him reminded him of Narsindal, with its creeping mists and long waiting silences. It was a good omen and it fed his soul. Today was going to be an excellent day, the first of many. Today he would begin to seize the power which he had been patiently edging towards for so long. His enemies had thrust it into his hands.
A movement disturbed him, like a mote in his eye. His forehead creased a little and the smile froze as his gaze flicked from side to side to seek out the offender. Then he saw it: sharp, black and clear-cut, a great black bird gliding over the City – his City – offending its portentous stillness. The black scar of clarity and its smooth harmonious movements jarred his pleasure at the sight of the exhausted, blurred City, unfocussed under its gauzy blanket and, without thinking, he reached out his hand to destroy the creature.
Hawklan, came the thought, and drawing in his breath, Dan-Tor withdrew also his intent. The bird disappeared behind a nearby tower and Dan-Tor leaned forward in anticipation of its gliding reappearance, but it did not emerge and he felt a wave of irritation at this further, if petty, unfulfilment.
Straightening up, he scowled angrily. That had been a serious mistake. He had used the rioting well for his own ends but the cause must surely have been Hawklan. Hawklan, elusive and enigmatic, must now be here, playing the hunter, seeking him out in his own lair. Briefly, he felt a twinge of fear, but he crushed it. That is your mistake, Hawklan, he thought. Your successes have made you over-confident. Now you’ve given me Fyorlund and I’ll draw you in like a fish in a net. And on a mere whimsy he might have dashed the cup from his own lips. To send the Old Power winging across the City, the City where Hawklan lay, just do destroy a bird! He closed his eyes in silent rage at his near folly.
* * * *
Another figure stood looking out of a window, meditating on the same events.
‘Keep away from the window, Hawklan,’ said Yatsu, entering the room quietly. ‘There are Mathidrin patrols everywhere and they need only the slightest excuse to arrest people. Just watching them is more than enough.’
Hawklan nodded and moved across to a low comfortable chair that had housed him for most of the night. ‘You look tired,’ he said as Yatsu flopped into the chair’s partner opposite.
Yatsu blew a noisy breath and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am. And worried. I’ve been prowling the City all night trying to find out what’s happened.’
‘Can the Lords leave today?’ Hawklan said.
Yatsu shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll not even be able to move about the streets today. They’re already posting edicts up to that effect.’ He frowned. ‘They’ve been so fast. They seem to have recovered from the disturbance almost immediately. I was counting on at least one clear day of general confusion in which we could slip away, but . . .’ His voice tailed off and he sat silent for a moment. ‘It’s all gone wrong,’ he concluded bitterly. ‘But I can’t begin to see where or why.’
‘Not all, Yatsu, not by any means,’ said Hawklan. ‘The Lords are free and at comparatively little cost. You’ve found two allies – for what they’re worth. And you know your Queen is with you, and perhaps thus your King.’
Yatsu looked at Hawklan. So the men had told him about their escapade. That was an interesting sign. ‘But . . .’ he began.
Hawklan waved the word aside. ‘No buts, Yatsu. The game proved to be bigger than you thought. Probably more players than you realized. Still, if we can’t leave, then we must make the most of the time we have in talking and planning. But first, you must rest.’
Yatsu smiled wearily. ‘Needing to rest and being able to are not the same, healer. I’m battle-weary I know, and there are too many moves and counter-moves flowing through my head. But I can’t lay them to rest like I used to. I’m not the man I was twenty years ago. Can’t take the pace any more.’
Hawklan felt the man’s doubts and regrets. ‘You misjudge yourself,’ he said. ‘But I’ll help you.’
Yatsu shook his head and made as if to rise. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t the time.’
Hawklan reached across and put a hand on his shoulder and gently restrained him. ‘Yes you have, Commander,’ he said, his voice low and reassuring. ‘You’ve just admitted it.’ Yatsu felt the hand heavy and immovable on his shoulder. ‘You must rest quietly now,’ continued the low voice. ‘Just for a little while. Your friends are all rested and will watch for you. You know you can trust them. Soon we’ll talk and plan . . . talk and plan . . . when you’re rested . . . rested . . .’
Hawklan’s voice faded into silence and, taking his hand from the now sleeping Yatsu’s shoulder, he gently placed a cushion under his head. He sat down again.
‘Come in, Lord Eldric,’ he said.
Rather sheepishly Eldric stepped into the room. ‘I can’t make you out, Hawklan,’ he said softly to avoid disturbing Yatsu. ‘Or your friend for that matter. The two of you faced down a Goraidin patrol, then, from what I can gather, virtually took charge of them. Your every move marks you out as a warrior and yet you look after our wounded and weary like . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished and looked down at the sleeping Yatsu. He shuffled awkwardly. ‘I wasn’t spying out there, you know, I . . . I just didn’t want to disturb you.’ Hawklan smiled broadly and Eldric looked upwards, a mixture of annoyance and confusion on his face. ‘Why am I justifying myself to you?’ he said, then he leaned forward and asked the inevitable question. ‘Hawklan, who are you?’
Hawklan looked into the old man’s face. Through the scars of his recent captivity he could read a splendid mixture of compassion and wisdom though they were only barely containing an almost youthful impatience.
‘Lord Eldric,’ he said. ‘I’m Hawklan. A healer from Pedhavin in Orthlund.’ Eldric began a gesture of rebuttal, but Hawklan continued without pause. ‘Events over the last few months have shown me that that’s not all I am, but little else. I’ve more questions about myself than you have, Lord. When I know who I am, I’ll tell you. But for now, the question can’t be answered. Certainly not by me nor
any I’ve met, including your Lord Dan-Tor.’
Eldric looked at him, his eyes narrow. ‘Then I must judge you by your deeds,’ he said.
Hawklan sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you must judge, then my deeds will suffice as evidence, and I’ll abide by your verdict,’ he said.
Eldric raised his hands and lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was an ill-chosen word. I’m already in your debt for your help to Lord Arinndier and Dacu. How can I repay you?’
‘There’s no question of payment, Lord Eldric,’ Hawklan said. ‘We’re all under siege here, and in desperate straits, I imagine, for all the comfort of our immediate surroundings. Isloman and I came to Fyorlund to find out what was happening here and to seek out this Dan-Tor. That’s still our aim. You and the others will be looking to leave the City as soon as possible, I presume, to flee from him, for your own sakes and for the sake of these people sheltering us.’ Eldric nodded and Hawklan leaned forward. ‘Dan-Tor’s machinations are common to us both. The greatest service we can do one another, therefore, is to share our knowledge, then we can define our intentions and plan our actions. As a military man I think you might say – intelligence, strategy and tactics.’
Eldric nodded again. ‘Indeed, healer,’ he said, with a soft irony. ‘Indeed.’
* * * *
Through the day, Dan-Tor also gathered in his intelligence, sitting still and silent at the centre of the web his Mathidrin were weaving over the City. Occasionally he would walk over to the window and stare out at the slender strand of smoke still rising in the distance. Like incense from a votive offering, he thought.
A light breeze had risen with the sun, bending and dispersing the column, and the jaundiced haze of the dawn was gradually being swept aside by air that brought with it the fresh scents of the fertile plains that surrounded the City. The sight was much less to his taste, but little could alloy his satisfaction at what had been achieved. On the whole, it was substantial.