The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  Hawklan felt the man’s pain. Yengar knew that he and Olvric had had no alternative but to flee, but that knowledge was a poor antidote to a poison as potent as abandonment of an ally.

  ‘What happened to the people who were in the grounds?’ he asked. Yengar grimaced. ‘Those who were unlucky enough to wake quickly and offer resistance were cut down. The rest were rounded up and marched away.’

  Hawklan leaned back and looked at the grim faces around the table. Oddly, the mood of the meeting had changed abruptly and a heavy silence had descended on the hall as each individual began to search for his own way to face the implications of what he had heard that day. The Goraidin and the Lords had made their own peace already, but for Varak and the High Guards it was a considerable ordeal.

  Under other circumstances, the normal momentum of their ordered lives would have made them dismiss such tales out of hand as nonsense, but the presence of the elite Goraidin and three grim-faced and respected Lords stood against this momentum like a cliff face looming over the sea. Then there was Isloman; one of the two Orthlundyn who had served with the Goraidin in the Morlider War, the only outlanders ever to do so, a figure almost of legend. And, finally, the tall gaunt figure of Hawklan, whose green-eyed presence seemed to dominate both Lords and Goraidin alike.

  The testimony of these people could not be doubted, nor the accuracy of their observation. Terrible changes were afoot and, while each would have preferred to turn and flee into the comfort of his past routines and tasks, that was effectively forbidden. Of the ways that lay before them, none led back to the relief of the familiar.

  Hawklan felt the pain pervading the hall. Standing up, he spoke again. ‘Speak out now, gentlemen. Your questions and doubts; your anger and fear. Speak now. Root out your uncertainties and see them in the light or they’ll destroy you from the inside and you’ll yield at some future, more critical time, like a rotten-hearted tree. We’ve little time. Many more than you have to be convinced, and those present here will be the spreaders of the word. If you fail, you condemn yourself and countless others to who knows what dreadful tyranny.’

  The room went suddenly dark as a cloud obscured the sun. The torches, touched by the unexpected gloom, bloomed gently into life and lent an unseasonable evening quality to the scene.

  Hawklan pointed towards the windows. ‘This shadow will pass,’ he said. ‘But the darkness that’s coming is blacker by far. Out of the past comes your worst fear. A nightmare so awful that it’s been relegated to the tales of children has come alive and is seeking you out. You, and all you hold dear.’

  He leaned forward and seemed to stare into the heart of each man there. ‘You cannot flee,’ he said slowly. ‘Accept that. Arm yourself with your fear and the light that truth sheds, and prepare to face the enemy.’

  The room seemed to go darker still, as if some presence were oppressing even the glow of the torches. ‘No man will be burdened with more than he can carry,’ Hawklan said. ‘You hold between you the wisdom of long-gone days if you’ll but search for it. You’re stronger than you know and your very doubts prove it. But speak them now.’

  As if at Hawklan’s bidding, the cloud moved from the sun and the bright summer light swept through the hall like a far-flung wave rolling and spreading over a waiting shoreline. And like the clatter of stones and pebbles buffeted by such a wave, a babble of voices rose up, sweeping aside the leaden uneasiness that had permeated the gathering.

  * * * *

  It was some time before the stream of questions petered out, but as it did, Arinndier rose to his feet and called for silence.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We’ve spoken of this as much as we can, and each of us alone must make his own peace with what he’s learned. However, before we turn our minds to how we can implement the order that the Lord Eldric gave us, another matter has to be decided.’ He paused and looked down at his hands. When he looked up again, his face was pained. ‘We’ve no Geadrol now, so I’ll give you, High Guard and Goraidin, my Accounting. I speak also for the Lords Darek and Hreldar.’

  Hawklan and Isloman exchanged glances in the uneasy silence that followed this remark.

  Arinndier continued. ‘We admit to failing in our duty as Lords of Fyorlund and Lords of the Geadrol. We have not maintained the vigilance that was expected of us. We should have inquired into the origins of our King’s “saviour” many years ago. We should not have allowed the Watch on Narsindal to fail. We should not have allowed the decay of our High Guards into foppish shadows of their forebears. In short, we should have looked properly to our duty. Had we done this, then what has happened might never have come to be, or at least we might have been better able to contain it. Now we face an enemy who has infiltrated the very heart of our country and beyond, and who has armed forces at his command that we can’t begin to measure.’

  He pointed to the Mandroc armour lying on the table. ‘The Mandrocs are a savage, nomadic race. But I don’t need to tell you that this is from a heavy infantryman. One whose companions defeated a High Guard troop fighting to defend its very home. That betokens either great numbers, or great discipline. Perhaps even both.’ He paused to judge the response to the harsh reality of the sunlit armour lying before his audience. ‘Its presence in Fyorlund, the fate of Lord Evison, the destruction of our ancient ways all lie at the feet of our negligence. That same negligence may yet bring death to you.’

  Hawklan could not forbear to interrupt. ‘Lord Arinndier, you’re too harsh on yourself,’ he said. ‘This is no ordinary foe you’re facing. His treachery and cunning are . . .’

  Arinndier raised a hand to silence him. ‘This is our way, Hawklan,’ he said firmly. ‘We . . .’ He indicated Darek and Hreldar, ‘are nothing without the judgement of our men.’

  Isloman laid a hand on Hawklan’s arm. ‘Leave them,’ he said. ‘They know their own kind best. They need a reaffirmation.’

  Hawklan’s protest died on his lips, and he sat back reluctantly.

  Arinndier moved away from the table. Head bowed, he knelt on the wooden floor. Hreldar and Darek joined him. There was a long silence in the room until Yatsu rose and moved to confront the three men.

  ‘Lords, we’ve discussed this amongst ourselves already. Your guilt is indisputable.’ Hawklan started, but the Lords remained unmoved. ‘As also is ours,’ he continued. ‘We saw the wrongs and knew them, but did nothing. To look to the leadership of the Lords does not absolve any of us from our duty to each other. Blame and judgement, however, are matters for another time, another place. Too few of us are here and too little is known for a true Gathering. Commander Varak and his men may choose otherwise, but we Goraidin offer you our loyalty unchanged: to yourselves, the King, the Law, the Geadrol and the people, until the day when an Accounting can be called of us all.’ Then he drew his sword and offered it, hilt first, to the kneeling Lords. Each in turn laid his hand on it and bowed his head.

  Varak, a little disconcerted at being brought to this debate between Lords and the elite Goraidin, spruced his uniform and walked stiffly forward to join Yatsu. He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Lords,’ he began uncertainly. ‘I’m a simple soldier. It’s my experience that rights and wrongs usually spread themselves fairly evenly when all’s been said and done. None of us escape without blame. All I know is that the country’s been going the wrong way for a long while, and matters had to come to a head sooner or later. This is no time for changing horses, especially when the ones we have are tried and trusted.’ Drawing his sword, he offered it to the Lords, as Yatsu had, then, turning to his men, he spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice. ‘If any of you disagree, then go now. Go freely and with my blessing. I want no reluctant swords guarding my back.’

  None of the officers moved.

  ‘Tell your men the same,’ he continued. Then, raising an admonishing finger, ‘No reproaches of any kind. No debates. Let those who wish to go, go.’ And in a pragmatic echo of Hawklan’s words, ‘Their doubts will get your throats cut one day.’
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br />   The atmosphere in the hall was almost tangible. Looking round at the standing men, Hawklan knew that he could be looking into the eyes of Sumeral Himself so much did His teachings pervade the group. He knew that in time the hideous reality of mutilated and torn flesh stinking in the churned earth would be lost in the glow of the storytellers’ ringing phrases, and the terror and agony would simply be forgotten, as glory and heroism raised their treacherous standards. And yet, such false inspiration would carry young men and women through the training they would need to face the enemy who would surely confront them in time. He put his hand to his head.

  Yatsu noted the gesture. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Hawklan nodded. Just a touch of conscience, he thought.

  Chapter 48

  The group in the hall talked for a long time, provoking more than a few wry asides from Isloman about the seemingly endless ability of the Fyordyn to talk and talk.

  ‘And listen,’ Hawklan offered by way of defence. ‘They need to shake their thoughts loose. They can come to only one conclusion, but they’ll need to come to it their own way.’

  And they did. Inexorably, the consensus formed round Eldric’s last order like a pearl around a tiny irritation, solid and purposeful. Around it in turn would grow an even greater mass. An army of Lords and High Guards and ordinary people who would stand against Dan-Tor’s baleful influence, because his actions had taken him beyond the realm of reasoned dispute. He offered them now only his tyranny, using the King’s name as its sole disguise. It was not possible to mount a small operation to rescue Eldric, if indeed he was still alive, so the tyrant himself had to be assailed. With the great web of lies and deceit that Dan-Tor would spread, this could mean civil war. Kin would fight kin, and kin would slay kin. And all with that peculiar viciousness that the righteous possess when fighting for the truth that they alone possess. It was a grim conclusion, but the Fyordyn reached it and faced it.

  ‘Perhaps this time we’ll be able to prevent Sumeral spreading from His fastness in Narsindal,’ said Yatsu afterwards to Hawklan. ‘Stop Him reaching the world beyond.’

  It was the first time Hawklan had heard Sumeral spoken of as a mortal enemy. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied.

  His hope lay in Yatsu’s remark, but a deeper voice told him he might not have glimpsed the strategy of the Great Corrupter. There were marks of impatience and haste in Dan-Tor’s actions which sang a false note to him. The thought nagged at him that, with the Fyordyn being so subtly lured from their old watchfulness and discipline, the knowledge of His awakening could have been hidden for aeons yet. His strength could have been marshalled in the mists of Narsindal, unseen and unknown, while His poisons leached ever outwards to corrupt and weaken His old enemies. A harsh voice rose inside him. Perhaps they already have, it said.

  The next day, Hawklan stood with Arinndier on the battlements of Eldric’s stronghold. Resting his arm on the edge of one of the great merlons he leaned forward and stared out across the mountainous ramparts that separated the castle from the plains of Fyorlund.

  ‘An admirably placed fortress,’ he said. ‘Well stocked, defensible food lines, own water supply, almost impregnable at the rear, and flanked by those mountains, needing very little defence. You’d need sleepy guards indeed to be taken by surprise.’ He paused as if lost in an old memory. ‘Or treachery,’ he added quietly. Then he pointed down the long valley and the wide twisting road that led from the castle. ‘It’s very similar to my own castle in its layout. Very similar. Though the workmanship’s different and it’s not so old.’

  Arinndier shrugged slightly. ‘No one knows how old any of the Fyorlund castles are,’ he said. ‘Or who built them. They’re said to be from the Golden Age, after the Last Battle.’

  Hawklan nodded. ‘It could be,’ he said absently. ‘They weren’t here . . . before.’

  Arinndier stared at him wide-eyed and uncertain, but Hawklan seemed oblivious to what he had just said, and before Arinndier could speak, he turned round and met his gaze directly, sweeping the moment away. ‘But you didn’t join us out here to discuss ancient architecture did you, Arin?’

  ‘No, no,’ Arinndier stuttered. ‘Of course not. I came to try and persuade you to stay and help us. You’re needed here. You could convince and persuade more in an hour than we could in a week. The Fyordyn are very conservative; not given to rapid change. They’re not all as flexible as the Goraidin by any means.’

  Hawklan looked out along the valley again, resting his head on his hand and frowning slightly. Then he turned and, taking Arinndier’s arm, started walking slowly along the wide parapet.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I know I could be of service to you. But I see other things as well. Besides, I can offer little more than you yourself. You, the Goraidin and, if I’m any judge of Eldric and Varak, a tough crowd of High Guards, together form a powerful nucleus. Many armies have started with much less.’

  Arinndier made to protest, but Hawklan raised a hand and fixed him again with a piercing gaze. ‘Sumeral’s a force beyond human understanding, Arinndier, for all His human form. He needs sway over all mortal peoples and their lands to corrupt the Great Harmony beyond recovery, and He could achieve this with His Will alone if He so chose. Only one thing restrains Him, if He and His Uhriel are awake, then could not the Guardians also be awake, or awakening? The Guardians. His equals in the older, greater, Power. If He expends His Power on controlling humanity then He’ll not be able to face the Power of the Guardians. And even if they’re not yet awake, the exertion of His will in such a deed would surely awaken them. So He must raise mortal agents and mortal armies to achieve this.’

  A sudden chilling knowledge swept over him. Sumeral would be more cunning, more patient than before, and the Guardians must surely be weaker. But less innocent, he thought, in rebuttal, less innocent, and goaded by a terrible guilt.

  Arinndier stared at him almost fearfully.

  Hawklan’s gaze was unrelenting. ‘We must draw on our every ally, and use them where they are most strong. In the end the balance may lie in the thickness of a hair.’ He held up his hand, thumb and finger lightly touching. ‘So finely balanced,’ he said distantly.

  ‘Hawklan, you speak so strangely at times,’ Arinndier said, his face anxious. ‘What do you know of these things? I don’t understand you. You make us sound as if we’ll be mere skirmishers in someone else’s battle.’

  Hawklan’s look softened into a smile. ‘We are skirmishers,’ he said. ‘But the mortal battle is ours in its entirety, and if we lose everything will be lost.’

  Arinndier still looked fretful.

  Hawklan slapped his arm. ‘Gather all your forces, Arin. Look to your own estates and those of such other Lords as you can reach. Then send to Orthlund. To Loman at Anderras Darion.’ A brief look of sadness passed over his face. ‘I fear you may have powerful allies there soon.’

  ‘You fear?’ Arinndier said. Hawklan waved a dismissive hand, and did not pursue the question in Arinndier’s voice. ‘Take heart,’ he said. ‘While you face mortal armies, however foul, however numerous, the war can be won. Gather every resource together and use them well.’

  Arinndier seized the straw and reverted back to his concern of the moment. ‘But you won’t stay and help us,’ he said.

  Hawklan laughed. ‘Remind me in future never to engage a Fyordyn in debate will you?’ Then, more seriously, ‘I don’t have the words for this, Arin, but I’m drawn elsewhere – drawn more powerfully than ever. I have to go to the source of this ill. My heart leads me. It brought me here to see the massacre of Evison’s men and for Isloman to show me the desecration of the mountains. Now it leads me back to Vakloss. Back to my original path. I must find your Lord Dan-Tor . . .’

  Arinndier bridled a little. ‘He’s no Lord of mine, Hawklan,’ he said.

  Hawklan gestured an apology.

  ‘Could your heart not be leading you into a trap?’ tried Arinndier.

  ‘Possibly,’ Hawklan said thoug
htfully after a brief silence. ‘Possibly. But it may be a trap to yield to my inclination and remain here to help you with your army. Dan-Tor holds the answers to my needs. I’ve no alternative but to seek him out.’ Then his face brightened. ‘Besides, I’ve got Isloman and Gavor to watch my back. Take this solace, Arin – he’ll find me no easy game to hold, no matter what his trap. And time spent pursuing me can’t be spent working against you. I may be of greater service in gaining time for you than in helping to organize and train your army. I’ve told you, you’ve plenty of good men for that, but none can distract Dan-Tor as I can.’

  Arinndier lifted his hands in submission.

  ‘One thing though,’ Hawklan continued. Arinndier leaned forward, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘Let me have two Goraidin to go back to Vakloss with. I’d value their skills and they can report back to you whatever happens there.’

  * * * *

  Both Hreldar and Darek assaulted Hawklan’s resolution, following Arinndier’s capitulation, but with as much success. Darek was prompted to a wry smile. ‘See how easily we fall without your leadership,’ he said.

  Hawklan smiled broadly and placed an arm around his shoulder. ‘Come now, Lord,’ he said. ‘Would you make me an oath-breaker? Lord Arinndier is witness that I’ve forsworn debating with Fyordyn. And besides I can tell a fall from a feint.’

  But it was Yatsu who struck home, sitting silent in an evening alcove. ‘I want none of this, Hawklan,’ he said, his face passive but pained. ‘All the action recently has kept my mind busy, but there are quiet places in this old castle that bring thoughts crashing down on top of me. Old, long-forgotten memories, Hawklan. Terrible memories. I want none of it.’ He looked up, and Hawklan saw his eyes were glistening tears in the soft torchlight.

  He sat down by the man and leaned back against the cool stone wall. The air was very still and a low bright moon dominated the sky, silvering the surrounding peaks. It was an evening for celebrating life in quiet joy, but the aura around Yatsu forbade any such ease. Hawklan thought back to the return of Olvric.