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

by Roger Taylor

  'What do you mean?’ Arinndier said.

  'I don't know,’ replied Eldric, idly pushing a knife to and fro. ‘But Darek's given you half of it. Who'd promote that sour-faced lout? Kick him out certainly. But promote?'

  Arinndier was unimpressed. ‘Eldric, the Geadrol's been suspended. We've been arrested and imprisoned without charge and for no crime. The wrongful promotion of a servant is hardly significant against that background, is it?'

  Eldric did not reply, but Darek chuckled. ‘Oh, I don't know, Arin. You should study your history more. Kings and Princes come and go, but the servants, the officials, the secretaries—they go on forever. Eldric's got...'

  Eldric waved a hand gently to silence him. ‘Something about that boy,’ he said, frowning. ‘But I can't pinpoint it.'

  Hreldar looked up from his meal and stared at Eldric's worried face. Then he looked at the table. His eyes narrowed. ‘Look,’ he said, spreading his two hands towards the table.

  'Look. That boy lumbered round as if he'd got two left feet, but look at how he's laid this. It's immaculate.’ He paused. ‘How many times have you seen some little one standing by this kind of handiwork, waiting for your judgement?'

  'Of course,’ said Eldric. ‘Junior cadets and their party pieces.’ He leaned back and clapped his hands together. ‘It seems such a long time ago. Little shining faces.’ Then he laughed. ‘Elementary field craft to learn how to survive in the wilds of the mountains, and elementary house craft to learn how to survive in the wilds of society.'

  Abruptly his expression became sombre, and a look of determination came into his face, so grim that the others stopped eating and watched him in silence. ‘Ask yourselves, Lords,’ he said. ‘Why would a miserable servant be promoted and replaced by a young lad, a junior cadet who, if I'm any judge, would probably be on the point of entering the Cadets proper?'

  Arinndier looked at the table. It seemed a weighty deduction from such flimsy evidence, but the neat array in front of him did indeed look like the grading display of a junior cadet. And the lad had done it with wilful awkwardness. Then, too, he had volunteered the information that his predecessor had been promoted.

  The four men sat silent and the low buzz of the globe light filled the room.

  'Could he be a spy?’ Arinndier offered the suggestion unconvincingly, to break the silence.

  Darek shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Who'd spy on us? Dan-Tor? He knows we wouldn't discuss anything important in front of a servant. Besides, I don't think he gives a night-bird's hoot for what we might say.'

  Arinndier nodded, and started eating again.

  Eldric too started to eat but, almost immediately, he stopped. ‘We've no idea what's happening outside,’ he said. ‘But we must still have friends out there or Dan-Tor would've disposed of us in some way by now, I'm sure.'

  'Maybe,’ said Arinndier. ‘But we've seen no sign of them so far.'

  'Yes,’ said Eldric, ‘that's true. But think what it means. They'll presumably have tried various legal remedies and met with no success for one reason or another. We know we're in the Westerclave and that it's being used as Headquarters for these Mathidrin, so we can't reasonably expect an armed assault to rescue us. So someone, somewhere, will be tying to contact us. And now this boy comes along. Slouching and acting stupid, but doing this little cadet exercise for us, neat as neat.’ He gestured over the table.

  Hreldar spoke again, coldly and definitively. ‘When he comes back, see if he knows the Hand Language. That'll answer all debate.'

  Within the hour, the servant and the guard returned.

  Arinndier casually tried to engage the guard in conversation, but the man would not be drawn. His eyes followed the boy constantly as he slouched around the table collecting the dishes.

  'Careful, boy, you're spilling the wine on my tunic,’ Eldric said angrily, standing up suddenly. The boy started and fumbled for a cloth in his belt, nearly dropping his tray in the process.

  'Put it down, boy,’ said Darek testily, waving his hands emphatically. Flustered, the boy put the tray on the table and, with shaking hands, offered Eldric the cloth. Eldric waved it away with an irritable gesture. The boy dithered and hesitated, ran the back of his hand across his nose as if about to weep, and then replaced the cloth in his belt.

  'I didn't see all that,’ said Arinndier when the guard and the servant had left. ‘I was busy trying to obscure the guard's view.'

  The others were looking a little stunned.

  Darek spoke. ‘I asked him who he was,’ he said, repeating the gesture reflexively

  'And?’ said Arinndier.

  'Just two words, Arin,’ said Eldric. ‘Just two words.'

  Arinndier gazed skyward. ‘Go on,’ he said patiently.

  Eldric's hand flicked out the boy's reply. ‘Queen's messenger.'

  * * * *

  The high hedges threw long shadows across the narrow lane as the Mathidrin patrol rode leisurely back towards the City. For the most part, the six men were silent. The tour had been uneventful and their leader, newly promoted, was peevishly angry that nothing had arisen to provide him with an excuse to demonstrate to his men that his leadership would be worth following.

  In the villages that lay on their circuit, they had found the inhabitants remarkably docile. Usually it was possible to provoke the odd individual into some angry response and then enjoy the administration of a little summary justice on the offender. Or some lone soul would be found wandering the fields who could be accused of spying for the Orthlundyn and pursued relentlessly while ‘attempting to escape'. But on this tour, nothing. The fields were deserted or the people were present in sufficient numbers to make too blatantly unjust a provocation a little too risky. Now they were heading for Vakloss two days early.

  The patrol leader stretched up in his saddle, his muscles aching with the day's riding and the tension of his mounting petulance. If only some yokel would step out of one of these fields, he thought. I'd give these lads something to remember. Then, as if at the command of his thoughts, a halting figure emerged from a gateway some way along the road from them. It was an old man, the leader noted, and limping. Not much of a chase here, but anything will do after a tour like this.

  He loosened his heavy staff in its loop, running his thumb over two small notches cut in the handle. One for each of the ‘fugitives’ he had killed—struck down at the gallop with a single stylish swinging blow that earned him great praise from his peers when he was just a trooper. Even as he started to spur his horse forward, he was already receiving the plaudits of his fellows back in the barracks that evening. His stomach tightened with pleasure and anticipation.

  'You,’ he shouted. ‘Stop!’ Somewhat to his surprise, the figure halted and turned to face him. He could not make out the features of the man, as they were hidden under the brim of a large hat and the man was stooping and leaning heavily on a stick. Reaching him, the patrol leader found the bright setting sun shining in his face. He screwed up his eyes and peered down at the figure standing uncertainly in the flickering shadows of the wind-stirred trees and hedges.

  'Sir?’ said the figure timorously.

  'Why were you running away?’ the patrol leader demanded harshly.

  The figure gave a nervous laugh. ‘Running, sir? I can't run. I'm lame, you see.’ And he lifted his stick a little way off the ground.

  But the patrol leader had made his decision. He had to impress his newly acquired patrol and this old fool would have to serve his purpose. He gripped his staff. ‘You're lying,’ he said. ‘You were sneaking about, and when you saw us you tried to run away. Right, men?'

  Nodding and grinning expectantly, the members of the patrol concurred.

  'He'll have to be taken in for interrogation,’ volunteered one. ‘There's plenty of room now the old dungeons have been opened up.'

  'No, no, no,’ said the leader, affecting concern. ‘I don't think we need disturb this good man to that extent. After all, we're empowered to attend t
o these matters as we find them.’ He leaned forward solicitously, ‘You don't want to go to Vakloss and face the Lord Dan-Tor do you, old man?'

  The old man was trembling visibly.

  Vermin, these creatures, thought the patrol leader. And cowards as well.

  'The Lord Dan-Tor's a great Lord, sir,’ stammered the old man. ‘It would be an honour to meet him. He's done so much for our country.'

  'Indeed he has, old man,’ said the patrol leader. ‘And he'll do more when he's rooted out all the traitorous scum that goes skulking about the lanes spying on his Mathidrin and reporting everything to our country's enemies.’ He took out his staff with a luxurious gesture and held it almost touching the old man's face.

  'Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ said the old man, stepping back a little further into the shade.

  'Come on, get on with it,’ said one of the patrol. ‘It'll be dark before we get back.’ The patrol leader shot an angry glance at the complainer. He'd deal with that one later. But this old fool was no use, there'd be no entertainment from him, craven old dolt.

  'The young sir's right, sir,’ said the old man, reaching out a shaking hand and touching the leader's boot nervously. ‘It's going to be a dark night.'

  The patrol leader withdrew his foot furiously. ‘Don't touch me!’ he shouted, almost hysterically. ‘This is the only thing belonging to the Mathidrin that traitors are allowed to touch.’ The vicious intent that had taken root at the first sight of the old man rose compulsively to its climax even though the route to it lacked the elegance he would have preferred. He stood up in his stirrups, raising the staff high above him, and brought it whistling down on the old man's head.

  But the old man's head was not there. In an almost leisurely manner he stepped to one side at the last moment and the blow missed him completely. Poised for impact, and not finding any, the patrol leader tumbled heavily from his horse. The old man reached out as if to catch him, but his action seemed only to accelerate his fall and there was a skin-crawling crack as the two hit the ground.

  The patrol leader subsided into the summer grass, his head at a very strange angle, and his face wearing a surprised, if blank-eyed, expression. The old man stood up, remarkably straight now, and looked at the patrol, momentarily stunned and motionless at this unexpected turn of events. The birds stopped singing.

  'A long dark night ahead, gentlemen,’ he said in a voice completely without its previous whine and tremor. Then the evening calm was broken by a sudden rush of wind followed by a sound like the falling of ripe fruit.

  With barely a gasp, the remaining five riders fell slowly from their horses, each impaled on an arrow.

  Figures appeared silently from the deepening shadows and quietened the nervous horses before moving to the fallen Mathidrin.

  The birds started to sing again, and the setting sun flooded the lane red before sinking out of sight.

  Yatsu took off his broad-brimmed hat and laid his stick on the ground. ‘Careful,’ he said to the others. ‘Careful how you draw the arrows.'

  * * * *

  Sylvriss gazed down at the key lying in front of her. ‘This is the key to their door?’ she asked, eyes wide.

  'Yes, Majesty,’ said Dilrap, hitching up his robe on to his shoulders.

  Sylvriss picked up the key gingerly. ‘How did you get it?’ she asked with some awe. She had just returned from riding and, dressed in her riding clothes, with flushed face and shining eyes, she looked magnificent. Dilrap basked in the radiance and beamed rather inanely until he realized what he was doing, then he stammered and fluttered alarmingly.

  'The cellars in the Westerclave are only part of the old servants’ quarters, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I think the King surprised more than the Lords when he had them arrested. Apparently nothing was ready, but even the Mathidrin knew that Lords couldn't be kept in the ordinary cells, so they put them in this little suite of rooms temporarily, until the Lord Dan-Tor returned. But like most temporary arrangements it soon became permanent.'

  'But the key, Dilrap,’ said Sylvriss. ‘Where did you get it from?'

  'From the locksmith, Majesty,’ came the reply.

  The Queen's face darkened a little. ‘Is he to be trusted?’ she asked.

  Dilrap's manner was reassuring. ‘Majesty, it doesn't...'

  Sylvriss silenced him abruptly with a sudden but discreet hand movement.

  'Honoured Secretary,’ she said, quite loudly. ‘I assure you, you worry unnecessarily.'

  Dilrap looked nervously into those soft brown eyes for confirmation of the presence he felt behind him. The Queen stood up, and, casually placing the key in her pocket, stepped around him and walked towards the tall figure standing silently in the doorway.

  'Lord Dan-Tor,’ she said. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. We see so little of you these days. Perhaps you could assure the Honoured Secretary that his concern for me is unnecessary.'

  'Majesty?’ said Dan-Tor, puzzled.

  The Queen levelled a gently accusatory hand at Dilrap, who felt he was now sufficiently composed to turn and face the unexpected visitor. ‘He fears I'm too diligent in the nursing of my husband. He fears I may preserve the King's health at the cost of my own.'

  'Majesty,’ said Dan-Tor. ‘The Honoured Secretary's concern does him credit. The healer's burden can be heavy, especially when an illness is as intractable and unpredictable as the King's. I regret that the problems of State have prevented my helping the King as I have in the past, but—'

  Sylvriss interrupted him. ‘Lord Dan-Tor. It's more important to the King that you continue to carry the burden of State, heavy though it may be. He's quiet now, but far from well, and the merest mention of State affairs unsettles him. Sadly I cannot carry your healer's burden, or I would.’ She became confidential and almost childlike. ‘But I can nurse him. I carry out your instructions meticulously. I give him his potions and tablets as you've prescribed and soothe him when he's restless; it's little enough but at least I feel that I am helping both him and you.'

  Dan-Tor looked at her enigmatically. ‘The King is indeed fortunate to have such a Queen, Majesty. But please remember that you must seek me out urgently if his condition deteriorates—no matter where I am. The King is the mainstay of the State. His well-being must override all other considerations.'

  'Of course, Lord Dan-Tor,’ said Sylvriss. ‘But I mustn't burden you with the Honoured Secretary's concerns, must I? What is it you wanted to see me about?'

  Dan-Tor affected diffidence. ‘At the risk of incurring your displeasure, Majesty, I had hoped to talk to you again about the matter of an escort for you when out riding.'

  Sylvriss raised her hand to stop him. ‘Now it's you who're too concerned, Lord Dan-Tor. I need no escort.'

  'Majesty,’ insisted Dan-Tor. ‘The times are unsettled. We've rioting and disturbances in our streets now, I can't...'

  Sylvriss interrupted again. ‘Rest assured, Lord Dan-Tor, no one will harm me. Besides, where will you find horsemen in Fyorlund to escort me?'

  Dan-Tor conceded. ‘That's true, Majesty. But I'm still concerned. If the situation becomes worse, I fear even your popularity won't be shield enough.'

  'Lord Dan-Tor. I, above all, don't wish to add to your many difficulties. If indeed the situation in the City worsens, then perhaps we'll discuss this again. In the meantime, I beg of you, rest easy in your mind about my well-being.'

  Madam, you can break your stiff Riddin neck for all I care, Dan-Tor thought, but the blame would probably be laid at my feet. ‘As you wish, Majesty,’ he said reluctantly and, with a deep bow, he was gone.

  Sylvriss breathed out a long slow breath and closed her eyes briefly. Then taking out the key from her pocket she waved it at Dilrap. ‘The locksmith, Dilrap. Is he to be trusted?'

  Dilrap, still fidgety from the sudden intrusion of Dan-Tor, smiled nervously. ‘He doesn't need to be trusted, Majesty. The key's of a type that's used for many rooms, he's constantly making the like to replace lost ones. The boy noted the number w
hen a guard dropped it.'

  Sylvriss nodded. ‘We must get it to the Lords immediately,’ she said resolutely.

  Dilrap threw up his hands in agitation. ‘Majesty, that will serve no purpose. The boy tells me that the door is bolted as well as locked. Besides, it couldn't be done. He's constantly watched when he's with them and only able to communicate very cautiously with the Lords, using some secret sign language. We must be careful how we...’ He paused.

  'How we use him.’ Sylvriss finished his sentence. Dilrap bowed his head. ‘It's a shameful word to admit to, Dilrap,’ she went on. ‘But it's true, for all he's a willing agent. We must be careful what we ask of him, and you're right to remind me. I mustn't let my distance and security make me callous.'

  Or careless, she thought. If the boy were exposed, then so also would be Dilrap and herself, and Sylvriss knew that if that happened, Dan-Tor would take delight in destroying her helpers while leaving her untouched. He would relish silently laying their agony at her feet.

  She slipped the key into her pocket. ‘This is important even if we can't use it immediately,’ she said. ‘Tell the boy he's done well, and to take great care.'

  * * * *

  A group of Mathidrin rode into one of the small squares that were liberally dotted about Vakloss. The brightly decorated houses and shops looked gay in the strong sunshine, and the trees swayed busily in the breeze. The square was littered with stalls and a large crowd was milling around, buying, selling, bartering, arguing, laughing.

  The hubbub fell slightly as the Mathidrin entered, a small knot of black intruding into the coloured throng, but it picked up almost immediately, and seemed in fact to rise to a new pitch.

  The leader of the Mathidrin looked around bleakly at the happy crowd. Over at the far corner of the square he saw another group of Mathidrin sitting drinking in front of a shop. He sniffed, and his mouth curled in an unpleasant sneer. Then, casually, he raised his right hand and idly rubbed the side of his nose. Nearby stood a stall which glittered and sparkled with mirrors and crystal ornaments. The stallholder looked up at the black rider thoughtfully for a moment and then walked towards him, his face breaking into a broad smile.