The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  Hawklan reached back unsteadily and regained his chair. Holding out his hands he found they were trembling. Isloman’s recovery had been as sudden and startling as his deterioration had been slow.

  A faint smile appeared on Isloman’s face. He shifted in the chair, then, looking at the worn carving under his hands, nodded admiringly. ‘These Fyordyn have a way with wood,’ he said irrelevantly. Then he looked at the sword intently and, apparently satisfied, held it out to Hawklan. Hawklan laid it on a nearby table. The cold thought returned to him – this recovery is fortuitous, Isloman’s too good a fighter to lose – but he pushed it lightly to one side, realizing that his own violent reaction to it before was because Isloman’s pain had become his own as the healer in him had reached out to help. Such thoughts had their place, he knew, for all their harshness. Only when they dominated did they destroy.

  ‘I feel as if I’ve been dropped over a cliff,’ Isloman said.

  Gavor floated down and landed on his shoulder.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Hawklan asked.

  ‘There are no words, Hawklan. You understand that.’ Isloman said. ‘Those valleys ring with a great groaning scream that pervades the whole area. The rocks are being tortured, defiled. Deep, deep down. It’s unbelievable. There’s no way I can describe it. I’ve never heard the like before and I didn’t even believe it at first. Then, when I did, I was trapped. I couldn’t ignore its plea and I couldn’t do anything about it. Nothing. Except stand there and listen. I’ve no control over my rock knowledge, Hawklan. I can’t shut it out. The sound tore into me and clung like a terrified animal. Imagine you’d been at that castle and seen those men being killed infinitely slowly, and known you could do nothing about it – nothing.’

  He looked at Hawklan who lowered his eyes at the thought of this comparison. Then Isloman held out his huge hand and slowly curled the fingers round into a powerful fist.

  ‘I’ve seen stone damaged by nature, Hawklan. Just as you’ve seen people laid low by accidents. It’s not pleasant, but it has its own strange harmony, its own rightness. But this had no rightness. This was wilful desecration, torture, blasphemy. It was the work of a consciously malevolent force. I learned that in the darkness. A force that feeds on such horror and will grow stronger and faster, the more it defiles.’

  Momentarily he looked a little sheepish. ‘To be honest, I’ve taken all this talk about Sumeral and the Guardians with a large pinch of rock dust, for all Gulda and Eldric and the like have to say about it. It seemed too . . . unlikely.’ He fixed Hawklan with a grim stare. ‘But I know now, Hawklan. Whatever name you want to give it, there’s a monumental evil abroad. It’s powerful and it’s growing. A corruption beyond our imagining. I doubt there’s any place we could hide from it, and I know there’s no place I could hide from myself if I let it destroy the things I love unhindered. It may well destroy us if we turn to face it, but it will certainly destroy us if we don’t.’

  A silence fell between the two men. Isloman nodded his craggy head towards the Black Sword. ‘Maybe one day, you’ll understand that sword of yours, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘But its perfection shone through to me like a beacon. It reminded me in my torment that harmony still existed and told me why it had to be.’

  Hawklan nodded, but found no words to answer this affirmation except, ‘You’ll not be alone. There’ll always be two of us.’

  ‘Three, dear boy,’ came Gavor’s voice. ‘Three. The two of you on your own show a great propensity for solemnity. What you really need at a time like this are my bird impressions. They’ll chirp you up.’

  Hawklan eyed his friend narrowly. ‘No, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Not now. Isloman needs rest, as do I. We have Yatsu’s Council tomorrow. It wouldn’t do for us to retire in too excited a state, would it?’ He smiled hypocritically.

  Gavor hissed at him.

  Chapter 47

  As a deliberate act of policy on arriving at Eldric’s stronghold, Yatsu asked Commander Varak to restrain all questions until Hawklan and his party returned. ‘It’s an imposition, I know, Commander. But much has to be said and, as some of it will take a great deal of accepting, I’d prefer it to be said in one place at one time. I want no half truths and gossip cluttering up the proceedings. Besides, we’re all very tired and in need of some rest, if you could oblige us.’

  Faced with this elite corps and the three Lords, Varak had little choice, but he chewed on his curiosity with a restless grace. When a distressed Ordan appeared carrying a strange armour he managed to confine himself to merely giving Yatsu a significant look.

  Thus the atmosphere in the Council of Officers was alive with inquiry. It was not lessened by the entrance of Hawklan with Gavor sitting on his shoulder and the powerful figure of Isloman walking beside him. Both Lorac and Tel-Odrel rose in surprise to see Isloman so suddenly recovered and they greeted him warmly.

  The Council was held in a hall with large rectangular windows through which the summer sun flooded. It was obviously a hall designed for meetings, as the light was dispersed evenly all round the large circular wooden table that formed its centrepiece.

  Apart from the Lords and the Goraidin, the senior officers of Eldric’s High Guard were present, together with Hrostir, Arinndier’s son, and various officers from the High Guards of the Lords Darek and Hreldar who had remained at Eldric’s castle after the quartet had set off on their ill-fated journey to Vakloss.

  Darek spoke first, telling of the Lords’ trip to Vakloss and their subsequent arrest and escape. Then Yatsu told of his plan to rescue the Lords with his erstwhile companions from the Goraidin, and of the dreadful use that had been made of the diversionary riots and fire they had started. He told also of the decision by Lord Eldric to return to the Palace to demand an Accounting of Dan-Tor in the hope of saving his son’s life, and of his orders that the High Guards be levied to oppose Dan-Tor.

  The tension in the room grew markedly as these tellings proceeded but, true to the Fyordyn tradition, no one interrupted.

  Next, Tel-Odrel told of the massacre of Lord Evison and his men, and of the journey into the mountains and the discovery of the mines and quarries there. At Yatsu’s prior request, he made no mention of the ominous character of Evison’s message, nor of the nature of the enemy that had so ruthlessly pursued and destroyed him.

  Despite their discipline, the shock of this news showed itself all too clearly on the assembled officers, though Hawklan noted that among the older men, there was almost as much reaction to the mention of the mines as to that of the massacre. Unhindered by Fyordyn tradition, he spoke. ‘Tell me about the mines,’ he said.

  There was an awkward silence, then Arinndier answered. ‘The mines are a rather . . . difficult matter for us, Hawklan,’ he began. ‘They’re old workings that were reopened three or four generations ago, but had to be sealed again within a few years.’

  He hesitated and Hreldar cut through his patent embarrassment. ‘They were sealed because they were dangerous, Hawklan. The topic’s a sensitive one for us because the last use of the mines was as a prison colony.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Hreldar. ‘The dangers were not just the normal dangers of mining – rock falls, dust, gas and the like. There was something in . . . the air . . . or the rock. Over the years it affected both prisoners and guards. Men just began to . . . waste away. And even when they were taken away from the mines, the wasting continued until . . .’

  ‘They died.’ It was Isloman. ‘Some rocks sing a dire song,’ he said, his face lined with distress. ‘A song of warning. I understand your pain, Lords, albeit the blame was not yours.’

  His face became thoughtful and anxious as the memory of his recent darkness returned briefly. ‘They’re so vast. And so deep,’ he said, half to himself. ‘And so old. Almost as old as the rock itself.’

  Arinndier looked at him sharply.

  ‘Still,’ Isloman said. ‘That’s a deed and a tragedy of the
past. We must look to the problems of the present. What does it mean now that the mines have been reopened, and their bounty goes north?’

  ‘North,’ said Arinndier softly. ‘Into Narsindal.’ He looked uncertainly at Darek and Hreldar, then turned to Hawklan. ‘There’s a legend that during the First Coming, Sumeral opened great mine workings to provide materials for His war machines. They were worked by slaves who are said to have died in their tens of thousands. They say the shafts ran so deep that they released things that were older and more evil than Sumeral Himself. Things that the Cadwanol spent generations hunting down and sealing back in the mountains after the Last Battle.’

  Irritated by this seeming digression, some of the High Guards were becoming restless. One or two exchanged glances and discreetly pulled wry faces at one another at this example of whimsy by a Lord of the Geadrol.

  Hawklan rounded on them. ‘Save your irony for another time, gentlemen,’ he said ferociously. ‘For a time when your own sanity has been well tested. Mock when you have your heel on your enemy’s throat, not while your companions are rotting in the mud but a few days’ ride away.’

  No one spoke and the offending guards sat very still under the force of Hawklan’s onslaught. He looked at Yatsu, who nodded to him to continue.

  Easing his chair back, he stood up and looked round at the faces of the High Guards. The power of his presence, together with the news they had received, precluded indifference, though their expressions were, for the most part, uncertain.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘as you’ve been told, when we met Commander Ordan he was carrying a message from the Lord Evison. A simple and brief message given by a Lord whose High Guard had just been routed and who was preparing to face what he must have known might be his last battle. The message was a small carved figure taken from one of your Festival Shrines. The fourth figure. The figure of Ethriss.’

  Involuntarily, some of the men made a brief circular movement with their hands over their hearts.

  Hawklan continued. ‘That message confirmed what I already knew and what your Lords here were coming to know. We have been born into the age of the Second Coming. Sumeral is risen again in Narsindal and you will be among the first to feel the strength He is putting forth.’

  Their impatience at last overriding their discipline, several of the men signalled to Yatsu for permission to speak, but Hawklan overrode them. ‘Gentlemen. This isn’t a debate. The Lord Eldric’s last order was unequivocal, and it alone commands your obedience. Its confirmation by these other Lords and the Goraidin makes that command absolute. I tell you what I tell you because it is the truth and because you need to know it to understand those orders.’ He leaned forward resting his weight on the table. ‘Sumeral is risen, and the Lord Dan-Tor is His agent. Through Dan-Tor His corruption has reached into Orthlund and into Riddin, and has riddled your own society. We have no proof but, if your heart can’t feel it, then let your heads ask why the Watch has been abandoned, why your Geadrol has been suspended, why your Lords arrested. Ask why the High Guards have been disbanded and replaced by liveried thugs. Ask why your society seems to be crumbling at the least touch. And if the answers to these questions don’t convince you that a great evil is abroad, then ask how an entire troop of your own kind came to be slaughtered.’ He paused. ‘Slaughtered by . . . Mandrocs.’

  The word hung in the air but, before anyone could react, Hawklan bent down and took hold of the armour that had been retrieved from Lord Evison’s. Straightening up he threw it on to the table. ‘Mandrocs, equipped thus,’ he finished. The heavy, metal-clad jerkin, torn and bloodstained, together with the iron cap and a short vicious-looking sword, lay on the plain polished wood like a scar, ugly and ominous.

  The Lords and the Goraidin sat virtually unmoved at this demonstration. Both had already come to accept the new reality that was dawning. Their traditional image of Sumeral as a storybook ogre had slowly faded and was being replaced by an image of an all too solid and powerful leader who could order troops out to battle and who could build great roads and instigate the opening of vast mine workings for His needs. The massacre of Evison and his men had, ironically, proved to be a reassurance, for all its unexpectedness and the power and ruthlessness that it represented. The menace offered by some ancient, intangible demon had the quality of a poisonous mist that corroded the will, but soldiers were soldiers, and be they Mandrocs or men, soldiers could be fought.

  Before anyone else could respond, a distant trumpet call sounded, winding its way through the castle. Varak cocked his head on one side. ‘Rider coming, Commander,’ he said to Yatsu. ‘Alone. And fast.’

  * * * *

  The rider was Yengar. Yatsu ran down the broad stone steps from the meeting hall to greet him as he clattered into the courtyard. Slithering down from his horse, he kept hold of his saddle for support. The horse was foaming and steam was rising from it profusely.

  Hawklan followed the example of the other Goraidin and Varak, and remained at the top of the steps to watch the conversation between the two men. Yengar was exhausted, but he had the same driving momentum that had propelled Ordan in his charge against far superior odds, and it apparently surged on in his speech as Yatsu had to spend a little time coaxing him into greater coherence.

  Hawklan watched as Yengar gradually recovered himself. Relinquishing his hold on his saddle, he straightened up stiffly and began talking in a manner that had Yatsu listening attentively. After a moment, Yatsu raised a hand to stop him briefly and turned to look up the steps. ‘Commander Varak,’ he called. ‘May I ask your help?’

  Varak cleared his throat and left Hawklan’s side to join the two men. Hawklan put his foot on a balustrade and, leaning on his knee, watched as the conversation became more businesslike. Yengar was talking and pointing, and Varak was nodding.

  Then Yatsu and Varak spoke a little and abruptly Varak saluted and called out to a group of men who were standing discreetly in attendance nearby. Yatsu made a slight hand movement, and two of the Goraidin by Hawklan moved down to join him.

  Almost immediately, Yengar seemed to relax, and both he and Yatsu turned to mount the steps as the courtyard broke into a flurry of running men and shouted commands.

  ‘Is Olvric in serious trouble?’ Hawklan asked as the two men reached him.

  Yatsu gave him a long look. ‘Have you mastered our Battle Language so easily, Hawklan?’ he said.

  Hawklan shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied.

  Yatsu took him by the elbow and ushered him to the door. ‘Come. Tell,’ he said bluntly.

  In spite of the tension that the day had brought so far, Hawklan smiled; he liked Yatsu’s manner. He put his arms around the shoulders of the two men, the hand resting on Yengar instinctively reading signs of tension and fatigue.

  ‘You left Yengar and Olvric to observe Lord Eldric, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Against his express orders, I might remind you.’ Yatsu ignored the remark. ‘Now Yengar comes back alone and exhausted, his horse nearly dead. Obviously desperate. He tells his tale and relaxes only when a patrol is mustered for his friend’s relief.’ Yatsu raised his eyebrows, but Hawklan ploughed on. ‘Now, the patrol’s not too big, so any pursuing force is itself not big, but it is being mustered quickly, so Olvric is in some danger. I’d say he’s out there acting as rearguard or diversion.’

  Yatsu smiled slightly and nodded appreciatively. ‘Indeed, Hawklan, indeed. A fair Gathering from very little. So much for our Goraidin inconspicuousness.’ He accented each syllable of the word.

  ‘It’s a Mathidrin patrol, Hawklan,’ said Yengar. ‘Only a small one, but good. They’ve stuck with us all the way. It’s been a bad journey. We daren’t lead them any nearer so Olvric’s got them pinned down in a valley a few hours away.’

  Hawklan looked concerned. ‘Pinned down,’ he said. ‘One man? A few hours away? He’ll be long out of arrows by now.’

  Yatsu did not share Hawklan’s concern. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Olvric’s as good a slinger as he is a
n archer and he’ll have ammunition aplenty where he is. The main problem is that he’s liable to be outflanked. It’s not all that good ambush country.’ The distant clatter of galloping horses leaving the castle reached them as they walked down the long corridor.

  Hawklan was pensive. He inclined his head towards the sound. ‘Those men know not to take any unnecessary risks, don’t they?’ he said. ‘And to make sure that none of that patrol get back to Vakloss? Preferably by taking them all prisoner.’

  A faint hint of irritation showed briefly on Yatsu’s face. ‘Of course,’ he replied, managing to keep it from his voice. ‘Two of them are Goraidin. Our main function is to gather information, and where possible confuse the enemy’s information. And we never take risks without a deal of calculation.’

  Hawklan nodded apologetically.

  When they entered the meeting hall they were met by a barrage of questions.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Yatsu’s voice filled the room, as he strode purposefully back to his seat. ‘Yengar is fresh from Vakloss. We’ll hear his news, then we’ll talk. Not before. Be silent. This is not a Festival Feast.’

  A rather shamefaced silence descended on the room and Yengar, still breathing heavily, told of Eldric’s Accounting and his subsequent seizure by the Mathidrin together with Lord Oremson.

  When he had finished Yatsu leaned forward, frowning sadly. ‘And there was nothing you could do, Yengar?’ he asked.

  Yengar shook his head. ‘No, Commander. Nothing. They moved in, in force, very quickly and very quietly. We barely got away as it was. What we managed to see was from a nearby hill. Vakloss is full of Mathidrin and ringed tight. We couldn’t even estimate their numbers, there were so many and we had to move so fast. Ethriss knows where Dan-Tor’s been keeping them. Besides, you know Oremson’s place. It couldn’t be defended by a battalion.’