The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘Ah,’ came Andawyr’s voice again. ‘You’re here and not here, just as I’m bound and not bound. We’ve hope yet . . . Seek out the Cadwanol and the Guardians . . . His power holds me in thrall . . . Waken Eth . . .’ The figure vanished abruptly and for an instant Hawklan felt a terrible chill seize his hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ a voice hissed in his ear. Turning, he saw Yatsu’s alarmed face staring at him. It seemed to be at once very close and very distant. ‘What are you doing?’ Yatsu repeated.

  Hawklan turned to indicate Andawyr, puzzled by Yatsu’s question. But the figure was no longer there, although he could still feel the healing flowing from his hands. He blinked in surprise and, as he did so, his head suddenly cleared and he was alone with Yatsu in the storeroom again.

  He was half inclined to ask Yatsu if he had seen Andawyr, but he knew it would be to no avail. Whether it was dream or vision, he did not know but, whatever it was, it was for him only to see. He lowered his outstretched arms.

  ‘Just dreaming,’ he said apologetically, with a faint smile. ‘Just dreaming.’

  Yatsu’s face, however, indicated that something more urgent than his strange companion’s eccentricities was troubling him. ‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.

  ‘I’ve been out,’ Yatsu replied. ‘The Mathidrin are posting Dan-Tor’s response to our escapade everywhere.’

  ‘Well?’ said Hawklan.

  Yatsu looked quickly at the others still lying asleep, then he whispered in Hawklan’s ear.

  Hawklan’s eyes opened wide in horror. ‘That’s beyond me to advise,’ he said after a moment. ‘You know your own country and the value of these people to it. What will you do?’

  Yatsu, however, had clearly made up his mind. ‘The Lords mustn’t know. Especially Eldric. I’ll take the consequences. We must get them out of the City immediately and away to their estates to start raising some real opposition to this man.’

  Hawklan looked at him, unable to ease his burden. It had been no error on Eldric’s part to accept this man as Commander.

  ‘It’s a choice of evils,’ Yatsu said. ‘No choice really.’

  ‘What about Dacu and Lord Arinndier?’ said Hawklan.

  Yatsu looked at the two figures on the floor. ‘Also no choice,’ he said. ‘They can’t stay here. I can’t leave them with any of our friends here, it’s too dangerous. They’ll have to travel with us. It’ll be easier, the further we get from the City. Will you come with us?’

  ‘How long’s the journey?’ Hawklan asked.

  Yatsu shrugged unhappily. ‘Anything from one to two weeks, it just depends. Conditions are changing so quickly.’

  Hawklan was torn. He was loath to leave the two sick men to face such a journey, but he was loath also to become involved in what was surely to be a protracted and bloody dispute between Dan-Tor and the Lords. He had come here to confront Dan-Tor for his own reasons, which, though still ill-defined, seemed more urgent than ever now. Then, there was the renewed urgency of Andawyr’s appeal. Go to the Cadwanol. Waken Ethriss.

  A cold calculation came into his head. Let the Fyordyn fight. What better protection for Orthlund than their neighbours torn with civil strife? He crushed it angrily. Orthlund would not be served well by neighbours who had fallen into corruption and he sensed that Fyorlund now stood precariously balanced. The least movement could have consequences that would spread forever.

  ‘I’ll come with you, Yatsu,’ he said simply. ‘Isloman and I must face Dan-Tor at some other time, when he is weaker, or we stronger. I need to know more about you and your people. Fyorlund is perhaps Orthlund’s only defence against Dan-Tor’s corruption and, at the moment, you are Fyorlund’s. I’ll help you all I can.’

  There was open, honest relief on Yatsu’s face. Hawklan’s heart went out to him. Here indeed was a man who would be more cruel than his enemy, but who would seek no violence and would stay his hand in victory.

  Chapter 40

  Dan-Tor pursued his leisurely walk around the Palace grounds. It was a rare moment for him. A pivotal moment. It had the stillness of a pendulum at the height of its sweep. For a little while there was nothing he could do. For a little while he must sit and wait on the actions, the responses, of others.

  It was not a circumstance he relished. To sit too long was to release thoughts that should be forever bound. Constrained as he was against the use of the Old Power, the True Power, it was better by far to be scheming, manipulating, subtly betraying, weaving his own patterns into the Great Design that was His, each tiny stitch imperceptibly bringing nearer the whole, as a wind carves its will into a rock over the centuries.

  Dan-Tor consoled himself with the knowledge that masks and cunning could soon be dispensed with, at least in part, and knives could be sharpened and used. Now was a time of harsh and sudden reality.

  As if echoing his thoughts, the setting sun emerged from behind a cloud and glared across the expansive gardens, dazzling the eyes and throwing long dark shadows which melted down the solidity of the trees and ornaments and cast a strange new landscape of their own.

  But mine will be more permanent, he thought. Neither passing cloud nor turn of the planet will change it.

  A towering figure loomed ahead of him in the yellow-white glare, and he had to move into its shadow to see more clearly. It was the Queen, sitting motionless on her favourite horse and staring into the distance. Even in stillness she had a harmony with the animal that irked him.

  He walked forward and stood silently by the carved stone balustrade that edged the raised area they were on and curved down a broad flight of shallow steps into a garden laid out with innumerable paths and elaborate shrubberies and flower beds. The glaring sunlight had leached all the colour from the scene transforming it into an unrecognizable patchwork of light and shadow which stretched out towards the two watchers as if trying to escape the sun’s mockery.

  ‘Lord Dan-Tor,’ said Sylvriss, acknowledging him with a slight nod.

  ‘Majesty,’ he bowed. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was taking a stroll to clear my mind of the turmoil of these past days.’

  ‘Terrible events, Lord Dan-Tor,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to tell the King something of them. It’s made him very restless.’

  Dan-Tor did not reply immediately. It was the first time he had thought of the King since the riot started. Now Rgoric figured even less in future plans than before, but he would still be needed for some time, and could still prove a considerable nuisance if handled wrongly.

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘Forgive me, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I’ve been so occupied, I’m afraid my duties as Chief Adviser have displaced my duties as Physician. I’ll come to him immediately.’

  Sylvriss looked at him and smiled sadly. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘He’s quiet again now, and sleeping. It eased him to know you were looking after his affairs. It may unsettle him if he felt you were neglecting State duties to attend to him.’

  Dan-Tor feigned doubtfulness.

  ‘Have no fear, Lord,’ Sylvriss continued reassuringly. ‘I’ll seek you out if his illness worsens.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell him that I’ve plans afoot that will bring the four Lords to heel very shortly,’ Dan-Tor volunteered. ‘And further plans to root out the other traitors in our midst.’

  Sylvriss’s heart froze, but she gave no outward sign of her fear. What did this . . . creature know? How many of her informants would be, had been, discovered? And Dilrap? Her horse shifted uneasily, aware of its rider’s distress. She reached forward and stroked its cheek. Dan-Tor edged away a little. He had no love for animals, nor they for him.

  ‘That will be a comfort indeed should he ask,’ Sylvriss said, with mild indifference. Then, gently backing her horse, ‘Your burdens have been greater by far than mine, Lord. I’ll not disturb you further. Enjoy the solace of the sunset.’

  Dan-Tor bowed again, and watched her as the horse trod slowly down the narrow steps into the gar
dens. Soon she had disappeared into the glaring sun.

  Later, Sylvriss discreetly sought out Dilrap. She studied him as he sat opposite her. Being constantly in the presence of Dan-Tor had, over the months, taken its toll on the Secretary. She remembered her entry into the Lords’ cell and the sudden shock of seeing them all so changed, so grim-faced and lean. Now Dilrap was wearing the same expression. She asked him about the plans to which Dan-Tor had referred.

  ‘I don’t know, Majesty,’ Dilrap replied. ‘But it wouldn’t matter if I did. I don’t think any of us will be able to do anything now.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said in a mixture of fear and concern.

  ‘Majesty,’ replied Dilrap, ‘Dan-Tor’s declared himself Ffyrst.’

  The news made no impression on Sylvriss. ‘My father’s title is Ffyrst,’ she said. ‘What’s significant about that?’

  ‘Majesty,’ said Dilrap, ‘the position of Ffyrst in Fyorlund is very different from that in Riddin. It’s a legacy from the distant past. In times of grave national danger the Geadrol would appoint someone as Ffyrst to govern the country until the danger was past. Usually it was the King, and he would select a small group of senior Lords as advisers. But it was a temporary appointment and was constantly reviewed by the Geadrol.’

  ‘And Dan-Tor has appointed himself to this position, using the riots as an excuse?’ said Sylvriss.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Majesty,’ said Dilrap. ‘He’s using the Law to destroy the Law. The Geadrol is suspended. The Lords are in disarray, divided by conflicting loyalties and confused by rumour. The Mathidrin hold the streets in Vakloss and many other villages and towns. He has a sufficient veneer of legality in the title to satisfy many ordinary people . . .’ He waved his hands in angry despair.

  ‘What of you then?’ Sylvriss asked.

  ‘I was of use to him only for dealing with the minutiae of the Law, Majesty. His word’s the Law now. He needs no guide there. All my tangling and twisting has counted for nothing in the end. The Goraidin’s bold stroke cut through them all. And the Law. And probably my neck.’ The comment sounded oddly flat, without bitterness or reproach.

  Sylvriss looked away from him. ‘At least the Lords are free,’ she said eventually. ‘Dan-Tor may not be the gainer after all. He’s only changed the name of what he already had.’

  Though what she said was true, she could not sound convinced. Dan-Tor’s power would undoubtedly grow the faster for being uncluttered by the trappings of the Law, and the direction of his achievements boded ill not only for the Honoured Secretary but for herself and the King if unchecked. Dilrap looked at her. ‘How is the King’s health, Majesty?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  Ruthlessly she cut his last thread. ‘Better, Dilrap, but he’s still weak. We can look to no help from him, I’m afraid.’

  In desperation he clutched again. ‘Majesty. I’m ill-fitted for the role Fate’s cast me in, but the man’s destroyed everything I valued, and will eventually destroy everything . . . everything I love.’ He pulled an ornate dagger from the folds of his robe. ‘For a little while I should still be able to get close to him. Physically close. One swift stroke and it would be done with.’

  Sylvriss reached forward and took his wrists gently. She remembered vividly her own futile attempt to stab Yatsu and the contemptuous ease with which she had been disarmed and almost killed for her pains. And she was Muster-trained.

  ‘No, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘That would be a useless gesture. You’d die achieving nothing. You and I have no choices now. I shall continue to nurse my husband. Playing the foolish stable girl until times swing our way. Your task is harder. You’ve been useful to him of late and his very contempt for you may be your saving. You must become his lackey. Law or no Law, he’ll need men to administer his . . . stewardship. You’ve learned to dissemble. Continue. Make yourself of value to this . . . new order. For your sake, and all our sakes, Dilrap, allow no other underling to interpose himself between you and this demon.’

  Then slowly, ‘As you love me, Dilrap, be as ruthless as he. No one must stand in your way. Our nearness to him is our only protection, maybe even Fyorlund’s only protection.’

  When Dilrap had left, Sylvriss went over to the window and, drawing back the tapestried curtain, looked out into the night sky. It was ablaze with stars. Beautiful, but cold and distant. A spartan solace for her. She stood there for a long time.

  Chapter 41

  The Lord Evison’s estate was in the north of Fyorlund, its borders disappearing vaguely into the mountains that lay between Fyorlund and Narsindal.

  Occasionally, Mandroc raiding parties would venture down into the bleak northerly stretches of the estate to steal cattle and sheep. It was a perennial problem for most of the northern Lords but not usually a serious one as the parties tended to be small and disorganized and would invariably scatter as soon as the villagers started unearthing their old Threshold Swords and spears. On the rare occasions that raids became too frequent or the parties too large, the High Guards would be sent to deal with them. However, there being no benefit to be gained from capturing or killing Mandrocs, they were normally allowed to escape back into the mountains.

  Then, abruptly, the pattern changed. The raids grew in intensity. The Mandrocs became more persistent and even started to stand their ground and fight.

  Following a bitter year in which both villagers and High Guards were killed, Lord Evison requested permission from the King to extend his High Guard in order to patrol his northern border more effectively.

  Such a request was considered to be only a courtesy which the King could not reasonably refuse, but the King had refused it. Like most of the northern Lords, Evison was a traditionalist in the mould of Eldric, though somewhat more blunt. In his immediate anger, therefore, his reply to the King’s refusal was less than diplomatic. The King, in turn, cited some ancient statute and declared Evison a rebel, along with several other Lords who had made the same request.

  This caused some stir but, knowing of the King’s illness, the offending Lords let the matter lie in the fairly certain knowledge that they would eventually be able to sort it out in the Geadrol. No harm would come of it. In the meantime, they had a more pressing problem to deal with that required men, so they levied their full High Guards and increased the number of reserves.

  Despite the extra patrols, however, the raiding parties continued with increasing frequency and violence, and reluctantly Evison decided that he must mount a major operation against the Mandrocs, pursuing them back into the mountains so that he could find and perhaps even treat with their leaders or, if necessary, destroy their bases. Accordingly, he consolidated his High Guards and, on a bright summer day, set forth at the head of several thousand men to resolve the problem once and for all.

  Commander Ordan, Lord Evison’s Second-in-Command, walked fitfully up and down the battlements of his Lord’s castle. His frustration at being ordered to remain behind in charge of the castle had gradually been displaced by concern. It had been too long since any message had come back from the troop. The last one had said they were entering the mountains following the trail of a large raiding party, but had contacted no Mandrocs so far. Since then, silence.

  ‘Riders!’

  The look-out’s cry cut into his dark reverie like a ray of sunlight. Jumping up on to the wall, he looked northwards, following the look-out’s pointing hand. He felt a great relief as he saw the distant riders approaching and there was some cheering from others who had been keeping informal watch on the battlements.

  Within minutes, however, all elation was gone, and Ordan found himself running wide-eyed and alarmed out of the main gate to greet his Lord. Bloodied by battle, and fouled with a desperate journey, Lord Evison slithered from his mount only seconds before it collapsed, foaming and steaming. The riders following him were in no better condition.

  Urgently shouting orders for the care of the returning men and beasts, Ordan bent forward and swung his Lord’s arm around his shoulde
r for support.

  ‘My Lord,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  The old man did not answer but leaned heavily on his Second-in-Command. ‘Who’ll believe us?’ he said after a moment.

  Ordan looked at him. ‘My Lord?’ But Evison’s eyes showed he was in some other place. ‘My Lord,’ Ordan said again, more urgently, above the mounting clatter of activity that was filling the courtyard.

  Abruptly, Evison jerked upright and stared at him, a distant look of recognition in his eyes. Then he seized Ordan’s arm and, limping slightly, dragged him into the castle.

  Unable to resist his Lord’s urgent grasp, Ordan was pulled through familiar rooms and passageways in a strange, almost nightmare silence. Their journey ended in the Hall of the Four Guardians.

  Evison walked purposefully over to an ornate cabinet housing his family’s Festival Shrine. He stared at it for a moment, his face riven with conflicting emotions, then without warning he smashed the glass with his mailed fist. Before Ordan could speak, a second blow smashed into the shrine itself, splintering its delicate painted woodwork and sending its simple contents scattering.

  Ordan stood aghast as Evison groped through the wreckage and, with an almost touching carefulness in his awkward gloved hand, picked up one of the fallen figures.

  Ordan’s first thought was that his Lord had gone insane, but when he looked into his eyes, he saw cold reason underpinning pain and horror.

  ‘Commander,’ said the Lord, wrapping the figure in a blood-stained kerchief, ‘you understand what this is?’ He held out the small bundle. Ordan nodded and opened his mouth to speak but Evison cut him short with a wave of his hand, then taking hold of his arm began to manoeuvre him powerfully out of the hall. ‘Ask no questions, Ordan,’ he said, striding relentlessly, his face pained with the effort. ‘This is my last order to you. Every second means death for someone. Take this to Lord Eldric. He’ll believe me.’