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

by Roger Taylor

  Drago looked uncertain again, but before he could speak, Symm and the others returned with the horses. Their appearance seemed to decide him.

  He looked distastefully at the horses. ‘I don't like these things,’ he said. ‘But they'll be quicker than walking and might even confuse the Muster at a distance if they think we're still on foot.'

  He thrust his axe into his belt, and took Sylvriss by the arm. ‘You'd better ride with me,’ he said, pulling her forward. Then, turning to her, ‘I don't know how you behave with these minnows here, lady, but you give me any trouble and you'll travel unconscious across my lap.’ He offered her his fist again in token of this promise. ‘It's your choice. Now mount up.'

  Head bowed, Sylvriss walked to her horse and, with elaborate clumsiness, hoisted herself into the saddle. Yengar noticed her whispering to the horse in the process.

  Drago reached up and prepared to join her, but as he did so, Sylvriss cried out and tugged on the reins. Screaming, the horse reared and spun round several times, knocking Drago to the ground and scattering both men and horses. Then she was gone, the sound of her horse pounding into the night.

  Yengar had expected the Queen to take some action once she was mounted, but even so, the suddenness of her response left him gaping momentarily.

  Angry roaring from Drago brought Yengar back to the present. There would be no more debate now. He swung round and struck the nearest man in the face with the edge of his clenched fist. The blow did little harm but it stunned the man sufficiently for Yengar to seize the large knife that was thrust in his belt.

  Olvric was less considerate. Symm's eyes lit up savagely at the change in temper of his leader and he strode towards Olvric, purposefully reaching for his knife. He drew it with the same elaborate flourish he had used before. It was obviously a habit he had cultivated for the purpose of intimidating his victims, and as such it was a mistake, as Olvric demonstrated by delivering a brutal blow to his jaw in the middle of the performance. The impact sent Symm sprawling face downwards on the ground and there was a quality in the sound of it which told Yengar that Olvric had used his iron knuckle protectors.

  Instinctively, the two Goraidin moved back to back, but they were joined almost immediately by the four High Guards who had tumbled out of the shelter as soon as the first blow was struck.

  Swords were handed hastily to the two Goraidin, and the six men formed themselves into a close circle.

  Recovering quickly, the Morlider formed a larger, more hesitant circle around them.

  'You're High Guards, all of you,’ Drago snarled contemptuously. ‘I should've smelt it.'

  He pointed to Yengar. ‘Cadet runner.’ He spat. ‘If you were anything, you were one of Rgoric's infantry. I should've cut you all down when you crawled out of your hole.'

  Yengar made no sign.

  Drago's fist opened and closed. ‘I lost kin and friends at the hands of your people,’ he said.

  'As did I at the hands of yours, Morlider,’ Yengar replied, unable to keep his own anger from his voice but still searching for a peaceful conclusion to the confrontation. ‘Do you want us both to lose more here? You shouldn't have come then, and you shouldn't have come now. Take the horses and go while you've the chance.'

  'Not until I've settled my debts,’ Drago replied, hefting his axe. ‘Old and new.'

  'That woman you manhandled was no Fyordyn Lord's plaything,’ Yengar said. ‘She's a Muster officer and the daughter of one of Riddin's most respected homes. She also knows the country round here—she'll have the Muster down on you within hours. Run while you can.'

  Most of the Morlider seemed inclined to agree, but Yengar knew that having been humiliated by a woman, Drago would have to make some mark on his adversaries, no matter what the consequences. The questions was, what?

  The answer became immediately apparent as the big man drew his axe and pushed aside the man to his right to leave a space in which he could swing it. Yengar knew that when he threw it, he couldn't fail to bring someone down.

  'You should've brought your shields, High Guard,’ Drago said.

  Olvric spoke in the battle language. ‘Yengar, feint straight at him, then take the man on his right. I'll feint left and then deal with him when you move across. When we go, the rest of you keep together, charge the opposite side of the circle. Get out into the darkness and hide until they've gone. No stupid heroics. Your duty's to the Queen. Find her and get her to Dremark.'

  The four Guards acknowledged the order.

  Drago grimaced at the meaningless chatter, but said nothing. His arm started its upward journey, the honed edge of his axe damp and glinting in the rain-streaked torchlight. Yengar felt the movement, as well as saw it, and he knew that Olvric would be responding the same way. Just before the axe reached its zenith, the two of them would surge forward across the treacherous wet ground, to strike at both Drago and the man to his right who was preparing to follow his leader's example. There would not be even the briefest hesitation, nor any pity; that could mean their deaths. The man had committed himself to this path and had thus placed his own life as forfeit in the game.

  The arm and its lethal burden seemed to continue upward for an eternity. Though Yengar knew he would be giving no outward sign, he felt both his body and his mind tilting towards the balance point.

  Then it was there!

  'Stop!’ A powerful voice cut through the intensity.

  Drago faltered, and the moment was gone.

  Yengar almost lurched forward, then he turned in dismay. The voice was Sylvriss's. What's she doing? he thought desperately. She'll get us all killed and herself taken for sure.

  Slowly Sylvriss emerged out of the darkness and stood at the edge of the torchlight, horse and rider a strange shadowed vision.

  'Drago,’ she said. ‘I'm Sylvriss, Queen of Fyorlund, and daughter of Urthryn, Ffyrst of Riddin. I will excuse your offence against my person because you know little better, but your presence here offends against our laws, and I cannot excuse that. I command you and your men to lay down your weapons.'

  For a moment, Drago stared at her, seemingly awed. But that moment, too, passed.

  'Woman,’ he said, ‘all I can see is a fool on a horse. You should've kept on riding. When we've dealt with your “servants” here, we'll deal with you, Muster wench or no.'

  Sylvriss rode forward, more fully into the light. She raised her hand.

  The Goraidin and the High Guards saw it first; torches flickering into life out in the surrounding darkness. Yengar looked round quickly. The lights were all around them, each swaying from side to side gently.

  Drago followed his gaze, then spun round, his face both fearful and livid. His massive hands twitched around the shaft of his axe.

  'Lay down your weapon, Morlider,’ the Queen said again. ‘Unless you want a dozen arrows in you.'

  The lights moved nearer to each other. The circle was closing.

  Yengar had seen the Muster in action, both as mass cavalry and individual skirmishers. Their speed, manoeuvrability and discipline were awe-inspiring, and in his mind they were always associated with pounding irresistible power. But subsequently his memory of them would come to be dominated by their silent approach out of the Riddin darkness that night; strange, towering shapes shifting and changing in the swaying torchlight. Yengar felt primitive childlike fears stirring inside him faintly at the sight of these eerie, menacing night creatures advancing unhurriedly but relentlessly towards him.

  Whether Drago felt the same is a matter of conjecture, but with an oath he threw down his axe. Following his example, his companions threw down their weapons also.

  As they did so, the circle closed and the Morlider found themselves torchlit and exposed, between the words of the High Guards and an impassable wall of silent riders.

  Drago looked at Sylvriss. ‘I knew you were trouble as soon as I looked at you, woman,’ he said.

  'Watch your tongue, sea thief,’ came a voice from just behind Sylvriss. The speak
er edged his horse forward. His cloak glistened with rain, and the torchlight threw grim shadows on an already gaunt face.

  Drago stared at him, unrelenting. ‘For now, horse rider,’ he said unrepentantly. ‘But our time's coming soon.'

  Sylvriss raised her hand and spoke to Drago again.

  'The line leader tells me you have indeed hurt no one during your ... visit,’ she said. ‘We will therefore escort you to your ship and allow you to leave.’ She looked at the still motionless figure of Symm, and at the man Yengar had struck, now gingerly checking his nose and teeth and wiping away the blood that still flowed from his nose periodically. ‘We'll tend to your injured for you, as well,’ she said.

  'No,’ said Olvric sharply. ‘They mustn't be allowed to leave. They must be kept here.'

  Yengar nodded in agreement.

  The man by Sylvriss leaned forward. His face showed his fatigue. ‘You're free with your orders, Fyordyn,’ he said coldly. ‘It's not our way to feed and house these scoundrels. And it seems you're as disregardful of your Queen's will as you are of her safety.'

  Olvric's eyes narrowed slightly, and Yengar laid a hand on his arm gently. ‘That's a fair reproach, line leader,’ Olvric said after a moment. ‘We were remiss in our guard and will account for it to our superiors in due course. But we'd not expected to find Morlider wandering loose, least of all so far inland when the Muster patrol the coast so thoroughly.'

  His tone was acid and the line leader's jaw twitched angrily.

  His horse took half a pace forward.

  'Enough,’ Sylvriss said severely. ‘I don't intend to hold a debate in the pouring rain, and in the middle of the night. We're all tired and cold. With your permission, line leader, I suggest we make camp unless there's any pressing reason why we should be elsewhere. We'll have time enough to talk tomorrow.'

  Still glowering at Olvric, the line leader reined his horse back. ‘As you wish, ma'am,’ he said.

  The following day dawned to a clearer sky but a chill wind blew down out of the snow-covered mountains and rattled the tents and shelters of the hastily rigged camp.

  Their immediate task completed with the capture of the Morlider, the Muster was effectively stood down and the line leader made no effort to rouse his riders early following their recent prolonged riding.

  Pulling his cloak about him he left the tent which housed the captives and walked towards the Fyordyn's small shelter.

  Discreetly he eased back the entrance flap and, crouching down, peered inside. As he did so, a hand moved quickly in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a knife but, before he could react, the blade was resting against the side of his neck, and the edge of the hand pressing against his throat. The contact of the hand had a purposeful reality in it more awful than the cold blade, and while he sensed no real danger, he knew that an unpleasant death could be less than a breath away.

  'Don't move,’ said a soft voice needlessly.

  Without turning his head, the line leader cast a sideways glance at his captor. ‘I was coming to apologize anyway, Goraidin,’ he said. ‘A night's sleep makes a difference.'

  The knife disappeared and Olvric laughed.

  'It does indeed,’ he said. ‘The Morlider caught us both by surprise, I suspect.'

  The line leader nodded his head in agreement, then shook it to decline Olvric's beckoned invitation to enter.

  'We must talk,’ he said simply. ‘Will you join me for a meagre portion of cold field rations?'

  'Oh, dear,’ said Yengar, sitting up. ‘Too long in the saddle eh, line? Does that mean it's going to be short commons all the way to Dremark?'

  The line leader looked appreciative. The Fyordyn would decline to eat well while their rescuers fasted; it was a heartening gesture.

  'No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps only for a day. I've sent messengers out with the news of the capture of the Morlider and asking for more supplies. I told them to make no mention of your arrival. I thought that best until I'd spoken with you. The unexpected arrival of the Ffyrst's daughter with such a small escort obviously betokens trouble somewhere.'

  Olvric nodded.

  'Be quiet and shut the door,’ someone said sleepily.

  The two Goraidin exchanged a glance and then joined the line leader outside. Before leaving however, they folded back the entire front of the shelter.

  As the three walked through the wakening camp, the line leader introduced himself. ‘I'm Girvan,’ he said. ‘Girvan Girvasson, brother to Girven, head of the third house of Orness in the Decmill of Westryn, cousin to Rannag, daughter of...'

  Yengar laid a hand on his arm. ‘Please forgive us,’ he said. ‘But Riddin lineages bewilder us Fyordyn at the best of times and, to be honest, both Olvric and I have difficulty beyond our own first cousins. Girvan will suffice.'

  Girvan looked at him uncertainly for a moment, then he nodded significantly. ‘I take no offence,’ he said. ‘I seem to remember some such problem with Fyordyn in the past.’ He wrinkled his forehead in concern. ‘It must make your lives very difficult,’ he added.

  'We manage, Girvan,’ Yengar said. ‘We manage.'

  Girvan led them to one of several large tents. Inside was a scene of modest chaos as its occupants were rousing themselves and preparing for the day with varying degrees of stoicism and dignity. They all stopped and stared as the two Goraidin were ushered in, but the brief unease passed as Girvan appeared behind them.

  'Riders,’ Girvan called out. ‘I need to talk to our friends.'

  Without debate a space cleared around what Yengar took to be Girvan's sleeping area. Girvan beckoned to a young woman nearby. ‘Lennar,’ he said. ‘Could you fetch us whatever the cook's managed to scrape together this morning?’ He held up three fingers.

  The woman nodded and smiled, and pushed past them to reach the entrance. As she passed Yengar, she looked him up and down curiously. Yengar smiled uncertainly then started, as with a resounding thwack her hand landed on his behind. It was followed by some laughter and applause from the other Riddinvolk. Yengar felt himself blushing.

  'Lennar!’ Girvan said with stern paternalism, then reassuringly to Yengar. ‘It's all right,’ he said. ‘She's just skittish. You'll have no problem while we're in camp. Sit down, sit down.'

  Yengar did so, quickly.

  Girvan came straight to the point. ‘Why are you here, Fyordyn?’ he asked. ‘With the Ffyrst's daughter—your Queen. And why do you ask us to keep these Morlider—something we've never done.'

  Yengar looked around the tent. People were coming and going, stowing their equipment and generally preparing to break camp. None seemed curious about their line leader's private conference. He realized it was a protective habit that the Riddinvolk must have developed through spending much of their lives in such communal quarters.

  He turned back to Girvan. ‘We can't tell you why we're here,’ he said. ‘At least, not yet. The Queen must tell her father first.'

  Girvan frowned. ‘Yes, I forgot about your ... elaborate ... ways of discussing things,’ he said. ‘But I asked for a reason. I've patrolled here for years and seen little more than the odd soul who's lost his way from the Gretmearc. Now, within a few days of one another, one of the old men from the Caves comes and tells us he has an important message for Urthryn; Morlider land for the first time since the war; and you appear, presumably out of some little used route through the mountains, escorting your Queen, no less.’ He looked intently at each of the two men. ‘The lines of the house of Orness are responsible for patrolling the northern borders,’ he said. ‘I want no precious secrets, but I need to know what trouble is following you so that I can dispose the lines properly to meet it.'

  'Yes, I understand,’ Yengar said. His Goraidin training told him he must give this man the information he needed to answer these legitimate concerns. ‘As far as we know, no danger follows the route we took. Certainly no army, especially now the snows have arrived. It might perhaps not go amiss if you increase your vigilance of the more usual routes fr
om Fyorlund, but again, I doubt any force will be coming. As for your old man and the Morlider, I know nothing.'

  Lennar appeared with food. Girvan looked at her severely and she contented herself with accidentally brushing against Yengar as she reached across to hand a plate to Olvric.

  Clearing his throat, Yengar answered Girvan's other question.

  'We asked you to keep the Morlider because they too raised questions which should be answered,’ he said. ‘For one thing, they were too far inland for such a small raiding party.'

  Girvan coughed, and pulled at his ear. ‘That was my mistake,’ he said awkwardly. ‘We delayed because we didn't believe the first reports we got, then we accidentally cut them off and drove them this far in. It was fortunate for us all that Sylvriss ran into us when she did otherwise we might have ridden past and lost them for days.'

  'That's one problem dealt with,’ Yengar said, looking relieved. ‘Their appearance here made no sense at all. But there are other matters. Their leader, Drago ... spoke of a new chief; of wanting ... breeding stock.’ He wrinkled his face in distaste at the expression. ‘Of their time coming soon,’ he concluded.

  Girvan shrugged. ‘Words,’ he said. ‘Rhetoric. He was blowing air in front of his men. Probably didn't like Sylvriss getting the better of him—they've some very strange ideas about women, you know.'

  Both the Goraidin shook their heads and said ‘No,’ simultaneously. Olvric spoke. ‘You're a veteran, if I'm any judge, Girvan,’ he said. ‘Why did your country ask for help twenty years ago?'

  Girvan looked at him, but there was no accusation or offence in Olvric's manner.

  'There were too many of them,’ he answered simply.

  Olvric nodded. ‘Far too many,’ he said. ‘And from what we know about them, their islands are crowded with people. They can want breeding stock for one thing only. Fighters. Armies.'

  Girvan looked uncertain. Olvric leaned forward. ‘Drago knew he probably wouldn't reach the coast undiscovered, yet he was so concerned about his new Chief, that he was prepared to slow himself down and also risk being punished by you by taking a pregnant woman with him.’ He reached out and took the line leader's arm. ‘And they have a torch, the like of which we thought existed only in Fyorlund, and which betokens no good. We have to question these people, Girvan. Find out what's going on. I fear that our troubles and yours may be the same.'