The Call of the Sword [Book One of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Eldric wrinkled his nose in distaste as the party rode into the elaborately paved square that fronted his house in Vakloss. Arinndier smiled at Eldric's involuntary commentary, and spurred his horse alongside. He mimicked Eldric's voice.

  'Ha. Courtesy of Dan-Tor. Daytime at night no less.'

  Eldric looked at him and smiled. ‘You may mock me, young man,’ he said, ‘knowing I won't box your ears in front of the Guards. But these things are an abomination, and you know it.’ He gesticulated contemptuously with his riding whip towards the globes that floated high above their heads and filled the square with a low humming and a bright blue-tainted white light.

  Arinndier's face became more sober. The globes were one of the many changes that Dan-Tor had wrought in the City under the guise of improvements, but while the arguments in their favour seemed sound enough, there was an intangible quality about both the arguments and the improvements themselves that left him and many others decidedly uncomfortable.

  'They do provide a better light than our old torches,’ he offered tentatively.

  'Better for what?’ retorted Eldric without hesitation. ‘When we were young, we'd no need to assault the night with this.’ He gestured again with his whip. ‘No deeds were done under the old torchlight that couldn't be done in broad daylight. These things make more and deeper shadows than the ones they dispel—like the man himself,’ he added bitterly.

  'Times change,’ said Arinndier flatly. Both men sensed that the banter was on the point of turning sour. Eldric growled, and jumped down from his horse. Another voice chimed in.

  'Haha! You two warriors bemoaning the passing of the old gloom again, eh?’ It was Darek, who had just trotted up with Hreldar.

  Eldric growled again. ‘The old gloom, as you call it, served our fathers well enough. And many before them. And...’ He stuttered to a halt as his friends began to laugh. Looking for a way to conclude the debate with a modicum of dignity and good humour he joined in the laughter and shouted, ‘And it didn't make you look purple.'

  As the others dismounted, he put his arm around his horse's neck, patted it affectionately and thanked it for carrying him so well and so faithfully. The horse lifted its head and shook it from side to side, its mane flying in the buzzing air. Eldric looked at the harsh shadow of the horse dancing over the ornate paving and shook his head sadly. Still, there were more urgent matters to hand.

  'Come along, my friends,’ he said soberly. ‘We've much still to discuss and our horses must be tended first.'

  They had not intended to reach Vakloss at night, but an urgency had pushed them forward and they had gained over half a day almost without realizing it. The early arrival however, did not affect their plans. In fact, it would give them an opportunity for further discussion in more comfortable and, Eldric regrettably had to concede, more secure surroundings.

  They had talked on the journey, but although the Lords of Fyorlund did not hold themselves high above the people, the close proximity of their High Guards and servants both when riding and at their staging camps made it advisable to avoid the more delicate aspects of the King's suspension of the Geadrol. Whatever the outcome of their meeting with the King, it would not be aided by the gossip that could spring from some incautious remark by one of their retainers.

  The four Lords were respected and experienced members of the Geadrol, each having served on many occasions as Gatherer, but they were at a loss to know how to act in the light of the King's unprecedented action. Such brief discussions as they had had on the journey had yielded no greater inspiration than those they had had at Eldric's castle, and they were still reluctantly obliged to concede that their only choice was to go to the King and ask him directly to justify his action before the Law.

  It was not a prospect that any of them relished, least of all Eldric, as the most senior. He knew that Tirke's outburst at the First Feast not only represented the feelings of many of the ordinary people of Fyorlund, but contained a great deal of truth.

  The King had been a sick and tormented man ever since he had returned from the Morlider War with Dan-Tor at his side. Eldric had originally, and for a long time, attributed the King's condition to a combination of misfortunes. To his coming too soon to the throne following the premature death of his father at a time of great unrest, the Riddinvolk just having sent requests for aid against the Morlider. To his subsequent marriage to Sylvriss, the beautiful daughter of Urthryn, the Ffyrst of Riddin, producing no heir to the throne.

  But now? Now he did not know what to think. That Dan-Tor was becoming the real power behind the throne was indisputable. His boundless energy and considerable abilities had taken many of the King's burdens from his shoulders at times when illness had struck him down, but these were not returned subsequently. The King had less and less to do other than fret and ponder how it should be that he, in generations of Kings, should be so ill-fated both in his health and his lack of an heir. More and more he turned in on himself, becoming bitter and arbitrary in his whims.

  That Dan-Tor was manipulating the King to slowly erode the power of the Geadrol might indeed be the case, but why? Eldric, so used to the patient, interminable listening and sifting of the Geadrol, so used to the counter-balancing weights of authority and responsibility, could not answer this, could not bring himself to believe that one man would want to take all authority to himself without regard to the responsibilities that such an achievement would bring. It was a diseased idea. It could only flit nervously at the edges of his mind, never coming clearly into the centre where he could face and deal with it.

  * * * *

  'He does come from Narsindal you know.'

  Eldric spoke half to himself as the four men sat in his room. They had fallen into an uneasy silence and the memory of Tirke's outburst had returned to Eldric's mind and sent it spinning back across the years to the time when Dan-Tor had first appeared.

  The four of them had been there, returning with the army from Riddin after the Morlider had finally been driven away. They had used the eerie, blasted Pass of Elewart for the sake of speed, instead of taking the much longer, though less daunting route through Orthlund. The Pass led them into Narsindal and they were obliged to travel along the edge of the mountains that formed its southern boundary for some considerable distance.

  The prospect of an early return home after a victory well won however, prevented the dank cheerless atmosphere from damping their spirits too much, and the torchlight now dancing in the carvings on his golden cup reminded Eldric of the clatter and rattle of horsemen and equipment colourful and cheerful even in the murk of Narsindal.

  He felt a lump come into his throat as he remembered the young King Rgoric, who had fought with so much courage and led with such flair and inspiration, riding up and down the long train, talking with the men and cheering them on, especially the wounded. Laughter, that was what came to mind—laughter. What a King he could have been.

  Then, quite suddenly, King Rgoric was laid low. A minor arrow wound, almost healed, unaccountably deteriorated and he developed a severe and intractable fever which none of his physicians could ease. The train halted and the gloom of Narsindal started to settle into the hearts of the men. The physicians were divided. To move the King was to risk his life, but to leave him in that place was equally hazardous. Then, while they were debating, a tall lank figure appeared from nowhere, claiming to be a travelling physician who had lost his way.

  Intelligent, cultured, genial and patently relieved at having been rescued, he was readily accepted by both Lords and men, and was soon offering, discreetly, his advice to the physicians on the King's illness.

  And that had been that. The King recovered and returned to Vakloss in triumph but, as Dan-Tor had intimated, the fever returned from time to time, and as he was the only one who seemed to be able to relieve it, the King's dependency on him grew and grew.

  'What do you mean?’ said Arinndier cutting into Eldric's thoughts. />
  'Dan-Tor,’ Eldric replied. ‘He came out of Narsindal.'

  Arinndier shrugged. ‘He was lost,’ he said.

  'Lost,’ said Eldric viciously. ‘Who gets lost in Narsindal? How can you wander into it accidentally? Twenty-odd years and I don't think any of us have asked the obvious question, we were so relieved when he cured the King. Where does he come from, and what in Ethriss's name was he doing in Narsindal in the first place?'

  No one seemed inclined to offer an answer.

  'What are you trying to say, Eldric?’ asked Arinndier after a while. Eldric puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.

  'I don't know, Arin,’ he said. ‘Too much seems to be happening for me to Gather it properly.’ He paused as if reluctant to continue. ‘But everything that's gone wrong in this country seems to stem from the arrival of Dan-Tor.'

  'That could equally be due to the King's illnesses. They started at the same time,’ said Darek, his legalistic mind seeking round the suggestion to test it.

  Eldric nodded to concede the point, but his expression rejected it, and even Darek's thin face showed no conviction in his comment.

  'True,’ said Eldric. ‘But I don't think any of us believe that, do we?’ He looked round at his friends, tired and subdued from their journey and their fruitless debates. There was no denial. Eldric entwined his fingers and rested his head on them.

  'Look at our country. It has changed. And for the worse. We're not just playing the old men's game, are we?—“Things were better when I was a lad.” Things are actually deteriorating.’ He sat back and, holding up his hand, enumerated the points with his fingers. ‘Narsindalvak deserted. No patrols along the borders or into the interior of Narsindal. Lords, The Watch was a tradition that had been unbroken for generations. Why are we so wise that we can discard it so lightly? Then we allow the King to make more and more decisions without proper debate in the Geadrol—all for seemingly good reasons—his poor health, whatever—but still without proper debate. And not twenty years after they saw actual combat, our High Guards are gradually being turned into...’ He caught Hreldar's eye. This was no time to get into that debate. He left the comment unfinished.

  'And little things like those damned globes. All manner of things that are supposed to make life easier for someone but always seem to bring some poison in their wake. A craft lost, and craftsmen embittered. Some stream choked or land blighted...'

  He paused and closed his eyes. A chair creaked as Hreldar shifted his position. Eldric continued.

  'It's as if something's been corroding our whole society—our whole way of life.’ He opened his eyes and looked at Darek.

  That's my inner feeling. I offer it without reasoned argument I admit but, for what its worth, I believe it. I can't see why it should be thus, but I can't chase it from my mind, and I can't chase that silly young man's words from my mind either. He called Dan-Tor that devil spawn out of Narsindal.'

  Darek chewed his bottom lip pensively and looked down at his hands.

  'I understand, Eldric,’ he said slowly. ‘I think we probably all feel something similar now you've put it into words. But without facts and proper argument, how can we convince anyone else? Who can we accuse, and of what? And who would we want to convince anyway? We're not intending to become rebels, are we?'

  Eldric brushed the remark aside.

  'That's a different matter, Darek, and you know it. Evison and the others in the north have a case that can be argued. They've been a bit hasty perhaps, but the King had no right to forbid extension of their High Guards when they were suffering from Mandroc raids.’ He became brisk. ‘Good grief. Between ourselves I think their reply was a model of moderation. I know what I'd have said if I'd had Mandrocs raiding my lands and the King had said, “No, you can't have more Guards."'

  Arinndier smiled broadly and Darek's thin mouth allowed itself a slight curve. Only Hreldar, plump and jolly Hreldar, with his multi-coloured, laced and braided High Guards, did not smile.

  'Mandrocs,’ he said quietly. ‘Narsindal again. Seeping through the mountains.’ The atmosphere in the room changed perceptibly, as if the mists of that grim country had crept in and suffused the air. Eldric's bright torches did not seem to be able to dispel it. The men looked at one another in silence again. Into Eldric's mind came the picture of his family's Festival shrine and he felt himself approaching the edge of a great chasm. He leapt.

  'Here are some facts then,’ he said quietly. ‘Dan-Tor came out of Narsindal. Our society has decayed since he came. Our King has been broken. Our great Geadrol has been progressively demeaned and now finally cast aside. And lastly, but perhaps most significantly, our ancient duties over Narsindal have been wilfully neglected and, for the first time in generations, our Northern borders are plagued by Mandroc attacks.'

  He looked distinctly embarrassed, but grimly determined to continue.

  'I think ... I think ... that Dan-Tor is of Narsindal. I think that it's his homeland.’ Then, hesitantly but distinctly, ‘I think ... that he's an agent of Sumeral ... a herald of the Second Coming.'

  Arinndier and Darek both looked up sharply. Only Eldric's seriousness and self-imposed discomfiture stopped them from laughing outright, as at some dubious jest by their friend. Hreldar's expression did not change. He nodded.

  Arinndier tried to steer his friend away from this embarrassment. His tone was gently humorous.

  'Eldric. You've been reading Festival tales to the children. Sumeral, the Guardians, the Uhriel—fairy tales. Or, at best, some ancient grain of truth distorted and embellished over the years.’ He felt a twinge of unease. Recent happenings might have started to unhinge his old friend and it entered his mind that it might fall to him to confront the King if Eldric was indeed failing.

  But Eldric did not look like a failing old man. The speaking of his fears seemed to have lifted years from him.

  'No, Arin,’ he said firmly. ‘I'm right. And the more I think of it, the more certain I become.’ He levelled a finger at Arinndier. ‘You've forgotten what that place used to feel like when we patrolled there. It's not just miserable and cold—our own mountain training equipped us for that. It's evil, and it always has been. Our old legends contain much more than a grain of truth I'm sure; and Dan-Tor is part of it.'

  'Rubbish,’ burst out Darek, with substantially less regard for his friend's finer feelings than Arinndier. ‘I'll go along with your intuition about Dan-Tor being a menace. But children's ogres? Never.’ Repenting slightly, he became conciliatory. ‘Sumeral is probably a residual race memory of some old bandit chieftain, or some bad Mandroc trouble once. We're rational people...'

  'No, Darek.'

  Hreldar interrupted him, and laid a hand on his arm. ‘We've all been friends for a long time, and none of us would claim Eldric was gifted with a great imagination.’ Eldric smiled slightly and the uneasy tension his strange proclamation had produced, lessened a little. ‘It's cost him dear to say what he's just said and I'll trust his intuition all the way. You've only to think back to your grandparents to remember how they thought about Narsindal and Sumeral.'

  Darek scowled. ‘No, I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I respect your sincerity, Eldric, and yours, Hreldar, but what you're saying is nonsense. If it were anyone else I'd say their brains had addled with being too long in the saddle. We're an old people, strong in tradition and respect for the past. We've our legends and sagas, but we mustn't confuse them with reality, for all our grandparents’ superstitions.'

  To his surprise, Arinndier heard Eldric chuckle at this rebuke. He himself felt a little disorientated by this incredible turn in their discussion and was quite willing to let the others talk while he collected himself. At the moment he had to agree with Darek but, equally, he could not lightly put aside anything that Eldric said. Hreldar was right. Eldric had indeed precious little imagination or flare for the romantic, and it could not have been easy for him to say what he did.

  'I'll give you some more facts then, Lawyer Darek,’ said Eldric, st
ill chuckling. ‘Do you seriously maintain that our great body of literature—so coherent, so consistent—has come about just because of some old mountain bandit? Or our military traditions—so practical—the Riddin Muster, our High Guards—so well trained, so numerous—were intended to deal with a few marauding Mandrocs or Morlider?'

  He waited until Darek was about to speak, then he leaned forward and spoke earnestly.

  'And do you seriously maintain that Narsindalvak, that enormous, towering fortress was built because of those same Mandrocs? Built in a manner we can't begin to duplicate, I might add. No, Darek. Mandrocs are a nuisance, and have been a serious nuisance at times in the past, I'll grant, but never a menace. We are what we are, and Narsindalvak is what it is, because long ago something massively evil came out of that place or ... was imprisoned in it.'

  He stood up. ‘Isn't it part of our very Law? We're the Watchers of Narsindal. The Protectors of the Orthlundyn and the Southern Lands. The Riddinvolk with their Muster guard the Pass of Elewart—the only other exit from Narsindal—and they kept their Muster well up to scratch even before the Morlider turned nasty. The more I think about it, the more I remember what Narsindal used to feel like, the more I'm convinced that something evil's afoot, and when it's ready it'll come out of Narsindal, and if we do nothing, Fyorlund will fall like a rotten tree.'

  His tone had suddenly become sombre, and when he sat down he looked grim. Darek's face was tight and anxious. Arinndier recognized that he was exercising the discipline of the Geadrol, and thinking well before he spoke, but it was obviously proving an effort. He seized the opportunity.

  'Lords, let us be formal,’ he said firmly. The others bowed in acquiescence and some relief at this traditional call. The King might have suspended the Geadrol but its ways were sound and practical and should be applied here before they went to see the King, otherwise they would spend the evening in fruitless and wandering discussion, perhaps even acrimony, neither reaching conclusions nor making plans. Arinndier spoke again, clearly and steadily as at a First Gathering.