The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  True, the Lords had been released; that was not good, but had presumably been the reason for the start of the disturbance. Two of his workshops had been destroyed; that was unfortunate. Several Mathidrin had been killed; that was of little concern. And several citizens had been killed; that was of even less concern. But the greatest gain came from his being able to lay the blame for all the havoc squarely at the feet of the four Lords, and their more active supporters, even though he sensed Hawklan was the true originator. ‘Didn’t I tell you? There’s treachery all around us,’ he could say. ‘Look what these people have wrought with their greed and ambition. And these are our own kind. What then can we expect from the Orthlundyn?’

  On the pretext of rooting out the traitor Lords and their helpers, he could increase the power of his Mathidrin, and with the terror that they would spread he could gradually dispense with the irritating forms of law behind which he was still obliged to shelter.

  Idly his long forefinger pushed a pen along the thick book lying on the desk in front of him. For a while it overhung the edge of the book, then, at his next touch, it tilted down on to the desk top. The balance swings my way, he thought. Suddenly and with little effort, because of what has gone before. And it will not swing back. Fyorlund will go ever downwards under the weight of my Master’s heel. A substantial achievement indeed.

  Nevertheless, Hawklan and the Lords weighed too heavily in this balance. At liberty, they could dispute this version of events, could rouse many of the people, particularly away from the City, where the Mathidrin had less influence. They could cause endless trouble.

  And Hawklan? Still an enigma. It must be he who started this, but why? And how?

  His mind went back to the green at Pedhavin. What demon had made him think he could sell his corruption to the Orthlundyn, of all people? That remnant of the ancient race. He should have followed his original intention and moved quietly through Orthlund and out into a world that was ripe for him. But he had had to stop. Had to try their mettle. And what demon had made him play the clown at the foot of that accursed Castle, and brought him face to face with the man who might house the greatest of all enemies? But, above all, what demon had prompted him to try to enslave the man without His aid?

  Was it that old buffoon, chance? Was it some dark test by his Master? Was it even some plot by Ethriss himself? If the devil were awake, might not he too have the infinite patience and cunning of Him? Searching and learning in his mortal frame, not wasting his power on lesser fry, until he knew the strength of his long-silent enemy. The thought was as sharp and clear as the black bird that had soared through the morning murk and it unsettled Dan-Tor profoundly. A powerful servant to an infinitely cruel and subtle master, he knew he was. But a puppet? One whose strings could be seen and pulled by those who had the sight, to make him jerk and twist unaware of their will? He glanced uneasily from side to side as if listening for distant and mocking laughter.

  Then, rolling in the wake of these doubts came the most terrible of all. That even the deeds of Ethriss and Him might be determined by a force beyond them all.

  With a grim effort, he shook the convoluting thoughts from his mind. None have the vision for that, he thought. You seek that which must be forever from you. Deal with matters of immediate moment. You’ll gain scant reward for doing anything else. Hawklan must be in the City. The Lords could still be. They must be found and taken before the balance of his progress did indeed slip away from him.

  He walked over to the door and stepped into a small ante-room. An immaculate Mathidrin officer stood smartly to attention as he entered. ‘Lord?’ he said.

  ‘Have Commander Urssain join me on the north battlements immediately he returns.’

  * * * *

  As the day progressed, an ordinary upstairs room in an ordinary Vakloss house saw Hawklan’s suggestion put into practice, as the Lords and their rescuers and finally Hawklan himself told their respective tales.

  The room was lit only by such daylight as could percolate through the thin curtains that had been left drawn since the house awoke. The movement of people in an upstairs room might possibly attract the attention of the patrolling Mathidrin, but torchlight shining through curtains certainly would.

  Eldric spoke for the Lords. His telling was simple, precise, and short, if a little formal. Hawklan noted some of the Goraidin winking at one another as he rose and began as though he were in the Geadrol. He told of their arrest and imprisonment and of their unexpected and tenuous link with the Queen, but he made no observations on the motivation of the King or Dan-Tor.

  Yatsu’s telling, however, was longer and more anguished.

  The patterned curtains threw uneven shadows across his face like an imprisoning mask. He told of his decision to mobilize his old Goraidin companions when he read of the disbanding of the High Guards. ‘Without the Geadrol, everything is mist and fog. The course of the country’s affairs can’t be seen, nor who steers it. Appeals by the other Lords for your release or trial were met with endless and wilful prevarication. The Mathidrin ignored and abused both the Law and the people. I saw no alternative but to attempt to release you so that some light could be shone into the gloom.’

  Eldric nodded, but when he spoke, his tone was stern. ‘Hawklan has told us, and you’ve confirmed yourself, some of the things that have happened because of your actions. The City ravaged, with rapine, murder, looting. That’s an appalling price to pay just for our freedom. How can you justify it, Goraidin?’

  Hawklan watched Yatsu closely. Eldric’s blunt question forced the man’s pain to the surface, and for all his control, he could not keep it from his face. ‘I can neither justify it, nor account for it, Lord,’ he said. ‘We planned carefully. We studied the City patrols. We chose reliable High Guards officers.’ He emphasized reliable. ‘The older ones. We arranged an extensive series of diversionary riots and the firing of one of Dan-Tor’s workshops to draw out the garrison from the Palace. We knew there was a risk that we wouldn’t succeed. We knew there was a risk that some civilians would be hurt. That I would have laid to my accounting. But what’s happened . . .’ He shook his head and clenched his hands together. ‘I don’t understand. The Mathidrin seemed to have run amok and, vicious though they are, they’re not undisciplined. It makes no sense. Why should they do that?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s obvious.’ Hreldar’s voice was cold. ‘Dan-Tor ordered it.’

  ‘Your Gathering’s premature, Lord,’ said Eldric quickly.

  Hreldar waved the comment aside. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Dan-Tor intends to seize all power to himself – that, we’ve decided, even if we don’t know why. The Law and its many manifestations in our society are his greatest obstacles. Anything that disturbs them is to his advantage. He merely played the pieces that Goraidin Yatsu and his companions laid out.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Darek. ‘We have much rumour and gossip here today, but the speed with which events appear to have moved can only be because Dan-Tor has had such a blow long planned – probably one of many. He was never short of an alternative in debate, if you recall, Lords.’

  Eldric rested his forehead in his hand. Then he nodded. ‘I fear you’re right,’ he said. ‘Goraidin Yatsu, I know I can’t lift the burden of these events from you, but my own feeling concurs with that of my friends. You can’t accept responsibility for what someone else has done with your sword.’

  Finally came Hawklan. The strange Orthlundyn. The healer? The man who held the loyalty of the outland Goraidin, Isloman. The man whose very presence had virtually commanded their loyalty. Following Yatsu’s grim distress, the atmosphere in the room became jagged with attention when Eldric motioned him to speak.

  He told of Dan-Tor’s strange incursion into Orthlund and of its tragic conclusion. The group listened quietly and patiently until at the end he mentioned the name of Jaldaric and revealed the true nature of the patrol that had attacked them. For a moment there was a stunned silence and then uproar broke out, and
Hawklan found himself assailed by disbelief and anger on all sides.

  Eventually Eldric calmed the din. Shaking his head as if to silence the babble of his own thoughts, he leaned forward urgently, his face a mixture of many emotions. ‘Hawklan, this is madness. Mandrocs armed . . . and liveried . . . marching into Orthlund! Killing! Madness! And my son, my son, what . . .’

  He stopped, unable to continue. Hawklan caught his gaze and held it. ‘Lord Eldric. I’ve told you the truth. I’ve little comfort for you if that Jaldaric was indeed your son. When I saw him last he was captive but alive, and the man Aelang seemed anxious that he remained so.’ He looked round at the other Lords and the Goraidin, their questions restrained only by Eldric’s will. Hreldar alone seemed unmoved. ‘You have only my word for this, and that of Isloman. But we saw what we saw, and we’re here because of it. Of your own kind only Fel-Astian and Idrace survived and they left us to return here. I don’t know where they are now.’

  Under his gaze, the anger and disbelief in the watchers began slowly to fade. The enormity of his tale seemed to sound like a deep underscoring note that transformed the chaos of recent events into an even more sinister discord. In its wake came only uncertainty and bewilderment, hanging stagnant in the air.

  Eldric’s voice cut through the eerie silence. ‘We’re a logical people, Hawklan, but over the past months we’ve had to come to terms with many happenings apparently beyond logic. When we spoke together earlier I said I’d judge you by your deeds, and that judgement tells me you’re our friend and ally. My heart tells me that also. Lords? Gentlemen?’ He looked enquiringly around the room.

  There was no dissent.

  He continued. ‘But, Hawklan, you tell us an appalling tale. We must decide . . .’

  ‘Hush.’ The sound came from one of the Goraidin standing by the window. Carefully he eased back the edge of the curtain and peered out. Then equally carefully he replaced it. The others noted the signs. Sudden movements attract attention. They fell silent. Those who were seated, stood up quietly and reflexively checked their weapons.

  ‘Mathidrin,’ the man whispered. ‘Probably a couple of hundred. It looks as if they’ve closed the street and are searching each house in turn.’

  Chapter 38

  Hreldar and Darek were correct in their assessment of the reason why such horror had arisen so apparently spontaneously from the tight-knit diversionary tactics devised by the Goraidin. The Mathidrin did indeed have orders to aggravate any large-scale disorders in the City. Dan-Tor adjusted the details as the day developed, but the overall plan was one of many he had prepared against different contingencies.

  Now the men gathered in the upstairs room overlooking a Vakloss street saw another plan being implemented: the systematic and thorough searching of all parts of the City. It was a massive operation, and Mathidrin had been brought in from many of the nearby towns and villages to implement it. Yatsu looked at the speaker. ‘Archers or horsemen?’ he asked. The man shook his head. ‘I didn’t see any bows. And only one or two officers are on horseback,’ he said.

  ‘Two hundred?’ continued Yatsu.

  ‘Thereabouts,’ came the confirmation. ‘Commander,’ said Eldric to Yatsu. ‘Do you have any plan for an escape from this house?’ Yatsu shook his head. ‘Not under these circumstances,’ he said. ‘We should have been away from the City early last night, but it wasn’t possible.’

  Eldric nodded. ‘You have groups waiting outside the City?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Yatsu. ‘And more friends inside the City. But that’s all they’ll be doing – waiting. They’ve no way of knowing where we are or how they can help us.’

  Yatsu signalled one of his men to check the back of the house. Within seconds he returned saying this was guarded also. ‘As far as I can see. The alley’s narrow. It’s hard to get a clear view.’

  There was an intake of breath from the man by the window.

  ‘They’ve found the horses,’ he hissed. ‘They’ll be on us in minutes.’

  An anxious scurrying in the doorway announced the woman of the house. She was flushed and agitated.

  Yatsu raised his hand before she spoke. ‘Yes, we know,’ he said, walking over to her and laying a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. ‘Is there any way we can get into the houses on either side?’

  The woman fluttered her hands helplessly.

  ‘Yatsu,’ said one of the men. ‘These houses are old. They might have common roof spaces.’

  The woman nodded her head. ‘Yes, they have, and there’s a trapdoor . . .’ She stepped backwards out of the room and pointed to a panel in the carved ceiling.

  Unbidden, one of the Goraidin clambered on to the shoulders of a companion and pushed back the carved trapdoor. Small flurries of dust floated unhurriedly down on to the heads of the watchers below.

  ‘Yatsu,’ said Hawklan, ‘Dacu and Lord Arinndier can’t go scrabbling through that.’

  Yatsu ignored him. ‘Gag the wounded,’ he said to one of his men.

  Hawklan’s eyes opened in horror, and his fist tightened. Isloman laid a hand on him. ‘Eldric’s accepted him as Commander,’ he said. ‘If you don’t trust his judgement, trust mine. I know Yatsu, and I know these people. Do as he says without question. If anyone can get us out of here, he can.’

  Before Hawklan could answer, Isloman received a nodded command from the Commander. ‘You next,’ said the Carver with a grin and, enfolding Hawklan in his powerful embrace, he lifted him effortlessly up towards the trapdoor, where four hands seized him and dragged him into the dark warmth of the roof space. Amid the buffeting he heard a hammering from down below.

  He had scarcely recovered his balance before the rest of the group appeared, including the gagged figures of Dacu and Arinndier. He took charge of them immediately and led them after the others who were disappearing into the dust-laden gloom ahead.

  A figure came alongside him and thrust a small torch into his hand. It had a comfortable, solid feel to it, and gave a good steady light. Ahead he could see other torches bobbing in and out between the moving shapes of the running men, and the motionless shapes of the intricate tracery of rafters and spars that supported the complicated roof. As they moved, black bands of shadow swept swiftly and silently about the roof space, adding ghostly lines to those already etched out by the roof timbers. The air was full of whispered scufflings.

  Occasionally the floor swelled up in front of them, marking some elaborate ceiling below, and in places the roof dipped low so that they had to crouch almost on all fours as they moved forward. Hawklan watched Arinndier and Dacu closely. They were moving well but both were obviously weak and in pain. He felt a momentary anger at Yatsu but Isloman’s words reminded him of the stern reality of their position. At the same time it occurred to him that both Arinndier and Dacu would probably tolerate almost any pain rather than hamper the group. At least their pain will pass, he thought. My role here is to follow, help and learn.

  Abruptly the light in the roof space dimmed a little as the trapdoor was dropped back into place. Yatsu caught up with him. ‘We haven’t too long,’ he said. ‘The door’s barricaded and they’ll have to find the man and the woman before they can find out where we’ve gone.’

  In a flash of self-reproach, Hawklan suddenly realized he did not even know their names or how they came to be involved in such danger. ‘What will happen to them?’ he asked.

  Yatsu shrugged fretfully. ‘We bound and gagged them. Apart from saying that we forced our way in, they’ll tell the truth about us. That’s their best protection. But, I don’t know . . .’

  Hawklan looked at him sideways without altering his forward pace. Yatsu’s face was strained. Yes, thought Hawklan, asking others to face danger on your behalf isn’t easy, is it? He could sense the man’s mind moving back to the sound of screams and cries echoing through streets choked with fumes and ravening crowds. Not your fault, he thought, though you’ll never really accept it. Just another scar to bear. More despair. Yatsu w
as an old soldier. All he could offer the maimed innocents was vengeance but, as an old soldier, he knew it wasn’t enough.

  Suddenly the group stopped. The way ahead was blocked by a stone wall.

  ‘Is it the end of the row?’ Hawklan asked.

  Several of the men shook their heads irritably. ‘No,’ said one, ‘there should be as far again if my pacing’s right.’

  Hawklan decided to stay silent.

  Yatsu had not allowed himself the luxury of a single oath at the sight of the obstruction, but his face was as blank and hard as the wall itself.

  Hawklan heard no order, but three of the men ran back the way they had come, and as their torches suddenly blinked out, he knew that the first Mathidrin to enter the roof space would die before they even realized they were under attack. Turning back to the others he saw knives scratching at the wide joints in the wall. The mortar was soft, but the wall looked very solid and the task seemed impossible. It was hard to imagine even these resourceful men overcoming this obstacle.

  He turned to his charges. Gently he made Arinndier and Dacu lie down and, with a soft murmur and an almost imperceptible pressure of his hand, he sent both of them to sleep. Yatsu’s eyes widened in a mixture of concern and anger. Hawklan gestured him to the wall. ‘I’ll keep them on their feet,’ he said. ‘Sleeping like that will husband energies they’d otherwise squander in waiting and fretting.’ Yatsu looked at him and then nodded.

  ‘Give me light.’ Isloman was standing in comparative darkness a little way from the others. Yatsu directed his torch towards him. There was an exclamation of satisfaction.

  ‘Here we are,’ Isloman said. ‘I thought I saw it.’ He ran his finger along a dog-legged crack running through the stonework. Without a pause he drew his knife and, using his clenched fist like a hammer, quickly and expertly removed much of the mortar surrounding one stone. Hawklan had often seen Isloman work like this when carving fine details, and gave it no thought, but in the circling torchlight, the Goraidin and the Lords formed a necklace of amazed faces about the spectacle.