by Roger Taylor
‘They’re the King’s direct orders, Commander,’ Urssain replied reluctantly. ‘I don’t see any alternative.’
Aelang dropped down into his chair again, and motioned Urssain to do the same. ‘Relax, Urs. Sit down, you look exhausted.’
Gratefully, Urssain lowered himself into a nearby chair, quietly resolving that under no circumstances would he relax.
Aelang rested his head on his hand. Recent events had moved so rapidly that he had had little opportunity to think matters through. It occurred to him that this was all some devious test by Lord Dan-Tor. Or perhaps even the King. But nothing seemed to ring true. What was going on? What did the King know about the deep penetration patrol? Was he, Aelang, Commander of Narsindalvak, being used as a pawn in some power struggle between the King and the Lords? Aelang curled his lip. He was no man’s pawn, he was a player, albeit a minor one for the time being.
He looked up and caught Urssain’s eye. ‘Didn’t you try to dissuade him?’ he said.
Urssain returned the gaze steadily and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘He never asked my advice and I wasn’t going to volunteer it. I was content to remember yours. Keep your mouth shut, your head down, and your ears open.’
Aelang waited.
Urssain continued. ‘ “Lock the Lords up on my signal,” he said. So I did.’ He shrugged. ‘It was so sudden I didn’t even have anywhere to hold them. I’ve had to put them in some old servants’ quarters for the time being. Then when I got back to the King, he was muttering something about the wolf and his cubs, and he just handed me those and told me to bring them to you personally, straight away.’ He indicated the orders. ‘Personally, mark you, no messengers. I was going to ask him why, but . . .’ He shifted uncomfortably and leaned forward. ‘I didn’t think it would serve anyone’s ends to get myself arrested for questioning his orders, however stupid. And that’s what would have happened.’ He lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, I think he’s raving. I was glad to be away.’
He sat back to watch the effect of his report.
Aelang’s face however, was impassive, and there was a long silence before he spoke, ‘What about the other Lords’ families?’ he asked eventually.
Urssain shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘He said nothing about them to me.’
Aelang nodded and idly fingered the papers lying on the desk. Urssain was his man. He had taken considerable pains to have him placed in charge of the Palace Guards when the Garrison was suddenly moved to Vakloss at the King’s behest. He too was a devious and ambitious man, but he knew where his best interests lay. And his assessment of Rgoric was remarkably unequivocal. Aelang wondered if its very simplicity might not indeed cut through all the convoluted possibilities and uncertainties that were vexing him.
The Geadrol suspended, troopers were transferred to Vakloss almost overnight, and then called the King’s High Guards, of all things. Lords arrested, and now this! Could it be some unexpected move by the King against Lord Dan-Tor? That would be contrary to everything he had ever learned about the King. Could it be Dan-Tor using the King to precipitate some crisis? That was possible. Everything had the feel of Dan-Tor. But too much was happening too quickly, and too crudely. No. It was all too fast, too soon. Dan-Tor would surely never have sanctioned such crude action against the Lords. Certainly he would never have sanctioned the use of this particular patrol for a simple arrest. Perhaps after all, this was some aberration on the King’s part. Perhaps Dan-Tor had misjudged the King when he went off on one of his jaunts and the King had slipped his leash and was running wild, implementing schemes long planned for a later time. It seemed to be increasingly probable.
Aelang let the papers fall slowly back onto the desk. And yet to disobey this, a direct and personal order from the King. There would be plenty of people happy to profit from his making such a mistake; plenty to take his place, one of them sitting opposite him now. And, for all his judgment of the matter, he could well find himself the recipient of the Lord Dan-Tor’s anger if he disobeyed a direct order from the King. He swore again softly. Urssain was right; there really was no alternative.
If this is some folly of the King’s, then I’ll be judged by the way in which I put this order into practice, he concluded. Besides, practicalities always made opportunities of their own.
‘Where is this Jaldaric?’ he asked brusquely.
Urssain looked at him awkwardly. ‘He’s in charge of the patrol that’s escorting the Lord Dan-Tor. According to the King they’re heading south through Orthlund on some mission or other.’
Aelang’s cruel face almost smiled at the increasing folly of it all. This was getting worse and worse. He had put the right man in Vakloss. The King must indeed be raving.
‘When’s he due back?’ he asked, knowing the answer.
Urssain gave it with a shrug. ‘You know the Lord Dan-Tor better than I do,’ he said.
Aelang stood up and moved over to a map hanging on the wall. He stared at it for some time in the pallid sunlight that was washing into the room.
‘So we have to move the patrol right across the country and down into Orthlund of all places. Keeping it out of sight all the way. Then we have to take it through Orthlund, still keeping it out of sight. Looking for the Lord Dan-Tor, who could be anywhere, but who doubtless will be moving quietly along the very roads where we won’t dare to travel.’ He looked significantly at Urssain, but the Captain neither spoke nor moved.
Keeping your head down still, Urs, Aelang thought. Well, I’ve got a better use for you now.
‘This is going to be. . . delicate, Urs,’ he said pensively. ‘You’ll have to come with me.’
Urssain’s eyes narrowed briefly as old instincts came into play. Rgoric’s order meant trouble for Aelang and he did not want to be too close if it happened. On the other hand, Aelang was also a consummate survivor. He cut through his own debate by reminding himself that there was no way in which he could reasonably oppose his Commander, so he contented himself with a token resistance.
‘Yes, Commander,’ he said. ‘But what about the Palace? There’s a lot happening there, the King being the way he is. And Vakloss. There’s already some serious rumblings from the people about the King having his own High Guard. That’s bothering them more than the Geadrol being suspended.’
Aelang turned his pale eyes onto the captain and bared his teeth in a grim smile. ‘Captain.’ He emphasized the word to remind Urssain who had won him his promotion. ‘With all this . . . activity, going on, it’s in our best interests to find the Lord Dan-Tor as soon as possible, isn’t it?’ The comment summarized all their problems succinctly. ‘And I need someone by me that I can rely on to handle that patrol. We’ll send a rider with a sealed message to try to find the Lord Dan-Tor and persuade him to head back, while we obey this order and follow – as slowly as we dare – with the patrol.’
Chapter 21
Under the unexpectedly powerful impact of Andawyr’s blow, Hawklan, sword in hand, found himself staggering backwards out of the pavilion for some distance. Even as he struggled to recover his balance, he felt the cold night air at once waking and quietening both his mind and his body.
In front of him the pavilion flickered and shone dementedly, no longer a thing of fascination or enchantment, but something unpleasant and unnatural, and now, seemingly increasingly uncontrolled. Looking around him he noticed that for all the glare of its many-changing lights, and the light it threw in the clearing, the pavilion cast no illumination on the surrounding buildings.
Screwing up his eyes, he peered into the entrance, now dazzlingly bright. In the haze, he could make out a confusion of movement. They were struggling figures. He stepped forward, anxious to aid his rescuers, but before he had taken two paces, there was a dull thud and a gasp and the little old man ran out into his arms, followed by Gavor, black and purposeful against the brightness.
Andawyr looked at Hawklan angrily.
‘What are you still he
re for, you blockhead?’ he shouted. ‘Get away, man, get away.’ Then seizing Hawklan’s arm he spun him round and began dragging him across the clearing, now garish and swirling under the hysterical lights.
Gavor made an unsteady landing on Hawklan’s shoulder. ‘Dear boy,’ he gasped. ‘What on earth’s happening? You’re just not safe to let off on your own. Oh. This is Andawyr. He found you. He . . .’
Gavor did not finish his sentence. Before they reached the waiting darkness, the light around them took on a new quality. It steadied and became a cold green colour. Hawklan felt his progress slow, as if he were under water, or as if a thousand tiny strings had suddenly seized him. Turning, he saw that Andawyr also seemed to be having difficulty.
His face was torn with anger and fear and he was muttering to himself. ‘Ethriss give me strength. I’m not ready for this.’
‘Hawklan.’ A soft soothing voice sounded in Hawklan’s mind. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ The voice carried the memory of some long-forgotten sweetness. ‘This turmoil is but a dream. Set it aside. Journeying so far from your home has wearied your very spirit. Come and rest. Come and be easy. Hawklan felt a warm restfulness pervading him again, and slowly started to turn back towards the pavilion.
‘No.’ A harsh, angry voice rent through his peace. It was distorted and ugly but it tore away Hawklan’s euphoria as if it had been a suffocating veil. He was again in the cold night air, but his movements were still clogged by the eerie green light. Andawyr was speaking, his voice still distorted and oddly distant.
‘Fight, Hawklan,’ it said. ‘Fight your way to the darkness and then flee for your life.’
Hawklan opened his mouth to speak. He would not leave the old man, but he could not form the words of refusal he wished to use. Andawyr’s eyes showed understanding.
‘No. Go, now,’ came his voice. ‘I must face this one. He’s far beyond any skill you’ve yet mastered.’
Then he staggered as if struck, and Hawklan felt as though the green light around him was solidifying, so difficult was it to move. A small spark of his recent frenzy flared briefly, and he tightened his grip on his sword. The greenness wavered and his movements became a little easier.
Slowly he turned round. The pavilion was now a blur of insanely dancing light. It seemed to exist in some other place, the entrance to which was like a jagged tear in the fabric of reality and from which emanated the baleful glare now sweeping over the three escapees.
Silhouetted black against this light was a single figure. Hawklan could not make out its shape clearly nor distinguish any details of its appearance except for its eyes which seemed to be like holes through which the green depths behind it were pouring.
‘Hawklan, lay down your sword, and rest,’ came the voice again, soothingly. Hawklan hesitated and the green light glowed welcomingly.
Then again Andawyr was by his side, leaning heavily on him for support, as if he were being assailed, though Hawklan could see nothing. The old man’s face was damp with effort and only a grim determination was keeping some fear at bay.
‘Obscenity,’ he gasped at the waiting figure. ‘Who taught you thus? Where did you find what was needed for . . . that?’ Andawyr’s finger jabbed through the green light towards the interior of the pavilion.
Hawklan sensed uncertainty in the ominous figure, but it made no sound.
‘You’ll gain scant thanks from your teacher for this night’s work, apprentice,’ said Andawyr. ‘Others can use the Old Power. And without this corruption. Go your way. Leave us.’ Then, almost pleadingly. ‘There are other, wiser ways. Seek them while you have the chance. Repent your folly.’
The green light dimmed perceptibly, and the figure moved. Then the light flared again and Hawklan heard a hissing breath exuding rage and frustration. A wave of appalling malice swept over him and he felt his own face contorting into a wide-eyed snarl in response. Slowly he began to raise his sword to strike down the menacing figure.
‘No,’ cried Andawyr desperately. ‘He’s corrupted the Old Power and his failure to bind you has unhinged him. He’s beyond all control now, don’t add your own darker nature to his madness, you’ll destroy us all.’
The words rolled off Hawklan unheard as he felt his anger lock with the figure’s.
‘Healer, he’s too frail for his burden.’ Andawyr’s voice rang out powerfully. The compassion in the words cut through the swirling malice and hatred and dispelled Hawklan’s rage as if it had been no more than autumn smoke. Turning, he saw the old man unwind the waist cord from his stained smock.
‘Ethriss and my teachers help and forgive me,’ Andawyr said to himself, then taking the cord in his right hand, he flicked it towards the figure. It shone, white and dazzling, and Hawklan felt the myriad tiny ties release him. The figure seemed to struggle against an unseen force, but Hawklan could feel its rage and malice growing for some terrible blow.
‘No,’ cried Andawyr, his voice alive with concern. ‘I beg you. There is always another path. Even for you.’
The figure’s eyes flared briefly, and abruptly it released its blow. It seemed to Hawklan that someone else was looking through his own eyes. Someone who saw a wave of wrongness surge from the figure to envelop the waiting Andawyr.
With an unexpected calmness and grace, the little man gently opened his arms as if to welcome the assault, and Hawklan felt the wrongness surge around the motionless figure then, subtly changed – righted – return to its creator.
Abruptly the inner watcher was gone from him, and Hawklan watched as, with a terrible cry, the figure in the gaping green doorway staggered backwards and disappeared from view. He had a brief glimpse of a hand vainly trying to protect a tormented and all too human face from some blinding light.
Hawklan turned to Andawyr. The little man’s face was both regretful and triumphant. ‘One more thing,’ he said anxiously, twirling his cord. ‘It’ll give us a little more time.’ He edged Hawklan to one side and, with his tongue protruding slightly, he flicked the cord. A ring of white flame sprang from it and floated across the clearing, growing in size and intensity as it did. Andawyr nodded with workmanlike satisfaction.
The glittering ring hit the pavilion and started to spread over it. As it approached the lights, they danced frantically as if to avoid its enveloping whiteness, but its progress was relentless and each light in turn crackled and sighed into extinction as it reached them. Slowly the whole structure sank silently to the ground and faded into nothingness.
Hawklan became aware of a cool night breeze on his face and moonlight filling the strangely misty clearing. Then the distant sounds of the Gretmearc impinged. He turned to his rescuer, once again a little old man in a stained smock fastened by an old cord.
A thousand questions burst over him, but Andawyr cut across them. ‘Come on,’ he hissed urgently. ‘We must get away. Follow me. Quickly.’
Chapter 22
Hawklan strode out to keep up with Andawyr’s trotting gait as they moved through the darkness that fringed the edge of the Gretmearc. They passed a bewildering array of rest areas, store-houses, dwellings, and closed stalls before finally reaching Andawyr’s tent.
Once inside, the little man made a pass with his hands over the threshold of the entrance and then relaxed visibly. He patted his hands on his chest as if to dust something off them.
‘It should be a little while before they recover, he said. ‘But I fear we’ve not got a great deal of time. Anyway that will keep most prying eyes out.’ He took hold of Hawklan’s right hand. ‘Come along, we must attend to that right away, whatever else we manage to do.’
Hawklan looked down at the hand and saw that it and a portion of his forearm had turned white. Not just pale, but an appalling deathly white as if the flesh had been under water for a long time and was just about to start putrefying. He flexed it and found no pain or stiffness, but the sight of it moving made him feel nauseous and dizzy. Andawyr’s unexpectedly strong grip prevented him from falling, but he sat down heavily on a c
hair by the table.
‘Sorry, young fellow,’ said Andawyr gently. ‘I’ve never seen this before, but I know what it is. I can tend it for you.’
‘What’s happened to it?’ asked Hawklan, recovering himself slightly, and being heartened by Andawyr’s confidence. Andawyr did not reply immediately. He was busy examining the arm in great detail, and muttering to himself. Then he stood up and started bustling round the tent, still muttering.
‘Where’s my bag. Dar-volci? Have you moved it again?’ he said irritably.
‘What?’ came a bad tempered and deep voice from a side room somewhere.
‘I said, have you moved my bag again?’ shouted Andawyr.
There was silence for a moment, then what sounded like a sigh, and, ‘Of course not, you old fool. What would I want with your bag?’
Andawyr shrugged apologetically at his guests. ‘An . . . old friend,’ he said.
‘We’ll leave if we’re going to cause trouble for you,’ said Hawklan, concerned at the tone of the conversation. Andawyr was dismissive.
‘Take no notice of Dar-volci,’ he said very loudly. ‘He’s just an uncouth mountain dweller with no idea how to behave in civilized company.’
The object of this jibe ignored it, but retorted in an oily voice. ‘Found your bag yet, Andy?’
Andawyr stood up very straight, his fists clenched, his mouth taut and the start of a twitch flickering along his jawline.
‘Dar-volci,’ he growled warningly. A low chuckle came from the other room. ‘Have you looked in your cupboard yet, old friend?’
Andawyr snorted and, spinning on his heel, stalked off into another room. He returned a moment later carrying a huge double-handled bag which seemed to be almost as big as he was. He dropped it on the floor next to Hawklan, opened it and started rooting around inside it, making a great clatter amongst the contents.
