The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  What followed next she barely recalled. The whole tale flowed out of her; not hysterically, but with an almost unstoppable force as if that would support Rgoric as much as it might inundate him.

  Alone now, she clenched her hands in regret and concern as she went over the subtleties and nuances, the complexities of events that she had brushed aside in her haste. And yet, she began to console herself, he had not fallen screaming into dementia, or raged, or reproached her for her perfidy. Just a simple ‘Go to your room. Go there and wait for me. I’ll be some time.’

  But how long ago was that? She took a deep breath to quieten her heart. She must find him. ‘Wait for me,’ he had said, but what was a modicum of defiance when added to the months of deception?

  Total. The word brought an image to her – one she had had at times in the early years of her marriage – an image of a cornucopia rich with many-coloured gifts. Suddenly her guilt fell from her like an ill-fastened cloak. They were each the total of one another’s making. They would be together now, whether the moment was one of joy or horror. They were irrevocably joined for this span of their lives. Even though he might at this very moment be rejecting her, he would still be her support, he would still be half her life, and she his.

  She straightened her uniform and looked in the mirror. The face gazing back at her was flushed, and radiated a mixture of defiance and triumph. Years of habit took her hands to those small flaws in her appearance that no one else would see and the face smiled as she saw their practiced concern.

  Before she reached the door, it opened and Rgoric entered. He was dressed in a simple field uniform of the kind that he had worn to complement his bride when they had returned from Riddin. Around his head was the simple iron ring that was the ancient crown of the Kings of Fyorlund.

  Chapter 54

  Dan-Tor shifted uneasily on his chair.

  Dilrap, sitting at a nearby table and immersed in papers, echoed the movement with a twitch of his own. For all his apparent obliviousness, he was in fact watching Dan-Tor closely. The Ffyrst’s moods were beginning to alarm him profoundly.

  There was an increasing restlessness in him that was wholly uncharacteristic, and some of his recent decisions seemed to have been whimsical and arbitrary – as though made in irritated haste.

  But why? Dilrap asked himself repeatedly as his unseeing eyes scanned the documents in front of him. Why? Dan-Tor, meticulous and endlessly patient in his cunning, usually became more so in the face of opposition. So what was amiss?

  What indeed? Dan-Tor was occupied with the same question. Nothing in his schemes seemed to be awry. True, the City was bubbling with anger at his treacherous re-arrest of Eldric, and rumours of the attack on the Queen, but that would pass. In general, opponents were becoming doubters; doubters, allies. The young flocked to the newly formed Youth Corps which, with its uniform and parades and raucous, pounding music, provided a mixture of carnival and memories of ancient martial glory.

  The old, too, turned increasingly to him to be treated with the ingenious salves he had prepared for the myriad tiny ills that he had so assiduously infected the country with. Indeed it would have been difficult for anyone to analyse or locate the source of the miasma of discontent that pervaded Fyorlund, so long and subtle had been its spreading. Dan-Tor, however, offered the way with a clear light. The fault lay with the Lords who had taken advantage of a sick and ailing King to gratify their own desires for power and self-aggrandizement. Only he had stood against them and thwarted their schemes. And now they were preparing armies in the east to seize by force what he, using Fyorlund’s most ancient and precious institution, the Law, had denied them.

  The mindless, unthinking roar of the mob and their mounting intolerance were the opening notes of the great symphony he had been so long preparing. Those who thought and saw nearer the truth hid their heads increasingly for fear of losing them. And yet? He banged the arms of his chair with clenched fists.

  Dilrap looked up. ‘Ffyrst?’ he ventured hesitantly. An angry flick of those long bony hands bade him be silent. Dilrap dropped his eyes hastily. A tiny insect crawled painstakingly across the unread page he was staring at. He moved his hand to crush it, then paused and cast a glance at Dan-Tor. Suddenly his intention and its arbitrariness flooded him with shame. Go on your way, he thought. Go on your way. Who am I to take your life for a mere whim? Who am I to divine your purpose? The insect continued its laborious journey undisturbed and Dilrap watched it protectively until it disappeared into a sheaf of papers.

  Dan-Tor stood up and turned his head from side to side as if looking for a sound that was annoying him. A narrow band of streaming sunlight cut across him like a bright sash. Dilrap willed himself into absolute stillness and, for an interminable chain of minutes, he felt the very air around him was dancing to the beat of his pulse.

  The chain was snapped with a deafening abruptness by the opening of a door and the seemingly thunderous footsteps of a servant running across the hall. Without speaking, the man bowed low to Dan-Tor and held out a small, decorated gold plate bearing a white card.

  Scowling, Dan-Tor picked up the card and studied it. Then with a curt nod he dismissed the servant. Dilrap turned to look at him directly. The man’s eyes were like pinpoints of red fire, but the voice was like ice.

  ‘The King requires that we attend him immediately,’ he said.

  * * * *

  The wind was still blowing quite strongly and the weather seemed uncertain whether it should continue to celebrate summer or warn of impending winter when Hawklan and Isloman mingled with the morning crowds filling the streets of Vakloss. Both were glad of the opportunity to wrap their cloaks about them, as there was a strange tension in the City. Faces among the crowds were, for the most part, grim and downcast, quite at odds with the streets of decorated and colourful buildings. Hawklan remembered Lorac’s parting advice. ‘Don’t skulk and don’t look anyone directly in the eye if you don’t want to be seen.’

  Hawklan still had no clear idea how to reach Dan-Tor other than by walking directly to the Palace and asking for him. He looked discreetly at Isloman. That he should voluntarily walk into the hands of the man who had tried twice to capture him was one matter; taking with him his faithful friend was another entirely. But even as he considered this he heard in his mind Isloman’s voice. ‘I’ve questions of my own for this man.’ Then came the memory of Aynthinn laughing gently and telling him that no Orthlundyn would follow anyone blindly. The memory was reassuring. At least this time he knew he was walking into danger. This time he would be lulled by no strange power, nor bound by fear for a hostaged innocent. This time he would be armed in every way, and with someone to guard his back. He might yet be taken, but not easily.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and angry voices. Looking round, he saw a group of Mathidrin smashing down the door of a nearby house. Two of them pushed past the remains of the broken door and reappeared within seconds dragging an old man, blood streaming down his face. Instinctively, Hawklan moved towards the group, shaking off Isloman’s hesitant, restraining hand. He found, however, that he was just part of a larger movement, as people rushed out of neighbouring houses and passers-by converged on the scene.

  The old man was struggling violently and angry shouts began to rise from the crowd as the Mathidrin started to beat him. It looked for a moment as though the crowd would turn on the men but Hawklan sensed that their anger was counter-balanced by an equal fear. Eventually, to resolve the situation, one of the Mathidrin raised a baton to strike the old man.

  Hawklan could not restrain himself. ‘No!’ he cried, his voice commanding and clear, even over the noise of the crowd. The trooper stopped, his baton still raised, and Hawklan found himself looking at the man down an aisle of watching faces, as the crowd opened before him spontaneously. The crowd’s anger seemed to possess him.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ he said and, striding forward, he snatched the hovering baton from the trooper, now ope
n-mouthed at the sight of this approaching green-eyed apparition. Even as he strode towards the man, Hawklan felt the will of the waiting crowd changing, urging him on, and as he snatched the baton, a great roar, angry and defiant, filled the small square.

  * * * *

  The globes in the Throne Room had been extinguished, but the room was alive with sunlight bursting in through the single large window. The old torches had been re-struck and complemented the sunlight by illuminating the arched corridors and the upper balcony so that they seemed to be open and spacious, instead of lowering and forbidding as though they harboured night predators in their shadows. Under the caress of this lighting, the stone throne shone and glittered as it had not been seen for decades.

  Rgoric looked down at his hand resting on the arm of the throne. There was no movement in the torches, only the occasional dimming of the natural light as a cloud obscured the sun, but the polished stone seemed to dance patterns of light around his hand, like revellers in a Festival Round Dance.

  The effect of Sylvriss’s tale had been like someone shaking him brutally out of a long and fitful sleep tormented by frightening and elusive images. He had lurched away from it, but Sylvriss had held him with her unremitting telling as she would a headstrong mount. Inexorably, fragmented pieces of memory tumbled into place to form a grim mosaic of truth. A mosaic bound hard in the matrix of his wife’s long and faithful love.

  Perhaps, he realized, he had been felled by an opponent whose skill and cunning were beyond any man’s ability to fathom. But that was of no concern. The weakness still pervading his body tore at him to return to his oblivion, but Sylvriss’s love and courage had reached through to the long-dormant King she had married, and he saw only that, as his wife had done, he must pick up the battle flag he had dropped and hold it high again at whatever cost and against whatever foe.

  His reverie was disturbed by the opening of the hall’s great double doors, to reveal the lank frame of his Chief Physician and adviser.

  Dan-Tor started as he entered the Throne Room and a tremor passed through him such as he had not known since he was awakened from the darkness. The work of the craftsmen of the Great Alliance pervaded the hall like a cleansing flood, opening its dark crevices into airy openness, and decking the stern figure on the throne with a powerful radiance.

  For an instant, the fear gripped him that this light might penetrate even into his own black soul and lay him open to the sight of the man he had worked so diligently to destroy.

  That horse witch! he blazed inwardly, sensing instantly whose hand lay behind this sudden transformation. I’ll roast her in the belly of her favourite horse when my Mandrocs have finished with her . . .

  ‘Majesty.’ An awe-stricken voice interrupted his proposed vengeance, as Dilrap dropped to his knees involuntarily.

  Dan-Tor walked slowly forward to greet his King. Stopping at the foot of the steps, he bowed slowly and respectfully. ‘Majesty,’ he said, forcing his voice to fill with surprise and delight. ‘To see you so recovered is as welcome as it is unexpected.’

  The King nodded, but his face was unreadable. ‘Lord Dan-Tor,’ he said. ‘The time we’ve both sought for has arrived. I must now shoulder again those burdens of office that you’ve faithfully borne for me these many years. And, as the Law requires, I must ask you formally to Account for your Stewardship.’

  Dan-Tor dropped his head to hide the red anger in his eyes. ‘You shame me, Majesty,’ he said regretfully. ‘Had I known you were so near recovery after the many years of failure I’d have devoted myself more diligently to your well-being. Perhaps then you’d have sat here many months ago. As for an Accounting . . . sadly, Majesty, I’ve been so occupied with matters of State that I’m ill-prepared to give one of even the most recent happenings, so grim have they been.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing that you could reproach yourself for, Lord,’ said the King. ‘And I require no stringent rendering immediately. That we can do at our leisure together with the Lords of the Geadrol. Just tell me briefly what has passed in my land since my illness deluded me into arresting four of my good and faithful Lords. Such a telling will satisfy the requirements of the Law, will it not, Honoured Secretary?’

  Dilrap started at being dragged into this improvisation of the King’s, but after a protracted stammer and a cadenza of flourishes and twitches, he managed to say, ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  How many years’ work has that hag undone? Dan-Tor thought, but when he looked up at the King his face was concerned. ‘Majesty, are you sure that you’re fully recovered? We’ve had these flashes of sunlight in the past, only to fall into darkness again.’

  The King smiled slightly. ‘I’m not the man I was, Lord Dan-Tor,’ he said. ‘But I’m recovered sufficiently, rest assured.’

  An echoing silence filled the hall as Dan-Tor fought back an urge to strike down this usurping clown. There were too many unknown factors at work here. What other schemes had been prepared in secret? Had Hawklan’s hand reached into his Palace yet again to wreak this havoc? A rash stroke could destroy not only the spectacular progress of the last few months, but the work of years. The shadow of his Master’s wrath almost froze his tongue to his palate. He must play this farce through until a pattern or an opportunity emerged.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said, with a helpless gesture, ‘you must forgive my hesitation. I’m still overcome by the suddenness of your recovery. However, perhaps I should begin by explaining about . . .’

  Seeing his opponent regaining his balance, the King raised his hand. ‘Forgive me, Lord Dan-Tor,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Before you begin, there’s an important matter I must attend to so that you’ll be spared the embarrassment of retailing my folly to my face. Guards.’

  The power in the command startled Dan-Tor. He turned hastily, half expecting to see an escort of High Guards approaching him purposefully. Even the appearance of the two Mathidrin door guards did not totally reassure him. The Mathidrin were by nature corruptible. Or were they High Guards in disguise again? A voice deep inside counselled patience, but its tone was shrill.

  ‘Fetch me the Lord Eldric and his son Jaldaric immediately,’ said the King. The two men hesitated, blinking at the sight of the King, powerful and whole, on his throne, while their Lord stood stark and alone like a lightning-blasted tree.

  ‘Immediately!’ thundered the King. The two men disappeared hastily.

  Dan-Tor spun round and stared at the King as the sound of the retreating guards faded into the distance. ‘Majesty,’ he cried. ‘The Lord Eldric and his son are dangerous traitors. They and their co-conspirators have plunged the City, the whole country, into anarchy and turmoil. Even now . . .’

  A sharp gesture from the King cut him short. ‘I’m aware of recent happenings, Lord. And due reparation will be sought from the offenders, sooner than they imagine.’ He turned and looked Dan-Tor fully in the face. ‘Have no fear. Our Law is only a reflection of natural justice. It can no more be set aside by man than the tides can be stopped.’

  ‘Majesty, I implore you. Beware these men.’

  ‘Enough, Lord,’ said the King firmly. ‘Illness may have marred the greater part of my reign, but nothing shall mar what remains. I’ll interrogate these men and end this horror that threatens to destroy our land.’

  ‘But Majesty, the matter’s complex . . .’

  The King’s tone became menacingly soft. ‘Lord Dan-Tor. This is a matter which I must attend to before I come to your Accounting and my reward to you for your trials. It irks me to be thus badgered.’

  Dilrap stepped back a pace as he felt the two personalities clash. Dan-Tor tightened his fist behind his back with such force that Dilrap heard the bones cracking. He felt as though the grip was choking the life out of him.

  Enough of this, screamed part of Dan-Tor’s mind. Caution, whispered another. There’s deep treachery here. It had been an error to move so precipitately at the King’s unexpected bidding. He must find a way out of the hall . . . contact Urssa
in.

  He slumped slightly and raised his hands apologetically. ‘Forgive me, Majesty,’ he said, in a tone that rang alien to his own ears, ‘I’m still concerned for your welfare . . . as always.’

  The King nodded, but did not speak.

  ‘It’ll be some time before the guards can bring the prisoners to you, Majesty,’ Dan-Tor continued. ‘May I take the opportunity to gather some documents which will summarize present conditions for you admirably?’

  The King waved him silent. ‘That won’t be necessary, Lord. I’m not interested in niceties at the moment. As I said, a simple telling will be sufficient.’ He smiled broadly. ‘However, I’ll admit that I’m looking forward to examining your Stewardship in detail in due course. I’m sure there’s much to be learnt from the way you’ve handled things during this period of unrest. But for now, stay by my side, as you’ve done for so many years.’

  Dan-Tor bowed a silent acknowledgement and, stepping to one side, turned to face the door through which Eldric and his son must enter. As he did so, his eyes skimmed the balconies and archways searching for strange shadows. He saw none, but the openness of the place in the torchlight disturbed him.

  The King leaned back in the stone throne, finding, to his surprise, that it was oddly comfortable. He rested his hands on the brilliant polished arms and felt a great relaxation pass through him. His wife’s tale, his own memories, his observations of Dan-Tor, all came together in a vivid whole and he saw what lay before him.

  Strange, he thought, to be so at ease in the face of such a testing.

  The silence hung, sun-filled and peaceful, in the hall, like the quiet of an ocean poised at the turn of the tide when the great forces that determine its destiny are balanced equally. Then, like the first swell of a new wave, came the distant sound of marching feet. As they approached, so the deep peace he felt faded like a glowing memory.