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

by Roger Taylor

  Though a soft and hazy mist filled the camp and the surrounding countryside, the stars above shone sharp and clear. He looked up at them.

  I envy you your cold clarity, your certainty, he thought. Silver and aloof in your rich purple darkness.

  Then he cleared his throat self-consciously as if he had inadvertently spoken this poetic sentiment out loud.

  Two passing troopers saluted him.

  He returned the salute and wished them goodnight as they faded into the darkness.

  Around him was the dwindling hubbub of the quietening camp. Torches and shadowy figures moved hither and thither, though without menace; snatches of conversation, laughter, even some singing, floated to him. Then a dog barked somewhere and, far in the opposite direction, a horse neighed. Standing alone in the darkness he felt as though he were one strand in a huge moving tapestry of sound and quietly bustling life.

  He had stood thus many times before, during the Morlider War, and even, occasionally, when on the Watch in Narsindal, though there had always been an indefinable unpleasantness about that place and a different quality of tension had pervaded the Watch camps. Now at least he knew why.

  This is a good place to be, he thought. The quiet unity of purpose, the caring companionship of fellows in arms. A good place. Would that it could last. Would that this time it might not end in horror. Other familiar thoughts returned to him unbidden. Armed conflict was an obscenity; a loathsome catharsis, like vomiting, but infinitely worse. Infected, the nation fretted and fumed in discomfort, then in pain, then it retched and heaved until, uncontrollably, in a terrible spasm, it shed the offence, leaving itself exhausted but perhaps renewed amid stench and degradation. The analogy pursued itself. Sometimes it was not an end, but a beginning; even a presager of death.

  Eldric let the thoughts pass him unhindered. They held nothing new for him. It grieved him deeply that he and his companions were now the seeming aggressors, but he took solace from the knowledge that if an acceptable alternative presented itself at any time they would take it, and gladly.

  He drew in a deep breath of the cool autumn air. It was scented with dampness and browning leaves, dying in preparation for the cold winter and the distant spring.

  This is a good place to be, he thought again, then, pulling his cloak about him, he set off for his own tent.

  It was indistinguishable from all the other tents except for the standard that hung motionless in the stillness. The Lords and people were never far apart in Fyorlund but both tradition and experience dictated that more than ever they should share both favour and hardship in such difficult times.

  Arinndier rose as Eldric entered.

  'I'm sorry, Arin,’ Eldric said. ‘I'm a little late. I'm afraid I was...'

  'Talking.’ Arinndier finished his apology for him with a wry smile.

  Eldric conceded. ‘Talking,’ he admitted. ‘And thinking.'

  Arinndier raised a mocking eyebrow.

  Eldric ignored the taunt. ‘The others are ready?’ he asked, affecting a briskness he did not feel.

  'In the command tent,’ Arinndier replied, indicating the entrance through which Eldric had just passed.

  Darek and Hreldar were sprawled out in their chairs when Eldric and Arinndier joined them in the command tent. Both confined their welcomes to a cursory nod.

  Eldric smiled broadly. ‘A good day's march, gentlemen,’ he said.

  'No heartiness, please, Eldric,’ Darek replied. ‘Save that for the men. It's been a good day and night's march, and you're as tired as we are.'

  Eldric pulled a wry face and sat down by his colleagues. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I'm afraid we're none of us as young as we were.'

  'No clichés either,’ Hreldar said.

  Eldric eyed him uncertainly for a moment, then, unexpectedly, a smile surfaced on Hreldar's grim face and he chuckled.

  'It's as well we all agreed to this forced march,’ he said. ‘Otherwise one of us would be unbearably self-righteous now.'

  The fatigue-born unease in the tent faded and, leaning back, Eldric rested his arm on a nearby table. ‘How's morale among your men?’ he asked, looking round at each of his companions.

  Excellent, was the consensus. The Lords and their officers had always presumed that apart from Dan-Tor coming personally to use his power against them it was unlikely they would be assailed on their own territory. With regret, they recognized that if Fyorlund was to be freed from Dan-Tor and restored to its old ways, they would have to take the offensive and move on Vakloss.

  The timing of such a venture, however, had proved to be a considerable problem. Their ranks grew daily as High Guards from other Lords joined them; some independently, some with the strong, if covert, blessings of their Lords. Yet with each new individual came the extra burden on food and resources and it soon became apparent that too long a delay might tip the balance inexorably in Dan-Tor's favour; the Mathidrin and this new Militia would presumably be more prepared, and the natural momentum of the daily lives of the people would inevitably make them more amenable to their new leader, while the Lords would be increasingly burdened by a growing, expensive and probably fretful standing army.

  Fearing this, and the consequent decline in morale, most of the senior High Guards’ officers had argued for a swift and powerful strike against Vakloss. Arguments that had been intensified by the appearance of early snow on the distant mountain peaks indicating perhaps a severe winter. However, despite the unusual fighting tactics they were devising, the fear of Dan-Tor's terrible power, combined with the natural reluctance of the Lords to be seen as open aggressors, had outweighed all other considerations, and a degree of frustration had never been far below the surface.

  The slaughter at Ledvrin had, however, materially changed these concerns. An attack by the Lords could now clearly be seen as not only a legitimate, but a necessary, response, and, more importantly, there was the substantial doubt about the ability, or willingness, of Dan-Tor to wield his power. Given these changes and the now raging anger of the men, there was little left to debate.

  'Hawklan would have told us to excise the diseased tissue as quickly as possible, before its infection spreads and destroys us all,’ Yatsu said at one meeting.

  The men were in good fettle and it was debatable whether training through the winter, pending a spring offensive, would materially improve them.

  Supplies were good; morale was good. Both were at risk if there was a delay—particularly the latter.

  The discussion had not taken long. Nor had its logical consequence. A swift attack meant swift—‘Hit them hard and fast, before they really know what's happening’—and that, in turn, meant forced marching. Each man would carry his own arms and two week's field rations to ensure greater speed by dint of independence from the baggage and supply train, while this in its turn would be smaller and swifter. Normal practice on forced march exercises was for the men to carry a month's field rations, and the reduction to two weeks was greeted at first by mocking applause, though this turned rapidly to laughter and cheering when its implications became clear—within two weeks this business would be over!

  Eldric stretched his legs. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think we've made the right decision. My men seem to be thriving on it after so long with no clear end in sight.’ He pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘However, now we're on the point of leaving Garieth's estate, we'll have to face the problem we've avoided so far—the loyalties of the other Lords between here and Vakloss. They're uncertain, to say the least.'

  It had been a strange irony that the four Lords knew more of what was happening in Vakloss than they did of the minds of their former friends and colleagues. With the Mathidrin patrolling far and wide, and normal movement between villages and estates being greatly reduced as the country watched and waited, it was easier for the Goraidin to be inconspicuous on the more populous roads in and around Vakloss than on the quieter byways which filigreed the countryside. The seeming ease with which they moved across country bel
ied utterly the considerable difficulty and danger of the journey.

  Eldric ignored the unhappy expressions on his friends’ faces and ploughed on. ‘Correct me if I'm wrong,’ he said. ‘But between here and Vakloss there's only Irian, Tel-Amreo, Valen and perhaps Shalmson within striking distance of our route, who have—or had—High Guards of any worth.'

  No one demurred from this observation.

  'We need to find out whose side they're on before we leave them to our rear,’ Eldric continued.

  'Irian and Tel-Amreo would probably be with us,’ Hreldar said after a brief silence. ‘But Valen and Shalmson were always in Dan-Tor's pocket. And Valen's Guards were a rough lot at the best of times.'

  'They were supposed to disband their High Guards,’ Arinndier said tentatively, stifling an unexpected yawn that conveyed both his fatigue and his reluctance to be discussing this topic.

  Hreldar looked at him sideways. ‘Valen's men could be wearing black liveries by now,’ he said bitterly. ‘Shalmson's—that's difficult. I don't know—but I wouldn't trust him too far; he was always gullible and greedy.'

  Arinndier grimaced at Hreldar's tone. He would have liked to have protested at the idea of Valen's High Guards joining the Mathidrin, but he knew there was a strong possibility that that could well be true. ‘Well,’ he said, almost impatiently, ‘there's no point equivocating now. We can't afford delay and we can't afford to tie down too many men guarding our backs. Send a couple of cavalry squadrons to their castle gates, tell them what Dan-Tor's done, what we're doing, and ask them to join us.'

  'Subtle,’ Darek said wryly.

  Arinndier took the comment at face value. ‘Subtlety takes time, Darek,’ he said. ‘We avoided the issue so far only because we knew the answer. We'll just have to barge in. One of us can go and make a judgement on the spot.'

  Eldric nodded. ‘It's as good an idea as any,’ he said. ‘We really don't have the time for sending scouts, messengers and all the niceties. The sudden appearance of a large “friendly” force should provoke a fairly genuine response.'

  Darek chuckled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I can hear Irian now.’ Then, more seriously: ‘But I agree, Valen and Shalmson could be problematical. That said, I can't see that either Irian or Tel-Amreo would have settled easily for some bland neutrality. Their High Guards will probably still exist in one form or another, and that could be useful; but by the same token, Dan-Tor will have reached the same conclusion and their estates could be infested with Mathidrin. What do we do then?'

  Arinndier shook off the remains of his reluctance. ‘As agreed at the outset,’ he said sternly. ‘If we encounter any Mathidrin, we engage without warning.’ He drove his fist into his hand with a resounding smack. ‘Every one we can deal with in the countryside is one we won't have to deal with at Vakloss. That's why I said send two squadrons. No one—Mathidrin or turncoat Lord—is going to have that many men routinely mobilized.'

  Darek raised a placatory hand. ‘And Shalmson? Valen? What if they have changed sides? I can't see them asking their men to consult their consciences. They'll have had little say in the matter. And rough though they might be they're entitled to a choice. We can't just attack them without warning.'

  Eldric and Hreldar looked at Arinndier. He pulled an uncertain face. ‘If that's the case,’ he said, quietly, ‘then I suppose we'd better offer them an opportunity to remember their Oath of Loyalty before we engage.'

  Darek's comment reminded all of them that soon they would be facing many of their own countrymen in pitched battle, and the atmosphere in the tent became gloomier.

  'Not our choosing,’ Eldric said after a short silence, answering the unspoken doubts that hung in the air. ‘But it's all we can do. Admittedly this attack is our will, but it's also the King's last command. Let's hope speed and ferocity will lessen the resistance.'

  Darek acknowledged the remark, but returned to his concern. ‘And if Valen or Shalmson stay in their castles?’ he said. ‘What then? We've no siege train with us.'

  'If we move fast enough, I don't think that's likely,’ Arinndier replied. ‘They might know in Vakloss that we're coming by now, but I doubt anyone's bothered to detour across country to tell anyone else.’ He shrugged. ‘But if it does happen, then we will have to tie down some of our men in blockade. It'll take fewer to do that than it will to defend our backs.'

  Darek nodded resignedly, and the tent became silent.

  Eldric looked round at his friends. ‘Are we all agreed then?’ he asked.

  Each of the three Lords signalled his agreement in the manner of the Geadrol; a simple horizontal movement of the right hand. The silent, familiar gesture brought a lump into Eldric's throat unexpectedly. ‘Good,’ he managed awkwardly. ‘We'll work out the details the first thing tomorrow. Now let's get some sleep.'

  * * * *

  Urssain walked out of his ornate command post and strode past the saluting sentries. A few strides took him towards the edge of a rocky outcrop that overlooked the intended battleground.

  The night was still, but there was a cold, wintry sharpness underlying the autumnal calm. Below, spreading far ahead of him and extensively to both the right and the left, were countless scattered lights: globes, campfires, radiant stones, blazing torches—even some of the old-fashioned torches that the Ffyrst's globes had replaced. It was almost as though the stars of a bright summer night's sky had fallen to the ground.

  Around him rose a sound like waves pounding a distant shoreline. It was the noise of the army; people even more numerous than the myriad lights. Some would be on duty, guarding the perimeters to prevent desertions, checking and moving arms and supplies, pitching tents, tending the horses, attending to newly arrived companies, and the countless other tasks that the serving of an army demanded. Others would simply be waiting; waiting for their next duty, waiting for sleep, for morning, for them.

  And all invisible in the darkness that separated these fallen stars, Urssain thought.

  Suddenly he felt alone and very small, daunted by the realization that this vast flickering sea of lights was but a fraction of the true energy and power that lay spread out before him; the greater part of it was quite invisible.

  A chilling thought came to him. Is it always thus? Do we only ever see just such a shimmering, deceptive, outline of reality, while knives and malign intent lurk in the darkness?

  He stood motionless, momentarily disoriented by this unexpected and disconcerting vision, and not knowing how to respond to it. Then the thought and the shadow were gone, like some passing twinge of pain; gone and almost immediately forgotten except for a faint, lingering after-image of uncertainty.

  Nerves, he thought reassuringly. He should recognize them by now, he'd been in enough battles, hadn't he? Though admittedly, none had been as big and ordered as this, and he had never held so exalted a position. His certainty returned and his brief unease was replaced by excitement.

  Even the news that the Lords’ cavalry had suddenly attacked the local garrisons billeted at Irian's and Tel-Amreo's estates did not concern him too much. It had always been assumed that those two Lords would turn on the new regime when an opportunity presented itself and it came as no great surprise when a messenger, having run headlong into the retreating Mathidrin, returned with the news that many of the High Guards of the two Lords had mysteriously ‘reappeared’ to help with the rout. All that had been allowed for and the Ffyrst's army would still be greatly superior in numbers to that of the attacking Lords.

  Although he had been able to gain no direct information about the strength of the Lords’ army prior to the attack, Urssain, with Dan-Tor's guidance, had estimated it, including a liberal allowance for volunteers from the High Guards of other Lords. Now, the reports he had received bore out this calculation very closely, including the contribution made by Irian's and Tel-Amreo's Guards.

  In a couple of days, the Lords would arrive, exhausted after their protracted forced march, to find themselves facing an army at least twice the s
ize of their own. An army rested and waiting, and which had but to hold its defensive line until the attackers were so debilitated that they could be crushed with ease. It would be both interesting and instructive to stand by Dan-Tor and watch him crush, once and for all, this irritating residue of Rgoric's old regime.

  Looking again at the vast camp spread out in front of him, Urssain tried to visualize the scene.

  There would be row upon row of infantry, cavalry, archers, as far as the eye could see. And opposite them would be the Lords and their pathetic entourage.

  He smiled to himself. It would be a considerable learning indeed.

  The only real cause for concern was not the approaching enemy, but his fellow officers. The time before battle was, almost traditionally, a dangerous time in the Mathidrin. The break in normal routines and the pending mayhem provided opportunities for the settling of old scores and the clearing of ambitious pathways which could not be passed by. Various individuals, mainly lone sentries, had already been found murdered and it was unlikely there would be time to inquire into these deaths fully, especially as they involved only troopers.

  Urssain wondered briefly if any of the officers were considering attempting to remove him in order to enhance their promotion prospects.

  On balance he thought it was less likely than usual. Aelang was his greatest threat, but his pact with the erstwhile Commander of Narsindalvak still held, to their mutual benefit, and between them they offered any usurper a daunting target. In addition they had the indirect but substantial protection of Dan-Tor. He tolerated the internecine feuding that pervaded the Mathidrin, even using it on occasions to fulfil ends of his own, but whenever it reached such a pitch that it might materially impair the efficiency of his troops he would act swiftly and mercilessly to stamp it out, albeit temporarily.