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

by Roger Taylor

  A muffled whisper came out of the undergrowth, and Jaldaric screwed up his eyes to peer into the distance. A long line of men began to emerge from one of the many dips that took the road out of sight. Jaldaric frowned.

  'Your patrol's on foot?’ he asked Urssain. The man did not reply.

  'They're running,’ whispered Isloman to Hawklan.

  Hawklan nodded. Somewhere from within came the knowledge that they could run for miles and miles and still fight a battle, but who ‘they’ were was denied him. Again he felt a momentary detachment. A brief flash of another place and another time. Darkness and horror, a vast and malevolent roaring, and a fearful unsteadiness under his feet. Then it was gone, and his gaze focused again on the approaching patrol. It was too far away to make out any detail, but it was large, and travelling quickly. Four horsemen were leading it.

  Then it too was gone, hidden behind the green contours of the Orthlund countryside. Hawklan breathed out nervously and leaned back against a tree. The next time the patrol would appear it would be coming round the bend in the road barely a stone's throw ahead of them, and it would be on them.

  'Your men will be in no state to do battle when they've climbed this far,’ said Jaldaric to Urssain without looking at him.

  'They outnumber you, will outrun you, and will outfight you, Jaldaric,’ came the reply with a chilling certainty. ‘They're used to mountains. This hill is nothing to them. If you surrender now, none of your patrol will be hurt, and you'll be taken safely back to Vakloss for trial. If you fight, you'll all die. Die without note and at little cost.’ Adding, almost as if by rote, ‘As will all Fyorlund's enemies.'

  Jaldaric shot him an angry glance. ‘If there's fighting it'll be of their starting, not mine,’ he said.

  Urssain shrugged.

  Inexorably the sound of the patrol grew louder; the sound of running feet filling the air like sinister drumbeats underscoring Gavor's grim cries from high above.

  Then it appeared. Isloman seized Hawklan's arm, but Hawklan did not respond. His face was strained as if he were trying to remember something. Silently, however, he drew his sword. There was a quality in the action that chilled Isloman more even than the grim sight now slowing to a walk behind its mounted escort.

  Here was the Mathidrin's deep penetration patrol so unthinkingly launched by King Rgoric into Orthlund. Isloman was aware of gasps from the concealed High Guards as he took in the long, dog-like snouts, the evil eyes set close in fur-fringed faces, and that most distinctive and terrifying feature from the nightmares of all Fyordyn children—huge curved canine teeth.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  'Mandrocs!'

  Several of the High Guards involuntarily whispered the word as if for reassurance of the reality of what they were seeing. The word hissed and echoed around the trees.

  Jaldaric, however, stood unmoving and apparently unmoved. He was young for a High Guard Captain and in his darker moments wondered if his rank were not due more to his father's affection than his own ability. He was both right and wrong. Lord Eldric was too wise in leadership to subject his son to the burden of a responsibility he could not carry; and too caring of his men also. However, it was indeed his love for his son that had led Eldric to raise Jaldaric to be able to earn the rank he now held; and it was a measure of Jaldaric's worth that his outward appearance now gave no indication of the waves of doubt and fear that were surging over him as he took in the terrible sight scarring the Orthlund tranquillity.

  Slowly he drew his sword and raised it in the air. ‘Halt,’ he shouted.

  The approaching patrol stopped and one of the horsemen came forward. His whole posture showed the marks of fretful journeying but, even against the background of the restless Mandroc patrol, he exuded menace. Jaldaric imperceptibly tightened his grip on his sword to prevent his hand shaking.

  The rider, however, ignored him and addressed the waiting Urssain.

  'Captain Urssain, why do you and your men lounge in the sun when you were ordered to find the Lord Dan-Tor?'

  The sound of the words gave Jaldaric the purchase he needed to still his mind. He did not wait for Urssain's reply. ‘The Lord Dan-Tor has returned alone to Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘And your friend lounges in the sun at my suggestion. He found it preferable to lounging in an eternal darkness, which is where his conduct nearly brought him.'

  The rider turned and stared at Jaldaric as if only just noticing he was there.

  'The Lord Dan-Tor has left, you say?’ he said.

  'Yes,’ Jaldaric replied.

  'Alone?’ The man cast a swift glance at Urssain, who nodded. A brief spasm of irritation passed over the rider's sallow face and he lowered his head thoughtfully. Then, apparently reaching a decision, he turned again to Jaldaric.

  'You're Fyordyn, I see,’ he said. ‘And you've the arrogance of a lordling. You'll be the traitor Jaldaric I presume.'

  Jaldaric did not reply, but held the man's grey-eyed stare firmly. For all his menace, he was at least human, and his hostility deflected Jaldaric's mind from the implications of the waiting patrol.

  The man walked his horse over to Jaldaric and, leaning forward slightly, bared discoloured teeth in a humourless smile. ‘My name is Aelang, Jaldaric. Commander Aelang. Mark it well. It's probably the last pleasantry I'll exchange with you.’ Without taking his gaze from Jaldaric's face, he levelled a finger at the seated Urssain. ‘You've assaulted a Captain of the King's High Guard, and you've drawn your sword against his Commander. These are serious offences and will be added to whatever others you've to face when we get back to Vakloss.'

  Gavor's cry floated down between the two men, and Aelang cast a brief irritable glance upwards.

  'I presume the rest of your men are skulking in ambush,’ he continued in a more conciliatory tone, waving his arm towards the surrounding trees. ‘Tell them to come out and lay down their arms—now—and we'll forget this misunderstanding. Don't resist whatever you do.’ Conspiratorially he indicated the waiting Mandrocs with his eyes.

  Aelang's affectation of comradeship broke Jaldaric's restraint. ‘What is this ... this obscenity, Aelang? Mandrocs, armed and liveried! Mandrocs!’ He could barely utter the word. ‘And pretending to be a King's High Guard no less.’ His tone was acid. ‘Do you take me for a child? The Mandrocs are to be confined to Narsindal. The Law forbids them even to enter Fyorlund, and you bring an armed troop of them into Orthlund—Orthlund of all places. If anyone's to stand account in Vakloss, it'll be you, if you're responsible for any part of this nightmare.'

  Waiting in the shade, Hawklan felt thoughts coming from deep inside him. Run, Jaldaric. Retreat. Regroup. Don't stand. But he could not speak the words.

  Aelang listened to Jaldaric's outburst with an air of waning patience. ‘You don't listen, Jaldaric. I've said I'll not bandy words with you. You've been away too long. The King holds all power now. To defy me is to defy the might of the new Fyorlund, a might uncluttered by ancient Lords and their endless prating, a might which can defend Fyorlund against our real enemies.’ Then he leaned forward again and spoke more softly. ‘Use your sense, man. If you renounce the old order and join with us, there may be hope for you. If you resist...’ He shrugged significantly.

  The combination of wild-eyed fanaticism and self-seeking ambition in the man's tone stunned Jaldaric and he stood for a moment in bewildered silence.

  Then he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is madness. You're lying. How could the King seize all power to himself? And what enemies has Fyorlund that would require aid from...’ He looked at the sinister waiting group. ‘The very reason for the existence of High Guards is the restraint of the Mandrocs.'

  'And to guard against the Second Coming of Sumeral,’ sneered Aelang. ‘You'll believe fairy tales before you'll believe political reality. That's why the King's taken power. Fyorlund can't afford such as you guarding its interests.’ The jibe stung Jaldaric. He seized the horse's bridle. ‘If the King's done this, it's because he's
a sick man and has probably been coerced by others. Such an act would break not only the Law but the faith of countless generations. But I don't intend to argue the point. Consider yourself under arrest. Disarm these animals now, surrender your sword and prepare yourself to return with me to Vakloss to face the Geadrol and account for this horror.'

  Aelang snatched the bridle from Jaldaric's hand, causing the horse to shy and Jaldaric to step back.

  'I weary of you, boy, and I'll not be thanked for delaying to remonstrate with the unredeemable. Surrender now or my patrol will root out your companions and slaughter them.'

  'Hold,’ cried Jaldaric. ‘We're no ordinary patrol. We're the Lord Dan-Tor's escort, and I also have archers with me.’ The man steadied his horse and looked uneasily from side to side. Jaldaric followed his thoughts.

  'Yes,’ he said, ‘you're right. We could leave two dozen of your ... your creatures dead before they even reach us, and that'll improve the odds a little, won't it? And we've allies from Orthlund.'

  Aelang cast a glance at Urssain, who nodded again. Jaldaric continued quietly but purposefully. ‘But that's of no concern to you, is it? Your Mandrocs are only here to absorb shot. They fight with crushing numbers and mindless ferocity if my ... fairy tale books tell me true. More to the point is what you've already worked out. You and the other men will die first if we're attacked.'

  Aelang remained motionless in the middle of the road, peering into the trees on both sides in a vain attempt to assess the truth of Jaldaric's words. Only Gavor's persistent cry could be heard, sounding like an ancient funeral knell.

  Finally, Aelang narrowed his eyes and swore viciously. Slowly he dismounted. He was a little shorter than Jaldaric, but heavily built and obviously much stronger. Jaldaric stepped back a pace and levelled his sword at the man. Even from his hiding place in the trees, Isloman felt Aelang's physical confidence.

  'Jaldaric's in trouble,’ he whispered to Hawklan, but Hawklan seemed to be in a trance.

  'Hand me your sword ... carefully,’ said Jaldaric. ‘Then order your ... patrol to throw down their weapons.'

  Aelang started to draw his sword with his left hand, fearing a hasty response from a nervous archer if he drew with his right. It snagged in his cape and he fumbled with it momentarily. Jaldaric did not move.

  The sword came free awkwardly and Aelang casually tossed back his cloak with a flourish and a friendly smile. As the cloak billowed out behind him, he took a long swift step forward past the side of Jaldaric's sword and, spinning round, struck Jaldaric in the face with his left hand.

  The speed and power of the blow, weighted and hardened as it was by the clenched sword hilt, knocked Jaldaric senseless and, without faltering in his step, Aelang bent low underneath him and swung him up effortlessly across his shoulders. Then, with Jaldaric across his back like a great shield, he ran a weaving path back towards his patrol, crying out commands as he ran.

  The whole movement was so swift that the arrow destined for him sang through the empty air where he had been standing.

  Urssain and the others were less fortunate. All six rose at Aelang's first move. Three died immediately and the other three, one of them Urssain, were wounded.

  Then the archers had to turn their attention to the Mandrocs, who, swords and axes drawn, were running forward. For a few seconds the air was full of the hiss of arrows, the sound of bow strings and the thud of arrows striking home through the leather jerkins which were all that protected the Mandrocs.

  In those few seconds, Jaldaric's prophecy came true, and the quiet Pedhavin Road was littered with over thirty dead and dying Mandrocs. But the remainder charged on, heedless of their fallen comrades. Mouthing a rhythmic, rumbling battle chant they crashed into the trees in search of the High Guards.

  Isloman glanced at Hawklan. To his horror, his friend was swaying unsteadily, eyes glazed and unseeing. Isloman shook him violently and called his name but there was no response. Before he could do anything further there was a crash in the undergrowth behind him and, turning, he found himself facing two gaping Mandrocs. Terror balled up in his throat, but reflexes he had thought long gone saved him as his club and his great fist swung in two murderous arcs to lay them both out almost before they could react. Two more appeared.

  Desperately he pushed Hawklan against a tree and, drawing his sword, turned to face them like a wild animal protecting its young. Within minutes, sword and club left five Mandrocs dead or wounded at his feet, but it was all too obvious he could not hold his position for much longer.

  'Hawklan!’ he shouted over his shoulder as two more Mandrocs closed with him. ‘In the name of pity, there are too many for me. Use your sword. Help me. Help me.'

  Abruptly he felt Hawklan jerk to life behind him, almost as if his spirit had suddenly returned from some far distant place. At the edge of his vision he sensed a silent Hawklan moving to his side, black sword levelled. With an eerie squeal the two Mandrocs turned and fled.

  Then, still silent, Hawklan glanced around, his eyes grim and intent, as if he were listening. The trees were full of the terrible sounds of battle, underscored by the rumbling battle chant of the Mandrocs. After a moment a look of desperate sadness passed over his face.

  'These lads are lost,’ he said hollowly. ‘We can't do anything. This way.'

  Three Mandrocs appeared in front of them, jaws gaping wide, eyes elated, bloody swords steaming in their hands. Without a pause, Hawklan hacked down two of them with a single terrible blow and impaled the third almost before Isloman could raise his club. Hawklan shouted for him to follow, and then ran off into the trees.

  Isloman hesitated, stunned both by the sight of the appalling and bloody carnage that his friend had wrought with such suddenness and apparent ease, and by fear for Jaldaric and his men. But Hawklan returned and seized him with a powerful grip. ‘We can do nothing for them,’ he said fiercely. ‘Nothing. We run or die.’ Then he turned and ran, dragging Isloman behind him like a wayward child.

  They encountered several Mandrocs as they fled, but these too fell horribly before Hawklan's black sword. Scarcely breaking his step, he twisted and turned through them like a mountain stream around rocks, scattering blood and entrails over the sunlit Orthlund woodland. Isloman took in the beauty of his actions and the inexorable horror of their consequences like a helpless spectator.

  To the carver, it seemed they ran for an eternity but, eventually, Hawklan slowed and then staggered to the ground, his head in his hands. Isloman slumped down beside him, breathing heavily.

  They lay for a long time until some semblance of normality forced itself upon them. Isloman hesitated to look at his friend, concerned at what he would see, but when he did he found the grim warrior's visage was gone and he had to turn away from the pain that had replaced it.

  'All those young men,’ Hawklan said. ‘Dead. I can't take it in. What's happening?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘All of them cut down in a wave of clamouring bloodlust. What were those creatures? They're like something out of a forgotten nightmare.'

  Then he looked in horror at the sword in his hand, still red and steaming with gore. ‘And where did I learn to use this?'

  Isloman shook his head, he could offer no answer to that question, but, ‘Mandrocs. I've heard of them. They're from Narsindal. North of Fyorlund. Nasty place by all tellings. I think the High Guards were originally formed to keep them in order, but I doubt any of those lads had ever even seen one.’ He stopped and bowed his head. ‘It must have seemed like a nightmare come true. That awful chanting mob charging on regardless of how many of them were killed—just charging on.'

  Hawklan shuddered as some darker memory flitted round the edges of his mind. He searched for something more prosaic. ‘And now they're serving this King ... Rgoric’ he said, half question, half statement.

  Isloman shrugged. ‘It would appear so.'

  The two men fell silent. High in the foliage above, birds sang out to the spring sunshine, and scufflings in the undergrowth
marked the activities of countless forest creatures, lives uninterrupted by the grim swirling thoughts preoccupying the two men. A butterfly landed on Hawklan's boot, folded its wings and then spread them out luxuriously. It flew off abruptly as a dark shadow glided silently to land where it had lain.

  A rather tattered Gavor put his head on one side and gazed at Hawklan. ‘You did well to run when you did, dear boy,’ he said, then he bent his head and fiddled with the straps that held his spurs to avoid Hawklan's gaze. ‘Very good, these,’ he added, proprietorially, though a little uneasily. ‘Very good. I killed a dozen or so, but I couldn't save any of the Guards. There were just too many of those things and they didn't seem to care whether they lived or died.'

  Hawklan looked at Gavor, his strange and comical companion—he had killed these creatures too? Then the memory of Gavor's strange cry returned. It was a death song. That's what it was. He recognized it now though he could not say from where or when—an ancient death song—an awful warning of terrible vengeance. He tapped his knee and Gavor jumped up on to it. Hawklan smoothed out his iridescent blue-black feathers. A tear ran down his face.

  'What's happening, Gavor?’ he asked.

  'Don't know, dear boy,’ the bird replied after a moment. ‘But it's happened before. It's all there on the Gate. Evil things are abroad and we have to fight them. The time of peace is ending. Your rest is over. Soon you'll come to yourself.’ His voice was distant.

  Hawklan looked at him. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, for the first time in twenty years.

  Gavor shook his head. ‘Dear boy, I don't even know who I am. My life started with yours, twenty years ago, trapped by the leg in those bitter mountains.'

  Hawklan put his hands to his eyes and the memory of the last few days flowed past him. Young men, proud and disciplined. Looking forward to being home and yarning of their exploits in Orthlund, for all the problems they knew they would face. Looking at least towards order and justice. Young men excitedly quizzing Isloman about the Morlider War, and then Hawklan about Anderras Darion. Making plans to visit Pedhavin again in the future. Young men patiently tending their animals, riding jauntily through the spring sunshine and quietly through the grey rain.