by Roger Taylor
At last she found the cottage she had been seeking and handing her reins to Isloman she walked up the short paved path and knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. She knocked more loudly.
Isloman glanced up and down the street, feeling peculiarly exposed. Overhead he heard the thrumming beat of Gavor’s wings.
Still no reply.
Frowning anxiously, Sylvriss walked round to the side of the cottage and, hands around her eyes, peered in through a window. Isloman saw her tapping vigorously and then signalling to someone inside.
Then she ran quickly back to the door which opened to reveal a small, elderly lady clutching a nightgown about herself. She curtseyed slightly to the Queen and smiled affectionately, though Isloman could see that she too was anxious and concerned. He threw back his hood to improve his visibility.
There was a whispered conversation, then Sylvriss disappeared into the cottage to reappear almost immediately carrying two large panniers. After a further, brief conversation, the old lady reached out and embraced the Queen tightly, patting her back gently, reluctant to have her leave, reluctant to have her stay.
Without speaking, Sylvriss slung the panniers expertly on the horses and with a wave to the watching woman, now clutching her nightgown about her again, she remounted and clicked her horse forward.
‘Who was that?’ Isloman asked as he came alongside.
Sylvriss seemed preoccupied. Isloman repeated the question and she started. ‘I’m sorry, Isloman. That was Virna. She used to nurse Rgoric when he was a boy,’ she said. ‘Then she was my maid for a long time . . .’ She hesitated.
‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman said.
Sylvriss frowned. ‘Involving innocent people is the matter, Isloman,’ she said. ‘I hate it.’ Then she shook her head as if to clear her mind of thoughts that could now only hinder. ‘It’s as well we stopped,’ she said. ‘Virna said that a Mathidrin patrol passed through here only yesterday. Travelling our way.’
Isloman frowned. ‘How many were there?’ he said.
‘Six,’ Sylvriss replied.
‘Did they cause any trouble?’ Isloman asked, remembering the accounts he had heard from Yatsu, and the uneasy greeting they had had from villagers as he and Hawklan had been escorted to Vakloss from the mountains.
‘No,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘They just rode through.’
Isloman looked down at Hawklan and his frown deepened. He signalled to Gavor who glided down and landed on his outstretched hand. ‘There’s a Mathidrin patrol ahead somewhere, Gavor.’ he said. ‘We can’t risk either fighting our way through them, or losing time moving too cautiously. Try and find them so that we can move around them.’
Gavor hesitated. ‘I’ll find them if they’re there,’ he said. ‘But there are woods ahead. It won’t be easy. Go slowly until I come back to you.’
For all Gavor’s assurance that the village was safe, Isloman was glad to leave it behind. Away from the houses there would at least be space to flee, and he was also haunted by the images of the innocents he had seen caught in the rioting in Vakloss.
However, as Gavor had suggested, they maintained a walking pace, though neither found it either easy or restful. The reason for his advice soon became apparent. Ahead of them lay a rocky outcrop covered with dense woodland, grey and misty in the blowing rain. There was no sign of Gavor.
Isloman reined to a halt and looked at Sylvriss. ‘Can we go round this?’ he asked. Sylvriss tried to see again Dilrap’s map.
It had been a mistake not to bring it but their plan had been implemented unexpectedly and many things were not as they should have been.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘There’s only this road on the map.’ She pointed up to the left. ‘It’s obviously too steep up there.’ Then, down to the right. ‘And I think there’s a river down there. We’d have to go back through the village to cross that, then we’d have to travel south across country for a long way before we could cross it again.’
Isloman scowled and then let out a deep breath. ‘We’ll have to wait, then.’
He was looking about for somewhere to make a temporary shelter when Gavor returned.
‘I’ve found them,’ he said, shaking his feathers violently and sending up a great spray of water. ‘They’re camped about halfway through, just off the road.’ His voice fell. ‘And they’re still asleep. If we’re careful I can lead you through the trees, well clear of them.’
‘Have they posted any sentries?’ Isloman asked.
‘No,’ said Gavor.
Isloman looked at Sylvriss and then along the length of the outcrop that barred their way. She nodded.
As they entered the woods, the sounds about them changed. The wind trapped in the trees could reach them only fitfully, and the steady fall of the rain was replaced by intermittent cascades of large drops splattering noisily on to the forest floor. The rich, damp scents of the woodland rose up to greet them, but its quiet peacefulness was lost in the heightened tension that the two riders felt as the trees and undergrowth constricted their paths for escape.
‘Their camp’s a little way ahead,’ whispered Gavor after they had gone for some distance. ‘Dismount, and follow me.’
Carefully the little group wended its way after Gavor through the pathless trees. He would walk, then glide up on to a branch to look around, then sit on Isloman’s shoulder. They trod as gently as the damp undergrowth would allow; soft shadows in the forest’s dawn twilight.
‘How much further?’ Isloman whispered as their slow progress began to irk him.
Gavor shushed him. ‘I can’t see them from here, but we’re about level with them now,’ he whispered. ‘Be quiet.’
Isloman nodded apologetically, but even as he did so, the random sounds of the forest were broken by a sudden swift rushing, and an arrow passed in front of him to thud into a tree just to his right.
Involuntarily he crouched low and drew his club, but another arrow passed over his head to join the first, and a voice said. ‘No. The next one will kill you.’
Chapter 5
Dilrap stood alone at a window high in one of the palace towers. Below him lay the City, hitherto an unchanging and deeply familiar sight which, he mused sadly, was like the face of a well-loved friend, often seen but rarely noticed; giving security by virtue of its seeming immutability rather than by its actual appearance.
Now, like so many other things in his life, it was changed, and changed radically, and he realized that another small prop had been removed from him. With each such he knew that he had the choice of toppling or developing the strength to stand unaided.
The great arched gateway at the front of the Palace had stood, like the Palace itself, for untold generations, solid and purposeful, welcoming friends and deterring ill-wishers. Now it was gone utterly, and in its place was a jagged gap in the courtyard wall. The broken and torn stonework that marked the edge of Oklar’s fury had seen neither rain nor sun since it was first laid, and seemed now fresh and raw, like a new wound, standing bemused and vulnerable at its sudden and violent exposure to a new age.
That destruction, however, dwindled into insignificance when seen against what lay beyond it, for two great swathes of ruin diverged out from the gateway and cut across the City, each running as true and straight as the flight of an arrow. Nothing stood where these lines ran, and marking their edges was a tangled skein of twisted and crumbled buildings whose foundations had been shaken and torn by the sudden destruction of their neighbours.
It seemed to Dilrap that only the curve of the hill on which Vakloss rested had protected the outer reaches of the City, for in the distance he could see damaged roofs and spires topping buildings that were otherwise unhurt.
From his eyrie, he could see that the two great ruts were alive with activity as countless tiny dots scurried ant-like over the mounds of churned earth. He could not see, but he knew what they were doing. They were searching. Searching for friends and loved ones suddenly wrenched from them. Sear
ching for strangers whose cries could be heard in the wreckage. Searching for anyone.
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. After his unexpected escape from Dan-Tor’s vicious spleen and his subsequent conscription by Urssain, he had retired to his high room to calm his mind further and to order his thoughts. Now he knew that he must immerse himself in organizing the resources that would be necessary to rescue and repair the City and its terrified people; both for the present and the future.
The more active and conspicuous he became, the more he could ensure the continuity of the values that were at the heart of the old ways, though even as he had the thought, he realized that that same activity and conspicuousness would tie him to the new ways forever in the eyes of the people. He could not achieve the one without incurring the other.
Further, to be transparent to the people in his intentions was to be transparent to Dan-Tor who would end the matter without a moment’s thought, while to be hidden from Dan-Tor would mean being misunderstood by the people – and this would be to court death at their hands should they ever triumph.
He hugged himself tightly. His head told him to take the horse that was prepared for him and flee through the chaos while he could. Flee anywhere away from these appalling choices. But both his heart and his promise to the King told him he must stay. He was the King’s Secretary. He could not abandon either the people or his duty. Here, near to Urssain and Dan-Tor he could be of some use. Anywhere else, even with the Lords, he could be of none. He had no other choice open to him that he could take and later look back on without shame and regret.
Taking a final look across the damaged city, he turned away from the window and, closing the door gently behind him, left the quiet little room.
As he descended the tower stairs he could hear only his own soft footfall and the hiss of his robes, but as he opened the stout wooden door at the foot of the tower he was almost overwhelmed by the uproar. It was worse than when he had left Urssain. People were milling everywhere. Injured, panic-stricken, lost, frightened. Whatever attempts, if any, were being made to restore some semblance of public order, they were obviously proving ineffective.
And these people don’t even know the King is dead, he thought.
Pushing his way through the crowd he finally reached the main entrance. A strong gust of wind blew dust in his face and, as he wiped his eyes, he felt the grim reality of the scene he had just been watching from the comparative detachment of the tower, high above. The size of the gap where the main gateway had stood, and the solidity of the walls through which it had been torn were awesome, and he had a fleeting impression of the power that must have been exerted to work such damage.
The power of the Uhriel was referred to often enough in old sagas, but as he stared at the gaping hole that had once been the towering, seemingly immovable gateway arch, with its huge carved timber gates, the impact on Dilrap far outstripped any literary flights of description. Was it truly possible that one living creature could have done this? he thought. In his mind he saw Dan-Tor, lank and malevolent. How could a frail human frame contain such power?
However, as his gaze moved on and he found himself looking along the pathways that had been cut through the City, his speculations faded, numbed by the monumental scale of the destruction.
To his horror he found that for all the pain it implied, the sight was eerily beautiful; two long straight avenues reached out relentlessly across the City, arrogant in their certainty and confidence and tapering elegantly into the distance to reveal the countryside beyond.
Dilrap frowned at this unexpected and unwanted response and reminded himself of the human price paid for this new architecture. Then, equally unexpected, came the thought: Why was this done? What, after all these years had so enraged Dan-Tor that he had revealed his true self and released such destruction? What could he have feared that demanded such a response? A lone man with a bow? An Orthlundyn assassin? It couldn’t be possible; the very phrase was a contradiction in terms. But even as these thoughts occurred to him, so did at least part of the answer. Whoever or whatever had faced Dan-Tor, it had been strong enough to stand and split that appalling power like a piece of kindling, and then, seemingly, escape. And if such destructive power as Dan-Tor had wielded could be contained within one man, could not also the power to resist it?
He made a note to make himself privy to any investigations into this Orthlundyn ‘assassin’. It was like a thin thread of light in the darkness pervading his mind, and who knew where such a thread might lead?
A movement in the distance brought him out of his reverie. A ragged section of wall detached itself from a building and fell into Dan-Tor’s new formed gorge. Dilrap could not see whether it had fallen on anyone, but as the dust rose up and was caught by the wind, he heard the low rumble of the collapse, mingling with higher notes that could only have been screams. The sound added a quality to the scene that chilled him utterly and, as he listened, he felt an overwhelming urge to push his way through the crowd and start digging with his bare hands in the mounds of rubble. Involuntarily he started forward, but he had barely reached the foot of the steps when he stopped and, with a grimace, bowed his head. This was not the way he could help. He had other skills.
As he paused, something ran into his legs. Looking down, he saw a small boy. Wide, lost eyes returned his gaze out of a grimy, tear-stained face. There was a smeared graze of dried blood running across the boy’s forehead. Too long the butt of palace children to have any great affection for them, Dilrap was taken aback by the feelings of compassion and pity that rose up inside him. He held out his hand, and the boy took it. ‘I’m lost,’ said the boy in a hoarse, dust-choked whisper.
Dilrap nodded understandingly and looked around through the turmoil for inspiration. The Mathidrin captain he had seen earlier pushed past him. Dilrap seized his arm.
‘Where’s Commander Urssain?’ he said without ceremony.
The man jerked his arm to release it, but Dilrap kept his grip, putting into it the purposefulness he had once felt in Sylvriss’s hands. ‘Honoured Secretary, I . . .’ began the man, with scarcely contained impatience.
Dilrap cut across his protest. ‘Where’s Commander Urssain?’ he demanded again, pulling the reluctant arm towards him.
‘He’s in the Westerclave,’ replied the Captain, seeing no way to escape this fat clown immediately, and a little taken aback at the man’s unexpected strength.
‘Oh yes,’ said Dilrap slowly, allowing himself a conspicuous note of contempt. ‘I remember; his meeting of Commanders and Captains . . .’ Another figure bustling past caught his eye, a stocky middle-aged woman. ‘Alaynor!’ shouted Dilrap. The woman stopped. ‘Wait,’ said Dilrap to the Captain, as he released his arm and beckoned to the woman urgently.
Alaynor was responsible for most of the female servants in the palace. Dilrap rarely encountered her in his normal work but knew that she was held in great affection by most of her charges.
More to the point at the moment however, she was a level-headed and eminently practical person and no mean administrator. ‘Yes, Honoured Secretary,’ she said when she reached him, her face fraught and anxious. Dilrap saw that she too was struggling to remain in control of herself.
‘What are you doing?’ he said simply.
Her eyes became vague, and for a moment Dilrap thought she was going to slip into hysteria. The years of dealing calmly with all manner of crises asserted themselves however. ‘Floundering,’ she said bluntly.
Despite himself, Dilrap smiled. Turning to the Captain he asked him the same question.
‘Organizing men to seal off the Palace and clear intruders out,’ was the impatient reply. ‘In between trying to find as many senior officers as I can for Commander Urssain . . . and answering your questions.’
He paused before the word ‘questions’ to make his disdain clearly felt, just short of outright insolence. Dilrap nodded and hitched his errant gown back on to his shoulder. Now he must take the first steps into
his new future, using the lessons he had learnt at the hands of Dan-Tor.
He looked straight at the man. ‘Your name, Captain?’ he said coldly.
‘Halson . . . Sir,’ replied the Captain, his confidence faltering slightly. ‘Third co . . .’
Dilrap cut across him. ‘You’re seconded to my service, Captain Halson,’ he said. ‘Whatever men you’ve sent wandering round the Palace, get them back and assembled in the Lords’ ante-room at the double.’
Halson started. ‘But . . . Commander Urssain . . .’ He waved vaguely at the crowds moving in and out of the main palace entrance. ‘And intruders . . .’ The wind blew his hair in his face.
Dilrap had turned to Alaynor when he had finished speaking and, turning back to the Captain, he allowed himself an expression of dangerously mild patience.
‘I’ll attend to Commander Urssain, Captain,’ he said. ‘Don’t concern yourself. As for intruders, believe me, there’s little they could do in the Palace that would be worse than what’s already happened.’
‘But . . .’
Dilrap’s expression became angry. ‘No buts, Captain. Are you in the habit of questioning orders?’ He did not wait for a reply, but forged on. ‘As the King’s Secretary, and in the temporary absence of the Ffyrst, my authority overrides all others. You should know that, Captain.’ He emphasized the rank. ‘You may choose to waste time by seeking out Commander Urssain and debating the matter with him, if you wish, but it’s not in your best interests. Those are best served by looking to those people out there.’ He pointed through the gaping gateway. ‘And that’s best done by your obeying my orders right away. Is that clear?’
The Captain surrendered hesitantly after a moment and, saluting, made to move off up the steps towards the palace entrance.
Dilrap laid a hand on his arm. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked quietly.
Halson looked at him uncertainly. ‘To find the men who’re checking the Palace, Honoured Secretary. As you asked.’
