The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  ‘No, no,’ said Dan-Tor, ‘that’s not his way. He’ll wait until he’s here before he lays out any recriminations. Right now he’s just trying to “sway the jury” a little, that’s all. It’ll present no problem. I can play this game as well as he, I’m sure.’

  ‘Game?’ queried Urssain.

  Dan-Tor said nothing. It’s as well you don’t know how small a pawn you are, Commander, he thought. Nor the nature of the Master who plays with you. The very thought of him would shrivel your vaulting ambition out of its feeble existence.

  Urssain did not press his question, but turned again to look at the now visible Eldric approaching the Palace gates below.

  ‘He’s a splendid sight,’ he said involuntarily.

  Dan-Tor rose and joined him at the window. ‘Indeed,’ he said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘Indeed he is. Most picturesque. A relic of days long gone, like something out of an old picture. It’s quite fitting that such a figure should attend the death of the old order and the birth of the new.’

  But the sight irritated him, bringing back ancient and bitter memories of the time when many, dressed thus, had unjustly brought down his Master and sent him into the long darkness. For Eldric was in battledress. Not the formal battledress he would have worn for the Geadrol, but the full battledress worn by the High Guards at the time of the First Coming. A light, close-knit mailcoat that would turn almost any edge or point, and a rounded helm that would deflect them. A white surcoat with the symbol of the Iron Ring emblazoned on it, and a red cloak to denote his rank and make him conspicuous in combat – an invitation to the enemy and a focus of courage and leadership for his own men. At his left side hung a sword in a decorated scabbard, and at his right swung a double-headed axe that glinted bright in the sunlight.

  Dan-Tor looked at the glittering axe. Developed from a much cruder Mandroc weapon, he remembered. Ethriss was always learning and improving. Suddenly a great swell of primordial rage rose up through him, as if these old memories had opened a long-closed door. Closing his eyes, he struggled to fight it down. Had Urssain chosen that moment to turn around, he would have seen his master strangely and evilly transfigured, but Dan-Tor’s restraint prevailed and the moment passed.

  ‘A brief word of advice for your men, Commander,’ he said.

  ‘Ffyrst?’

  ‘Patience,’ replied Dan-Tor. ‘Move only on my express command. I intend to make this a long and tedious day, and I want no acts of “initiative” from any of your more foolish young men, do you understand? Behaviour to Eldric and to the crowd is to be both impeccable and friendly.’

  ‘Yes, Ffyrst,’ Urssain acknowledged.

  ‘Besides,’ continued Dan-Tor, ‘he may be an old relic, but he’s a dangerous one, and he’s come dressed for close-quarter fighting. Armed like that, he’d slaughter dozens before you could bring him down.’

  Urssain offered no comment on this judgement of his men. He still carried the memories of how the High Guards had fought in Orthlund and he would not make the mistake of underestimating them again.

  Below, an expectant semi-circle formed in the crowd and Eldric rode slowly forward into the open space.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dan-Tor. ‘We’re here. Let’s attend the honourable Lord, Commander, and make ourselves available for the Accounting.’

  Chapter 43

  As they left the outskirts of Vakloss, Hawklan advised Yatsu to allow Serian to set the pace. ‘He’s a better judge of horses than either of us, and time’s important.’ The Goraidin acceded with some reluctance and was uncertain for some time until he saw the progress they were making and how fresh the horses remained after following Serian’s unseen commands.

  On a few occasions Hawklan asked Serian to stop for the sake of the men, but the horse remonstrated with him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re going well. We’re in harmony. Our spirits are flowing. You look to your own, Hawklan, I’ll look to mine.’ And Hawklan had to content himself with tending Dacu and Arinndier and encouraging the others while in the saddle, until Serian deemed it fitting to stop.

  A combination of Serian’s will and Isloman’s shadow lore sped them through the night, and Gavor’s high circling watch kept them clear of Mathidrin patrols during the day.

  ‘They’re not looking for anyone,’ he concluded eventually. ‘We’ve been too fast for them. They don’t know what’s happened.’

  A further, lengthy sortie by Gavor yielded the information that they were apparently not being pursued at all. Yatsu was uneasy.

  ‘It could be for many reasons,’ Hawklan said. ‘Perhaps Eldric’s giving Dan-Tor severe cause for thought. Perhaps he’s uncertain of your support in the country and is frightened of over-extending himself.’

  Yatsu shook his head. ‘No. He has enough Mathidrin in the country to deal with us. He must know where we’re going and why by now. If he’s not pursuing us with everything he has, then he doesn’t care that we’ll raise an army against him, which means . . .’

  ‘He’s got greater forces at his command somewhere than we’ve seen so far.’ Hawklan anticipated his conclusion.

  ‘Yes,’ Yatsu acknowledged. ‘We must execute Lord Eldric’s orders as quickly as possible.’

  On the third day out from Vakloss Gavor swooped down unexpectedly out of the windy sky. ‘Rider coming,’ he said. ‘Very fast.’

  ‘Mathidrin?’ asked Yatsu.

  ‘No,’ said Gavor. ‘But he’s liveried, armed and riding as if his life depended on it.’

  Yatsu spoke a few soft orders and four of the Goraidin melted into the adjacent fields and hedgerows. Within minutes, the rider thundered round a bend in the road ahead. Seeing the waiting group blocking the road he brought his sweating mount to a precipitate halt. Hawklan could see the mixture of emotions that illuminated the man’s face as he looked at them. Then, with apparent reluctance he turned his horse as if to flee, only to find Goraidin emerging from the fields to seal his retreat.

  He spun his horse round several times indecisively, then abruptly lifted a double-headed axe from his saddle and held it high and menacingly in the air. The gesture and the man’s attitude radiated an unequivocal intention. Hawklan heard Yatsu draw in a sharp breath.

  ‘He’s battle crazy,’ he shouted. ‘Defend yourselves.’

  The man’s horse reared violently, and with a terrible roaring cry he urged it forward straight at Yatsu’s group.

  The force of the man’s desperate passion hit Hawklan like a breaking wave, and he felt a strange stirring deep within him.

  ‘Stop,’ he shouted. Not to the charging figure, but to the Goraidin by him, who were drawing back bows to end this threat at a safe distance. Before anyone could argue, Serian leapt forward into a full gallop seeming to read Hawklan’s will without words being spoken.

  The group watched, stunned, as Serian gathered speed and headed straight for the oncoming rider. But Isloman’s eyes opened wide, almost in terror, as once again his old friend had disappeared and in front of him was some ancient figure sprung alive from the walls of Anderras Darion.

  At the sight of Hawklan approaching, both the man’s cry and his horse faltered slightly, but not sufficiently to stem either the physical or the emotional momentum that had been built up. The axe swung around his head in a lethal hissing circle, and his cry became more shrill, but Yatsu screwed up his eyes in a sympathetic grimace as he heard the fear in it.

  As the two horses closed, Serian swerved suddenly to the right and Hawklan leaned to the left, bringing his hand up in front of the man’s face. The move was so rapid and unexpected that the man rose up out of his saddle and crashed backwards on to the ground even though Hawklan had barely touched him.

  Hawklan dismounted quickly and ran to the fallen man, the grim aura that had surrounded him during his charge falling from him like an unwanted cloak. He knelt down by the man’s side and began gently and swiftly checking for injury. Isloman watched uncertainly, two images lingering in his mind: Hawklan the healer he had known for so many
years; and Hawklan the terrible warrior who appeared in times of physical trial.

  As Hawklan’s hands moved across the man’s face, his eyes flickered open and gazed upward, unfocused and bewildered.

  ‘You’re badly winded, but uninjured,’ said Hawklan. ‘You were lucky. I’m sorry I had to be so rough, but you were about to be killed.’

  Memory returned to the man’s face and he tried to rise.

  Hawklan restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest. ‘Just rest for a moment,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’

  The Goraidin gathered round and the man struggled for a moment unavailingly against Hawklan’s hand. Then his head dropped back despairingly. ‘Damn you,’ he said weakly. ‘Damn you and all your kind.’

  Hawklan smiled. ‘I don’t think there are a great many like me, and you’re misjudging the others, they’re not what they seem.’

  The man, still breathing heavily, glowered at Hawklan, but Hawklan returned the look with another smile. ‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’ he said. Then, flicking his thumb towards the watching Goraidin, ‘These men would’ve killed you in another pace if I hadn’t stopped you. They had quite specific, if hasty, orders about it, and every personal inclination, the way you were swinging that axe.’

  The man’s expression did not change. ‘What did you hit me with?’ he asked. ‘All of a sudden you weren’t there and then . . .’

  Hawklan laughed and stood up. ‘You hit yourself in a manner of speaking,’ he replied. ‘But don’t bother about it. Just consider yourself lucky you weren’t badly hurt. Lie still for a little while until you’re fully recovered.’

  But the man insisted on easing himself gingerly into a sitting position. ‘That’s the remains of a High Guard livery he’s wearing,’ said one of the Goraidin.

  ‘Lord Evison’s livery,’ came a voice from behind them. It was Arinndier, carefully dismounting from his horse. ‘And ill-used at that. Explain your condition and your conduct, Guard.’

  ‘Lord Arinndier?’ said the man in surprise. He accepted the hands held out to lift him to his feet. ‘Lord . . . I . . .’ He looked round in confusion. ‘What are you doing with these . . . these . . . people? A group of these tried to stop me earlier and I had to kill three of them.’

  ‘Answer my questions, Guard, before I answer yours,’ Arinndier replied. ‘Suffice it that these people, as you call them, aren’t Mathidrin, despite their uniform, but High Guards such as yourself. You’ve fallen among friends . . . literally. And you owe the Lord Hawklan here your life.’

  The man swayed a little and Hawklan took his arm and looked closely at him. ‘He’s very weak, Lord Arinndier,’ he said. ‘In fact he’s exhausted. When did you last sleep or eat?’ he asked.

  The man shrugged vaguely. ‘I’ve to find Lord Eldric urgently,’ he said. ‘Lord Evison’s message . . .’

  Hawklan’s tone was gentle but unequivocal. ‘The Lord Eldric’s in Vakloss and, I suspect, in no position to receive messages at the moment. The Lords Arinndier, Darek and Hreldar will accept it, I’m sure, but only when you’ve rested.’

  The man became agitated. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve lost too much time already. The country’s gone mad.’ He shook himself free of Hawklan’s hand and immediately staggered uncontrollably around the small circle formed by the gathered men. As each tried to help him, he pushed them away until finally he collapsed on to his knees.

  Hawklan bent down and passed his hand over the man’s face. The agitation left it and he slithered gently to the ground.

  ‘That was a little premature, Hawklan,’ said Darek. ‘I’d say from his condition that his message was one of some urgency.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Hawklan. ‘But he’ll tell you precious little in that condition. He’s on the verge of total collapse. I’d judge he’s been riding for several days without food or sleep. However urgent his message I don’t think an hour or two will make much difference.’ He looked at Yatsu. ‘Can we spare this man a little time?’ he asked.

  Yatsu raised an eyebrow. ‘Ask your horse,’ he said ironically. The comment provoked a little more laughter than it merited as it carried the group’s residual battle tension into the breeze.

  As if following it, Gavor extended his shining wings and rose leisurely into the air. ‘I’ll keep watch for you, Commander,’ he said. ‘It’s a good day for resting on the air.’

  Yatsu acknowledged with a nod of thanks, but posted sentries anyway. Only Hawklan heard Gavor’s distant chuckle.

  Hawklan made the newcomer comfortable and then joined the three Lords and Yatsu, who were sitting on a grassy embankment at the side of the road.

  ‘Let me look at your wound,’ he said to Arinndier. The Lord smiled to himself. He had already learned that this green-eyed healer was not to be stayed by any form of protest. As Hawklan’s hands examined the wound and manipulated his neck and shoulders, Arinndier felt a deep relaxation seep through him.

  ‘You’ve magic in your hands, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘The only person I’ve met who could do the same was Dan-Tor.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘No, that’s not quite right. He treated my wrist once when I sprained it. He cured it very quickly, but it felt more as if the injury was being . . . torn out almost . . . by a great power.’

  The hands on his shoulders stopped moving and he turned his head to look at Hawklan. ‘I suppose that sounds rather foolish to you, doesn’t it? Healing’s healing, isn’t it?’

  Hawklan smiled and, placing his hand on top of Arinndier’s head, turned it to the front again. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘Far from it. You’ve just told me a great deal about the man. I’ll have to think about it, it may be important. Now, be quiet and relax.’

  But Arinndier was not so easily stopped. ‘And where in this world did you learn that trick you used on our messenger?’

  ‘I’d like an answer to that,’ said Yatsu. ‘What possessed you to tackle someone in that state? I take some pride in my fighting skill, but that was a textbook case of when to retreat. I’ve seen men like that take a score of arrows and still kill a dozen before they fell.’

  Hawklan did not answer immediately. He looked down at his hands seeking out the damage in Arinndier’s back. Though he knew no others could see it – even Tirilen would see it only faintly – it was written there quite clearly for him to read. The arrow wound, centring a vivid mosaic of tensions and strains brought about by the man’s posture generally and his anxious response to the injury in particular. A mass of tiny interlinked wounds leading deep down into the very heart of the man. His hands would gradually release them, but he knew the body would partly re-establish some of them in spite of itself. These people were always the same – these people, the phrase made him scowl slightly – always a part of them dedicated to self-destruction.

  ‘The man had to be protected from the consequences of his actions,’ he said.

  ‘He had to be protected?’ exclaimed Arinndier. ‘What about us? He was the one with the axe and the frenzy – ouch.’

  ‘Be still,’ Hawklan said, firmly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to relax? Stop fighting your body’s attempts to heal itself.’

  Yatsu casually lifted a hand to his mouth to hide his amusement.

  ‘Anyway, you were in no danger,’ Hawklan continued. ‘Your Goraidin would’ve killed his horse and then him before he’d travelled half a dozen paces. Isn’t that so, Yatsu?’

  Yatsu nodded. ‘There’s no other way with people like that if you can’t run away. At least I’ve never seen one until today.’ He rolled a grass stalk between his thumb and finger and then launched it gently like a tiny spear. The breeze caught it and tumbled it along the road.

  Hawklan sensed that Yatsu was recalling memories he would have preferred stayed forgotten. He looked again at Arinndier’s back. ‘That’s all the answer I have for you, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I saw a path and followed it. It was different to yours.’

  Yatsu looked at him. ‘You too
k an incredible risk,’ he said.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The path was there to be followed. The only danger lay in my leaving it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Yatsu.

  Hawklan laughed and slapped Arinndier’s arm. ‘That should do for now,’ he said. ‘Remember, relax into the pain when it troubles you. Stop fighting it.’ He turned to Yatsu, still laughing. ‘You don’t understand it?’ He bounced his finger ends off his chest in emphasis. ‘I don’t understand it. Now where’s Dacu?’

  * * * *

  Ordan emerged from a warm, comforting darkness into a warm, comforting summer light. He stared up at the sky picture his father had carved and painted on his bedroom ceiling. The breeze on his face must be coming from an open window. Soon the house would start to bustle awake, and a sunlit day would spread before him.

  Then he noticed that the cloud pictures were moving, and a small black dot was sweeping a wide watchful circle high above him. With an appalling jolt, his memory returned. His message! Lord Eldric! More Mathidrin attacking him! He tried to sit up, but a gentle hand restrained him.

  ‘Not yet,’ said a voice. ‘You’re with friends. Rest while you can. We haven’t much time, but you must eat, and tell us your tale before we decide what to do.’

  Ordan turned his head towards the voice. The speaker had a lean, carved face with high cheekbones and bright green eyes. Ordan remembered a haze of weariness and mounting frenzy, and a great force that had torn it from him effortlessly. The words, ‘You’re alive aren’t you?’ came back to him. This green-eyed man had saved him in some way when he could just as easily have killed him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he said. ‘Who are you? Who are these . . .’

  ‘My name is Hawklan,’ came the reply. ‘These other men are High Guards, of a kind, despite their uniforms. As for what’s happening, that’s a complicated tale which will have to keep. Come on, sit up.’

  But the momentum of Ordan’s long journey reasserted itself and swept away most of his new-found quiet. He struggled unsteadily to his feet and looked round at the groups of resting men and grazing horses. Lord Evison’s order had been unequivocal. Give the message to Lord Eldric only. But he had lost so much time. Lord Eldric’s Castle had been sealed and his household reputedly fled to the mountains. Then he’d had to fight his way through black-liveried guards he’d never seen before. Now, this strange green-eyed man steadying him – from Orthlund by the sound of him. And High Guards in black livery? And Lords? Arinndier, Darek, and was that grim-faced one Hreldar?