by Roger Taylor
Hylland opened the door for him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She’s waiting for you. I’ll go and give the men the news.’
Eldric grunted nervously, and stepped inside.
He paused for a moment as he closed the door behind him, taking in the atmosphere of the room. It was clean and spruce, but only a little more so than it would be normally, he felt, and it held a subtle mixture of scents: old ones, rich and solid, deep sunk into the floor and walls, and echoing the lives of generations; and newer, sweeter ones, dominating for the moment, but ephemeral, and due to pass away soon, like the melting snow outside.
But perhaps not totally, he thought. Perhaps they too will add a small lasting note to the room’s old chorus.
He looked at his Queen. Her face was as rich in tales as the room. A little fuller than it had been, it told of tiredness, both from old trials and new, yet it was lit from the inside by a joy and a vigour that could not be touched by a mere passing physical weakness.
She was beautiful. Unexpectedly Eldric felt his knees go weak . . .
He cleared his throat noisily and stepped forward carefully on his momentarily unsteady legs.
Sylvriss indicated a chair that had been placed by her bed.
‘Sit down, Lord Eldric,’ she said. ‘You look tired.’
Eldric sat down. ‘Not as tired as I was only minutes ago, Majesty,’ he said. He looked across at the crib.
‘A fine baby, Hylland tells me,’ he said. ‘Our Queen back amongst us, and an heir. It’ll do much for the people.’
Sylvriss looked at him in silence.
‘It’ll do much for us all, Majesty,’ he added, meeting her gaze.
Sylvriss smiled and laid her hand on his arm. ‘It does much for me, to be back,’ she said. ‘Back in my other home. My husband’s home.’
Despite her smile, Eldric caught a note in her voice that made him look at her uncertainly.
‘I’ve shed all the tears that I need to shed for his absence from this precious event,’ Sylvriss said, answering his unspoken doubt. ‘Besides, he’s here with me now more than he’s ever been and I intend to honour his life by the quality of both my own and our son’s.’
Eldric nodded understandingly, though there was a slight anxiety in his eyes. ‘You are well, Majesty?’ he asked. ‘And the baby? Hylland said it was a little small, and it . . . he . . . did come much earlier than we expected.’
Sylvriss laughed. ‘He came earlier than I expected, Lord,’ she said. ‘But it’s hardly surprising after what’s been happening. However, be assured. We are both well.’ Her face became mischievous and she patted his arm. ‘I dropped him like a well-seasoned mare,’ she said confidentially.
Eldric coloured and cleared his throat again, turning away from the Queen’s laughing eyes.
Eventually she released him. ‘But we have to talk, Lord,’ she said, more seriously. The hand on his arm became purposeful. ‘I’ve no words adequate enough to thank you and the others for what you did in freeing Fyorlund from Dan-Tor and his evil. I wish I could have ridden with you. In due course you must tell me everything, but for now there are more pressing matters. Do you have any news of my father? Are there any problems with the Orthlundyn and the High Guards working together? When do you intend to move against Narsindalvak?’
Eldric held up a hand to end this stream of questions.
‘Majesty, you must not concern yourself too much with these matters,’ he said. ‘Your task is to tend your child, Rgoric’s heir. Fyorlund’s future king.’
This declaration was a mistake, as the grip on his arm, and the tightened jaw told him.
‘Lord Eldric. I shall tend my child, have no fear, but I am your Queen, by both right and by acclamation, as you may recall, and my other task is to tend my people.’ She levelled a finger at him, and for a moment Eldric thought he heard Rgoric speaking. ‘And there’ll be no Fyorlund for anyone to rule if I fail in that, will there?’
Eldric opened his mouth to speak but the Queen’s look silenced him. ‘I didn’t follow in my father’s hoofprints, rallying the houses that Bragald’s ranting had undermined, nor chase over the mountains and halfway across Fyorlund after the Orthlundyn army, to spend my time surrounded by maids and soft perfumes,’ she said. ‘We are at war, Lord. My small party managed the journey over the mountains, but my father had no other choice than to go the way he did and he’ll need help, perhaps right now. Narsindalvak will have to be taken if . . .’
‘Majesty, majesty,’ Eldric interrupted in some alarm, as the Queen looked set to leave her bed and gallop off to Vakloss. ‘I meant no harm by the remark. I was concerned. First the winter kept news of you from reaching us, then came word of Creost and the Morlider invading Riddin. We’ve spent much of the time of your absence fearful that we might have sent you into danger instead of safety.’
Sylvriss looked a little repentant. ‘I understand, Lord,’ she said, more quietly. ‘But until Sumeral and all his minions are brought to account, there’ll be no true peace for Fyorlund . . . or for any of us.’ She reached out and laid a hand on the crib. Her voice became stern. ‘And I’ll no more sit idly by like a helpless stable maid while these matters are decided, than Rgoric would have.’ She paused and lowered her eyes. ‘And I am concerned about my father.’
Eldric raised his hands in surrender. ‘Majesty. Even now, we’re preparing plans to assault Narsindalvak in order, at least, to occupy Dan-Tor’s forces while your father approaches.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘We can’t protect him on his journey through Narsindal, though, Majesty, and we’ve no news of how he’s faring.’
Sylvriss nodded and a spasm of concern flitted briefly across her face. ‘I realize that,’ she said. ‘But he knew what he was doing and he’ll be riding in close defensive order.’
‘And he has Yengar and Olvric to help guide him,’ Eldric added. ‘They’re no ordinary men and they’ve both ridden the Watch.’
‘And Oslang,’ Sylvriss said, then she let out a small sigh. It seemed for a moment that the chill mists of Narsindal had entered that warm room. The baby whimpered and Sylvriss rocked the crib gently.
The mood passed however, and Sylvriss gave a tight smile. ‘Still, that’s beyond us,’ she said. ‘We can’t let it hinder us here. Our main concern must be with Narsindalvak. Give me an outline of your intentions if you would. I’m afraid Hylland’s forbidden me the saddle for a little while, so I’ll have to stay here until he says otherwise, but . . .’
‘Majesty, there’s a coach and your attendants following,’ Eldric said. ‘We can . . .’
He stopped in mid-sentence as Sylvriss’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and disbelief. ‘A coach!’ she said. Her voice became measured. ‘Have you ever known me to ride in a coach, Lord Eldric?’
Eldric’s hands fluttered vaguely.
‘I am a Muster woman, Lord,’ Sylvriss went on, quietly and slowly, but with inexorable resolution. ‘By tradition, we dismount only long enough to give birth, then we remount.’
Eldric sank into his chair a little for protection as Sylvriss continued. ‘In deference to your Fyordyn ways I will accept Hylland’s over-cautious stricture, but I will not be towed back to Vakloss in a cart like a sack of farm produce. Very shortly, I will ride. With my son for all the people to see. And you will ride by my side. In the meantime you will tell me of the plans for the intended assault on Narsindalvak.’
‘Majesty,’ said Eldric, bowing.
* * * *
Hawklan stood motionless, hypnotized for a moment by the mass of red eyes glinting in the darkness ahead of him.
Hypnotized, until he realized they were moving towards him.
‘Against the wall!’ he shouted, scrambling back to the shelter. ‘Gloves and knives!’
‘And torches!’ Jenna added, overtaking him.
There was a momentary delay amongst the drowsy watchers who had crawled out of the shelter after Hawklan, then the creatures emerged out of the tunnel like a streaming black river, and a flurry of
knives, blankets and clothing were dragged out of the shelter with wide-eyed midday wakefulness, and great speed.
Gavor extended his wings in agitation and Dar-volci drew back his lips to reveal his own terrifying teeth.
The creatures were like rats, but bigger, and with large glittering round eyes. The hissing that in Hawklan’s dream had become the rustling of distant trees, was a combination of their high-pitched squeaking and the scrape of their taloned feet as they scrambled across the rocky floor. They were tumbling over each other in their haste to enter the chamber.
In the brief seconds it took the travellers to arm and position themselves against the wall, the black tide spewing out of the tunnel spread to occupy over half the floor.
All of the watching group had faced different and dangerous trials in their lives, and faced them with courage, but none showed anything other than rank fear at the sight before them. Its seething activity was made the more horrible by contrast with the many days they had spent seeing only motionless rock and stone about them. Gloves were donned, and blankets hastily wrapped around exposed arms, but their few blades seemed pitifully inadequate against such savage, scurrying, numbers.
They watched dry-mouthed and gaping, as the tide flowed into the chamber; squeaking, scratching, clambering.
They watched for an interminable, unmeasurable, interval.
Then, slowly, the realization dawned that the flood was passing them by unheeded.
And then it was gone.
As silence returned to the chamber, the cohesion of the warriors disintegrated. Almost all of them slithered down to the ground as their legs gave up the uneven struggle between terror and stability.
Hawklan tried to sheathe his sword, but his hands were trembling too much.
‘All right,’ he managed, wiping his hand across his clammy face. ‘Breathe easy. Whatever they were, they’d no interest in us, apparently.’
‘This time round,’ Yrain said, wrapping her arms about herself and shivering. ‘And what if we’d been walking along that tunnel when they came through?’
Hawklan looked at her helplessly, then at Andawyr.
‘It’s the way we must go, Hawklan,’ said the Cadwanwr, shaking his head.
Hawklan nodded. ‘We’ll think about it in a moment when we’ve all got over the shock a little,’ he said.
He tapped his sword idly against a rock. ‘Is there any point my asking you what they were, Andawyr?’ he said, though not unkindly.
‘They were rats,’ Tirke declaimed definitively, before Andawyr could declare his ignorance.
‘I’ve never seen a rat with eyes like those,’ Jenna snapped viciously. ‘Nor that size.’
‘Peace!’ said Hawklan angrily before Tirke could reply. ‘It’s not that important what they were. Let’s bend our minds to Yrain’s problem. What do we do if we run into them when we’re fully loaded with packs and moving along that tunnel tomorrow?’
He walked across to the tunnel, peered casually into it and then turned to look along the route the creatures had taken.
Dar-volci chattered his teeth. ‘It mightn’t matter what they were,’ he said. ‘But what they were doing might.’
‘Why?’ Hawklan said. ‘That was probably a feeding frenzy or a mating frenzy, or something.’
Dar-volci made a disparaging noise. ‘They were running away,’ he said categorically.
Hawklan looked at him doubtfully. ‘Running away?’ he said. ‘From what?’ He stepped forward.
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than two long arms swept out of the tunnel mouth, and grasping three-fingered claws snapped together where he had been standing.
Hawklan spun round at the sound in time to see a large triangular head surging towards him. He had a fleeting impression of large bulbous eyes focusing on him and two waving antennae, but dominating his attention was a wide gaping mouth which split the head in two with a grotesque and malevolent grin.
He jumped backwards to avoid the apparition but as he did so, one of the creature’s misshapen arms struck him a glancing blow and sent him sprawling.
The black sword clattered out of his hand.
He became aware of a great commotion as screams and shouts rose up to fill the cavern. Vaguely, at the edge of his awareness, he sensed his companions rushing to his aid, but the two arms, obscenely articulated, were drawing back to strike again.
Gavor came from nowhere and struck the great head, but it tossed him aside effortlessly.
A large rock hit one of the poised arms with great force.
Isloman! Only Isloman could have thrown such a rock so hard.
But it too bounced off ineffectually, and the creature’s eyes did not flicker by even a fraction from their intended prey. Somehow Hawklan jerked himself backwards as the arms lunged at him. He was not fast enough however and he heard himself cry out as the two clawed hands closed painfully about his body.
Worse than the pain though, was the terrible strength of the arms and the casual, callous, indifference of the creature’s feeding intent as the arms drew him rapidly forward. Somewhere his name was shouted, and the black sword was thrust into his hands as his feet left the floor.
Without thought, he swung the blade down and struck the creature on the centre of its head.
The impact of the massive blow shook through his entire frame, and the creature too paused momentarily but, to his horror, Hawklan saw that the great black sword of Ethriss had done virtually no harm to the strange head.
The creature was still whole, and still intent on its simple resolve.
He felt the arms bracing to draw him further forward.
Suddenly everywhere was filled with a blinding light. A torch at full brightness, Hawklan thought irrelevantly as his eyes screwed up reflexively. The creature emitted an eerie screech and great membranes flickered over its bulbous eyes. Hawklan felt its arms grow slacker, but its grip did not change.
He sensed the creature preparing to flee – with him!
Desperately he swung the sword at one of the arms, but again it had little effect. Then, through the brilliance, he saw Dar-volci, his back legs swinging free and his fore-claws clinging to the creature’s arm. Almost before Hawklan could register the fact, the felci’s mouth opened wide and his formidable teeth closed around the creature’s bony wrist.
Even through the clamorous din of his own terror, Hawklan heard the fearful crunching of bones.
The creature let out another screech then, abruptly, released him. As he hit the ground, Hawklan was bowled over by the creature as it charged forward.
He was aware of rolling across the rocky floor for some way and of legs and a long torso passing over him, then the brightness faded and all that was left were the fading cries of the fleeing creature.
A circle of anxious and fearful faces formed around him, chief amongst which was a businesslike Andawyr, Gavor flapping on his shoulder.
‘Don’t move him!’ Hawklan heard Andawyr say, the voice distant, buried somewhere beneath the noise of his own breathing.
Bright eyes peered into his intently, and expert hands probed his ribs. He winced. The eyes looked again, and the hands tested his arms and legs. He recognized the technique.
‘I’m all right,’ he said, weakly, trying to rise.
Andawyr’s hand held him down. ‘You’re all right,’ he said, waving aside the patient’s own correct diagnosis as being merely fortuitous. ‘Pick him up gently and put him in the shelter.’
‘No,’ Hawklan said, with an effort. ‘Just help me up.’
Andawyr seemed inclined to dispute this, his face assuming a wearied ‘healers make bad patients’ expression.
‘Please,’ Hawklan said, holding out his hand.
Reluctantly, Andawyr’s eyes flicked their permission around the watching circle, and Hawklan was hauled gently to his feet. Gavor alighted softly on his shoulder and he reached up to touch the raven’s beak. Pausing for a moment to test his balance, he ran his hands over his ribs.
‘Just bruised?’ he said, grimacing as he looked at Andawyr.
The Cadwanwr nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘You were lucky.’
‘I’ve been luckier,’ Hawklan replied sourly as he started moving gingerly towards the shelter. He looked round at his companions. ‘Was anyone else hurt?’ he asked.
There was a general shaking of heads. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It seems we were all lucky. Alphraan, were any of you hurt?’
‘No,’ came the disembodied reply after a brief but alarming delay. ‘We are well.’
Hawklan frowned unhappily. ‘Will you not join us, after all, Alphraan?’ he said. ‘Such as I’ve seen, you’re small and fragile, and I fear for you with such creatures about.’
A shimmer of grateful amusement twinkled through the small cavern. ‘We cannot join you, Hawklan,’ said the voice. ‘But have no fear for us. We already walk under your protection, and we are not as fragile as we were when you cleansed our Heartplace, by any means.’
Hawklan looked around the cavern for a moment until his gaze fell on Dar-volci. The felci did not speak, but his manner said, ‘Accept them as they are, healer.’
Hawklan shrugged resignedly. ‘Whatever you wish, my friends,’ he said.
Then he held out his hand to Dar-volci. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Hawklan, look.’ Unusually, the interruption came from Jaldaric, and there was a note in his voice that made Hawklan stop and turn to him immediately. The Fyordyn was holding out the black sword to him, his finger pointing to its edge.
Hawklan took the sword and lifted the blade closer to his face to examine where Jaldaric was indicating. The edge had been blunted! The edge which had destroyed the Vrwystin a Kaethio at the Gretmearc, cut down Mandrocs in Orthlund, slain one of Sumeral’s ancient creatures under the mountains, done service against the Morlider, and yet would still part a falling hair without disturbing its downward, floating, progress, had been turned by a single blow against this strange dweller in this strange world.
He showed it to Andawyr.
The Cadwanwr looked shocked at first, then he grimaced and gazed around the cavern. ‘Too old,’ he muttered. ‘I never dreamt . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished and turned to look at Dar-volci enigmatically. ‘How did your teeth cut through that creature’s bones where this blade failed?’ he asked.
