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

by Roger Taylor

  'Who are you, and what do you want?’ he demanded.

  Hawklan reached out his hand in friendly greeting. ‘My name's Hlan,’ he said. ‘And this is Isman.’ Isloman gave the man a friendly nod. ‘We'd be greatly obliged if you could tell us where we might buy supplies for the rest of our journey.'

  The man ignored the offered hand and the pleasantries bounced off his scowl. ‘You're lying,’ he said. ‘You're Orthlundyn. You're spies.'

  Hawklan sensed that while those hostile to them in the crowd were comparatively few, they held a dominance beyond their numbers. He affected a puzzled expression. ‘We're Orthlundyn, certainly,’ he said. ‘But spies? I don't understand.'

  'You're enemies of Fyorlund, sneaking in here through the quiet paths hoping not to be seen. We've been told about what's happening in Orthlund and to look out for the likes of you.’ Before Hawklan could speak, the man's attitude changed abruptly from unpleasantness to belligerence. He levelled a finger at Hawklan and his face became suffused with anger. ‘Well, you'll not get past us. You'll not sneak any further.'

  Hawklan raised his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I don't understand you,’ he repeated. ‘We're just travellers come to look at your country and your great houses and cities. Do we look like spies?'

  The answer was swift and unequivocal. ‘You're soldiers without doubt,’ the man said. ‘With that bow and your fancy sword, and that great horse.'

  'Ah,’ said Hawklan, ‘I understand. The horse is from Riddin. It's a Muster horse. I bought it at the Gretmearc. The bow's just for hunting—I'm afraid we haven't enough money to buy food all the time—and, well, I brought the sword in case we ran into bandits in the mountains.'

  The man scowled, and Hawklan could see that he was not listening to what was being said. He got the impression of a man who had not been much thought of in the village, despised even, but who had recently been pushed into prominence. His attitude was not one that would naturally command even the mixed support of this present crowd. Such support as there was, therefore, came as a result of some influence which was not immediately apparent. Equally, therefore, Hawklan saw that they might be in greater danger than was immediately apparent. Careful, he thought, and then, as if assuming his explanation had ended the matter, he swung his left leg over the horse's head and dropped down to face the man.

  The suddenness of the movement made the man start and there was some laughter in the crowd. He spun round and the laughter faded. One or two stepped away from him.

  'That's enough,’ he shouted angrily. ‘These people sneak in here armed to the teeth, and spin some yarn about hunting and bandits, and you think it's some kind of a joke.’ He swung a pointing finger around the crowd. ‘Don't think I don't know which of you sympathize with these spies. There'll be a reckoning soon for the traitors in our own camp.'

  One or two looked as if they would have liked to disagree, but were too afraid.

  Hawklan intervened. ‘I assure you. We're not spies ... or soldiers. We've done no harm and we mean none. If we're not welcome here, we'll leave. But we'd still like to buy supplies to tide us over the next few days.’ He addressed this appeal to the crowd and began fumbling in a pouch on his belt. ‘We've money enough for that.'

  A brief snatch of bird-song floated across the square. Gavor's signal that danger was approaching.

  'We don't want your money, spies,’ said the man viciously. Before Hawklan could reply, there was a disturbance in the crowd as four men pushed roughly to the front.

  'Trouble, Gister?’ one of the new arrivals asked the man confronting Hawklan.

  'Not now you've managed to get here, Uskal,’ said the man. ‘Where've you been? This lot's useless.’ He flicked a derisory thumb at the crowd. ‘I damn near had to whip most of them out on to the street. Left to them these two would've walked right through unhindered.’ His voice began to develop a whine of self-justification

  Uskal was almost as tall as Hawklan and powerfully built, with a lowering stupid face enlivened by just enough intelligence to confirm him as being dangerously vicious. He did not seem inclined to explain his late arrival, but immediately directed his attention to Hawklan and Isloman.

  'These the two?’ he asked.

  Gister nodded.

  'Right,’ said Uskal through clenched teeth, and without further formalities he stepped forward and struck Hawklan in the stomach. To Hawklan, the blow appeared to be lumberingly slow and he was able to absorb its worst effects simply by expanding his stomach muscles and moving back a little to disturb the balance of his attacker. However, he bent forward as if hurt, to see what effect this would have on the crowd. He had no doubt that he and Isloman could deal with Gister and the other four but, if the crowd sided with their own kind, as well they might, then the two of them would probably be overpowered or injured.

  Isloman jumped down from his horse and was immediately seized by two of the new arrivals. Hawklan shot him a swift glance as he saw his powerful frame preparing to deal out summary justice. Isloman read the look and struggled in a half-hearted manner until one of the men hit him also.

  The third man grabbed Hawklan from behind and Uskal made to hit him again but, pretending to lose his balance, Hawklan staggered sideways, taking his captor with him, so that Uskal's blow fell ineffectually across his face, slightly cutting his bottom lip against his teeth. As if released by the small trickle of blood that ran down his chin, a small evil sprite raised a long-silent voice deep inside Hawklan. ‘You'll die for this, you corruption,’ it said. Hawklan's eyes opened in horror as he felt the venom within him, and he swept the thought away ruthlessly.

  'Had enough, eh?’ said Uskal, misreading Hawklan's expression. Then roughly seizing his jaw he brought his leering face close to Hawklan's.

  However, a babble of anger from the crowd precluded any reply by Hawklan. One of the older men stepped forward and took Uskal's arm. ‘That's not necessary,’ he said. ‘They weren't causing any trouble. There's no reason to treat them like that.'

  Uskal released Hawklan, shook his arm free and, seizing the man by the front of his tunic, pushed him violently backwards. ‘That's how we treat weaklings and cowards, Flec.’ he said.

  Flec, however, was neither weakling nor coward and, recovering his balance, he surged forward at his attacker, seizing him round the waist and carrying him to the ground. For a while they struggled, raising a small cloud of dust, while others tried uncertainly to separate them. But Uskal was the stronger and more vicious of the two and soon had the advantage of the older man. Sitting on his chest, he struck him a savage blow in the face, and then, standing up, prepared to deliver an equally savage kick.

  'No!'

  Hawklan's unexpectedly powerful voice made Uskal stop abruptly and, looking round, the man caught the mood of the crowd. It was a dangerous mixture of fear and anger and it was turning against him for sure. He looked at Hawklan with an expression of intense loathing—a distant trumpet call sounded in Hawklan's memory—the look was familiar, but he had never seen the like in Orthlund.

  'Don't shout at me, filth,’ Uskal cried, and striding forward he brought his arm back to strike Hawklan full in the face. Unbidden, Hawklan's knees bent and, moving sideways, he hurled the man holding him over his shoulder straight into the approaching Uskal. The two tumbled on to the ground and rolled for some way, such had been the power of Hawklan's throw. The circling crowd widened dramatically. Isloman, still held by the two men, caught Hawklan's eye. Hawklan shook his head.

  'Seize him, seize him,’ shouted Gister, but nobody seemed inclined to listen. Uskal, downed by this stranger, lost whatever small control he had. He stood up and looked round furiously.

  'No more, please,’ said Hawklan pleadingly. It was still important to keep the crowd divided in their attitude to him; laying this oaf out might still turn them against him.

  But Uskal was beyond listening. He wrenched a sickle off a man standing nearby, sending him staggering with a powerful blow in the chest when he offered
some resistance. Then, crouching slightly, he moved towards Hawklan, his face turned into a grinning mask. He twisted the curved, shining blade so that it reflected the sunlight into Hawklan's eyes.

  You're a demented, unfettered creature, came the thought to Hawklan, and he felt his right hand preparing to draw his sword. A vision of the black sword singing out and severing this abomination in two floated alluringly before Hawklan, and he dismissed it only with a considerable conscious effort. Time enough later to consider such thoughts—and the throw that had saved Flec and brought about this predicament—but there was a more pressing problem to be dealt with first.

  Uskal was still moving forward, swinging the sickle from side to side. Hawklan retreated slowly, still anxious to play the bewildered traveller.

  'No more,’ he repeated, to reinforce this, but soon he would have to defend himself in earnest, and he knew that his body would act outside his control when threatened, using skills beyond his knowing. And while this might overcome Uskal, it could turn the crowd against him.

  As if sensing Hawklan's dilemma, Isloman started to struggle with the two men holding him, dragging them to and fro. ‘Let me go,’ he shouted. ‘This is madness. There'll be murder done.'

  Serian, apparently alarmed by the disturbance, began to jig and prance like a skittish colt, his hooves kicking up a great cloud of dust. But his eyes were firmly fixed on Hawklan, awaiting a command. Hawklan gave it with an almost imperceptible nod and Serian pranced even more wildly.

  With a swift step, Hawklan moved across to the horse as though to quieten it, or perhaps hide behind it, away from Uskal's swinging blade. The movement seemed to act like a signal to Uskal who charged towards Hawklan like a wild predator after fleeing prey. Serian reared wildly and his flailing hoof caught Uskal a pitiless and accurate blow on the shoulder, sending him sprawling and screaming in the dust, the sickle bouncing harmlessly towards the feet of its real owner.

  Hawklan took his horse's head as if calming it. ‘I presume you didn't want him killed,’ Serian said softly. Hawklan patted the great head affectionately and then ran across to his fallen assailant who was writhing on the ground and lashing out at anyone who tried to touch him.

  'Be still,’ he said urgently, kneeling down beside him. ‘Be still. I know a little about bone-setting.'

  'What's all this noise?’ A huge voice boomed out over the crowd and the square suddenly became silent. Even Uskal groaned more softly. Hawklan looked up to see a grey-headed old man standing at the top of the steps of the large building. Bright, penetrating eyes shone out of a stern and powerful face.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  The first citizen of any Fyorlund community, be it village or town, was its Rede. It was an office that fell to many different types of people, though none were young, as all had had some experience of service with the Lords or the King. It was part of the Law of Fyorlund that no man should lead until he had served, though little leadership was generally required of a Rede, the natural temperament of the Fyordyn being generally towards order and discipline. In practice, the office tended to be no more than a form of dignified retirement for some respected member of the community.

  It was the intrusion into this retirement of a mounting hubbub that brought a scowl to Rede Berryn's stern face and sent him to a window, and thence to the outer door of his official residence to make his distinctly personal form of inquiry of the crowd.

  He had been a senior training officer in the High Guard of a very traditionally minded Lord, and he could make his presence felt and his voice heard over disturbances far greater than that currently raising a dust in his village square.

  'Well,’ his voice boomed out again, ‘what's going on?'

  Gister stepped forward to the foot of the steps, his manner a mixture of deference and defiance. He waved an accusing hand towards Hawklan and Isloman.

  'These men are spies, Rede. They've been sneaking around for days, they're armed to the teeth, and they've attacked Uskal just because he asked who they were.'

  The old man fixed Gister with a look of suspicion and contempt, and then looked at the crowd. Under his gaze, the tiny seeds that Hawklan had sown began to germinate.

  'Rubbish,’ shouted someone. ‘They weren't doing any harm.’ Gister cast a furious eye over the crowd, but apparently could not see his denouncer.

  Several others joined in. ‘That's right, Rede. They've done nothing. Gister accused them of being spies and Uskal started the fight.'

  'But the horse won,’ came a delighted laugh, which again had Gister searching the crowd. Many of the others joined in, but several were still quiet and unsure.

  'I know you all,’ shouted Gister petulantly. ‘Don't think I don't see you. You're all traitors, I'll repo...'

  'Gister.'

  The Rede's interruption stopped the man in mid-sentence. For a moment the two men locked gazes and, although it was Gister who turned away first, Hawklan noticed that the old man was uncomfortable in his authority. He felt again that Gister drew his confidence and power from others, presumably outside the village.

  The Rede came down the steps and walked across to Hawklan; he had a slight limp. Hawklan had rendered Uskal unconscious in order to set the bones that Serian's hoof had so casually shattered and, laying the man down gently, he stood up and spoke to the watching Rede.

  'I've set the damaged bones, but he'll have to be strapped up and properly nursed,’ he said. ‘He should be taken to your healer right away.’ He looked down at the unconscious figure. ‘I'm afraid that arm's never going to be quite right though,’ he said.

  The Rede grunted non-committally and then gestured in a direction over Hawklan's shoulder. Turning, Hawklan saw a pale-faced, lightly built man moving through the crowd. He wore what Hawklan took to be a robe of office although, from the stains and dust on it, it was obviously also a working robe. Followed by a group of excited children who had obviously summoned him, the man moved straight to the fallen Uskal, confirming Hawklan's first impression that he was the local healer.

  Hawklan bowed slightly to the Rede. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said and, kneeling down by the healer, he explained what he had done to ease Uskal's immediate distress. He took the man's hands and moved them over Uskal's arm and shoulder. The healer closed his eyes and then opened them with a start. They were wide with surprise. In an awed whisper he said, ‘You must be Hawklan from...’ But a look in Hawklan's green eyes silenced him.

  'Shh, please,’ said Hawklan under his breath. ‘I gave your friends a false name. You can tell I mean no harm, but it may be difficult with the others. They're in a strange mood. Tend to your charge. I have to speak with your Rede.'

  Like a humble acolyte at the feet of a great master, the man nodded and quickly gave orders to some of the men in the crowd for the removal of Uskal to his home. Then, turning to Hawklan, ‘Your healing ... we must speak, sir. Before you leave the village. Please. There's so much I could learn from you.’ Then, a little abashed at his forwardness, ‘I'd consider it an honour.'

  Hawklan smiled at the man. ‘If I can,’ he said. ‘But...’ He cast a quick glance at the watching people.

  Standing, he found that the Rede had moved away and was contending with a now recovered Gister, who was hovering at his shoulder.

  'They're spies, Rede. Look at them,’ he said, his eyes flicking from the Rede to Hawklan.

  The old man waved him to silence irritably but offered him no other rebuke.

  'I apologize for your welcome to our village, sir,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘But times are troubled and there are many strange rumours in the air. I have to confess that your appearance is unusual, with your fine bow and sword, and...’ He looked at Serian intently, and a note of considerable surprise came into his voice, ‘and your Muster horse if I'm not mistaken.'

  Hawklan sensed this was a sop being thrown to Gister for some reason.

  'But that's no reason for treating you as we have,’ the Rede continued. ‘Please join me for a
meal then we can talk at our leisure and sort out any misunderstandings.'

  Hawklan accepted the offer gratefully and with a conspicuous show of relief.

  'Go back to your homes,’ said the Rede to the crowd. ‘I'll find out who these people are, make amends for our discourtesy and do what is necessary.’ His remarks however were largely superfluous, as the people were already drifting away, some talking excitedly, some quietly, and others affecting amused tolerance of the children who had now appeared and were running among them mimicking Uskal's crouching advance with the sickle and Serian's mighty kick.

  Gister stood alone, fists clenched, irresolute and lowering.

  The Rede spoke to him with a barely contained anger. ‘Gister, you know what I think of your ranting and your foolish ideas. I'll tolerate a lot, but you go too far. You should have more sense. Uskal's a half-mad dog at best, without you encouraging him.'

  Gister burst out. ‘I go too far. I go too far. It's you who go too far. Consorting with enemies of the King. Helping them evade justice...'

  'Enough,’ said the Rede, his anger exploding. ‘Or...'

  'Or what?’ said Gister in a tone that amounted to a sneer. ‘You'll call a Pentadrol? Talk the enemies of the King to death?'

  'The Pentadrol is for restrained and reasoned argument, Gister. If I thought you were amenable to that I'd call one without hesitation,’ replied the Rede, but as the old man turned away and beckoned him to follow, Hawklan knew that he had lost his argument with Gister. He presumed that the Pentadrol was some form of village forum whose effectiveness Gister had somehow contrived to undermine. What was happening in this country?

  The Rede walked carefully up the steps to his residence. He signalled to a young man standing nearby and asked him to attend to the newcomers’ horses.

  Hawklan intervened. ‘Thank you, Rede,’ he said. ‘But we must attend to our own horses.'

  The old man nodded and smiled knowingly. ‘Of course,’ he said after a moment. ‘Tel-Mindor will show you to the stables.’ He raised his hand and a well-built, loose-limbed figure appeared at the top of the steps. Although the man was probably middle-aged, Hawklan was reminded immediately of Jaldaric and the other High Guards. His carriage showed he was active and vigorous, but there was another quality about him which Hawklan could not readily identify. The man returned Hawklan's smile of greeting easily, but Hawklan was intrigued. The young man would have made a perfectly adequate guide to the stables, but the Rede obviously wanted someone of his own to accompany them. To eavesdrop? To restrain? The man's movements were unusually fluid and economical and something deep inside Hawklan began to whisper that he was not a man to be assailed lightly. Protection? Probably the most likely reason. Gister and his following did not look like the type of people who would refrain from ambush on moral grounds. Then again maybe the old man was just protecting his political flank from subsequent accusations. In any event, whatever the reason, it showed him to be a man of some discernment, and one worth cultivating.