The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  Urssain kept his own face neutral as he watched those now turned to focus on the presence beside him. Only Aelang understood. The others were relaxing. They were taking their Ffyrst’s affability at its face value.

  The immediate consensus accorded with Urssain’s initial view. Attack now – hard – before they grow too strong. Dan-Tor listened with nodding interest as various company prides and promises were paraded before him. Urssain said nothing.

  Then, as he had with Urssain, Dan-Tor dropped in the occasional comment about troop strengths, supply problems, lack of reliable intelligence, debatable loyalties etc, and slowly, his own strategy appeared. The Lords should be left, he suggested.

  The idea was dismissed out of hand. With respect, Ffyrst, allow your enemy to build up his strength? The talk bubbled on again.

  But in gathering his strength would he not also gather more mouths to feed, more bodies to shelter, more minds to keep busy? Dan-Tor offered tentatively.

  Again the idea was dismissed without consideration. Urssain continued to say nothing, and began to sit very still. He noticed that Aelang was doing the same.

  Inexorably, however, tangled in the snares and traps that Dan-Tor had strewn, the meeting drifted into repetition.

  The Lords must be attacked.

  But that would be very dangerous.

  They couldn’t be left because they’d build up their strength and . . .

  ‘And?’ asked Dan-Tor.

  And they’ll attack us, obviously.

  Dan-Tor spoke very quietly. Who then would have the long supply lines to maintain? Who then would have the odium of living off the land they passed over, local disaffection ever threatening their flanks? Who then would have to assault fresh troops in entrenched positions after a long journey? Aren’t these the very reasons why it’s too dangerous for us to attack them?

  A silence descended on the room. One of the globes spluttered fitfully.

  Dan-Tor stood up. ‘Gentlemen, ponder this before we meet again: the consolidation and cautious expansion of the territory we hold and the building up of a conscript army to defend it. Will not this, together with the pressure of maintaining their own growing army, eventually force the Lords to leave their mountain strongholds and attack us? And when they arrive, tired and extended, should we not offer them first our conscripts, whose destruction will tire them further and rack their consciences with its pointless horror? Will that then not leave us with the simple task of holding our ground until they are so weakened and demoralized that we can destroy them utterly at little cost to ourselves?’

  No one spoke.

  Dan-Tor continued, his voice icy. ‘Ponder this also, gentlemen. If I can defeat your strategy with mere words, have no illusions what the Lords and their High Guards will do to you. There is enough uncertainty in combat without adding mindless folly to it. For your future guidance, do not speak at these meetings unless you have something pertinent to say. And save your barrack-room bravado for the youth corps.’

  Then, suddenly and terribly, his presence filled the room.

  ‘You are the Commanders of my Mathidrin. Faithful servants who will be rewarded as my power grows; grows beyond limits you can imagine. But you are bound to me and by me. You can be expunged at my whim. Serve me well.’

  * * * *

  Urssain stood outside the Westerclave watching his fellow Commanders leave. He was glad of the overcast sky and the failing light which made it easier for him to keep his eyes in the shade. What a massacre! Lessons within lessons there. He would need to think about what had happened very carefully. Those strange faces? Faces themselves surprised to be among strangers. I alone know my resources, was Urssain’s reading of the message. You are all dispensable – there are others who can replace you.

  ‘Weather’s a little more like home, eh, Urss?’ The voice was unmistakable and brought Urssain very sharply to the present. There was one lesson for a start. He’d been too long at the Palace. Too long away from the treacherous and dangerous in-fighting that was the stock-in-trade of ambitious Mathidrin. That was a serious mistake.

  He turned to look at Aelang, his erstwhile sponsor and Commander at Narsindalvak. Feared throughout the ranks of the Mathidrin, Aelang’s vicious cruelty and ruthless scheming were almost legendary. It had come as no surprise to Urssain when he learnt that the Sirshiant the Queen had killed had belonged to one of Aelang’s companies.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Urssain, trying to focus on Aelang’s eyes. However, like his own, they were shaded in the poor light by his helmet. Standing watchfully behind Aelang were two aides. Urssain knew well enough the trail of disappearances and accidents that had marked the rise of Aelang, and the presence of the two men reminded him that he too must be more careful in dark and lonely places with so many high-ranking Mathidrin now in the City. His nearness to Dan-Tor was as much a provocation as it was a protection. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated. It was some measure of Aelang that he thought of Narsindal as home. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve grown used to the mellower climes of Fyorlund.’

  Aelang smiled, revealing an array of discoloured teeth with prominent canines. Urssain remembered that in their bolder moods, and well out of earshot, the troopers used to call him Mandrocsson.

  ‘Ah. You always had your eye to softer billets, Urss,’ Aelang growled jovially. ‘Always anxious to rise above us humble foot soldiers.’

  Part jibe, part congratulation, part threat, part calling in of old debts, thought Urssain. Don’t turn your back.

  ‘It’s not quite as soft as it looks, Aelang,’ he replied with equal joviality. ‘As you’ll find out now you’ve managed to find your way about here.’

  Aelang laughed knowingly. ‘Well you’ve not changed, I’ll say that. I should’ve known better than to bandy words with a courtier.’ He stepped closer and spoke softly, confidentially. ‘Things are happening that we’d hardly dared to imagine, Urss. Our . . . beloved Ffyrst has used the King’s folly to considerable effect. Plenty of opportunities now for those who can see them . . . and more to come if I’m any judge.’ Urssain did not reply. Aelang continued, his voice even lower. ‘You’re the Ffyrst’s man in Vakloss.’ Thanks to me, said his eyes. ‘I’m his man at Narsindalvak. But there were strange faces amongst us today, Urss? The Ffyrst looks only for the most . . . capable, does he not? I think that with all these changes going on, you and I should protect one another’s backs, don’t you?’

  Urssain scrutinized Aelang’s shaded face. He must be feeling insecure, he thought, to suggest that. Or was it a threat? Join me, or else. Urssain’s eyes turned to the departing Commanders. Either way, it made sense. He and Aelang were well placed, but they would indeed be targets for any ambitious sparks looking to improve their lots. And he did know Aelang for what he was. It could do little harm to have him . . . in partnership . . . as it were. At least he’d be able to keep an eye on him.

  Slowly he nodded. ‘I’d be only too happy to give you any assistance that you might expect from a brother officer, Commander,’ he said with a smile.

  Aelang chuckled. ‘Brother officer,’ he said approvingly. ‘You have been here a long time. Still, as I said, you’ve not changed. It’s been good seeing you again.’ And, slapping Urssain’s arm affectionately, he strode off towards his waiting carriage, followed by his two companions.

  Urssain cursed silently, and placing his left hand casually behind his back flexed his fingers frantically. Aelang had struck a nerve with his heavy gold ring and Urssain knew the arm would be dead for over a minute. It had been Aelang’s signature on their agreement.

  That could have been poison, it said. Or I could have disembowelled you while you groped for feeling in that arm. So look to me. These things happen so easily. Urssain cursed again.

  Aelang, reaching his carriage, turned and threw a jaunty acknowledgement to him with a flick of his hand. Urssain let his sleeve knife fall into his right hand and returned the same friendly gesture making sure that the light caught its blade as he let it slip back i
nto his sleeve again. Aelang’s Mandroc grin and his grim laugh reached him, then the carriage was driving away, merging into the failing light.

  Urssain turned and strode briskly through the maw of the Westerclave. His left arm was easier, but Aelang’s message had shaken him. Fear of Dan-Tor was one thing. That was deep and abiding, the fear of the rabbit for the lion. There was no question of resistance, so superior was the one over the other. But fear of Aelang – the old barrack-room fear – that was insupportable.

  You’re right, Aelang, he thought, as his heels beat a relentless tattoo along the Westerclave’s corridors. I’ve grown too lax and easy away from Narsindalvak. But I’ll not risk everything I’ve gained out of carelessness. Not now. I’ve hacked my way through the ranks and now I hold the high ground. Your reminder’s most timely. It could also be your death warrant in due course.

  Chapter 53

  A strong, ill-tempered wind blew the rain in gusty squalls across the fields, bending and shaking the trees and bushes and confining most living things to the warmth of their nests and burrows. It rattled branches against windows like urgent messengers and whispered through cracks and crannies the draughty news that soon the weather would turn its face from light and warmth and start its journey into the cold Fyorlund winter.

  Wrapped and huddled against its raucous jostling, four horsemen moved greyly through the countryside by quiet and little-used paths. For a moment they paused and then they faded into the gloom of a small copse. Within minutes they had rigged and camouflaged the small shelter that had housed them each night since they had left Eldric’s stronghold.

  Sitting on the torch-dried earth, they ate a frugal meal in companionable silence as the wind buffeted their shelter peevishly and showers of raindrops cascaded intermittently from the wind-shaken trees to drum over their heads like horses galloping suddenly by.

  Gavor eyed a spider struggling to climb its slender swinging thread, but settled ungraciously for the bread that Hawklan gave him.

  ‘We’ve been lucky so far,’ said Tel-Odrel. ‘The weather’s been very helpful. But we’ll not get much further by stealth; we’re nearly at Vakloss.’

  Hawklan looked at the Goraidin and nodded. ‘We’ll have to separate soon, then,’ he said. ‘Having us around might jeopardize your mission.’

  The two Goraidin exchanged glances.

  Tel-Odrel shrugged apologetically. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid so.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘Establishing contacts in and around Vakloss is vital. You realize that. Given that that must come first, we’ll help you all we can, but you don’t even know what you’re going to do, do you?’ There was a barely controlled exasperation in his voice.

  ‘I know exactly what I’m going to do, Tel,’ said Hawklan light-heartedly. ‘I’m going to meet Dan-Tor and ask him why he’s done what he’s done.’ But his affected levity merely darkened the mood that Tel-Odrel’s words had created.

  Both the Goraidin frowned. They had stopped trying to dissuade the two Orthlundyn from what they saw as a suicidal mission, but its apparent futility still distressed them.

  Hawklan continued, more seriously. ‘You’re a soldier, Tel, and you’ve a clear-cut task before you. I’m not and I haven’t. But we both know that when logic and reason end, we have to follow our intuition. I’m a healer. I have to go to the heart of the sickness, whatever it costs me.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Tel-Odrel quickly. ‘But . . .’

  Hawklan waved him silent. He leaned forward and looked into the Goraidin’s eyes. ‘Tel,’ he said. ‘As we near the City, every living thing is beginning to cry out to me. It’s as if there’s something in the very air round here. What Isloman heard in those mountains, I feel all around. A terrible purposeful corruption. It wasn’t there when we left the City . . . at least I didn’t feel it.’ He paused, momentarily shaken by the realization that he too was probably changing. ‘But in any case I’m scarcely master of myself because of it. It’s certainly beyond me to walk away from such pain. And I’m drawn inexorably to its centre. Only there will I know what to do.’

  Tel-Odrel gave up his last attempt with a sigh. ‘Well, at least make yourselves less . . . conspicuous. Cover up your weapons, don’t talk too much . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  Outside, the blustering wind rattled the little shelter as it continued its relentless buffeting journey across the countryside.

  * * * *

  Over the months since the arrest of the Lords, Sylvriss had pursued her resolve to free her husband from Dan-Tor’s influence and restore him to health. She had worked painstakingly and heartbreakingly, knowing that Dan-Tor could at any time, either on an inadvertent whim or as an act of malicious political necessity if he discovered the truth, undo her work with effortless ease.

  She had long believed that Rgoric’s recurring illness was due in no small part to the medication that Dan-Tor plied him with. However, more subtle causes became apparent to her as she built up the silken wall of dutiful and acquiescent behaviour that kept the King from Dan-Tor’s sight.

  She began to realize that the very presence of the man was important, with his treacherous words that undermined where they purported to support and increased the King’s burdens when he was at his most weary so that he would more readily relinquish them. It was a task of joy to replace these sinister blandishments with her own love and tenderness, and she frequently wondered what self-deception in Dan-Tor was preventing him from realizing the effects of his absence from the King. The man puzzled her increasingly. For all his perceptive ruthlessness he had the strangest blind spots in his vision. However, as she watched the man she married fight through to some semblance of health and well-being, Sylvriss’s hate for Dan-Tor grew apace.

  The deceit she practiced on Dan-Tor was a matter of deep satisfaction to her but she had also to practice a deceit on her husband to keep from him learning of the true state of his country, and that was a matter of increasing distress to her.

  At first her lies had been matters of minor expedience to quiet the restless monarch’s temporarily fevered mind. Then had developed a strange, idyllic period of mutual self-deception in which both had lost themselves passionately in their old affections new-found.

  Sylvriss entered this world against her judgement, but it was as if the life they could have had, without the baleful influence of Dan-Tor, was allowed to them in those few months. Although in her darker moments Sylvriss saw its ultimate futility, she suffered no real regrets for what she was doing, but drew great strength and resolve from her husband’s happiness, albeit that it must be ephemeral.

  But just as their marriage would have changed over undisturbed years, so now it changed over the undisturbed months as Rgoric became stronger. More and more he began to inquire about matters of State, and more and more Sylvriss had to weave an elaborate web of deception to protect him from a direct confrontation with Dan-Tor. That this loathsome gossamer hung from an arbour of trust gave Sylvriss nothing but pain, and she longed for its passing even as she strengthened it under the dictates of necessity. Now the tide of circumstances had swept the moment upon her and she stood alone and frightened in her chamber.

  ‘Go to your room,’ Rgoric had said quietly and distantly. ‘Go there and wait for me. I’ll be some time.’

  Around her, beautiful Fyorlund pictures decorated the walls and elaborate carvings fringed the ceiling, while the furniture and carpeting were unmistakably the work of Riddin craftsmen. Sylvriss had blended the two cultures into an elegant and harmonious whole, but she saw little of it now. Her mind was blank with fear and dismay.

  For long hours in the past she had rehearsed how she might best tell her husband the truth, but no convincing accounting had come to her. That morning, however, Dilrap had advised her that their simple escape plans had been laid.

  Ironically, her very restlessness during the previous night had prompted a worried inquiry from Rgoric which she had stilled only with a promise to explain her concerns to him th
e following day.

  As they breakfasted, Rgoric seemed preoccupied. Eventually he raised an affectionate and inquiring eyebrow, and Sylvriss pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Just excuse me for a few minutes,’ she said.

  Rgoric took her hand and looked at her earnestly. ‘Just a few minutes,’ he said, part entreaty, part demand. She looked down at him. Older now than his years, by dint of his lined face and greying hair, he was still weak, and a shadow of his former self. But he was no longer the bent, haunted creation that Dan-Tor had made. He was the man she had married. Straight and upright, with a steady hand and clear eye.

  She bent down and kissed him. ‘Just a few,’ she confirmed.

  When she returned, he stood up and stared at her. ‘Your Muster uniform,’ he said, smiling delightedly. ‘The one you insisted on wearing when we rode home from Riddin. I remember. Everyone in their fancy clothes and you in your simple tunic and cloak. And you outshone them all.’

  ‘Not too difficult, the way you Fyordyn ride,’ Sylvriss replied nervously.

  Rgoric smiled again and looked at her proprietorially. ‘I’d no idea you still had it. And it fits too.’

  Sylvriss patted her stomach and blushed. ‘Just about,’ she said. Then Rgoric’s expression changed, and he put a concerned arm around her shoulder. ‘You need to feel the strength of the Muster and your family behind you before you can tell me whatever it is that’s been tormenting you?’ he said.

  Sylvriss returned his embrace and led him to a long couch. She had hoped that the inspiration of the moment would finally come to aid her, but it did not. Where could she start on this hideous saga that would not risk plummeting her husband down into the darkness from which he had been so agonizingly lifted.

  Eventually she spoke the problem out loud. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she said.

  ‘Then start anywhere,’ said Rgoric, simply. He reached up and ran his hand through her hair. As she looked up, their eyes met and an overwhelming poignancy tightened her chest and throat.