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

by Roger Taylor

  Girvan looked from Olvric to Yengar and reached his decision. ‘I'll have the watch on the coast increased,’ he said. ‘And give orders that Morlider are to be captured and taken to Dremark.'

  * * *

  Chapter 30

  The Morlider War had been fought mainly in the north of Riddin and following its dreadful conclusion the various allies had said their sad farewells on the battlefield and departed directly for their homelands. Thus neither Yengar nor Olvric had ever visited Dremark.

  It was unlike anything they had ever encountered in Fyorlund. Where Vakloss stood high on a solitary hill, dominating the surrounding countryside and dominated itself by the Palace, Dremark was spread over the floor of a lush valley, its centre being overlooked by those outskirts that rose up the valley sides. Where Vakloss had tall, haughty buildings, bedecked with elaborate and colourful wood carvings, Dremark had wide, open streets and smaller, simpler buildings whose plain white walls were decorated with expansive painted murals showing, inevitably, horses and horse riders: horses grazing on rolling countryside; horses in battle, from travelling columns to cavalry charges; horses working in the fields; horses in Festival celebrations and parades and, above all, in the Helangai, a fearsome game played at the least excuse and with monumental zest by seemingly all the Riddinvolk.

  Girvan's line had played it once on the journey from the north, shortly after they had crossed the River Endamar. It seemed to Yengar to be almost like an act of thanksgiving now that they were leaving the harsher pastures of the north behind them.

  The principle of the Helangai was simple enough: a large, weighted bag, suspiciously man-shaped, was to be picked up and carried to an agreed place on the field. It could be played anywhere, and by any number of riders, and would sometimes last for days, ranging far and wide across the countryside. Apart from outright murder and maiming, however, there seemed to be no rules, although Yengar noted that anything which threatened to injure the horses brought swift dismissal from the field for the offender.

  He and Olvric watched it for a little while from the edge of the field, but with their unerring instinct for survival, soon retired to a nearby, higher rock to watch the remainder of the game in a combination of amazement and bewilderment.

  At one point, Lennar, circling wide, rode by them and stopped to wipe perspiration from her flushed face. She waved enthusiastically to Yengar. ‘Get your horse. Join in,’ she cried.

  Yengar declined the invitation as politely as he could, but freely cited cowardice as his excuse.

  'It's only a little knockabout. Nothing serious,’ the woman declaimed, puzzled, but seeing Yengar was not to be persuaded, she was soon swept into the fray again.

  Olvric chuckled.

  'Shut up,’ Yengar said brusquely, staring intently at the mayhem swirling in front of them.

  Olvric's chuckle turned to a barely stifled and prolonged laugh.

  The journey to Dremark had been hard on Sylvriss's escort. They had neither the mounts, the skill, nor the endurance to keep up with the Muster line for any distance once they moved beyond a leisurely trot. Girvan was thoughtful about his guests and tried to keep the pace moderate, but even the Goraidin were more than pleased when at last they came to the top of a ridge and saw Dremark sprawling below, peaceful in the autumn sunlight; the silver thread of a river running through it.

  The city streets were busy, but their width and the sense of spaciousness afforded by the relatively low buildings lent it a relaxed and pleasant air. Girvan had sent the captives in discreetly, by post-wagon, and had equally discreetly sent a personal messenger to Urthryn to tell him of the unexpected arrival of his daughter and of her wish to enter Dremark unnoticed. Thus their arrival was that of an ordinary Muster line accompanied by a few strangers, and attracted little or no attention, although one or two passers-by stared at Sylvriss awkwardly, trying to place a long-forgotten face.

  The murals fascinated the Fyordyn, as did the practice of the Riddinvolk of grassing the roofs of their buildings and sweeping them down to ground level in long continuous ramps.

  'Look, horses on the roofs,’ Kirran exclaimed delightedly, when the nature and function of the architecture became apparent. ‘These people are splendid.’ Then, gazing round: ‘It's bigger than it seems from above, but these buildings still seem small. I wonder where they all live.'

  'Below ground,’ Sylvriss said, catching the remark. ‘Most of our buildings go at least twice as far below ground as they go above it.'

  Kirran snapped his fingers. ‘I remember someone telling me about it,’ he said. ‘Fascinating. But what a strange way to live.'

  The Queen smiled at this inadvertent discourtesy. ‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘It's very cosy. Personally I found it quite difficult to understand a people who chose to live high in the air on top of a hill, especially when their winters were so long and so cold.'

  Kirran, realizing his mistake, began stammering an apology, but the Queen waved it aside, still laughing.

  Then, accompanied by Girvan and one or two other riders, they were riding slowly into the city estate of Urthryn, the Ffyrst of Riddin and father to Sylvriss.

  Despite the comparative warmth of the day, the Queen pulled her hood forward.

  The extensive parklands of the estate were calm and peaceful after the bustle of the streets. Here and there, horses were grazing, and a few individuals were quietly tending the gardens. They paid little heed to the passing riders. The surrounding trees were rich with the yellows and golds of dying leaves and the whole was redolent with the soft scents of autumn.

  The buildings at the heart of this quiet estate were taller than most of those the Fyordyn had seen in the city, but they had the same simple elegance although, conspicuously, their walls were undecorated. A small group of people stood at the foot of a broad flight of steps that led up to a wide patio which fronted the largest building.

  As they drew nearer, Sylvriss urged her horse forward. Girvan signalled to the others to stop, and, as if at the same signal, the waiting group by the steps divided, leaving a solitary grey-haired figure watching the approach of his long-absent daughter.

  Yengar and the others looked on in silence as Sylvriss dismounted and stood in front of her father. They stood for a little time looking at one another and, perhaps, talking, then without haste Urthryn opened his arms and the two embraced.

  Girvan nodded his group forward, and the standing watchers too, converged on the couple.

  * * * *

  Later, after they had eaten and been shown their quarters, the two Goraidin found themselves alone with Urthryn and Sylvriss and two of Urthryn's closest advisers.

  Yengar saw his Queen's face in her father's vividly as, smiling, he ushered them into a large, light room and waved them towards a circle of high, cushioned couches.

  'Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, pausing in the doorway. ‘There's another who should be joining us here, I believe. I won't be a moment.'

  When he returned, he was accompanied by a tall man with a high domed head and a long narrow face. He was wearing a long, plain robe secured by a rope about his waist.

  'May I introduce you to Oslang,’ Urthryn said. ‘He's from the caves, up north.’ He cleared his throat. ‘To be honest, I was on the verge of politely throwing him out, but after listening to Girvan and my daughter, his story is just one among three wild tales now, so I thought we'd hear them all together.'

  Oslang bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘My brothers and I knew that it would be difficult to persuade you of our news, but you've been patience itself. I'm just glad that other signs have appeared without any real hurt having been done to your people.'

  Urthryn grunted non-committally and eased himself stiffly onto a couch. He addressed the Goraidin. ‘We've heard Girvan's tale about the Morlider,’ he said, indicating his advisers. ‘And confirmed the immediate action he's taken about the coast watch. That's only sensible.’ He leaned forward and waved a finger at the Goraidin. �
��But I must admit, I'm not keen on the idea of housing and feeding these beggars, to put it mildly. Sets a bad precedent.'

  Before either could reply, he waved the topic aside. ‘However, we can talk about that later.'

  He turned to Sylvriss and extended his hand to encompass Oslang and his two advisers. ‘You remember Agreth and Hiron don't you?’ Sylvriss nodded and smiled at the two men. ‘I'm afraid they've weathered about as badly as I have, but we're still all here.’ He tapped his head. ‘I don't think you ever met Oslang,’ he went on. ‘Funny sticks, the cave people. Have to be, to live up there; but harmless enough, and fine healers, without doubt. And they're not usually given to excessive foolishness. At least, in the past they weren't,’ he added significantly. ‘So tell me your tale again, girl. And you, Fyordyn. And you, Oslang. And let's see if between us we can't find out what's going on.'

  His heartiness, however, was forced, and an anxiousness came through in his voice which even the mellowing qualities of his sing-song Riddin accent could not disguise.

  It took some considerable time for the whole tale to be told, not least, Yengar thought, because of the disordered way in which the Riddinvolk proceeded, with frequent interruptions and questions, and seemingly endless repetitions. However, even he had to concede that amazement could understandably override ordered procedure when Oslang referred to Hawklan's part in his own telling.

  When eventually all had been said, Urthryn looked repeatedly from his daughter to the two Goraidin and then to Oslang. Finally he looked in some despair at his advisers.

  'I'll be honest, lads,’ he said after a long silence. ‘If I didn't know the people who were telling me all this, I wouldn't have given it two minutes’ stable room.'

  The two men nodded.

  'It takes a lot of believing,’ Agreth said, rather helplessly.

  'A lot?’ Urthryn exclaimed, standing up. ‘You always did have a gift for understatement, Agreth.’ He walked to the door and spoke to someone waiting outside.

  Returning, he sat down again and scratched his head. ‘I've always thought having kings and lords and suchlike was no way to run a country. But you seemed to manage well enough, and we've all got out own ways...’ He shrugged off the digression and looked at his daughter again.

  'Rgoric poisoned and murdered.’ He shook his head and grimaced bitterly. ‘I can hardly believe it yet. I must admit, I never liked that long brown streak, Dan-Tor, but I'd never have thought...’ He shook his head again. ‘And as for all this business about Sumeral being born again, and Dan-Tor being one of the Uhriel—Oklar—smashing a city with a gesture of his hand? It's children's tales we're talking,’ he concluded without conviction.

  Sylvriss spoke, very quietly. ‘It's war we're talking, father. Civil war in Fyorlund...'

  'And who can tell what kind of a war against Narsindal?’ Oslang finished Sylvriss's comment.

  Urthryn looked up and stared at him, businesslike now.

  'I'll need to know more of your part in this, cave dweller,’ he said bluntly. ‘We've always taken you for a bunch of harmless eccentrics, living in your caves up there, by Elewart; studying your lore and doing your healing. We're a tolerant people, and we've always left you alone. You did no harm, and we've had some fine teachers and healers from you in the past. But now, you're up to your necks in this nonsense in some way.'

  Oslang sat motionless.

  Urthryn continued. ‘If I'm to believe that this ancient ... demon, or whatever, has suddenly reappeared, and is already wreaking havoc in Fyorlund’—he looked at Sylvriss—‘and, seemingly, I must for now, then I want to know what—or who—brought it back.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Was it some shenanigans by your people, Oslang? Meddling with things they ought to have left alone?'

  Oslang met his gaze squarely. ‘No, Ffyrst, it wasn't,’ he said simply. ‘I'll tell you about our Order with pleasure when the need arises, but it hasn't yet, and when I tell you it'll be for you and your closest, most trusted aides only. The longer it is before Sumeral knows of our existence, the better.’ He looked significantly at the others in the room. ‘Suffice it to say for the moment that we are students of lore,’ he went on, ‘and teachers, and healers. But we're more as well. And, like all of you here, we too have failed in our ancient duty.'

  Urthryn frowned angrily, but Oslang continued.

  'We became introverted, parochial, neglected our duty to be out in the world, watching, listening, learning. The Fyordyn let slip their duty to watch both Narsindal and their very government. Your people, Ffyrst, the least offenders thus far, let Morlider land unhindered and unseen.'

  Urthryn bristled, but Oslang waved a mitigating hand. ‘I make no judgements,’ he said, hastily. ‘There are seemingly sound reasons for all these things, but they're irrelevant except insofar as they should be learned from. What is relevant is the dreadful whole they make.'

  'I don't understand,’ Urthryn said, taken aback slightly by Oslang's unexpected conclusion.

  'If the Lords can't restore Fyorlund, or if the country is seriously weakened by civil war, then an army from Narsindal could walk straight through it and down through Orthlund, probably without resistance, unless the Orthlundyn have taken Hawklan's advice to heart.’ It was Olvric. He had not spoken before, leaving the telling of their news to Yengar. Now his voice was cold. ‘And if the Morlider land in force they'll fully occupy the Muster, as they did before, and an army could march down the Pass of Elewart to attack your rear leaving Riddin wide open...'

  Urthryn interrupted. ‘No, no, no,’ he protested loudly, gesticulating violently. ‘Too fast. Too fast. There are too many ifs here, Goraidin. Nobody's mentioned armies yet. And one Morlider raiding party doesn't make an army.'

  Olvric was unabashed. ‘What else but an army slaughtered Lord Evison and his men, and gutted his castle?’ he said, an anger pervading his voice that was made the more chilling by its very restraint. ‘An army that included heavily equipped Mandrocs! Infantrymen! Evison had no doubts that Sumeral had risen, and you, above all, knew his worth as a fighter and leader. He did you service enough.'

  Urthryn turned his face away at this reproach.

  Olvric continued, less severely. ‘Consider, Ffyrst. In the Mathidrin, Dan-Tor has built up, armed, and trained thousands of men; unknown to us all. My belief is that they're the officer corps of Sumeral's army. Some of them are just ruffians, admittedly, but some aren't. The group that chased Yengar and me half across the country were very capable.'

  Yengar nodded in agreement.

  'As for the Morlider,’ Olvric went on, ‘you're right. One raiding party—if it was a raiding party—doesn't make an army. But their leader said some ominous things, and they had torches with them that are like Dan-Tor's globes. Twenty years ago they couldn't even make an ordinary torch or prepare radiant stones; they still used fire of all things! We asked you to keep them captive so that we could question them, and get some facts, but there's enough already to sketch out an overall pattern of strategy, and my every instinct tells me...'

  A knock at the door interrupted him.

  'Come in,’ Urthryn said.

  The door opened to reveal Drago escorted by two large men in Muster livery. Urthryn motioned them forwards.

  'You're not the only one with instincts, Goraidin,’ he said to Olvric. ‘I thought we'd be needing this one eventually. Let's question him together.'

  Drago scowled as he caught this remark, then laughed scornfully. ‘Question?’ he said. ‘You?’ He laughed again, then struck his chest with his clenched fist. ‘I've sailed through seas with waves twice the height of this building, through winds that'd pull your hair out by the roots, seen lightning burn half my crew to blackened cinders and known weather so cold it'd freeze your eyelids shut. What could you do to make me answer your questions?'

  At Urthryn's signal, the two guards ushered Drago to an empty seat and pushed him into it. He looked oddly incongruous, seated, rugged and blustering, in the midst of the quiet elegance of the Ffyrst's
chamber. His bombast faltered slightly, however, as he caught Olvric's eye and his manner became at once quieter and more resolute.

  'And, anyway, what could you do to me that the Chief couldn't do ten times worse with a flick of his hand?’ he asked.

  'Which chief's this, Drago?’ Yengar asked casually. ‘Your tribe's?'

  Drago scowled indignantly and struck his chest again. ‘I'm the chief of our tribe, Fyordyn.'

  Yengar looked puzzled, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, disparagingly. ‘You might have your own ship. Perhaps even be your chief's right hand. But you're no chief. The few I met in the war bent the knee before no one, and you were so scared of yours you were prepared to burden yourself with a pregnant woman when anyone in his senses could see it was folly.'

  For an instant, Drago looked as though he was about to leap at Yengar, but something restrained him.

  'The war was twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘Things have changed since, as you'll find out soon enough, believe me.'

  'You mean your raiding parties will sweep ruthlessly across Riddin, except when they have to run back to their chiefs with any pregnant Muster women they come across?’ Yengar said, chuckling.

  Drago's eyes blazed, but again he restrained himself.

  'Raiding parties!’ he sneered. ‘Our armies will sweep across Riddin, because we won't quarrel amongst ourselves this time and because we'll not have to flee after our islands.'

  'I don't want to rake over dead ashes, Drago,’ Yengar said, almost offhandedly. ‘I appreciate you've had to make your own excuses about why you lost, just to be able to live with yourselves. But lose you did, and you'll lose again every time you come. Let's be honest: your people are brave, but they don't have the skills to cope with disciplined troops.’ He gestured towards Urthryn. ‘The Muster are more active than ever now, and if you come in force again, our people and the Orthlundyn will be over the mountains without any delay this time.’ He leaned back, relaxed. ‘And even if you've got faster ships, you'll still have to leave when the tides carry your islands too far away. Everything's against you.'