The Fall of Fyorlund [Book Two of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'We need no rest,’ said Isloman impatiently. ‘We've wasted too much time already.'

  Hawklan looked at him and smiled faintly. ‘The horses need rest, Isloman,’ he said. ‘We'll make no progress at all if we ride them into the ground, will we?'

  Isloman slapped his hands on his knees in frustration. Hawklan stood up abruptly and the two brothers echoed his action. He looked at them both in turn.

  'We've known one another too long and too well to vie amongst ourselves like silly children about which of us has the greatest affection for Tirilen. We must set aside our selfish pain and think of her. You two must think as you did when you fought side by side before she was born. I'll offer what observations I can.’ Hawklan shook his head pensively. ‘I seem to be finding many strange skills and ideas within myself these days. I fear I may not be without some experience in battle myself, though I remember none of it.'

  Gavor ruffled his feathers noisily in the darkness, and for a moment the group stood in an uneasy silence.

  Then, cutting through it, Hawklan said almost jauntily, ‘Show me Jareg's horse. I had doubts about whether it would reach Pedhavin alive.'

  'It's a fine mount,’ said Isloman. ‘Jareg knows his horses and he's got a real bargain there. He said it livened up considerably after you'd seen it on the way back.'

  Hawklan walked across to the three horses waiting patiently by the path and laid his hand on the animal's nose. It was indeed well again.

  The horse spoke to him unexpectedly. ‘I am Serian, Hawklan. And your debtor. I'm whole again through your ministrations and I'm happy to see you returned from the Gretmearc uninjured, if not unchanged.'

  Hawklan started. Animals rarely sought to impose themselves on others and it was unusual for one to speak unless spoken to first. However, it did not surprise him that the horse had noticed the changes in him. Certain animals seemed to possess a strange deep vision that harked back through many generations.

  'Yes,’ he replied. ‘I'm uninjured, or nearly so.’ He held up his bandaged hand. ‘Thank you for the warning you gave me. I thought the giving of it would have destroyed you.'

  The horse gave the equivalent of a chuckle. ‘It was a powerful hand that was laid on me, without a doubt,’ he said. ‘Even though it was an accident.'

  'Accident?’ queried Hawklan.

  'Oh yes,’ said Serian. ‘I was only caught by the welt of a restraining curse they were using to disguise their monstrous snare. If they'd realized I'd recognized them I'd be in the pot by now.'

  Another innocent harmed by traps set for me, thought Hawklan, but he could not forbear smiling at the horse's remark and he patted his cheek.

  'Still, I'm a Muster horse,’ Serian continued. ‘I don't succumb easily. Now I'm well again, will you allow me to carry you?'

  Hawklan stepped back a little. On the rare occasions he had ridden, it had been he who had asked permission of the horse. ‘Thank you,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But I've no wish to burden another animal.'

  There was a faint hint of impatience in the horse's reply. ‘Hawklan, you'll not catch the Fyordyn on foot, even the way you walk.'

  'There I think you're wrong, my friend,’ said Hawklan. ‘I think I'll catch them however slowly I travel because they wish me to catch them.'

  Unexpectedly, the horse reared a little. ‘Then you'll need me even more, won't you?’ he said. ‘If you wish to remain free to release your Tirilen and escape.'

  The horse's powerful personality struck Hawklan almost like a physical force.

  'And besides,’ Serian continued, ‘how could you burden me? I could carry thrice your weight until you fell off from exhaustion and I'd know no strain.’ Serian bent his head forward and his voice sounded strangely in Hawklan's ears. ‘The Sires within me know you, Hawklan, even if I don't, and even if you don't know them. Can you question the destiny that's brought us together? I blighted by ancient and fearful enemies and in need of a healer, and you floundering in the unknown like a cork in a stream and in dire need of a mount.'

  Hawklan seemed to hear the distant trumpet call he had heard when first he picked up the black sword, and the horse's voice suddenly echoed and thundered in his mind as though they stood in a great chamber.

  'Generations have made me, Hawklan. Generations. It's your privilege and your duty to ride me just as it is mine to bear you. Not to do so is to diminish us both.'

  Hawklan bowed his head. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn't understand. We humans forget our place in the world too often. I'll ride you gladly.'

  'And I'll carry you willingly and well, Hawklan,’ replied the horse quietly. For a little while the two stood silent in the moonlit stillness.

  When he left Serian, Hawklan went to the other horses and spent some time using his hands to ease the fatigue from them. He spoke to them a little, but they were like most animals—shy and reserved. Their very normality highlighted Serian's powerful presence, but Hawklan set aside the strangeness of the horse and of their meeting, placing it with the many other mysteries that were accumulating around him.

  'Are they well?’ Isloman's deep voice interrupted his reverie.

  'Yes,’ Hawklan replied. ‘They'll be well rested by dawn. We can leave then and make good progress. Now, let me have a look at this gashed hand of yours that I've heard so much about.'

  Sheepishly, Isloman offered the injured hand. Hawklan looked at Tirilen's neat and characteristic bandaging and felt a lump come into his throat. Bending forward so that Isloman could not see his face he removed the bandage gently to reveal a livid, inflamed scar.

  'It's getting better slowly,’ Isloman said apologetically, but Hawklan scarcely heard him. A savage tremor passed through him as he looked at the damaged flesh and felt Isloman's inner strength fighting off its evil. He recognized the tremor as a cry for vengeance against the tinker for the damage he had wrought, made almost unbearable by the poignant touch of Tirilen's healing skill emanating from the damaged hand he was holding.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Gavor turned and twisted high in the cold mountain air. Looking down, he could see the three figures moving along the winding path: Hawklan, tall, straight and relaxed, looking like part of the animal he was riding, constantly having to check himself from riding too far ahead of the others; Loman and Isloman looking anything but part of their animals, struggling awkwardly with the mounting discomfort of having been several days in the saddle, and fretting impatiently at what they saw to be their lack of speed.

  Every few hours, Hawklan stopped and made them rest. Ostensibly it was for the benefit of the horses but, in fact, it was to calm and relax his friends with words and occasional massage and manipulation to ease tense and tired muscles and stiffening joints. In this way they made as good progress as such a trio could make.

  Gavor straightened his wings to rest on a slow-rising air current and, with the occasional movement of his pinion feathers to keep his balance, soared smoothly around in a great circle. Then he put his head down and, tumbling over in an apparent confusion of feet and wings, he looked again at the gift which Loman had brought for him; if gift it was. A pair of long black, glittering sharp, fighting spurs.

  'I'm not sure what they are, but they're the same metal as the sword, Hawklan,’ Loman had said, fumbling them cautiously out of a pocket and offering them for inspection. ‘I found them near where we found the sword. I don't know why I've never seen them before...’ He had shrugged in reluctant acceptance of yet another strange chance happening. But all of them had fallen silent when, as if by some ancient instinct, Gavor had picked the spurs up deftly in his beak and snapped one on to each leg.

  'Careful, they're very sharp...’ Loman said hastily, his hand reaching out protectively. Then his eyes had opened wide in a confusion of shock and disbelief. The spurs fitted Gavor's legs perfectly, one even having a special clip to accommodate an irregularity in his wooden leg. Instead of making him look incongruous, however, the spurs made him look formidable,
just as the black sword had changed Hawklan's appearance.

  Loman had turned to Hawklan. ‘It can't be possible,’ he said.

  'But it is,’ replied Hawklan simply. ‘And I've no more answers than you have.’ He fingered the pommel of the Black Sword unconsciously.

  Even Gavor himself had been at a loss for words, taken aback at his own actions. Now, skimming the air currents, he discovered something else about the spurs. Instead of hindering his flight as he had expected, they improved it. His balance, his manoeuvrability, even his speed, all seemed to be better, and he knew deep inside that few flying creatures could attack him now and depart unscathed.

  'I'll be a fearless feathered fighter now, dear boy,’ he said, alighting on Hawklan's shoulder. Then, thoughtfully, ‘Do you think I should take them off when I go to visit my friends, or leave them on to make a greater impression?'

  Hawklan laughed. ‘How do you expect me to answer that for you, you fearless feathered lecher? Hawklan the innocent?'

  Gavor nodded sagely. ‘True, true,’ he agreed. ‘I'll have to experiment judiciously. I must admit, this recent protracted period of abstinence could well add a little freshness to the proceedings.'

  'Good,’ said Hawklan. ‘That'll make it easier for you to school yourself to a further period of abstinence, as I doubt we'll be stopping at the Castle for any length of time, if at all.'

  'Dear boy,’ said Gavor reproachfully. ‘I'm finding it hard enough to concentrate as it is.'

  Hawklan was unsympathetic. ‘Go and roll in the snow for a while, that'll sharpen you up,’ he said, nodding towards the more distant, higher peaks.

  But it was difficult for them to maintain any spirit of light-heartedness. The reason for their haste and the probable questionable outcome of their journey weighed heavily on them all, nagging like a toothache.

  As they wound their way down out of the mountains and viewed the wide fertile plains of Orthlund. Hawklan thought he could feel even the Great Harmony trembling, as if its very root notes were under assault.

  As it transpired, they did not stop at the Castle at all, pausing only briefly in the village to see if any news had been received from Ireck and his party. But nothing had been heard and the village was strangely quiet. The sound of the horses’ hooves and the creak and clatter of their weapons echoed starkly around the three men in the sunny, shadow-strewn streets.

  Hawklan stopped and dismounted at the heap of the tinker's wares the villagers had discarded. Metal objects were turning red with rust, wood had lost its sheen, and cloths and silks were already green with decay. He wrinkled his face in distaste and shook his head sadly.

  'Why couldn't we see these things for what they were?’ he said.

  Neither Loman nor Isloman offered an answer.

  Loman dismounted and joined Hawklan. Stooping stiffly, he picked up a rusting blade and held it for a moment. He smiled faintly and looked up at his brother. ‘The metal's righting itself,’ he said. ‘Probably the other stuff is as well. But the misuse was great. It'll take a long time.'

  Isloman nodded.

  Hawklan sensed the lingering aura of Tirilen's protective words, and renewed them with his own. On an impulse he drew his sword and held it over the little pile while he spoke them.

  Then the three of them headed north along the Pedhavin Road.

  Within half a day, they encountered Ireck's party galloping purposefully towards the village. Sweating horses and stern-faced men milled around as the two groups met, and Hawklan took his horse to Ireck's side to hear his news.

  The villagers had met the Fyordyn only a little distance away from the camp where Loman and Isloman had been held. The High Guards were neither pursuing the brothers nor fleeing homewards. Jaldaric had been coldly formal and dismissed the villagers with a casual indifference verging on contempt.

  'None of our business, he said. He had his orders and we'd be well advised to stick to our farming if we knew what was good for us.’ Ireck's quiet voice was full of rage and frustration. He took Loman's arm. ‘I'm sorry, Loman,’ he said. ‘I've let you down. I tried to talk to him, to reason with him, but he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't even tell us how Tirilen was.’ He paused and looked upwards. ‘Eventually I threatened him. Told him we'd return, with you, and armed.'

  'And?’ asked Hawklan.

  'He laughed, Hawklan. Just looked at us and laughed.’ Ireck clenched his teeth. ‘I turned and rode away without any more ado. Some of the younger ones were getting too angry and there'd have been bloodshed there and then. I'm sorry, Loman,’ he repeated. ‘I don't know if I did the right thing or not. My head says yes, but my stomach says no. We're going back to the village now to get the rest of the men, and arm ourselves.'

  Loman shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not until we've thought about all this a little more. You were right at the beginning and you were right when you left their camp. If violence is all we're left with, then it mustn't be in the heat of passion. That barrel's not easily plugged once tapped. For our sakes and for theirs, we must overwhelm them completely before they can act. That way there's less chance of death and injury. Hawklan?'

  Hawklan nodded in agreement. He swung down slowly from Serian, and led the horse over to a nearby stream, his face thoughtful.

  'You didn't see Tirilen?’ he asked.

  Ireck shook his head in confirmation.

  'Did they give you any idea where she was?'

  'No,’ said Ireck.

  Hawklan patted the drinking horse's neck and gazed down into the stream. Quietly, one by one, all the men dismounted and left their horses to graze and drink. The air was full of bird-song and breeze-blown seed, and an atmosphere of unreality and uncertainty seemed to spread over the group as if the spring day would not allow them to sustain their anger once they were free of the pounding urgency of the unfamiliar horse riding.

  Loman took Ireck's arm and, together with Isloman, they joined Hawklan on the banks of the stream.

  Eventually Hawklan spoke. ‘Horsemen, soldiers such as you've described, could have outrun you easily if they'd wished. It seems strange to me that you caught them in the first instance and then that you escaped them so easily. And now Ireck's group has found them just as easily. We must presume that they're neither running nor hiding, but waiting.'

  'For what?’ asked Isloman.

  'Not for what, Isloman, but for whom,’ replied Hawklan. ‘It's me they want, or somebody wants. But who it is, or why, is beyond me. I'm driven across mountains to find an answer to some devilment I can scarcely even define, only to find more devilment and more questions. Then, when I escape that snare, a more earthbound, ordinary trap is laid for me.'

  The three men looked at him silently.

  'I'm being lured into something, my friends. Someone fears me, or at least fears what I might once have been. Someone evil. I'd be easier in my mind if I knew why I was so precious and why I've to be taken by stealth. But taken I have to be, there can be no doubt about that.’ He slapped his hand against his leg and straightened up briskly. ‘I weary of defence,’ he said. ‘Laying traps for me is one thing, using those I love as bait is another. We must move on to the attack and lay this villain by the heels before he does something even worse.'

  In a nearby tree, Gavor flapped his wings noisily and laughed. The soft spell of the spring sunshine dispersed and the group seemed to take on a purpose again.

  'Ireck,’ said Hawklan forcefully, ‘Go back to the village with your men. Arm yourselves and then head for the High Guards’ camp. Make no effort at concealment. Look as fierce as you like, but...’ He raised his hand in a cautionary gesture. ‘Don't attack them. Keep them at a safe distance, unless Gavor brings you a message expressly to the contrary.'

  Ireck seemed inclined to demur.

  Hawklan silenced him gently. ‘No, Ireck,’ he said. ‘Do nothing other than as I've said.’ He glanced up towards Gavor, who floated silently down and landed on his shoulder. ‘We four will go ahead and do what we can by stealth.
If we've not achieved anything by the time you arrive, then perhaps your arrival will cause a diversion and give us the opportunity. And, if by some chance we've been hurt or captured, Gavor will at least tell you what our position is.'

  Ireck still seemed inclined to argue, as did one or two others in the group, but their erstwhile healer was exuding an authority that would brook no further debate. Nodding reluctantly, Ireck mounted his horse silently and signalled to the others to follow him.

  When Ireck and the villagers had ridden into the distance, Hawklan turned to Loman and Isloman, grim-faced. His forced confidence had fallen away from him.

  'Now,’ he said. ‘I'm pinning my faith in you two old soldiers knowing something, preferably a lot, about stealth. I don't think Ireck will be able to control the younger men if anything happens to us, and I don't want those High Guards massacring half the village.'

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  Continuing their northward journey, Hawklan was surprised at the subtle changes he noted in his two friends. It was as if knowledge long dormant were re-awakening. He reminded himself that the two men had travelled widely and fought bitter battles shoulder to shoulder in the past, and that they could not have survived such experiences without developing traits which necessarily would not be apparent in their normal peaceful daily lives. Both sat easier in their saddles, and the anxiety that had lined and furrowed their craggy faces ever since they had met in the mountains gave way periodically to looks of a grim purposefulness that chilled Hawklan, so alien was it to his understanding of the two men.

  Worse, however, was the occasional gleam of anticipation he caught in their eyes, though he himself had to admit that his concern for Tirilen was at times forgotten in unexpected moments of exhilaration as Serian carried him steadily forward through the sunlit countryside.

  The rhythmic pounding of the horses’ hooves, the soft spring breeze blowing in his face, the endless variety of the Orthlund countryside, with its meadows and leas, streams and rivers, forests and arbours, all combined to dispel pain and fretfulness for unmeasured and effortless miles. But to the east were the mountains; white-tipped peaks and heavy shoulders hulking against the blue sky. Their silent, timeless vigil reproached him when unexpectedly he found himself relishing the deeds that were to come.