The Waking of Orthlund [Book Three of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Yengar joined her. ‘Your country, Majesty,’ he said, part question, part statement, his breath steaming.

  Sylvriss nodded. ‘Ties of birth and family bind tightly, Yengar,’ she said. ‘But so do those of marriage and the loyalty of the Fyordyn, my people.’ She turned to him as she emphasized the word ‘my'.

  'I belong to both Fyorlund and Riddin now,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor brought me and Rgoric together for his own unseeable ends—probably to corrupt Riddin as he has corrupted Fyorlund—but it was an error, and we'll give him full measure of it before we're through.'

  The mention of Fyorlund drew her eyes to the distant snow-covered peaks behind which that country now lay. The snow had caught them unawares, slowing their progress and making the journey difficult and laborious, but, being past the highest peaks when it arrived, they had encountered no special dangers.

  Yengar followed her gaze and spoke her thoughts. ‘The snow's early, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I fear that it's the beginning of a long winter. I doubt there'll be any way back to Fyorlund before the spring, except for hardy souls.'

  Sylvriss looked at him, her mind full of thoughts of Eldric and the other Lords, facing the unknown power of Dan-Tor and ignorant of the fate of her and of Hawklan and Isloman.

  'Messages could be sent?’ she asked tentatively.

  The Goraidin looked at the mountains again. ‘Oh yes,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘But not easily and not without considerable risk. But troops?’ He shook his head. ‘Not in any worthwhile number.'

  Sylvriss nodded. The harsh reality of the Goraidin's simple comment briefly dimmed the joy of seeing her home at last.

  Still, she thought, there would be plenty of time for debating tactics and strategy when they got to Dremark. And at least Eldric and the others were preparing for war. They were not sitting in their castles in guileless innocence anymore.

  She looked again at the land spread out below her. ‘Come on,’ she said, easing her horse back from the edge. ‘Let's go and find the Muster.'

  They had to spend one more night camped in the mountains, but the following day saw them leaving the last of the great crags, and venturing out over the empty, rolling countryside.

  During the whole of the day the group moved steadily southwards. Although the weather was cold and overcast, they were all happy to have left the difficult mountain terrain behind and, for the most part, their progress was at the trot.

  Towards evening the sinking sun broke through a gap in the distant clouds, and for a while the landscape was flooded with a brilliant yellow light, peculiarly at odds with the greyness of the low clouds overhead. The riders’ shadows stretched and wavered, long across the short harsh grass.

  'We've seen no one all day, Majesty,’ Yengar said. ‘It's really quite eerie. I seem to recall that Riddin was quite a bustling place.'

  Sylvriss smiled. ‘The last time you were here, you were fighting a war,’ she said. ‘There were all manner of temporary camps here then. But this isn't a very fertile region. It's scarcely worth settling. And, as I remember, the war blighted what little settlement there was. Such villages as were here had to be abandoned or were simply destroyed. I'm happy to be here now, but it's not a happy place for the Riddinvolk generally. Too barren, and too many bad memories.'

  Yengar nodded. Bad memories he could understand. That was why the place seemed eerie, he realized.

  But Sylvriss had been a young messenger in those days and knew of the region's condition only from the words of her father and his advisers. The countryside itself touched no old wounds in her. If anything, it reminded her of times of bright and youthful excitement when she had thundered, invulnerable, hither and thither from camp to camp at the behest of the line leaders.

  'Don't worry,’ she said, turning to Yengar and laughing a little. ‘There'll be people enough as we get nearer the River Endamar. And once we've been seen, the news will be known all the way to Dremark almost within the day. I hope you weren't intending to reach there quietly.'

  Yengar shook his head. ‘No, Majesty,’ he said. ‘The bigger the escort the better, as far as I'm concerned. I doubt we need to protect you here.'

  A fine drizzle was falling when they finally halted and made camp for the night. As she had done throughout the journey, Sylvriss tended the horses while the men erected the shelters, then she joined them for their meal.

  Relieved to be away from the constant concern that had necessarily pervaded their journey through the mountains, the group were soon in high spirits, their laughter ringing out into the damp darkness like a celebratory carillon.

  Abruptly, the entrance to the shelter was torn open.

  The group's good spirits tempered their immediate surprise.

  'It's the Muster!’ Sylvriss exclaimed delightedly, struggling to get to her feet in the confined space. But Yengar laid a restraining hand on her arm. He was watching Olvric's hand.

  Nearest to the entrance, Olvric was peering out at the unexpected visitor. He was smiling, but his hand, behind his back, was signalling.

  'It's armed men, but it's not the Muster,’ Yengar whispered urgently to Sylvriss. ‘Follow Olvric's lead until we find out who they are and what's happening.'

  Sylvriss's face went white but she controlled her expression and nodded. Her thoughts were suddenly in a turmoil. Armed men, but not the Muster? It was unlikely that Olvric would be wrong. But who could they be? Surely Dan-Tor's treacherous arm couldn't have reached this far?

  Olvric stepped out of the shelter and looked at the newcomers. As one of them made to speak, Olvric raised a hand in apology and looking up into the rain, bent down to the entrance again.

  'Pass my cloak, please,’ he said waving his hand towards it. Marek handed it to him.

  Sylvriss heard Yengar catch his breath. ‘Morlider!’ he hissed, almost in disbelief. ‘At least twelve of them.'

  Sylvriss felt her stomach turn over, and for an interminable, dreadful, moment, she thought she was going to faint. But sterner resolves buoyed her up as her mind cut through the questions about how and why the Morlider should be there, to the certainty that she had not battled alone against Dan-Tor for so long, to become a squealing victim to any fish-stinking brigands.

  Yengar caught the light in her eye, and motioned her to silence.

  'Be discreet, but keep your hands by your weapons,’ he whispered to the others as, with wilful awkwardness, he struggled to his feet. ‘Look pleasant and watch for commands.’ Then, crouching, he stepped through the entrance to join Olvric.

  'It's the Muster,’ Olvric said to him brightly, then turning to the semi-circle of watching men, ‘You gave us quite a fright,’ he said. ‘We haven't seen anyone all day. We were beginning to think that the Muster didn't patrol this far north.'

  A large, bearded individual holding an axe stepped forward. He was a little taller than Olvric but considerably heavier and his whole demeanour was menacing. He seemed, however, a little taken aback by Olvric's affability.

  'The Muster patrol here, have no fear,’ he said. ‘But who are you, and what are you doing here?’ His voice was as rough as his weather-beaten face and his accent confirmed his origins.

  'We're travellers from Fyorlund,’ Olvric said, affecting to ignore the drawn weapons. ‘To be honest, I'm afraid we're a little bit lost. We were hoping we'd run into you,’ he added confidentially, wiping the rain from his face, and pulling his hood forward.

  The man scowled and knocked back Olvric's hood roughly. ‘No need to be afraid of the water,’ he said. ‘Let's see your face.’ Olvric stepped back a little and contrived to look bewildered, but otherwise made no response. Then the man pushed him to one side and, bending forward, peered into the shelter.

  Following Yengar's order, the four High Guards managed to return his gaze with interested courtesy, but Sylvriss, her face flushed, kept her head bowed.

  A second, younger man stepped forward. There was a curl to his mouth which, combined with his blond hair matted wet across hi
s forehead, conspired to give him a vicious, unstable presence.

  'Anything worthwhile, Drago?’ he asked.

  The bearded man did not answer, but pointed to Sylvriss. ‘You,’ he said roughly. ‘Woman. Here. The rest of you stay where you are!'

  Despite her best endeavours, Sylvriss's feelings showed briefly in her expression as she stood up.

  'Don't look at me like that, woman, unless you want your face reshaping,’ Drago said, raising a ham of a fist towards her. ‘Come here.'

  Olvric stepped forward. ‘Now look...’ he began, but the blonde man turned suddenly and, with a spectacular flourish, produced a large knife. He placed the point under Olvric's chin. ‘We are looking,’ he said, his face expectant.

  Olvric, looking alarmed, turned as if in appeal to the others standing around. Yengar watched the manoeuvre: his comrade was assessing the extent and strength of the force ranged against them. While Sylvriss and Olvric had been attracting attention he had surreptitiously done the same, forcing discipline and experience to master the familiar fear and self-reproach that were even now tearing his stomach with griping pains and making his whole body shake. He was glad Olvric was there. Both deliberately and instinctively he began to relax his body, to free it for movement.

  As Olvric had signalled originally, there were at least twelve of them, all with weapons drawn; too many to be tackled at the moment, without putting the Queen at risk. In addition, there was no telling how many more might be out in the darkness awaiting events. They were a mixture of young and middle-aged men and unmistakably Morlider both in their features and their random array of clothing and arms. Yengar noted, however, that those who were not hooded had a driven, harassed look about them.

  They're running and hiding, he thought. But this revelation told him little else. What was such a small group doing so far from the coast? In the war, the Morlider had sent deep penetration groups inland to gather information, but this couldn't be the case here. These were making no attempt to disguise themselves, and had refused to accept the pretence of being Muster riders that Olvric had offered them.

  A more chilling thought occurred to him. Had they been separated from an army in some battle? It seemed ridiculous. If the Morlider had returned in force again, some message would surely have reached Fyorlund? But it could have, he realized. The normal route for messengers from Riddin to Fyorlund was further south and led into the estates of the southern Lords—whose loyalty was unknown! The fear in his stomach twisted again—they could have led their Queen into the middle of a war!

  These conjectures flooded through Yengar's mind in the brief moments it took Sylvriss to step out of the shelter and face the man Drago. Other thoughts came even more quickly. What was to be their fate? Prisoners? Hostages? No. Twelve men would not burden themselves with six and a woman. Victims? Possibly. Some Morlider had a reputation for a rudimentary chivalry and a sense of honour; others hadn't. Yet these were talking; had their intent been purely murder, they would have waited until the camp was asleep. He looked at them again. Bedraggled and dispirited, they were beyond doubt hunted, but they were far from defeated. They probably just wanted supplies, he decided cautiously. Here was a bargaining space. The only serious problem would be Sylvriss. What danger was she in? Still ...

  Yengar noted that his fear had changed. The trembling that had been his initial response had diffused itself through his entire body, and he knew that he was now free to respond immediately to whatever threat presented itself. Two stray thoughts fluttered momentarily across his mind: one, that he was too old for this kind of thing; the other, that he was now wholly himself and had never been better equipped. He ignored both, and stepped forward.

  'Commander Drago,’ he said. ‘Is this the way the Muster treat strangers? Weapons and threats?'

  Drago ignored him. He looked Sylvriss up and down appraisingly.

  'Fyordyn, eh?’ he said to Olvric, without taking his gaze from Sylvriss.

  'Yes,’ Olvric said nervously. ‘We're only servants, sir. On our way to join our Lord down here, but the snows caught us in the mountains and...'

  'Servants?’ said Drago, showing his teeth and reaching out to grip Sylvriss's cloak. ‘In clothes like these?'

  Olvric looked surprised. ‘We have a kind and generous Lord. He looks after us well,’ he said.

  Drago turned to him scornfully, then threw open Sylvriss's cloak. ‘A very kind Lord indeed,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Who expects a pregnant “maid” to drag herself over the mountains to tend to him.'

  Eyes blazing, Sylvriss wrenched herself free and pulled her cloak about her.

  Olvric retreated from his story hastily before the Queen could speak. ‘It's his child,’ he said confidentially, man to man, but looking suitably contrite at the exposure of his deception. ‘We're taking her to friends in Riddin to get her away from his wife.'

  This version provoked some obscene laughter from the watching men, and even Drago chuckled. ‘Well, she's ours now. And the kid,’ he added, almost reluctantly, Yengar thought. ‘Still, we've no time to play the fool with you, whoever you are,’ Drago went on. ‘We need horses and food.’ He swung his finger between Yengar and Olvric, at the same time pointing his axe into the shelter. ‘Don't give us any trouble and you'll not get hurt.'

  The blond man turned sharply. ‘Are you crazy, Drago?’ he burst out. ‘We can't leave them alive. They'll tell the Muster we've been here.'

  Drago shook his head. ‘The Muster probably know near enough where we are,’ he rasped. ‘If they find corpses, they'll be out in real force and we'll have no chance. Do as you're told. Get the horses.'

  'We could hide the bodies...'

  'Do as you're told, Symm,’ Drago erupted suddenly and furiously. ‘You and that stinking knife will get us all killed yet.'

  The blond man's face contorted with anger, and he turned the blade towards Drago.

  Drago looked at him icily. ‘Use it or put it away. Count of three,’ he said softly but without hesitation. The hand holding the axe went behind his back, leaving his front seemingly defenceless.

  'One.'

  Yengar and Olvric watched intently. Symm did not move.

  'Two.'

  Symm's eyes flickered over the watchers, most of whom had taken a pace backwards. He swallowed nervously.

  Drago formed the word ‘three', but Symm's left hand went out before he could speak it. ‘Peace,’ he said, his voice hoarse and bitter. Drago did not move.

  Slowly Symm replaced the knife in its scabbard, his jaw working.

  'My friendship for your father won't save you if you do anything like that again,’ Drago said angrily. ‘You give me one more problem, Symm, and the Muster'll find your corpse. Now get those horses and start looking for food.'

  The blond man nodded to some of the others, and they wandered off into the darkness.

  Drago took hold of Sylvriss's arm. ‘You're ours now, woman,’ he said. ‘Don't be frightened. No one's going to hurt you if you behave.’ His tone was incongruously paternal.

  Sylvriss caught Yengar's eye and in response to his urgent appeal she remained silent.

  'If you're running from the Muster, you don't want her with you,’ Yengar said. ‘She rides like a duck and has to stop and rest every two minutes. That's why the snows caught us. She'll hold you back.'

  Drago looked at Sylvriss uncertainly. ‘She doesn't look like the complaining type to me,’ he said. Then, taking her chin roughly, he turned her face so that the torchlight from the entrance to the shelter fell on it. A tremor went through her body and Drago tightened his grip as if he were shaking a wilful dog.

  'No,’ he said confidently. ‘Look at those eyes. This one doesn't complain. She's more likely to knife you in your sleep.'

  'Either way,’ said Yengar with a shrug. ‘She's a problem.'

  Drago looked inclined to agree, but, ‘It's the new Chief's law,’ he said resignedly. ‘It's more than my neck's worth not to, especially as she's pregnant. We need the breedi
ng stock.’ He dismissed his hesitation. ‘Anyway,’ he said scornfully, ‘I don't need advice on how to handle women from some Fyordyn servant who can't even find his way across dry land. I've not met a woman yet that couldn't be brought to heel with a whipping if need arose. You save your concern for yourselves. It's a long way to anywhere from here.'

  Yengar was about to reply when there was a crash nearby, followed by a series of colourful curses. Suddenly a brilliant light flared up. Yengar turned away quickly, but not until he had caught a glimpse of a man picking himself up off the ground while another, holding the unusually brilliant torch, was reaching down to help him. Various other individuals were struggling to harness the now startled horses.

  'Put that out,’ Drago thundered. ‘It'll be seen miles away.'

  The light dimmed, then vanished and a reproachful voice came out of the darkness. ‘Drago, we can't see a damn thing out here,’ it said.

  Drago was unsympathetic. ‘Neither can I now, you fish head,’ he said angrily, screwing up his eyes. ‘Just get those horses here.'

  Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances. That torch ... ?

  But that would have to be considered later. Now, other thoughts were more pressing. Losing the horses would be bad enough, but the Morlider couldn't be allowed to take the Queen.

  Yengar took a chance. ‘How long is your ship going to wait for you, Drago?’ he said. ‘If the Muster know you're here, they'll be patrolling the coast for it. Can you really afford to burden yourself with this?’ He nodded towards Sylvriss.

  Drago's eyes narrowed.

  'I was a cadet runner at the end of the war,’ Yengar said, answering the unspoken question. ‘And I've got kin in Riddin. I know something about your people and I know how the Muster work. It's an ill tide that's brought you here, but if you've not hurt anyone there's a fair chance that even now they'll let you reach your ship and leave. But if they see you've taken a woman...’ He looked significantly at Drago and pitched his voice in the tone of a friendly adviser. ‘I don't know what law obliges you to take her, but I'd put the law of survival above it if I were you.'