The fall of Fyorlund tcoh-2

by Roger Taylor

  Crying out, the four Lords moved forward almost as one, but the first guard struck Arinndier a back-handed punch in the midriff that doubled him up, impeding Darek, then reaching quickly round Eldric’s head he gripped the back of his hair and swung him round to block Hreldar’s advance. The guard holding the Queen watched, his face concerned. He spoke to them urgently in a language that Sylvriss did not understand and the Lords froze in surprise. Sylvriss found herself released and the hand that had held her so easily on her knees reached out and helped her gently to her feet. She was shaking and bewildered. ‘Majesty, forgive me,’ said the guard, offering her knife back to her, hilt forward.

  ‘What’s happening?’ gasped Sylvriss, looking from face to face. ‘Who are these men, Lord Eldric?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening, Majesty, but these men are Goraidin,’ he replied. ‘This man is Yatsu, the others I don’t know yet.’

  ‘It would appear you both came to rescue us at the same time,’ said Darek.

  ‘Lords, Majesty,’ said Yatsu urgently. ‘We’ve no time for debate. The City’s in turmoil, but it’s only a matter of time before the Mathidrin reserves get here. We blustered our way in through the confusion, but the longer we delay the more likely it is we’ll have to fight our way out.’

  Eldric raised his hands to his temples as if to shake his bewildered thoughts into order. Then, ‘The Queen, Yatsu, what of the Queen?’ he asked.

  Sylvriss answered before Yatsu could speak. ‘I’ll return the way I came, Lord Eldric. I’ll be quite safe. You go, quickly.’

  Eldric looked uncertain.

  Sylvriss ignored his doubt. ‘Go now, quickly, or we’ll all be doomed. You must escape while you can. Dan-Tor must be fought.’

  Eldric still hesitated. Abruptly he fell on his knees and took the Queen’s hand in both of his. Words formed on his lips but he could not speak them.

  Suddenly there was the sound of running feet in the passage and the third guard entered. ‘The others are here,’ he said urgently. ‘Hurry. We’ve not much time.’

  Eldric rose to his feet and after a quick glance around the room signalled the others to follow.

  As they hurried out, Sylvriss took Yatsu’s arm. ‘Goraidin Yatsu. Secretary Dilrap and the young servant are to be trusted,’ she said. ‘But that knowledge is for you and the Lords alone. They’re in continual danger.’

  ‘Majesty,’ said Yatsu, concerned. ‘You’re certain you’ll be safe?’ She nodded confidently and ushered him after the others. He hesitated for a moment, his face anxious, before bowing and striding off rapidly down the passage.

  Sylvriss rubbed her wrist ruefully as she watched him go then, throwing her hood forward, she walked quickly and silently back the way she had come. On the journey she passed two dead Mathidrin.

  * * * *

  It was Serian, rather than any decisive horsemanship by Hawklan, that led Hawklan and Isloman from the crowd. He had reared and screamed as if in panic, and then charged straight into the mob, splitting it open before him like wood under a cleaver. Isloman’s horse followed suit down the widening cleft, its rider content-ing himself with hanging on desperately. Eventually they came to a halt in a narrow and relatively quiet street.

  Hawklan leaned forward. ‘Thank you, Serian,’ he said breathlessly.

  The horse chuckled again. ‘Great fun, great fun,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ said Isloman, riding to Hawk-lan’s side. ‘You frightened me to death.’

  Hawklan shrugged. ‘It was the horse’s idea,’ he said. ‘Left to our own devices that crowd would’ve had us down very quickly.’

  Isloman grunted at this disclaimer. ‘What did they attack us for?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think they were attacking us,’ Hawklan re-plied. ‘I think they were attacking those Mathidrin. Cockroaches, they were calling them.’

  ‘Good name,’ said Isloman, who had reached the same conclusion about the Mathidrin as Hawklan during their journey.

  ‘Still,’ Hawklan continued, ‘we could have been badly hurt in all that confusion. We’re well out of it.’ He patted Serian’s neck.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ asked Isloman.

  Hawklan stared up and down the street. Figures were flitting here and there, and at both ends he could see crowds milling around. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’d like to find out what’s happened here before we make any decisions.’

  That, however, proved to be harder than he had imagined. Those passers-by who were prepared to stop and speak to him left him with more questions than he had started with. The Mathidrin had launched an unprovoked attack on a crowd. The High Guards were attacking the Palace. Malcontents disguised as High Guards-or Mathidrin-were trying to seize the City. Mathidrin-or High Guards-disguised as ordinary citizens, were trying to do the same. Several parties had, of course, started the fires. They had also been started by accident. The fumes had driven the people mad, etc, etc.

  Eventually Hawklan stopped trying and sat down on a short flight of steps leading to an upper walkway that ran along the street. Out of the mounting gloom, two stumbling figures emerged. A man, staggering badly and holding his hand to his tunic, and a woman, trying to support him and encouraging him between near hysterical sobs.

  Hawklan stood up just as the two slithered to the ground. Instantly the woman disentangled herself and, struggling to her feet, tried to help the man. But he was obviously too weak. He rose to a kneeling position, supporting himself with one hand on the ground, but could do no more. Hawklan and Isloman ran across to them and Hawklan knelt down by the man. Gently he took the man’s hand. It was clenched in front of his tunic and as Hawklan pulled it away he saw that the man had been holding in part of his intestines. Hawklan grimaced in spite of himself and Isloman, eyes wide, involuntarily raised his hand to his mouth as if to silence himself.

  The woman screamed and cradled the man’s head desperately. Hawklan drew his hand across his forehead, which was suddenly damp. He knew before he touched the man that he was dead, but to comfort himself in the immediate pain of his discovery, the healer in him had to search for signs of life.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the woman, easing her to her feet. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The woman fell suddenly silent. Ghastly in the yel-lowing light, she stood motionless, her eyes and mouth wide, as if all the flailing hysteria had wound itself into a tight, unassailable ball within her. When at last she spoke, her voice carried a harsh calm. ‘Why should you be sorry?’ she said. ‘You didn’t kill him did you? The cockroaches did it. We were just trying to get away from the crowds and the fighting.’ She was not talking to anyone. She was looking back through the darkness to a brighter, happier life only a few minutes past. ‘They chased us, and stabbed him for nothing.’

  Hawklan looked at Isloman having no words to speak. Another concussion shook the street and for a few seconds a flickering light filtered down over them. Then the sound of the nearby crowds rose suddenly. Hawklan looked at the woman, now kneeling silent by her dead man, her hunched shadow fading as the light disappeared upwards into the thickening mask. The sight cleared his mind. He took Isloman’s arm.

  ‘We go where the sick and injured are, then we find Dan-Tor,’ he said.

  Isloman looked uncertain. ‘What about the woman?’ he said.

  Hawklan’s face twisted, as if the words he had to speak were sour in his mouth. ‘There’s nothing I can do for the man, and only time can help her now. At least she’s not lost. There’ll be some of her own nearby… somewhere.’ Isloman seemed about to protest, but the pain in Hawklan’s face stopped him. Hawklan closed his eyes to shut out his friend’s reproach. ‘Right now, people are suffering who I can help. I have to do something before the stench of pain and terror over-whelms me.’ Isloman looked again at the silent woman, and then nodded reluctantly. Hawklan turned and began walking in the direction the couple had come from. Isloman followed.

  The two men were scarcely halfway to the en
d of the street when a scream from the woman cut through the gloom. Turning, they could make out several figures moving round the body of the fallen man. The scream rang out again and the movement resolved itself into a struggle. Without hesitation, both Hawklan and Isloman began to run back up the street. As they neared the group, they saw that the figures were Mathidrin. Two of them were holding the woman and a third was threaten-ing her with a knife. Her dress had been ripped wide open. Four other Mathidrin were standing by laughing and shouting encouragement.

  Isloman hesitated momentarily. The intent of the Mathidrin was quite obvious and it could well be followed by murder. What action he should take was also quite obvious-but there were seven of them, and all armed. In the brief moment it took him to dispatch this thought, he felt Hawklan surge away from his side like a wild hunting animal and, before he could collect himself, he saw the Mathidrin with the knife fall to the ground senseless. It was the sound of the knife clatter-ing across the patterned stones that brought Isloman’s faculties sharply into the present. A distinctly dangerous present. The Mathidrin were drawing their swords. So was Hawklan.

  Isloman caught a glimpse of the now discarded woman and then the dead man lying in his own entrails. A spark of vengeance lit up his mind, transforming his fear into an ancient rage. Stepping forward, he drew his iron-bound club-his stone and Loman’s metal. A terrible weapon it had once been.

  Hawklan faced the two who had been holding the woman. Eyes cold, he swung his sword high and purposefully with his right hand. Instinctively, the two men raised their own swords to block a downward cut but, even as they did so, Hawklan stepped in low, striking one full in the throat with his left hand, to send him choking to the ground. Then bringing his right hand down and across, he smashed the pommel of his sword into the other man’s temple.

  Facing an opponent of his own, Isloman noted these manoeuvres almost subliminally. Thoughts came to him again. Where had Hawklan learned to fight like that? So sure, so fast. What powers and ancient learning lay hidden in that familiar frame?

  But it was no time for pondering. These Mathidrin were not without skill themselves. He felt a blade tear his tunic and cut into his side as he misjudged a feint by his attacker. The pain galvanized him and, before the blade could be withdrawn, he wrapped his arm around his opponent’s and with a sudden turn of his body broke it. Continuing the turn he hurled the screaming man into his fellows, knocking two of them down and making a third drop his sword. A few swirling seconds later the skirmish was over, and the Mathidrin were all disarmed and on the ground, either unconscious or nearly so.

  Hawklan’s eyes were blazing green in the gloom and he seemed to be transfixed, as if wrestling with some appalling urge as he slowly sheathed his sword. Isloman moved over to the woman cowering by the side of the street.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. But she looked up at him with such a strange expression on her face that he withdrew his hand. As he straightened up, a shape moved rapidly towards him out of the gloom. Before he could react, it passed by his head and there was a scuffle and a strangled cry from behind him. Turning he found himself staring into the wild-eyed face of another Mathidrin. In one hand, the man held a knife, but the other was groping at his throat and blood was pouring through his fingers. Isloman stepped aside as the figure staggered dementedly forward to crash headlong on to the ground after a few paces. There was a burst of coughing from above.

  ‘Sorry I was a little late, dear boy.’ Cough. ‘Difficult to see in all this.’

  The incident brought Hawklan to himself again. He glanced down at the dead Mathidrin and then looked upwards. ‘Gavor, you shouldn’t… ’ he began angrily.

  ‘He saved my life,’ interrupted Isloman angrily. ‘It was my fault. I was careless.’

  Doubt and anger spread over Hawklan’s face but, before he could speak, a cry came from one of the fallen Mathidrin. The woman had picked up a dagger and stabbed him. Before Hawklan reached her, she had stabbed a second. None too gently he wrenched the knife from her hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted furiously.

  The woman met his stare unflinchingly. ‘I’m killing these cockroaches just like they killed my husband,’ she said savagely. Hawklan did not reply but, keeping hold of her wrist, he bent briefly over the two men. ‘They’re dead,’ he said.

  ‘So will the others be in a moment,’ said the woman, struggling to free herself.

  ‘No,’ cried Hawklan.

  But with a desperate effort the woman tore her hand from his grip. ‘You’re foreigners, aren’t you?’ she said, backing away. Then without waiting for an answer, ‘You saved my life and I owe you that debt, but you don’t understand what’s happening here.’ Her face crumpled momentarily, but she controlled it almost immediately. ‘You don’t understand. Everything’s gone. No Geadrol. No Law. No High Guards. Only a sick King, a Warlock Lord and these vermin.’ She drove her foot brutally into one of the Mathidrin who was trying to rise to his feet. ‘They killed my husband. Now I’m killing them.’ She kicked him again repeatedly. Hawklan moved forward and she backed away from the fallen man. ‘If no one’s going to look after us, then we Fyordyn look after ourselves,’ and, bending down suddenly, she scooped up another dagger and drove it into the Mathidrin’s stomach before Hawklan could move.

  Isloman stepped forward and caught her arm, but she spun round and drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over and she ran off into the gloom.

  ‘Leave her,’ Isloman gasped painfully as Hawklan made to run after her. ‘Leave her. She’s right. She knows what’s happening and, as you said, she knows where she is, which is more than we do.’

  Hawklan stared uncertainly after the now-vanished woman, and then looked at his friend. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Isloman scowled and bent forward again. ‘Of course I’m not,’ he said acidly. ‘Just give me a minute or two.’

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve got that long,’ said Hawklan, looking round at the carnage. ‘There’s nothing we can do here, and there’s too much summary justice in the air for us to try explaining this. Come on. Mount up.’

  Isloman glowered at him, but straightened up gin-gerly and hobbled to his horse. Gritting his teeth he accepted Hawklan’s support as he heaved himself painfully into the saddle.

  No sooner were they both mounted than Gavor flapped between them. ‘Run. Quickly,’ he croaked, breathlessly.

  As they disappeared into the gloom, a large patrol of Mathidrin emerged from the opposite direction and halted by the scattered bodies.

  Chapter 35

  The nerve centre of Urssain’s response to the fighting in the streets was high in one of the Palace towers, where he could supplement the information he was receiving simply by looking out of the window. It was for this reason that the lower floors of the Westerclave were fairly empty.

  With the Goraidin setting a stern marching pace, and the Lords looking suitably harassed, the group had little difficulty in making their way through to its arched entrance. Such few Mathidrin as they met stepped smartly out of their way and saluted Yatsu’s officer’s uniform.

  At the entrance, however, they found their horses being scrutinized by an officer. His uniform indicated a high rank, though how high, Yatsu did not know. Two other Mathidrin were standing by talking idly. Yatsu set his face and hoped that his ignorance of Mathidrin ranks and procedures would not betray them.

  Maintaining the determined pace, Yatsu steered the group to the far side of the horses from the officer and loudly ordered them to mount, shouting, ‘Move, you sluggards, or you’ll answer to the Lord Dan-Tor personally.’

  Following his lead, the Goraidin and the Lords mounted quickly and prepared to ride off.

  ‘Sirshiant,’ came an authoritative and supercilious voice. It was the officer.

  Yatsu discreetly allowed his horse to move forward a few paces and then twisted round in his saddle as if seeking the owner of the voice. Fin
ding him, he looked suitably surprised and then saluted smartly. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Didn’t see you. Watching the prisoners. They’re needed urgently.’

  The officer’s eyes narrowed slightly. Adjusting the grip on his reins, Yatsu sent a danger signal to his men.

  ‘By whose authority have you released these men?’ the officer demanded.

  ‘Lord Dan-Tor’s direct command, sir,’ Yatsu replied.

  The officer’s eyebrows rose slowly. ‘Direct com-mand,’ he echoed, as if testing its soundness. His look of suspicion increased. On the side away from the officer, Yatsu discreetly tapped his horse with his knee, to make it restive. Seeing this, the others did the same and the group fell into a slight but fluid disarray which spread out the watching Mathidrin and made the officer step back a little.

  The movement enabled Yatsu to take his eyes off the officer and look around the courtyard. He could see no signs of ambush but his sense of danger was growing by the second. Somewhere a trap was closing, and this officer was playing for time.

  As if in confirmation of this the officer waited very deliberately for the horses to quieten down, eyeing Yatsu coldly all the time. A horse jostled Yatsu and as its rider made soothing noises to quieten it Yatsu heard a soft whisper in the Battle Language. ‘They’ve recognized the horses.’

  That had always been a risk. They had had to use the horses from the ambushed patrol because the Mathidrin horses were from the north of Fyorlund and were of a build and colour markedly different from local animals. Now some sharp eye had spotted a horse last seen going out on long patrol. Whatever this officer had set in motion, time was against them. Yatsu reached into a belt pouch with his left hand.

  ‘Direct command, sir. I’ve the orders here.’