by Roger Taylor
He hesitated.
Memories of Orthlund and its people, sunlit, peaceful and glorious rose to stand against the stark, bloodstained, winter greyness of the present.
He reached up and touched Gavor's beak. ‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘And guard Andawyr as you'd guard me.'
Gavor bowed his head and looked at him beadily like an old schoolmaster. ‘Now, dear boy,’ he said purposefully. ‘Dar Hastuin and Creost foul my air.'
Hawklan frowned and then patted Serian's neck. ‘Now, Hawklan,’ the horse said, with the same resolve as Gavor. ‘This is my land, and I would ride to save it.'
Hawklan nodded and turned to one of his Helyadin bodyguard. ‘Signal to Loman, “Now",’ he said.
The young man spurred his horse clear of the group to obey the order.
Hawklan watched him for a moment and then took off his gloves and reached up to unfasten the laces that held his ragged cloak.
They were stiff in the cold air and gave him a little difficulty, but he eventually freed them and with a broad gesture swung the cloak from his shoulders to reveal a black surcoat covering the fine black mail armour that Loman had made for him. It bore no emblem. Ethriss's sword hung by his side.
Isloman looked at him, his face impassive. The sight brought back vividly to the carver the memory of Tirilen prinking out the healer for his trip to the Gretmearc; of his shock at the sudden appearance of a figure that might have stepped down from one of the many carvings that decorated Anderras Darion. Now, however, the presence of the man set all such comparisons at naught. Hawklan was here, now, powerful as much because of his doubts as his certainties; a whole man.
Who masters one art masters all, Isloman thought as, with quiet gentleness, Hawklan folded his old cloak and placed it in his saddle bag.
Then with the same calm, Hawklan lifted up the grim black helm that Loman had also made. As he held it up he looked round at his companions.
'To the light, my friends,’ he said quietly.
Serian lifted his head and shook it as Hawklan urged him forward and, with a powerful beat of his wings, Gavor launched himself into the air to glide, black and stark, against the white Riddin snow.
* * *
Chapter 16
Dan-Tor stared out into the greyness that encompassed Narsindalvak. The garish light from the globes illuminating the room turned the slowly swirling mist outside the window a pallid white. At the Ffyrst's feet was a small constellation of dull red stars where his blood had dripped from the barbed end of Hawklan's arrow still protruding from his side.
Behind him, Urssain and Aelang stood silent and watchful; like the Mathidrin as a whole, loath to be there but bound to him more than ever.
'How serious is this?’ Dan-Tor asked eventually, without turning round.
The two men exchanged a glance. ‘Very serious, Ffyrst,’ Aelang said. ‘We think that commanders Faron and Groniev are committed to it—and most of their senior officers. Their men will follow them almost certainly, of course.'
'Of course,’ Dan-Tor echoed softly. ‘And the other commanders?'
'They'll wait,’ Aelang said awkwardly, after a dangerously long pause.
Dan-Tor's lips parted to reveal his white teeth in an expression that was neither smile nor snarl. His own image stared back at him from outside, faint and transparent, and seemingly surrounded by the glowing white mist. It taunted him. Great Uhriel, where is your power now? Your vaulting ambition? Bound and blind, and surrounded by ants who think themselves ravening wolves. Will you still be here when Creost and Dar Hastuin are fawning at His feet and receiving His favours? Toying with your remnant soldiers and bleating over the ill-chance that took Fyorlund from you and stuck you like a hunted pig?
'No,’ Dan-Tor muttered.
'I beg your pardon, Ffyrst?’ Aelang said, leaning forward intently.
'No!’ came an awesome, cavernous, voice in reply.
The two Mathidrin froze. The voice was the voice of Oklar. His presence, his malice, filled the room, filled their bodies and their minds leaving space for nothing but himself.
'It will not be!'
Both Urssain and Aelang had seen the anger of the Uhriel rise up within the Ffyrst before, and even though its terrible purpose had never been directed towards them, they found it terrifying beyond words. It was as if they were falling into the infinitely deep maw of some flaring, malevolent, volcano.
Neither dared to move. Both knew that if one had committed some inadvertent folly, then for the other to seek to aid him would be to do the same, and meet the same fate.
But, as quickly as it had come, the awesome presence faded until it was like a thunderstorm in some far distant valley. Both men remained silent.
'Why do you bring this to me?’ Dan-Tor said eventually, his voice and presence normal again. ‘You're more than able to attend to such ... administrative ... problems without my aid.'
'With respect, Ffyrst, this is more than a minor problem,’ Urssain said, speaking for the first time. ‘We knew something was being plotted, but we presumed it was against us, as usual. It was only when two of our informants in Faron's company met with “accidents” that we even began to suspect how serious it was...’ He paused.
'And?’ Dan-Tor prompted.
Urssain looked quickly at Aelang, who nodded.
'They intend to seize the tower and attempt to make a peace with the Lords.’ Urssain concluded his denunciation more hurriedly than he had intended.
There was a long silence. Eventually Dan-Tor raised a hand delicately. ‘And where am I in this ... new peace?’ he asked quietly.
Urssain hesitated momentarily. ‘You are to be ... assassinated, Ffyrst.'
Dan-Tor frowned uncertainly at his mist-shrouded double hovering outside as a long forgotten sensation stirred within him. It took him some time to identify it. It was amusement.
Its rebirth however, was brief, as Dan-Tor's black corrosive scorn choked its faltering sunlight.
He turned away from the window and sat down.
'And you are concerned for my welfare, commanders? he inquired, looking first at Urssain and then Aelang.
Urssain had stood next to the Ffyrst too long to even attempt the lie that the question seemingly sought. He could however risk an oblique statement of the stark truth.
'You destroyed half of Vakloss with a gesture of your hands, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘You have powers beyond our understanding. No one could assail you and hope to live. It's a measure of Faron and Groniev's folly that they should even contemplate such an idea. But if their treason is allowed to take too strong a root in the men before it's torn out then we could find ourselves fighting our own, and that would be disastrous for our cause.'
Dan-Tor appreciated Urssain's attempted subtlety, especially the reference to ‘our cause', but suddenly he felt irritated.
It was as if Dilrap was buzzing about him again with his eternal mind-clogging swathes of regulations, procedures, ‘respected traditions', and who knew what other petty restrictions that he deemed necessary for the quiet, subtle overthrow of Fyorlund.
Here, however, on the borders of Narsindal, Dan-Tor's vision and purpose were clearer and he refused to have either clouded by such pettifogging human trivia. Yet Aelang and Urssain were correct. A major upheaval amongst the Mathidrin and the renegade High Guards would risk destroying them as a fighting force, especially if it occurred within the claustrophobic confines of Narsindalvak. It might be a measure of Faron and Groniev's folly that they imagined they could eliminate him as though he was just another Mathidrin officer standing in their ambitious way, but it was also a measure of the seriousness of their intention that he had not detected it himself.
In dwelling too long on the fate that had brought him here and on the deep, silent, purpose of his Master, he had allowed himself to drift too far away from these unreliable and fickle creatures upon whose backs he must necessarily ride to achieve victory.
It was a salutary reminder, he realized. Now, i
t seemed, others too were in need of the same.
'Come with me,’ he said, standing up abruptly.
* * * *
Faron and Groniev were holding an officer's meeting when Dan-Tor entered with Aelang and Urssain in his wake. On the wall behind the two conspirators was a large map showing Narsindalvak and most of what had been Dan-Tor's estates in northern Fyorlund. Marked on it were the dispositions of the watching High Guards.
The two commanders came smartly to attention and there was a great scraping and clattering of chairs as their officers hastily stood up.
'Sit down,’ Dan-Tor said tersely. ‘I have something to show you which it will be in your best interests to take full note of.'
Aelang and Urssain kept their faces impassive, though Aelang's eyes gleamed at the tone of the Ffyrst's voice.
'Ah, you're still studying our position, I see,’ Dan-Tor went on. Walking to the map he turned his back on Faron and Groniev and began to study it thoughtfully.
'What's your assessment of our position, gentlemen?’ he said after a moment.
Faron's eyes flickered uneasily to Aelang and Urssain. He was visibly disconcerted by this unexpected appearance of the Ffyrst, so long ensconced and distant in his eyrie. Groniev however, answered calmly and immediately.
'It's adequate for our present needs, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘But leaves much to be desired if the High Guards move against us in force, as they probably will when the snows have cleared.'
Dan-Tor continued examining the map. ‘This tower fortress is the symbol of the High Guards’ faith and strength, commander,’ he said. ‘It's generally regarded as being unassailable. Do you think it can be lightly taken from us?'
Urssain quailed inwardly at Dan-Tor's reasonable tone. Groniev shook his head. ‘No, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘But I don't think it has to be. Narsindalvak's a watch tower and barracks. Enemy movements can be seen at great distances and forces launched against them, but until we join up with the Mandroc divisions we're in no position to venture out against numerically superior forces. And if we don't venture out, we'll be besieged and by-passed, and the Lords will be able to march into Narsindal to find the Mandrocs leaderless.'
Dan-Tor nodded. ‘You think that superior force in an enemy is everything, commander?’ he said.
Groniev looked at him uncertainly. ‘Not everything, Ffyrst,’ he risked. ‘Though it depends on the extent of the superiority. Knowledge of the enemy, leadership, terrain, are also important factors.'
'Vastly superior force, then,’ Dan-Tor offered, turning slightly.
Groniev nodded. ‘Vastly superior force must triumph, Ffyrst,’ he said.
'And vastly superior force together with knowledge of the enemy, leadership, etc?’ Dan-Tor continued.
Groniev, relaxing now, shrugged a smiling concession of the obvious.
'What would you call a leader who knowingly led his men against an opposition so armed, commander?’ Dan-Tor said.
Groniev frowned a little, still uncertain about the direction of this conversation. He searched for an answer. ‘Insane,’ he decided. ‘Or suicidal.'
'Yes,’ Dan-Tor said quietly, as if wearying of the subject. ‘Of course.'
A whirring silence filled the room.
Then, turning to Faron, Dan-Tor said, ‘What insanity prompted you to move against such odds, commander? Or are you, as your co-conspirator suggested, suicidal?'
Urssain felt a faint twinge of sympathy for the assailed commander.
Faron did not reply but gazed back at Dan-Tor like some timid animal held by the gaze of a predator. Groniev, spared Dan-Tor's gaze, understood their position immediately.
Urssain watched in disbelief as the man drew a knife.
With seemingly timeless slowness however, Dan-Tor turned and, before Groniev could lunge at him, seized his tunic, dragged him forward and hurled him into the paralysed Faron. The two men staggered across the room and crashed brutally into the wall.
Urssain found himself almost gaping at the spectacle. He had stood and quaked before the Ffyrst many times, in fear of some terrible, if unknown, retribution, and he had seen others worse affected; but he had never seen him resort to actual personal violence. Strangely he felt the action should have demeaned the man in some way; but it did not. Both Faron and Groniev were heavy and powerful men, well used to dealing with physical assaults, but Dan-Tor had hurled them across the room as effortlessly as if they had been mere playthings. Urssain noticed that he was not even breathing heavily.
Groniev slithered to the ground, stunned, but Faron lurched forward from the impact. As he did so, desperation broke him free of whatever fear had restrained him. With a cry of pain and anger he bent forward, snatched up the knife that Groniev had dropped and in one smooth movement hurled it at Dan-Tor.
It was a swift and powerful throw and the knife struck Dan-Tor squarely on the chest.
Then it clattered to the floor.
He doesn't wear armour, Urssain thought, but his momentary bewilderment vanished as Dan-Tor stepped forward and, taking hold of Faron, lifted him clear of the floor and hurled him against the opposite wall of the room. Again the deed seemed to be effortless.
Urssain needed to feel no pulse to realize that this second impact had killed Faron, but it was Dan-Tor's casual indifference that chilled him. It was far worse than any callousness or wild-eyed cruelty.
Dan-Tor looked down at the fallen knife. He opened his hand and the knife rose up into it.
Then he extended his other hand, palm upwards, and drove Groniev's knife into it. It did not penetrate. No scratch appeared, nor blemish. He repeated the attack several times but the hand remained uninjured. ‘You could not wield the weapon that could injure me, commander,’ he said. Then, as if bored, he tossed the knife away idly.
Groniev meanwhile had struggled to his feet. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes wide with terror and rage.
Dan-Tor cast a brief glance at the broken body of Faron, then turned to Groniev. ‘Superior force, commander,’ he said quietly. ‘Indeed, vastly superior force.'
Groniev did not reply.
'And I know my enemy, commander, do I not?’ Dan-Tor went on. ‘I know his very heart; his darkest, closest, fears.’ The tone of his voice made Urssain shiver. Dan-Tor held out his arm to the stunned audience. ‘As for leadership, let your men choose now who they wish to follow.’ No one moved.
'What was your other point?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Ah yes, the terrain. Well...’ He paused. ‘I know and understand that better than you can begin to imagine.'
Groniev, still leaning on the wall, looked hastily from side to side, seeking an escape from his plight. Urssain felt again a brief sympathy for this fellow creature caught in the path of a force he could not begin to understand, but it faded rapidly. The man had seen the destruction of Vakloss; if he chose to dispute with its perpetrator then let him take the consequences.
Dan-Tor raised his right hand towards Groniev as if he were about to offer a blessing. With a flesh-crawling screech of protest, a wide and jagged crack appeared in the wall immediately behind the commander and, with a surprised cry, he tumbled backwards into it.
Several of the watching officers moved forward instinctively but a wave of Dan-Tor's left arm froze them all where they stood.
Groniev managed to regain his balance, but even as he did so, the crack closed a little, wedging him tightly and he let out a brief but unexpectedly fearful shout.
Urssain remembered that Groniev had a morbid and abiding fear of enclosed places. He felt Oklar's spirit filling the room.
'I know and understand my terrain, commander,’ Dan-Tor repeated. Then, slowly, as if to a foolish child, ‘And I am master over all that shape and form it. From the weather-blasted peaks of the highest mountains, through the choking, suffocating dust of the southern deserts, to the rocks that lie bound helpless and airless in the dark, crushing, depths far below us; the rocks from which this tower is built.'
As he spoke, the crack
slowly began to close and Groniev began to struggle desperately.
'Do you doubt this, commander?’ Dan-Tor continued.
Groniev opened his mouth as if to reply, but all that emerged was a choking cry; a cry of terror that began to rise rapidly in pitch and intensity, until it was a howling, pleading scream.
Urssain then saw that the crack was not crushing Groniev as he had imagined, but closing around him so that soon he would be entombed. Groniev's scream became one of primeval, inhuman terror. Urssain tried to swallow, but could not; the scream seemed to resonate with every tiny, unreasoned fear lurking in the dark unknown reaches of his own spirit. And it went on and on and on ...
Then the crack was gone, closed utterly, and the last shrieking note of Groniev's nightmare rose into the dank silence of the room and died.
All that could be heard then was a faint and distant stirring as of some tiny burrowing rodent scuttling behind a panel, though it seemed to Urssain that the whole room was vibrating with the frenzy of Groniev's demented struggling.
Dan-Tor stared pensively at the wall for a moment. Urssain noted that he was leaning slightly towards his wounded side as if it were troubling him.
The officers, somehow released from their paralysis, seemed unable to look at each other. All were pale and visibly shaken. Some sat down heavily, as their legs refused to support them. One man vomited.
Dan-Tor remained standing, staring at the wall for a long time, as if awaiting some event, then, though he made no movement that Urssain could see, the crack opened again, silently and suddenly, and Groniev slithered from it. As he crawled clear, the crack closed with what, it seemed to Urssain, was almost a sigh.
Groniev lay at Dan-Tor's feet and made no effort to rise. His choking breaths were as inhuman as had been his screams.
