by Roger Taylor
But if he was not Ethriss, who was he? The question was strangely terrifying. Key-bearer to Anderras Darion, holder of Ethriss’s sword, and seemingly protected, at least in part, by the Cadwanol . . .?
Yet, Dan-Tor consoled himself ironically, he might still be Ethriss. Perhaps the Guardian’s host had thwarted his master’s design by defending himself too well with that sword? Perhaps he had deflected the very power that was to waken the greatest of the Guardians?
The questions would not rest. Dan-Tor squeezed his hand tighter, and forced his mind back to the bewildered Urssain and present realities.
To use the Old Power against Eldric’s castle would not only wrack his body beyond belief, but with Hawklan’s whereabouts unknown, it would still risk awakening the sleeping Ethriss and bringing down His wrath as never before.
‘You can be expunged at my whim, and others made in your image.’ His Master’s words hung cold in his mind.
Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Master, he thought.
He must return as soon as possible to the steady patient progress that had ensured Fyorlund would fall so easily when the great tree of state was shaken. Haste could destroy His schemes more effectively than the strength of His enemies.
Yet, some modest haste was perhaps now appropriate. His power, underwritten predominantly by the Mathidrin, held the heartland of Fyorlund: the routes to Narsindalvak, and Vakloss and its environs. But the further-flung estates were maintaining an uncertain neutrality; their Lords avoiding contact with Vakloss as far as was diplomatically possible and, when it wasn’t, giving pledges of loyalty that had a distinctly hollow ring.
To aid such unsteady allies in their reflections, Dan-Tor had co-opted various of their relatives into palace service, thus holding them as discreet hostages. It was a hazardous device to use with the Fyordyn, however, and he knew its limitations well enough.
And even the securely held territory was uncertain. For all the ranting success of the rallies, and the support given to the Mathidrin by the rapidly swelling ranks of the Militia and the Youth Corps, Dan-Tor knew that there was an underlying stratum of opposition to him which was impervious to rumour and gossip and which only the destruction of the hope offered by the continuing resistance of the eastern Lords would crush.
His power had always been at risk while these Lords remained to defy it. But was it now increasingly so?
The summer had been good and the Lords’ granaries would be well-stocked. Almost certainly, he reasoned, they could survive the winter without difficulty and still have adequate food to carry them across country in the spring without burdening the communities they passed through. In any event, many of these would welcome and aid the Lords’ army.
It would be pointless, even dangerous, to risk waiting another year, before facing the inevitable armed conflict. The Lords would be husbanding their resources already and, beyond doubt, the High Guards, with their greater self-discipline, would withstand the debilitating effects of delay better than the ruthlessly controlled and ambitious Mathidrin, whose main motivation was the promise of the lands and wealth they would come to when the Lords fell.
He faltered. The High Guards of Eldric and Arinndier would be a formidable force . . .
But those fops and dandies of Hreldar and Darek . . .?
He had superior numbers by far. The High Guards would be weary and sick at heart, by the time they had cut their way through rank upon rank of the hapless Militia to reach their real opponents, the Mathidrin. And while they might have superior fighting skills, he doubted they could match his black liveried troops in sheer brutal ferocity.
Dan-Tor frowned. It was not satisfactory. But it would never be so. Too much rode on chance in such encounters. Yet, boldly done, it could be a fitting end to this difficult, turbulent period, and would leave him with his foot on the neck of a quiescent Fyorlund, free to continue silently preparing the way for his return.
On balance, he decided, conclusions could and should be made soon, before the Fyordyn winter arrived to preclude the matter.
It was simply a matter of luring the Lords forth.
He looked up at the now anxious Urssain. ‘Listen to me carefully, Commander,’ he said.
Chapter 32
Ledvrin was a small village lying about half a day’s march to the west of Lord Eldric’s estate. There was nothing about it to make it materially different from many other Fyordyn villages in that region. A small stone bridge carried the road, hump-backed, over a narrow river to mark its western end, and a modest trotting would soon bring a rider to the woods that lay along its eastern edge. Traditional steep-pitched roofs topped its cottages, colourful carvings abounded on doors and gates and any other visible woodwork, and gardens and elaborate window-boxes echoed these through the seasons with their own rich displays of flowers and shrubs.
The village was part of the estate of Lord Garieth, an able but young and inexperienced man who had recently, and quite unexpectedly, inherited the title from a cousin. He had arrived to find the estate in a run-down condition and had set about its improvement with considerable enthusiasm, soon earning the respect of his older neighbour, Eldric, to whom he had turned quite openly for all manner of advice.
Though from the west of Fyorlund, on the matter of loyalty Garieth was a traditionalist and strongly favoured the eastern Lords in their opposition to Dan-Tor. However, Eldric’s advice here was discreet but unequivocal. ‘We can’t protect you this far out,’ he said. ‘And you can’t begin to protect yourself with what’s left of your cousin’s old High Guard. Keep your heart with us but, in so far as you can, do Dan-Tor’s bidding; there’s a lot you can do for us silently. Disband the few High Guards you still have, as he’s decreed, but tell them they can join us if they wish. And tell those who don’t wish to that they’ll serve us just as well if they return to their ordinary lives and prepare themselves quietly for when the times change in our favour.’
This same advice had percolated down to the village Redes and thence to the villagers. ‘Be patient. Stay quiet and polite. Our time will come.’
The advice had been sound. All manner of Mathidrin patrols began to pass regularly through Ledvrin and other villages, on their way to test the vague but currently static boundaries that separated the old and the new orders in Fyorlund. Thus the appearance of a large patrol out of the early morning autumn mist brought only a passing glance from the few villagers who were about at that time.
Unusually, however, though led by a group of Mathidrin, the patrol consisted mainly of brown-liveried Militia and, equally unusually, instead of passing through the village, it halted at the small green in the middle of the village. The morning greyness filled with the misting breaths of the gathering. After a moment conferring with his companions, the leader of the patrol, an ill-favoured, sallow-faced man, stood in his stirrups, looked around, and then beckoned silently to the passers-by.
He remained silent as they gathered round, with varying degrees of patience and curiosity, and waited to hear the reason for this unexpected conduct.
But no explanation came. Instead, the patrol leader casually drew his sword and without warning swung it down on the head of the nearest watcher. It cut though the man’s woven cap and wedged in his skull so that the rider was obliged to kick the man about the head and chest to wrench it free. The effort made his horse rear and the dying man jigged ludicrously until the blade released him. He stood for a moment, his mouth moving but making no sound, then he fell to his knees and rolled over, childlike, in the damp grass, his limbs moving in a vague and disjointed manner and disturbing the brown and gold leaves that littered the little green.
Although unhurried, the incident happened so quickly that the other bystanders stood frozen in disbelief at what they had just seen. Before they could recover, the patrol closed around them and in a brief flurry of thudding blows, muffled curses, and gasps of effort, they too were cut down. Scarcely a cry was uttered.
Abruptly, the patrol began to
spread out from the carnage, as if suddenly repelled by it. Only the clattering of their tackle now broke the morning silence.
Then a scream rent a jagged tear through it.
The patrol leader started and looked up to see a woman rushing from one of the cottages. She was moving towards one of the stricken men, her hair and loose gown flying. He frowned irritably, then, without a pause, spurred his horse forward into a sudden gallop.
Riding between the woman and her goal, he filled her vision, but her eyes were in another world and she did not see him even as he crashed straight into her. Her dreadful scream stopped as sharply as it had begun as the fearful impact knocked her to the ground.
Tangled briefly in the horse’s flailing hooves she rolled over several times until, her body twisted and broken. Her eyes and mouth still open and silently screaming, she finally came to rest, sprawled across a neat and orderly flower bed.
For a moment, silence rolled back over the village, then from every direction came noises and movement as the villagers, roused by the woman’s terrible clarion, came out, puzzled, smiling, concerned, to greet the soft autumn morning.
The patrol leader shouted an order.
On a nearby hill overlooking the village, three riders stood, unnaturally motionless. They were dressed like ordinary villagers and even the Goraidin who had supervised them would have been hard pressed to identify them as otherwise. Their leader was Jaldaric, son of Lord Eldric, and a Captain in his High Guard. With him were a trooper and a young cadet.
The High Guards, like the Mathidrin, routinely patrolled the fringes of their masters’ influence, though more discreetly. This trio had happened on the Militia patrol and were observing it when it entered the village. Now they stood white-faced and helpless as the spectacle below them unfolded.
‘We must do something, Captain,’ the trooper said, wide-eyed and hoarse. ‘We can’t just stand here . . .’ Distant screams and cries rose up and mingled with his words.
Jaldaric’s face twisted as he fought for control of the emotions that were swirling inside him. ‘All we can do is watch, trooper,’ he said slowly, as though the words were choking him. ‘Watch, so that we can tell what’s happened.’
The trooper looked at him, his face a mixture of disbelief and horror. ‘We can’t just watch,’ he said. ‘They’re killing unarmed men and women down there.’
Jaldaric clenched his teeth, feeling the weight of the Goraidin’s burden. ‘We’ve no alternative,’ he said grimly.
The trooper’s mouth curled up into a snarl. ‘You spent too long near Dan-Tor, you cold-hearted . . .’
Jaldaric did not allow him to finish. ‘Do you want to die this day, trooper?’ he said, turning to him, his face savage and his voice taut with restraint. The words were ambivalent and the trooper flinched, but Jaldaric levelled his hand towards the village. ‘Is our dying going to save those people?’ he said. ‘Use your eyes. If we killed ten each, that patrol would still out-number us.’ His manner softened as despair replaced anger in the trooper’s face. ‘Just remember this . . . for the future,’ he managed. ‘Perhaps one day we’ll get the opportunity to . . .’ His voice tailed off.
As if jolted by this sudden additional violence between his normally companionable superiors, the cadet slithered awkwardly from his horse and slumped on to all fours, his legs refusing to support him.
‘But . . .’ the trooper began.
‘But nothing,’ Jaldaric said quietly. ‘Look to your cadet, trooper. He’s about to be sick.’
The cadet was retching violently. Then he vomited. The trooper dismounted and, crouching down by him, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
For a long moment neither moved, then the cadet looked up, his eyes damp and his face almost grey. ‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said, to Jaldaric. ‘I’m all right now, I think.’
Jaldaric looked at the youth intently. ‘No you’re not, but there’s no need to apologize,’ he said.
‘I’m all right, Sir,’ the cadet repeated, unhearing, as the trooper helped him to his feet. ‘But is there nothing we can do?’
Jaldaric looked down at the village again. The patrol was forming up to leave. The road winding through the village was littered with bodies and some of the houses were now on fire, adding their dense smoke to the autumn haze. I wish I had a bow, he thought, and in his mind he sent a hail of lethal arrows through the misty morning, into the gathering group below.
Then he set the indulgence aside.
‘You know the valley to the north-east of here?’ he asked the cadet.
The youth nodded. ‘Yes sir,’ he replied.
‘Captain Hrostir should be there now with a larger group. Go and find him. Tell him what’s happened and bring him back to help here.’ The cadet nodded again and, scrambling back on to his horse, pulled it round to leave. Jaldaric reached out and took hold of his reins. ‘Tell me the way you’re going to go,’ he said, fixing the youth with a stern look.
The cadet stammered out the route he would take and, satisfied, Jaldaric handed the reins back to him. ‘Ride carefully,’ he said. ‘Some of those people down there might live if Hrostir can get here quickly, and he won’t get here at all if you break your neck riding recklessly.’
‘Yes, Captain,’ the cadet said, anxious to be away. ‘I understand. Are you going down into the village now?’
Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No, I’m going back to my . . . to Lord Eldric’s to report,’ he said. He turned to the trooper. ‘You go on down there now and help where you can until Hrostir arrives. Be careful,’ he added. ‘We’ve no guarantee that patrol won’t come back.’ His discreet hand signal told the trooper to go and search for Hrostir himself if he did not arrive within two hours.
Then, without further farewells, the trio divided.
Once well clear of his two companions, Jaldaric gave his horse its head, and as it carried him rapidly homewards, he cursed and swore and wept – at the savagery he had seen, at the savagery he had felt, and at his own impotence to control or assuage either.
In the village, the only sound was the gossiping crackle of the burning cottages. A light breeze tumbled an occasional fallen leaf along the road, and the birds, gathering for their morning crumbs, began to land amid the carnage and wander about curiously.
* * * *
Eldric put his hands to his head. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘It can’t be true.’
Jaldaric, travel-stained and weary, looked down at him, but did not speak.
‘They just rode into the village and hacked people down – for no reason?’ Eldric asked pointlessly, knowing the answer.
Jaldaric nodded.
Eldric slammed his hand on the table, then stood up, kicked his chair back, and walked over to the window.
Jaldaric looked at his father’s back and then at Yatsu, still sitting at the table, eyes fixed, unseeing, on the plans spread before him.
‘I don’t know whether I did the right thing, coming back myself.’ Jaldaric said hesitantly, to break the difficult silence. ‘Perhaps I should have waited for Hrostir myself – sent the trooper back with the news . . .?’
His father waved his hand dismissively without turning.
‘You did right,’ Yatsu said, answering on Eldric’s behalf. His voice was controlled but uneasy, and his face was pale. ‘You’d no alternative but to bring back the news personally; and straight away.’
His eyes met Jaldaric’s. ‘You were also right not to intervene,’ he said. And the look on his face said, I understand your pain. The pain of watching.
Eldric turned to his son and, looking him up and down, nodded in self-reproach. ‘You’re tired, Captain. Go and rest,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well. If anything comes to you that you’ve not mentioned, you can tell us later.’
‘I’d rather go back and help,’ Jaldaric said anxiously.
Yatsu’s reply was unequivocal. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re too tired. Go and rest. That’s an order. Hrostir will be looking after
things, and we’ll send someone from here as well.’
Reluctantly, Jaldaric saluted and began walking to the door. As he reached it, he turned. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,’ he said quietly. ‘When my mind goes quiet it fills up with . . . the sights . . . and the sounds. I don’t think I dare close my eyes.’
Yatsu stood up and walked over to him. ‘Only time is going to help you with that,’ he said softly, but holding his gaze. ‘But go and talk to Hylland. He’ll help you relax if nothing else.’
Jaldaric searched the Goraidin’s face, childlike for a moment. ‘Why would anyone do a thing like that?’ the young man asked. ‘And where could they have found people – Fyordyn people – to do it?’
‘We’ll all think about the why,’ Yatsu answered immediately. ‘It’s important.’ Then, meeting Jaldaric’s eyes with the compassion of a man faced with killing a favourite animal. ‘As for the people.’ He hesitated. ‘Those seeds are rooted in us all. Oklar merely tills the soil.’
Jaldaric’s face wrinkled in pain and doubt.
‘There’s no easy answer, Jal,’ Yatsu said, then, slapping the young man’s arm gently, ‘Go and find Hylland.’
When Jaldaric had left, Eldric and Yatsu looked at one another. Eldric’s face was pained and questioning.
‘He’s coping,’ Yatsu said in reply to the unasked question.
Eldric turned away from him. ‘It’s easier to face things yourself than watch your children face them,’ he said. ‘And so much has happened to him over these last months.’
Yatsu nodded sympathetically. ‘He’s coping,’ he repeated. ‘Just like we all did in our time. And he’s your son. He’ll come through.’ The two men’s eyes met. ‘Just like we all have.’
Reluctantly, Eldric the father set his concerns aside for the moment and turned to face the new reality of the struggle for Fyorlund.
‘Innocent people slaughtered,’ he said. ‘I can hardly believe it. And for no reason!’
‘Not for no reason, Lord,’ Yatsu said, almost irritably, as he sat down at the table again. ‘You know that. Dan-Tor has never done anything for no reason. The patrol was too large and orderly, the deed too foul, and Ledvrin too far from Vakloss for it to have been some piece of . . . random savagery by a few Mathidrin troopers. Besides, we know Dan-Tor keeps the Mathidrin well fettered and, from what we hear, they in their turn control the Militia. This deed was coldly done, and done for some very specific reason.’
