by Roger Taylor
He wiped spittle from his chin. ‘You lordlings are all the same. You care nothing for your King or for Fyorlund.'
Eldric took a pace backwards, stunned by this outburst.
Arinndier spoke. ‘Majesty, that's unjust and untrue, and is your illness speaking. If Fyorlund is under threat, tell us the nature of it. The Law provides for the defence of the realm. Precedents are established and are of proven worth.'
Rgoric craned his neck forward so that his head was almost lower than his shoulders. He looked like a great bird of prey as he pointed an angry finger at Arinndier.
'I'll tell you the nature of the threat, Lord Arinndier,’ he began. ‘We have rebel Lords on our northern borders.’ He turned suddenly to Eldric. ‘One, a neighbour of yours, I believe, Lord Eldric.’ Then turning again to Arinndier. ‘The Orthlundyn are preparing for war against us in the south, and my so-called Lords can do nothing but come bleating to me about their precious Geadrol. That's the nature of the threat. Treachery to the north, aggression to the south and such faint hearts from those who should support me that I'm obliged to carry the entire burden alone. Small wonder my health is broken.’ He clutched at himself again.
Arinndier half turned and cast a significant glance at his friends. Even Eldric was having difficulty keeping the concern out of his face and voice.
'Majesty,’ he said, with the aura of a last attempt, ‘the Lords in the North are, at worst, in error, but they represent no threat or disloyalty. Their conduct can and will be accounted for in due course.'
He walked a little way up the steps towards the King, who kept his eyes cast down. His voice was gentle and concerned. ‘And the Orthlundyn. Majesty. They're a remnant race. You know that. A handful of artists and farmers tending their own lands. A gentle people, devoid of ambition. We're their Protectors. It's laid down so in the Law. What would it benefit them to make war on us? They're few and their land is so lush and fertile that much of it lies fallow from year to year. We're many and our land is harsh and rocky, albeit more than adequate for our needs.'
There was a long silence. The King did not move.
'Majesty?’ prompted Eldric eventually.
Without lifting his head, the King spoke. ‘When did you last visit Orthlund, Lord Eldric?’ His voice was flat.
Eldric shrugged vaguely. ‘Many years ago, Majesty, but...'
'But nothing!’ thundered the King, standing up suddenly. Eldric stepped back hastily and missed his footing on the dais steps. Arinndier caught him as he staggered back.
'You know nothing, Eldric. Nothing. Dan-Tor knows. He has been there. He has heard their plotting and scheming. He has seen the engines of war they're making, the armies they're gathering. He doesn't talk and squabble in front of me. He looks to my real needs and the needs of Fyorlund. He goes among my enemies and learns their ways the better to plan their downfall.'
His face became a mask of uncontrollable rage. ‘What do they want? I'll tell you what they want. They want the metals and fuels from our mines. They seek to possess our land because they think I'm too sick to oppose them, and they know you're too concerned with your talking and debating to realize what's happening.’ He brandished his fist menacingly towards Eldric. ‘Well, they'll learn otherwise, as will you. As will all my enemies.'
Arinndier stepped in front of Eldric. his face grim.
'What mines?’ he demanded.
The King faltered and some of his control returned. ‘Don't presume to question me, Lord,’ he said.
Arinndier was unmoved. ‘What mines?’ he said again, even more firmly.
'I'll not be questioned,’ cried the King, his voice a mixture of rage and fear.
Eldric spoke, his voice soft with realization and horror.
'You've opened those ancient hell pits in the northern mountains.'
A chill seemed to fill the entire hall, damping even the warmth of the tainted spring sunlight. The four men felt themselves frozen in an eternal moment.
The response of the Lords to this pronouncement seemed to shake the King further out of his rage, and his uncertainty increased. He cast about.
'I need the mines if I'm to prosecute a war against my enemies. Lord Dan-Tor says...’ He stopped. Eldric bowed his head and put his hands over his eyes.
'Majesty.’ It was Hreldar. His voice was soft and considerate. ‘Majesty. Lord Eldric may not have been to Orthlund for many years, but I have. Not two years ago. The people are unchanged: gentle and kindly, well contented with their ways. They're not preparing for war. They're concerned only with their crops and their carvings. They've no use for our hard land. As the Lord Eldric said, most of their own lies fallow and resting.’ His voice became grimmer. ‘And no one has need for what might come out of those mines. Majesty, you've been grossly deceived.'
During this speech, the King shook his head from side to side repeatedly. At first slowly, then accelerating as if he were desperately trying not to hear Hreldar's soft insistence.
'No,’ he said, in a half-strangled voice, ‘I'm not deceived. It's you who've been deceived. The Orthlundyn have laid traps for your unwary eye. They're a subtle people. You lack the insight and vision to see into their hearts.’ He paused and a look of cunning came into his eyes.
'Or,’ he said slowly, ‘you're lying to me. You're trying to deceive me. You're in league with them. Traitors!'
Rgoric screamed this last word, but Hreldar did not flinch. Slowly he looked at each of his three friends in turn. As their eyes met, each nodded.
The King had not moved since his declamation. He sat frozen, his hands clutching the stone arms of the throne. But his eyes, staring wide, followed this silent exchange.
Of the many things the Lords had discussed, this was the one that had given them the greatest difficulty and pain. But, looking at the King, and weighing his words, there was no alternative.
Hreldar spoke. ‘Rgoric: by the authority of the Geadrol under the Law, the Rights and Responsibilities of Kingship are hereby removed from you until such time as the Lords in Geadrol shall meet and decide.'
Still the King did not move, but his look changed to one of unhinged triumph.
'Traitors,’ he whispered, ‘you'll remove nothing. Did you think I was unaware of your treachery? Unprepared for you? Why else should I have my own High Guards?’ He raised his left hand. ‘Look to your backs, Lords. See my true friends.'
As the four Lords turned to follow his gaze, the watching Guards spilled out silently from the sides of the hall and surrounded them like a great black cloud.
* * *
Chapter 19
Hawklan started at the sight of his own sleep-drawn face staring back at him out of the two yellow eyes and lifted his arm as if to protect himself from a blow. As he did so, the eyes moved away from him and he found himself focussing on their owner: a small brown bird, companion to those that had followed him through the mountains and to the one that lay dead in his pocket.
It was hopping back in response to his sudden movement and its eyes were flaring with a yellow and unhealthy glow. In spite of this, Hawklan's involuntary response was to reach out a hand in reassurance. He spoke softly to the bird to avoid disturbing his sleeping neighbours, but though it opened its beak it made no sound. Instead, Hawklan heard a confused whining jabber ring through his mind, as if many voices were speaking simultaneously in a strange and repellent tongue. He grimaced; the sensation was disturbing.
The eyes flared again briefly, and then became a vacant, unpleasant yellow. Levering himself up onto one elbow, Hawklan stared at the watching bird. Birds were never easy to communicate with, their language, like their lives, being short and frenetic, but he had never encountered anything as strange as this—or quite as unpleasant.
Abruptly the bird lifted its head twice in a clear message of invitation, and Hawklan heard the whining jabber again. He thought he felt a note of encouragement in it and, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he slowly sat up.
He made to waken Gavor, sound as
leep on top of his pack, his good claw reflexively clutching its frame, and his wooden leg pushed into an eyelet for stability. But the raven was working steadily through a whole gamut of snores and whistles and Hawklan knew that to wake him now would be to waken the entire area. Nonetheless, there might be danger in this strange little bird. He reached out again to waken Gavor, but an impatient whine from the bird made him move his hand instead to his own temple.
Almost against his will, he abandoned his idea of waking Gavor and, standing up, carefully made his way through the sleepers towards the waiting bird.
As he neared it, it hopped away again. Some part of Hawklan noted that it judged its distance nicely, keeping just beyond where he could reach it with a single step and a sword cut. It was a strange thought and reminded him of those he had had about the Muster, but he shrugged it aside and, wrapping his cloak around himself against the cold night air, he followed the bird out into the bustling Gretmearc crowds.
It became quickly obvious that the bird was indeed leading him somewhere, as its behaviour was grotesquely unnatural. It fluttered and hopped innocuously from stall to stall, but each time it landed it turned round, blank eyes wide, to check that Hawklan was still there.
Hawklan tried again to talk to it but received again only the whining jabber. It rang unpleasantly in his head still sounding like many voices speaking at once. It also had a distinctly unhealthy feel about it and, to his annoyance, Hawklan found that now he could not close his mind against it.
For a moment the noise seemed to become coherent, as if something deep inside him understood it and, without realizing what he was doing, Hawklan gripped his sword with his left hand. His face became grim and the lights of the Gretmearc cast harsh shadows over his lean features, turning it into the face of a terrible fighting man. The bird increased the distance between them and Hawklan felt people making way for him nervously.
Another harsh thought came unbidden into his mind—slay it now, it's an abomination—but yet another stopped him. Somewhere behind this unpleasant little creature must presumably lie the source of the evil that had plagued the village of Pedhavin with its unclean wares, and had sent the devilish doll with its mocking corruption to horrify him. Evil came from a disturbance in the balance, in the harmony of things, and it had to be corrected. He was a healer. Who better suited to the task? Involuntarily, and in contrast to his healing thought, he gripped his sword harder, and his stride lengthened.
Gradually the bird led him away from the crowds and into darker, less frequented areas of the Gretmearc. But he did not notice. He had eyes only for the tiny hopping form, while his mind sought to deal with the persistent jabber that pervaded it. He did not pay attention to where he was going, nor look for the small landmarks by which he could find his way back from a strange place if need arose.
When eventually he looked around, he found he was completely alone in a part of the Gretmearc he had not visited during his long search. There were several large buildings that from the signs on them housed grain and foodstuffs, and timber and other building materials. They were all shuttered and dark however, there being little or no call to deal in these items during the night. There were a few small tents and booths, but these too were all sealed and almost all of them presented a dilapidated, deserted appearance.
The sudden awareness of his solitude startled Hawklan. He could not recall how he had come here, or when he had left the crowds behind. Occasionally an odd shadowy figure passed him muttering a muffled greeting, as if surprised to see anyone else there.
He could still see the bird faintly in the glow from the relatively distant Gretmearc, and its yellow eyes flashed as it turned round every few paces. For the first time since he left the rest area, he thought about the danger he might be courting. What did he expect to find? Certainly nothing good. And not all evils could be cured by all healers; some killed you first.
Hawklan stopped. It had been a mistake not to wake Gavor, but he had not anticipated such a wilful and winding luring-on, for that, he knew, was what was happening. Why should anyone want to lure him anywhere? Who would want to harm an innocent healer? He realized he was gripping the pommel of his sword violently in his left hand, and the thought of the sword brought Loman's voice back to him. ‘This is something from your past—watch your back.'
He had an unpleasant sensation in his stomach and his mouth was dry. It came to him that this was fear: an emotion he could not remember having felt before. He had seen it in others and eased it away but, experiencing it for himself, he found it to be singularly wretched, and far less easily cured.
He turned round nervously. There was nothing there except the glow of the Gretmearc visible through the gaps between the hulking silhouettes of the tents and buildings. Silhouettes that seemed to be watching and waiting.
The whine inside his head made him turn back again. The bird had come close to him and was pacing up and down fretfully. Hawklan felt his fear ease a little. He had no idea how to use the sword he carried, but on the testimony of Loman and Isloman, it was a sword beyond compare and would play its part if required. Even so ... ?
'Carry on,’ he said to the bird, his voice loud in the silence and rather hoarse. He could not see too well in the dark, but he had the distinct impression that the bird sneered at him.
The strange procession continued forward through the darkness, and Hawklan's fear refused to abate any further. He found he was listening for sounds behind him, looking for darker shades within the shadows. Involuntarily his footfall became softer, and the bird turned round more frequently to see if he was still there. It too, seemed to be becoming more and more agitated.
Suddenly Hawklan found himself in an open space. The bird gave a little hop and, with a whirr of its wings, flew off at a tremendous speed. Hawklan lifted both hands to his temples as the incessant whining jabber stopped abruptly.
In its place came a low soothing hum and, for a moment, Hawklan felt a little dizzy. Before he could recover fully, the area was suddenly filled with light and he found himself staring at a strange pavilion in the middle of an open clearing between several large buildings.
He had grown quite used to unusual spectacle in his brief stay at the Gretmearc, but this was by far the most brilliant he had seen. All manner of lights shone from and around it. Every colour he had ever seen, and more. Some flickered rapidly, some slowly, merging, changing, separating, lingering briefly to make hauntingly beautiful tableaux. Some flowed sinuously around and over the building as if they alone carved it out of the night darkness. In and out of the haze they went, chasing and changing. Now the building was sharp, distinct and crystalline, now shining, shimmering and glistening uneasily like a child's soap bubble, now a shapeless cloud of multi-coloured nothingness. Hawklan had never seen such a display.
After his anxious pursuit of the bird, the whole sight was warm and inviting, and relief flooded over him. No harm could come to him in this place, it felt too good. The bird must have abandoned its task as lure. Perhaps its increasing agitation had been at his own growing awareness of danger and finally the unexpected sight of this obviously new building had put it to flight.
He had to admit that his relief at the bird's flight outweighed his curiosity to seek out what might have been the cause of his entire journey. He had not known what to expect, but he did not relish finding anything untoward in an area as dark and as peculiarly lonely as that he had just come through. Tomorrow he would return in the daylight with Gavor and they could search together. He swayed slightly, still dizzy. He must be tired. He would go back to the sleeping area ... after he had looked at this wonderful pavilion that had so fortuitously interrupted his search.
Looking down, he saw at his feet a narrow stream of moving light which made a glittering flowing pathway that could carry him to the entrance of the building. It was enchanting.
Gently he stepped forward, and the lights surged up over his feet like the summer sun sparkling off an Orthlund stream. He could feel the
warm, caressing urging of mountain-bred waters swirling around him and pushing him forward. He smiled.
As he moved along the path he could not lift his eyes from it, so fascinating was it. But he felt there were people coming out of the pavilion, laughing and shouting, some of them greeting him as they walked past.
Then, without realizing he had walked the full length of the path, he found himself in an entrance area lit even more brightly than the outside. The light was so intense that he could not focus properly and he still felt the need to keep his eyes lowered. He became aware of someone coming forward to greet him.
Before he could say anything, the individual had taken him gently by the arm and was speaking to him and leading him somewhere. Hawklan felt drowsiness overcoming him—waking up in the middle of night after walking round the Gretmearc all day, and then doing the same thing again, following that silly bird—small wonder he felt tired.
His friendly guide seemed to agree with him but Hawklan only caught snatches of what he was saying. His voice was at one moment distorted and distant, and at another, soft and comforting inside his head. He recognized words, but could not remember what many of them meant.
The intense light pressed down into him and he felt unable to lift his head to look at anyone or see what it was the place was selling or showing. The voice talked on and on, ebbing and flowing through his head like waves breaking on a shore. Hawklan knew he was being welcomed, although he did not know what he was supposed to do.
Gradually he gathered enough of his wits together to ask a question of his guide, but before he could, the hand on his arm turned him slightly, and, softly but quite clearly, the voice said, ‘You're very tired. Sit down here. I'll be back soon and then we can talk.'
Hawklan found himself sitting. It was a great relief. His feet and legs seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, and he knew in a moment he would drift off into sleep. The seat was indescribably comfortable, and everywhere was so warm after the cold moonlit spring night outside.
