The fall of Fyorlund tcoh-2

by Roger Taylor

  Jaldaric gently mocked his father’s unexpected rhetoric. ‘Father, you sound like an old storyteller… a Keeper of the Festivals.’ But his brief jauntiness vanished abruptly and he wrapped his arms around himself as if for protection. ‘And if you’re right. You talk about the fall of countries as if it were nothing. Whole populations swept aside for the sake of some greater future.’ There was a question mark in the word greater. ‘What are people? Just so many dust motes?’

  Eldric reached out to his son. ‘I don’t know, Jal,’ he said. ‘Maybe we are motes floating through this world at the behest of others, but we have our own wills.’

  ‘But we’ve no freedom to exercise them in action, Father,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘No freedom. What can we do here?’

  Eldric chuckled and, as if in response, the torch turned to the colour of spring sunshine. Eldric looked at it and threw it a salute. ‘Thank you, old craftsman, wherever you are. Your gift continues unalloyed.’ Then, turning to his son, ‘What we can do, Jaldaric, Eldric’s son-as motes-is get in Dan-Tor’s eyes.’

  Chapter 50

  The Mathidrin trooper quailed under Sylvriss’s baleful stare. ‘Brown eyes a man would drown in,’ he had once heard a lustful compatriot wax in a more lyrical moment, but the gaze that held him now took all the moisture from his mouth and throat.

  ‘Release my bridle,’ she said but, though the words were slow and soft, they held such menace that the hand did as it was bid without any conscious effort on its owner’s part. Two fears met inside him like clashing waves, and from somewhere he found a voice. It was hoarse and nervous, but it would have to do.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘It’s the Ffyrst’s orders. You’re not to be allowed out into the City without a full escort. It’s too dangerous.’

  It was not in Sylvriss’s nature to confront when she could walk around, nor did she often use the authority which her position allowed and the people bestowed. But she was a Muster woman, and to obstruct the way of a Muster rider was to invoke responses which tran-scended normal social restraints. She swung her riding crop round and placed it accurately under the trooper’s chin. Then, bending forward, her gaze still relentlessly steady, she said, ‘I am not to be allowed?’ in a soft echo of the man’s words. ‘Even the King would not order me thus. Now stand aside or this horse may kill you before I can stop it.’

  The man took a hesitant step to one side. ‘Majesty, please,’ he said piteously. ‘I’ll be punished if I allow you through.’

  Exuding fear, and drained of the arrogance and disdain that was the hallmark of the Mathidrin, the man became more human, and Sylvriss relented slightly. ‘Find a senior officer immediately,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you two minutes.’

  It did not help, however. The man swallowed. ‘I may not leave my post, Majesty,’ he said.

  Some materials, when stressed, yield and move, giving outward signs of their condition. Others hold the stress within themselves, allowing it to build unseen, until one last increment bursts the fabric suddenly and catastrophically. So it was now with Sylvriss.

  Fretful at the news of repression her contacts were bringing to her, and fearful for their safety as Dan-Tor swept aside the ancient Law and replaced it with the even more ancient law of superior force; fearful also for the safety of Dilrap, daily playing aide and would-be confidante to Dan-Tor; and above all, fearful for her husband, steadily improving in health away from the pernicious influence of his Chief Physician, and becoming increasingly anxious to take to himself some of the reins of government he had so long relinquished, Sylvriss needed her riding to be able to retain some inner peace and outward semblance of calm and composure.

  Thundering through the City’s great parks, and sometimes beyond the City itself, the wind blowing in her face and at one with the powerful animal under her, she could find again the spirit of the Riddinvolk and renew her courage and the sense of purpose that would sustain her when she returned to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Palace.

  Now this was threatened and the many fears came together like sharp-pointed chisels to destroy her. Her mind knew that the guard was only doing as he had been bidden and that she was placing him in an intolerable position, but it was a small cry against the roar of her heart and spirit, and while it did not yield its right, it saw its defeat.

  The Mathidrin saw it also, so acute had his fears made him, and he stepped back hastily even before the Queen urged her great horse forward and galloped through the gate regardless of him.

  As the hoofbeats echoed into the distance, he recov-ered himself and, running over to an alarm bell hanging by the side of the gate, he rang out a clamorous carillon in celebration of the passing of his dilemma. He’d done everything he could, cried the bell, let the officers deal with her.

  But Sylvriss and her mount were out of earshot before the first resonating vibrations left the bell. At full gallop she cascaded through the streets of the City heedless of direction and destination. What was important was to ride, to ride, to ride. To set aside the endless complexities and ambiguities of her life, and just be, just exist for a little while. She could not be constrained by guards and escorts any more than could the horses of Riddin be penned; free spirits both, they would either die or kill if pinioned.

  How long she rode she could not have said, nor through what streets and by-ways, but gradually her passion ebbed and the mind’s voice became louder. She had been hasty with that guard. There had been a great deal of trouble in the City following the arrest of Eldric and Oremson, and she knew huge contingents of Mathidrin had been brought in from somewhere to contend with it. Her action had not been wise from any point of view except insofar as it eased her own inner pains. However, she could make amends and at least ensure the trooper was not punished. No great hurt need come of it.

  Then, as her spirit quieted, she became aware of the sound of the horse’s hooves on the stone street as, reading her mood, it slowed down to a gentle canter. They echoed.

  She reined to a halt and looked around. A deep silence pervaded everywhere and rang almost deafen-ingly in her ears. Only the familiar sound of creaking harness and the easy breathing of her horse told her she had not become suddenly deaf. The street was deserted. And from the silence it seemed as if the whole City was deserted.

  She looked up at the surrounding buildings and identified where she was. Not one of the busier parts of the City but, even so, it was late morning and a great many people should have been about. She walked the horse forward, curiosity pushing all other concerns from her mind. For several minutes she moved quietly from street to street. All deserted. Unease began to temper her curiosity.

  Glancing up, she saw a curtain flicker. She stared at it pensively for some time, then dismounted and went over to the small flight of stone steps which led up to the door of the house. The strangeness of her behaviour made her feel slightly disorientated but, following her impulse, she walked up the steps and took hold of the large heavy door knocker.

  She found its cold contact reassuring and she brought her face close to it as if to hide from the rest of the world. The striker was a traditional iron ring with a radiant star at its centre, while the striking plate was a simple boss known colloquially as Sumeral’s pate. She brought the striker down purposefully.

  The sound ruptured the silence and echoed up and down the street before it escaped out over the rooftops. It seemed to breed a myriad tiny whispers all pointing accusingly at her. It also brought her a little more to herself. She struck again and the answering whispers became terrified.

  But no answer came from within. Her jaw stiffened and she beat a powerful tattoo on the door that seemed to raise dust whirls in the street. As the hissing echoes faded, she became aware of a presence behind the door.

  ‘Majesty,’ came a faint voice. ‘Majesty. What do you want?’ The voice was fearful, and the request peremp-tory.

  Its tone dispelled her brief anger. ‘Open the door,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s happening. Where is everyon
e? Why are the streets empty?’

  ‘Majesty, how can you not know?’ came the reply. ‘I beg of you, go away’.

  Again anger fluttered inside Sylvriss, but she con-tained it. She knew that no one would speak to her thus except under some dire provocation. ‘Are you going to leave your Queen standing at your threshold like some pedlar?’ she said gently.

  There was a long silence, then some scuffling and whispering from behind the door. Her horse whinnied softly, but she ignored it.

  Then a woman’s voice. ‘Majesty, please, I beg you, leave now, for all our sakes.’

  Sylvriss began to protest, but the words died on her lips, such was the fear in the whispered voice. Baffled she turned and walked back to her horse.

  ‘You there, stop!’

  A raucous command shattered her reverie and brought her harshly back to the street. She turned to see a Mathidrin foot patrol approaching. Patting her horse’s neck she whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t listen to you properly.’

  Scanning the patrol she saw one or two familiar faces, but the Sirshiant at its head was unfamiliar. He was tall and well built, and carried himself with an attitude that set Sylvriss’s teeth on edge.

  Leaving the patrol he strode towards her purpose-fully. Sylvriss drew herself up and met his gaze coldly, but his stride did not falter and knots of fear began to tangle in her stomach.

  ‘You’re aware of the punishment for being on the streets, wench,’ he said coldly, starting to draw his sword. There was a visible tremor in the ranks of the patrol behind him, and a disbelieving hiss of voices filled the air from no apparent source.

  The Sirshiant faltered and then stopped. ‘Who was that?’ he said quietly and ominously. A trooper ran forward and spoke to him softly. Slowly he released his sword, tightening and untightening his grip on the hilt angrily. Then he slammed it back into its sheath and there was an undisguised snicker from someone in the patrol. His face became livid, but he turned again to the Queen.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said, as if the words were choking him. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know who you were. We’ve very strict orders about how to deal with people disobeying the Ffyrst’s edicts.’

  Sylvriss could see a fury bubbling within the man, but it seemed to be disproportionate to the humiliation he had just brought on himself. She felt her horse tremble slightly, instinctively preparing itself for battle, and realized suddenly that the man was demented and barely in control. Then she noticed that his hands were bloodstained.

  Abruptly the man’s anger meshed with and unleashed her own, and swinging up into her saddle she glared down at him. ‘Sirshiant,’ she said, ‘you need lessons in discretion I think. Have your Captain and his Commander report to me when you return to barracks.’

  The man’s control slipped a little further, but he managed a restrained salute. Sylvriss swung the horse round, making him jump clear, then urged it forward at a slow walk.

  She had gone barely ten paces when she heard, ‘Break that door down and execute the occupants for violation of the Edict.’ She spun round in disbelief. Several of the patrol were running towards the door she had been knocking on, and the Sirshiant was drawing his sword again. It, too, was bloodstained.

  ‘No,’ she cried, and turning her horse she drove it at the advancing men. Those who knew her retreated immediately while the remainder hesitated only to be scattered as she swung the horse round and placed it firmly across the foot of the small stairway.

  The Sirshiant strode forward and took hold of the horse’s bridle in a white-knuckled grip. The horse tore it free and sent the man staggering. He raised his sword furiously.

  ‘Sirshiant,’ thundered Sylvriss. ‘Are you insane? Bad enough you seize the bridle of a horse like this, but raising your sword to me. You’re under arrest! Hand me that sword and return immediately to your barracks.’

  The man hesitated, then turned and walked away from her for a little way. When he stopped his shoulders were hunched as if he were pushing against a great weight.

  ‘Sirshiant,’ said the Queen, ‘lay down your sword. That’s an order.’ But as he turned, she saw the last vestige of control slip away from him and knew that her words would be no more effective than falling autumn leaves in restraining him.

  Some of the patrol saw it too and, breaking ranks, dashed forward. He struck the first to reach him with a single back-handed blow that laid him out along the street, blood streaming down his face, then turning towards the others he held out his left hand, inviting them forward, while his right hand brandished the sword menacingly. The patrol spread out in a wide, uncertain circle.

  When he turned again, the Sirshiant’s intent was hideously clear. Battle-fever. Bloodlust. The words burst into Sylvriss’s mind. A lesser person would have faltered, disbelieving such a thing possible in this quiet City street. But, Muster-trained, Sylvriss saw it for what it was. Somehow, perhaps intentionally, she had released this demon. Now she must face it, with its dreadful hamstringing sword. There was no retreat. Her stomach was hard and hollow with a dreadful fear, but her only ally was her horse, and to allow fear to dominate would be to infect the animal and betray it. She leaned forward and whispered words of release to it; killing words. It was ready. Its eyes shone whitely and it pranced a little as with its rider it changed its fear to anger.

  Hooves clattering on the hard stone street, and fore-legs dancing high, the horse moved around the Sirshiant. With trembling hands, Sylvriss seized the handle of the staff that was part of every Muster rider’s tackle. It stuck in its loop and her father’s angry voice rushed in on her. ‘Look after your equipment properly, girl. The dangerous attacks are those you’re not expecting.’

  The horse skittered to one side and lashed out a foot as the Sirshiant aimed a wild whistling sword cut at its head. The man moved with surprising speed, however, and the hoof barely touched him.

  Then, at last, the staff came free, but with such sud-denness that it slipped from Sylvriss’s gasp. Instinctively, she flicked the elusive end and caught the staff boldly as it spun round. The movement looked calculated and confident and the Sirshiant stepped back into a low, crouching stance. Then, taking the sword in both hands, he lifted it above his head and charged forward with a great roar.

  Sylvriss watched the attack coming. Judgement in her too, was now the prisoner of battle-fever. She could still flee, it said faintly, but her rage was locked with the Sirshiant’s madness in an ancient mutuality of purpose as intense as that of two passionate lovers. They would not part without catharsis.

  The horse stepped backwards and sideways abruptly and the blow missed by a hair’s breadth. Unbalanced by the unexpected lack of impact, the Sirshiant staggered round in the direction of his swing, and the horse ran into him. At the same time Sylvriss brought her staff down on to his head. His iron helmet protected him from injury, but the loud and incongruous clang was ringing in his ears as he hit the ground.

  Curling up into a tight, protective knot, the Sirshiant rolled clear of the horse’s hooves as it ran over him. To her horror, Sylvriss saw the man rise, a little unsteady, but with the sword still in his hand and his madness rampant. She charged straight at him before he could recover fully and swung the staff at his head again. He jumped to one side and swung his sword to parry the blow.

  The steel sliced effortlessly through the descending wood, and Sylvriss saw her staff shortened to half its length as the weighted end clattered across the echoing stones of the street.

  Something deep inside her told her the end was near and a peculiar calmness flowed through her. She felt the swinging momentum of her horse as it turned, and, without thinking, she leaned forward towards her staggering attacker and drove the severed end of the staff at his throat.

  The Sirshiant shied away from the blow but the weapon he had just forged drove into his cheek, and he felt its impact smashing teeth and tissue.

  The demon in the man burst out in a blood-spewing cry and he drew back the sword for a blow that would have
felled both horse and rider. But it was too late. The horse lashed out its hoof and caught him squarely under the chin, breaking his neck and lifting him clear off the ground, to fall spread-eagled on the ringing stones. The broken staff bounced out of his damaged face like a final act of disdain.

  The horse reared, and let out a great scream of tri-umph, and Sylvriss heard her own voice, too, ringing with the Muster’s battle cry. She felt her heart pounding and her breath gasping, and for a moment she almost lost consciousness under the conflicting torrents of elation and shame that flooded her.

  * * * *

  As she watched the troopers, wide-eyed and fearful, gather up their erstwhile leader, and turn to her for their next orders, Sylvriss realized that the whole incident had taken only seconds. But she knew her life had been irrevocably changed. All things were changed now.

  Chapter 51

  Dan-Tor set little store by the Queen’s escapade. With the Mathidrin tightening his grip on the bodies of the people, and with spies and rumours tightening his grip on their hearts and minds, such antics could not disturb his growing sense of satisfaction. In fact, he was quite pleased in some ways. He had seen the Queen returning, magnificent as ever on her great horse, but with fever-flushed cheeks and strange haunted eyes instead of the glowing vigour she normally returned with to pollute the whole Palace.

  I’ll hedge you in, he thought, make you fret and fume until your passions consume you. For your ‘own good’ I’ll curb you and watch you choke on the invisible leash. It would be a small piece of personal indulgence to heighten his pleasure at the change in circumstances.

  As for that dolt of a Sirshiant who’d got himself killed, even that had been useful, not to say amusing. It would teach the newcomers to the City that they weren’t dealing with Mandrocs now and they’d have to curb their bloodthirsty ways. More subtly, it would teach them not to underestimate the opposition they might face.