by Roger Taylor
‘I don’t know,’ replied Hawklan. ‘But we’ll be very conspicuous if we try to avoid them now. Keep smiling. If they offer us violence don’t resist unless it gets really serious.’
They had been riding openly through the moun-tainous edges of Fyorlund for some days, avoiding villages and settlements as much as they could without actually appearing to do so. Now, however, they had no alternative but to pass through a large village situated at the mouth of a valley which was effectively the only route available. The cause of their concern was a modest but growing crowd of men in the square ahead of them. No women or children, Hawklan noted, and some of the men were carrying farm implements and other tools. Glancing casually around he took in the few side streets running up the valley sides.
These Fyorlund villages are very pleasant, he thought, in spite of the gathering group. Heavy, squat, wooden buildings, vividly painted and decorated with carvings quite different from those of Orthlund. He had remarked on the difference to Isloman earlier as they had started to come upon outlying farmhouses.
‘Wood is wood. Stone is stone,’ Isloman had replied. ‘They sing a different song.’ Then he had laughed and shaken his head affectionately in the way that the Orthlundyn invariably did when Hawklan’s rock blindness became apparent.
The houses of this village were scattered, apparently at random, over the floor of the narrow valley and up its steep sides, the position of each being determined by some local feature in the rock. Some of the higher buildings seemed to be clinging precariously to sheer rock faces and looked to be completely inaccessible. Presumably they were reached by these side streets, thought Hawklan. No escape there.
‘We may have trouble ahead,’ Hawklan said to his horse softly. ‘Be ready to move quickly on my signal.’
‘You have trouble ahead,’ replied Serian. ‘I can smell it from here.’ Hawklan patted his head.
‘Gently through the middle of them all,’ he said to Isloman. ‘Make for that building over there.’ With a nod he indicated a three-storey building in the centre of one side of the square. It dominated the other buildings in the village and was obviously a meeting hall of some kind. On its roof sat Gavor.
The crowd parted quietly as the two men rode through, and Hawklan took the time to study the upturned faces for signs that might help him decide their mood. It was interesting.
There were strong elements of suspicion and fear, and some hostility, but there were some open friendly faces, and a large part of the crowd seemed to be doubtful, or simply curious, though whether curious about them or about what was going to happen, he could not tell. He caught the eye of several members of the crowd and nodded friendly greetings. Tilt the crowd our way, he thought.
Reaching the building he had indicated, he sat back in his saddle with his hands on his thighs and dropped the reins on the horse’s neck. It was an open and relaxed gesture that again should impress the crowd favourably.
However, before he could dismount, a burly, ill-favoured man stepped forward and reached up for Serian’s bridle. The horse craned his neck forward, teeth bared, and the man stepped back quickly. Hawklan leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck as if to calm him.
‘Good,’ he whispered and then sat up. ‘My apologies, sir,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I’m afraid the horse is a little nervous. He’s not used to big crowds.’
As he anticipated, his description of the group as a big crowd caused a little amusement. Some smiles appeared, and the word ‘Orthlundyn’ whispered into the air from various directions, while at the same time those at the front of the crowd eased a little further any from the great black horse.
The burly man, however, was not so easily daunted. Carefully watching the horse’s whitening eye, he came to the side and spoke roughly to Hawklan.
‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ he demanded.
Hawklan reached out his hand in friendly greeting. ‘My name’s Hlan,’ he said. ‘And this is Isman.’ Isloman gave the man a friendly nod. ‘We’d be greatly obliged if you could tell us where we might buy supplies for the rest of our journey.’
The man ignored the offered hand and the pleasant-ries bounced off his scowl. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You’re Orthlundyn. You’re spies.’
Hawklan sensed that while those hostile to them in the crowd were comparatively few, they held a domi-nance beyond their numbers. He affected a puzzled expression. ‘We’re Orthlundyn, certainly,’ he said. ‘But spies? I don’t understand.’
‘You’re enemies of Fyorlund, sneaking in here through the quiet paths hoping not to be seen. We’ve been told about what’s happening in Orthlund and to look out for the likes of you.’ Before Hawklan could speak, the man’s attitude changed abruptly from unpleasantness to belligerence. He levelled a finger at Hawklan and his face became suffused with anger. ‘Well, you’ll not get past us. You’ll not sneak any further.’
Hawklan raised his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he repeated. ‘We’re just travel-lers come to look at your country and your great houses and cities. Do we look like spies?’
The answer was swift and unequivocal. ‘You’re sol-diers without doubt,’ the man said. ‘With that bow and your fancy sword, and that great horse.’
‘Ah,’ said Hawklan, ‘I understand. The horse is from Riddin. It’s a Muster horse. I bought it at the Gretmearc. The bow’s just for hunting-I’m afraid we haven’t enough money to buy food all the time-and, well, I brought the sword in case we ran into bandits in the mountains.’
The man scowled, and Hawklan could see that he was not listening to what was being said. He got the impression of a man who had not been much thought of in the village, despised even, but who had recently been pushed into prominence. His attitude was not one that would naturally command even the mixed support of this present crowd. Such support as there was, therefore, came as a result of some influence which was not immediately apparent. Equally, therefore, Hawklan saw that they might be in greater danger than was immedi-ately apparent. Careful, he thought, and then, as if assuming his explanation had ended the matter, he swung his left leg over the horse’s head and dropped down to face the man.
The suddenness of the movement made the man start and there was some laughter in the crowd. He spun round and the laughter faded. One or two stepped away from him.
‘That’s enough,’ he shouted angrily. ‘These people sneak in here armed to the teeth, and spin some yarn about hunting and bandits, and you think it’s some kind of a joke.’ He swung a pointing finger around the crowd. ‘Don’t think I don’t know which of you sympathize with these spies. There’ll be a reckoning soon for the traitors in our own camp.’
One or two looked as if they would have liked to disagree, but were too afraid.
Hawklan intervened. ‘I assure you. We’re not spies… or soldiers. We’ve done no harm and we mean none. If we’re not welcome here, we’ll leave. But we’d still like to buy supplies to tide us over the next few days.’ He addressed this appeal to the crowd and began fumbling in a pouch on his belt. ‘We’ve money enough for that.’
A brief snatch of bird-song floated across the square. Gavor’s signal that danger was approaching.
‘We don’t want your money, spies,’ said the man viciously. Before Hawklan could reply, there was a disturbance in the crowd as four men pushed roughly to the front.
‘Trouble, Gister?’ one of the new arrivals asked the man confronting Hawklan.
‘Not now you’ve managed to get here, Uskal,’ said the man. ‘Where’ve you been? This lot’s useless.’ He flicked a derisory thumb at the crowd. ‘I damn near had to whip most of them out on to the street. Left to them these two would’ve walked right through unhindered.’ His voice began to develop a whine of self-justification
Uskal was almost as tall as Hawklan and powerfully built, with a lowering stupid face enlivened by just enough intelligence to confirm him as being danger-ously vicious. He did not seem inclined to explain his late arrival, but immediate
ly directed his attention to Hawklan and Isloman.
‘These the two?’ he asked.
Gister nodded.
‘Right,’ said Uskal through clenched teeth, and without further formalities he stepped forward and struck Hawklan in the stomach. To Hawklan, the blow appeared to be lumberingly slow and he was able to absorb its worst effects simply by expanding his stomach muscles and moving back a little to disturb the balance of his attacker. However, he bent forward as if hurt, to see what effect this would have on the crowd. He had no doubt that he and Isloman could deal with Gister and the other four but, if the crowd sided with their own kind, as well they might, then the two of them would probably be overpowered or injured.
Isloman jumped down from his horse and was im-mediately seized by two of the new arrivals. Hawklan shot him a swift glance as he saw his powerful frame preparing to deal out summary justice. Isloman read the look and struggled in a half-hearted manner until one of the men hit him also.
The third man grabbed Hawklan from behind and Uskal made to hit him again but, pretending to lose his balance, Hawklan staggered sideways, taking his captor with him, so that Uskal’s blow fell ineffectually across his face, slightly cutting his bottom lip against his teeth. As if released by the small trickle of blood that ran down his chin, a small evil sprite raised a long-silent voice deep inside Hawklan. ‘You’ll die for this, you corrup-tion,’ it said. Hawklan’s eyes opened in horror as he felt the venom within him, and he swept the thought away ruthlessly.
‘Had enough, eh?’ said Uskal, misreading Hawklan’s expression. Then roughly seizing his jaw he brought his leering face close to Hawklan’s.
However, a babble of anger from the crowd pre-cluded any reply by Hawklan. One of the older men stepped forward and took Uskal’s arm. ‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘They weren’t causing any trouble. There’s no reason to treat them like that.’
Uskal released Hawklan, shook his arm free and, seizing the man by the front of his tunic, pushed him violently backwards. ‘That’s how we treat weaklings and cowards, Flec.’ he said.
Flec, however, was neither weakling nor coward and, recovering his balance, he surged forward at his attacker, seizing him round the waist and carrying him to the ground. For a while they struggled, raising a small cloud of dust, while others tried uncertainly to separate them. But Uskal was the stronger and more vicious of the two and soon had the advantage of the older man. Sitting on his chest, he struck him a savage blow in the face, and then, standing up, prepared to deliver an equally savage kick.
‘No!’
Hawklan’s unexpectedly powerful voice made Uskal stop abruptly and, looking round, the man caught the mood of the crowd. It was a dangerous mixture of fear and anger and it was turning against him for sure. He looked at Hawklan with an expression of intense loathing-a distant trumpet call sounded in Hawklan’s memory-the look was familiar, but he had never seen the like in Orthlund.
‘Don’t shout at me, filth,’ Uskal cried, and striding forward he brought his arm back to strike Hawklan full in the face. Unbidden, Hawklan’s knees bent and, moving sideways, he hurled the man holding him over his shoulder straight into the approaching Uskal. The two tumbled on to the ground and rolled for some way, such had been the power of Hawklan’s throw. The circling crowd widened dramatically. Isloman, still held by the two men, caught Hawklan’s eye. Hawklan shook his head.
‘Seize him, seize him,’ shouted Gister, but nobody seemed inclined to listen. Uskal, downed by this stranger, lost whatever small control he had. He stood up and looked round furiously.
‘No more, please,’ said Hawklan pleadingly. It was still important to keep the crowd divided in their attitude to him; laying this oaf out might still turn them against him.
But Uskal was beyond listening. He wrenched a sickle off a man standing nearby, sending him stagger-ing with a powerful blow in the chest when he offered some resistance. Then, crouching slightly, he moved towards Hawklan, his face turned into a grinning mask. He twisted the curved, shining blade so that it reflected the sunlight into Hawklan’s eyes.
You’re a demented, unfettered creature, came the thought to Hawklan, and he felt his right hand prepar-ing to draw his sword. A vision of the black sword singing out and severing this abomination in two floated alluringly before Hawklan, and he dismissed it only with a considerable conscious effort. Time enough later to consider such thoughts-and the throw that had saved Flec and brought about this predicament-but there was a more pressing problem to be dealt with first.
Uskal was still moving forward, swinging the sickle from side to side. Hawklan retreated slowly, still anxious to play the bewildered traveller.
‘No more,’ he repeated, to reinforce this, but soon he would have to defend himself in earnest, and he knew that his body would act outside his control when threatened, using skills beyond his knowing. And while this might overcome Uskal, it could turn the crowd against him.
As if sensing Hawklan’s dilemma, Isloman started to struggle with the two men holding him, dragging them to and fro. ‘Let me go,’ he shouted. ‘This is madness. There’ll be murder done.’
Serian, apparently alarmed by the disturbance, be-gan to jig and prance like a skittish colt, his hooves kicking up a great cloud of dust. But his eyes were firmly fixed on Hawklan, awaiting a command. Hawklan gave it with an almost imperceptible nod and Serian pranced even more wildly.
With a swift step, Hawklan moved across to the horse as though to quieten it, or perhaps hide behind it, away from Uskal’s swinging blade. The movement seemed to act like a signal to Uskal who charged towards Hawklan like a wild predator after fleeing prey. Serian reared wildly and his flailing hoof caught Uskal a pitiless and accurate blow on the shoulder, sending him sprawling and screaming in the dust, the sickle bouncing harmlessly towards the feet of its real owner.
Hawklan took his horse’s head as if calming it. ‘I presume you didn’t want him killed,’ Serian said softly. Hawklan patted the great head affectionately and then ran across to his fallen assailant who was writhing on the ground and lashing out at anyone who tried to touch him.
‘Be still,’ he said urgently, kneeling down beside him. ‘Be still. I know a little about bone-setting.’
‘What’s all this noise?’ A huge voice boomed out over the crowd and the square suddenly became silent. Even Uskal groaned more softly. Hawklan looked up to see a grey-headed old man standing at the top of the steps of the large building. Bright, penetrating eyes shone out of a stern and powerful face.
Chapter 27
The first citizen of any Fyorlund community, be it village or town, was its Rede. It was an office that fell to many different types of people, though none were young, as all had had some experience of service with the Lords or the King. It was part of the Law of Fyorlund that no man should lead until he had served, though little leadership was generally required of a Rede, the natural temperament of the Fyordyn being generally towards order and discipline. In practice, the office tended to be no more than a form of dignified retire-ment for some respected member of the community.
It was the intrusion into this retirement of a mount-ing hubbub that brought a scowl to Rede Berryn’s stern face and sent him to a window, and thence to the outer door of his official residence to make his distinctly personal form of inquiry of the crowd.
He had been a senior training officer in the High Guard of a very traditionally minded Lord, and he could make his presence felt and his voice heard over disturbances far greater than that currently raising a dust in his village square.
‘Well,’ his voice boomed out again, ‘what’s going on?’
Gister stepped forward to the foot of the steps, his manner a mixture of deference and defiance. He waved an accusing hand towards Hawklan and Isloman.
‘These men are spies, Rede. They’ve been sneaking around for days, they’re armed to the teeth, and they’ve attacked Uskal just because he asked who they were.’
The old man fixed Gis
ter with a look of suspicion and contempt, and then looked at the crowd. Under his gaze, the tiny seeds that Hawklan had sown began to germinate.
‘Rubbish,’ shouted someone. ‘They weren’t doing any harm.’ Gister cast a furious eye over the crowd, but apparently could not see his denouncer.
Several others joined in. ‘That’s right, Rede. They’ve done nothing. Gister accused them of being spies and Uskal started the fight.’
‘But the horse won,’ came a delighted laugh, which again had Gister searching the crowd. Many of the others joined in, but several were still quiet and unsure.
‘I know you all,’ shouted Gister petulantly. ‘Don’t think I don’t see you. You’re all traitors, I’ll repo… ’
‘Gister.’
The Rede’s interruption stopped the man in mid-sentence. For a moment the two men locked gazes and, although it was Gister who turned away first, Hawklan noticed that the old man was uncomfortable in his authority. He felt again that Gister drew his confidence and power from others, presumably outside the village.
The Rede came down the steps and walked across to Hawklan; he had a slight limp. Hawklan had rendered Uskal unconscious in order to set the bones that Serian’s hoof had so casually shattered and, laying the man down gently, he stood up and spoke to the watching Rede.
‘I’ve set the damaged bones, but he’ll have to be strapped up and properly nursed,’ he said. ‘He should be taken to your healer right away.’ He looked down at the unconscious figure. ‘I’m afraid that arm’s never going to be quite right though,’ he said.
The Rede grunted non-committally and then ges-tured in a direction over Hawklan’s shoulder. Turning, Hawklan saw a pale-faced, lightly built man moving through the crowd. He wore what Hawklan took to be a robe of office although, from the stains and dust on it, it was obviously also a working robe. Followed by a group of excited children who had obviously summoned him, the man moved straight to the fallen Uskal, confirming Hawklan’s first impression that he was the local healer.
