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

by Roger Taylor

  Her informants in the City had mentioned nothing of any planned disruption, but she was inclined to agree with Dan-Tor's assessment that this was not a spontaneous outburst.

  'It doesn't matter,’ she whispered to herself. Any Mathidrin remaining in the Palace would probably be guarding the gate. The Westerclave would be virtually empty.

  She took a deep breath to quieten her racing pulse, but it had little effect. Reaching into her pocket, her moist hand closed around the cold key which she had kept with her since Dilrap had given it to her. Two images merged in her mind. One, of the Mathidrin officer she had knocked over for maltreating a horse, and the other, that of her father's face smiling anxiously when, unusually for one so young, she had been made a junior messenger towards the end of the Morlider War. ‘Nothing worth doing's easy, girl, and some chances only come once.’ The memory tipped the scale for her.

  She waited a little longer, carefully watching the comings and goings below. The sounds in the distance grew louder, and eventually the courtyard below became still except for a few guards by the gates and the arrival of the occasional messenger. Now, she thought. Now.

  Clattering along corridors and down stairs, it came to her suddenly that even if she were able to release the Lords, they would have difficulty in escaping the Palace. She swept the thought away. There was no time for detailed planning. This was pure risk and dependent on speed above all. Besides, there was havoc out there. Who knew what other opportunities might arise? And the Palace was a big place.

  Gently she opened the door of her chamber. Rgoric was still asleep, an open book on his lap. Softly she tiptoed across the room to an alcove where she kept some of her outdoor cloaks.

  'Sylvriss.'

  She froze. It was the King's voice. Oh no, my love, she sighed inwardly, not now. He would want to talk. Sometimes he needed reassurance when he was awakened suddenly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, torn between his need and the opportunity that fate had placed in her hands. Composing her face into a smile, she turned round and looked at him.

  He was still asleep. ‘Sylvriss,’ he said again, shifting slightly in the chair. The heavy book on his lap started to slide. Without thinking, she strode forward and scooped it up just before it hit the floor. She dared not breathe as she placed the book gently on a nearby table and walked back to the alcove.

  Minutes later, she was moving silently along the lower corridors of the Palace towards the Westerclave. Dressed in the plain grey cloak and hood that she sometimes used when she wanted to pass unnoticed in the City, she flitted through the shadows, walking as normally as she could to avoid attracting attention.

  Just one of the maids, she repeated to herself. Just one of the maids. But the hiss of her clothes and the muffled pad of her soft shoes sounded like thunder to her.

  Eventually she came to a door which would lead into the cellars. For a moment she hesitated with her hand on the latch. The Palace was deafeningly quiet. She had seen no Mathidrin, and such servants and officials as were about seemed for the most part to be gathered in the upper rooms watching the distant fire, but once through this door she would have no excuse for being where she was. Each step forward from now would be a step nearer to exposure. Then, gripping the latch tightly, she pushed the door open and stepped into the cool stillness of the cellar.

  She had never been in the Palace's extensive cellars before, but she had studied plans found for her by Dilrap and had frequently travelled this route in her mind, never realizing that it might actually come to pass. The difference between the flat sketches and the solid reality, however, gave her a frightening jolt, and it took her a little while to relate the images she had seen to the gloomy array of walls and passages now facing her. With an effort she forced herself to be calm and, after agonizing minutes, she reached the door she wanted. The door through into the cellars of the Westerclave.

  Now, Dilrap, she thought, let's see if you've kept your promise. The promise that this door, lurking in an unused part of the cellar, would be unlocked against the possibility of this plan being put into operation. Tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently eased the latch and pushed the door.

  It did not move. A reproach formed in her mind but she dismissed it guiltily. Please let it open, she prayed, then, grimacing anxiously, she put her shoulder against the door and pushed harder. It moved abruptly and the bright light of the Westerclave burst through the narrow crack. She closed the door quickly and leaned her forehead against it nervously. Spreading out Dilrap's sketches in her mind she went over the final part of her route again. First right, second left, first left, third door on the right. Each step taking her nearer to the more used parts of the cellar.

  Then, cautiously opening the door again and screwing up her eyes against the increased brightness, she peered down the long passage in front of her.

  It was empty.

  She reached into her pocket and felt the two objects there. The key to the Lords’ cell and her old Muster knife. Whether either of them would be of any use to her remained to be seen. She had few illusions about her ability to use the knife against a Mathidrin guard if she were caught and could not talk her way out, but ...

  With a last deep breath, she stepped out of the gloom and into a final commitment.

  Heart racing, she walked her memorized route in long, quiet strides. Just one of the maids. Just one of the maids. It kept other thoughts at bay a little but offered little real solace. No maids ever came to the Westerclave cellars.

  At each junction she paused and listened before turning the corner. No echoing voices or sounds of movement added to her terror. What can be happening in the City to have emptied this place so totally? she thought.

  Then she was at the door to the Lords’ cell. Carefully she eased back the two heavy bolts and, with trembling hands, fumbled the precious key from her pocket. Her hand was shaking so much that she had to seize it with the other to still it sufficiently to insert the key in the lock. The clatter of the key against the keyhole seemed to be deafening. As she was about to turn the key, a shadow fell across her. She felt the blood drain from her face and instinctively she jerked her hood further forward. Turning round she found herself looking into the cold, grim eyes of three Mathidrin.

  * * *

  Chapter 34

  Hawklan and his escort rode at full gallop after the main body of the patrol. The huge column of smoke loomed over the whole City, ominous and bloated, dwarfing even the towers of the Palace. Then, like a sinister giant raising its hoary head, a second column, white in colour, began to rise beside it. Strange sounds drifted towards them and a foul smell began to mar the summer scents. Hawklan reined Serian to a halt, his nose wrinkling.

  'What unholy creation could make such a smell?’ he said, largely to himself.

  Isloman's face was stony. ‘It has the feel of that tinker's work,’ he said. ‘No natural thing would die like that.'

  Hawklan turned to the nearest Mathidrin. ‘What buildings are burning? Can you tell from here?'

  The man looked uncertain and then spoke briefly to his friends. ‘It's difficult to say, sir,’ he replied. ‘But the Lord Dan-Tor has many workshops in that part of the City.'

  Hawklan nodded and then spurred his horse forward.

  The young officer came alongside him. ‘Sir, I'm supposed to take you to the Palace. The Captain ordered...'

  'I'll explain to your Captain, young man,’ Hawklan replied resolutely. ‘It seems to me that that,’ he pointed ahead to the smoke-filled horizon, ‘is somewhat out of the ordinary and very serious. I imagine that most people at the Palace will be too busy to deal with visiting envoys at the moment. Whether we arrive an hour or so late will be of no consequence. On the other hand, I am a healer, and healers will be needed at that fire, don't you think?'

  The young man hesitated, but Hawklan kept increasing his pace steadily, leaving the man little choice but to follow. He heard Serian chuckle. The other horses were breathing heavily and beginn
ing to sweat, but Serian was taking the long uphill way into the City effortlessly. High above, Gavor flew ahead, spurs unsheathed, maintaining the silent vigil he had kept since they left the village.

  When they entered the City proper, Hawklan found himself badly disorientated by the numerous streets. ‘Which way—quickly!’ became his watchword to keep his escort on the move and prevent their having time to think.

  The two great columns of smoke now filled the sky and were spreading out at a great height to cover the sun and throw the City into a premature twilight. The sun drifted in and out of view, round and sickly yellow.

  As the group neared the fire, the streets became more crowded and the noise of the blaze could be heard. But it was mingled with another noise—fighting. Hawklan looked at the crowds milling round. Some seemed to be running away from something, while others seemed to be running purposefully towards it.

  He leant down from his horse. ‘What's happening?’ he shouted to a man running by.

  The man, breathless and red-faced, pointed back the way he had just come. ‘The Mathidrin,’ he said. ‘They're attacking the people.’ Then with a fearful glance at Hawklan's escort he ran off before Hawklan could speak to him again.

  Hawklan looked at the young officer who shrugged off his unspoken inquiry, though he was beginning to look decidedly uneasy.

  At the end of the street they came to a large square, and a scene unfolded before them like a waking nightmare. People were running in every direction, shouting and screaming. Faces flickered in front of Hawklan, faces alight with terror, with rage, faces blank and lost with bewilderment and shock. The healer in him reeled at the pain. The jangling of the alarm bell filled the air, echoing from rooftop to rooftop, but above it rose the crackle and roar of the blazing buildings, even though they were still some distance away and could not be seen. The whole was pervaded by a retching smell and a sinister half light formed by the unnatural cloud.

  As he surveyed this sight, Hawklan felt the jarring impact of two concussions and looking up he saw a misshapen ball of yellow fire climbing rapidly up the white column like some fearsome escapee. It bathed the crowd in a shimmering jaundiced hue and for a moment there was silence as everyone turned to watch its scrambling ascent. Then the noise broke out again, louder than ever.

  Hawklan was uncertain about what to do. Looking at the milling crowd, he thought he saw some pattern, some order to it, but it was too fluid for him to define. A cry by his side made him turn. One of the Mathidrin was holding a hand to his forehead, blood running between his fingers. Then a stream of missiles engulfed them, and a section of the crowd closed around them roaring and shouting.

  * * * *

  'The Lords, girl. Where are they?’ The Mathidrin officer's tone was icy. Sylvriss looked up at him, her voice frozen within her by the menacing presence of the three men. The Mathidrin closed his eyes briefly as if looking inwards for patience. Then opening them, he peered into the darkness of her hood. ‘The Lords, girl. Where are they?’ he repeated slowly and distinctly, as if to a foolish child. ‘They're to be moved to safer quarters and no one's bothered to tell us what room they're in.'

  Slowly Sylvriss began to gather her wits. Luck was running both for and against her. These men were strangers here. They took her for one of the servants in her grey cloak. She could escape unrecognized. But they were going to remove the Lords and then everything would be lost. A desperate resolve formed in her mind, and nervously she pointed a shaking finger towards the key in the door.

  'In here?’ asked the man. She nodded. The Mathidrin pushed her to one side and, turning the key, opened the door wide. Two of them walked in, leaving the third in the passage. Sylvriss followed them. The four Lords stood up as the Mathidrin entered.

  Before anyone could speak Sylvriss, standing behind the two Mathidrin, threw back her hood so that the Lords could see her, then drawing her knife she cried, ‘Lords. Kill these men now. This will be your only chance of escape.’ And she lunged with the knife at the back of the nearest Mathidrin.

  But the surprise on the Lords’ faces betrayed her and the man was turning even as she spoke. He stepped to one side, seized her hand in a pitiless grip and, with a slight twist, brought her down on to her knees. The knife was taken from her effortlessly and levelled at her throat.

  Crying out, the four Lords moved forward almost as one, but the first guard struck Arinndier a back-handed punch in the midriff that doubled him up, impeding Darek, then reaching quickly round Eldric's head he gripped the back of his hair and swung him round to block Hreldar's advance. The guard holding the Queen watched, his face concerned. He spoke to them urgently in a language that Sylvriss did not understand and the Lords froze in surprise. Sylvriss found herself released and the hand that had held her so easily on her knees reached out and helped her gently to her feet. She was shaking and bewildered. ‘Majesty, forgive me,’ said the guard, offering her knife back to her, hilt forward.

  'What's happening?’ gasped Sylvriss, looking from face to face. ‘Who are these men, Lord Eldric?'

  'I don't know what's happening, Majesty, but these men are Goraidin,’ he replied. ‘This man is Yatsu, the others I don't know yet.'

  'It would appear you both came to rescue us at the same time,’ said Darek.

  'Lords, Majesty,’ said Yatsu urgently. ‘We've no time for debate. The City's in turmoil, but it's only a matter of time before the Mathidrin reserves get here. We blustered our way in through the confusion, but the longer we delay the more likely it is we'll have to fight our way out.'

  Eldric raised his hands to his temples as if to shake his bewildered thoughts into order. Then, ‘The Queen, Yatsu, what of the Queen?’ he asked.

  Sylvriss answered before Yatsu could speak. ‘I'll return the way I came, Lord Eldric. I'll be quite safe. You go, quickly.'

  Eldric looked uncertain.

  Sylvriss ignored his doubt. ‘Go now, quickly, or we'll all be doomed. You must escape while you can. Dan-Tor must be fought.'

  Eldric still hesitated. Abruptly he fell on his knees and took the Queen's hand in both of his. Words formed on his lips but he could not speak them.

  Suddenly there was the sound of running feet in the passage and the third guard entered. ‘The others are here,’ he said urgently. ‘Hurry. We've not much time.'

  Eldric rose to his feet and after a quick glance around the room signalled the others to follow.

  As they hurried out, Sylvriss took Yatsu's arm. ‘Goraidin Yatsu. Secretary Dilrap and the young servant are to be trusted,’ she said. ‘But that knowledge is for you and the Lords alone. They're in continual danger.'

  'Majesty,’ said Yatsu, concerned. ‘You're certain you'll be safe?’ She nodded confidently and ushered him after the others. He hesitated for a moment, his face anxious, before bowing and striding off rapidly down the passage.

  Sylvriss rubbed her wrist ruefully as she watched him go then, throwing her hood forward, she walked quickly and silently back the way she had come. On the journey she passed two dead Mathidrin.

  * * * *

  It was Serian, rather than any decisive horsemanship by Hawklan, that led Hawklan and Isloman from the crowd. He had reared and screamed as if in panic, and then charged straight into the mob, splitting it open before him like wood under a cleaver. Isloman's horse followed suit down the widening cleft, its rider contenting himself with hanging on desperately. Eventually they came to a halt in a narrow and relatively quiet street.

  Hawklan leaned forward. ‘Thank you, Serian,’ he said breathlessly.

  The horse chuckled again. ‘Great fun, great fun,’ he said.

  'Don't do that again,’ said Isloman, riding to Hawklan's side. ‘You frightened me to death.'

  Hawklan shrugged. ‘It was the horse's idea,’ he said. ‘Left to our own devices that crowd would've had us down very quickly.'

  Isloman grunted at this disclaimer. ‘What did they attack us for?’ he asked.

  'I don't think they were attac
king us,’ Hawklan replied. ‘I think they were attacking those Mathidrin. Cockroaches, they were calling them.'

  'Good name,’ said Isloman, who had reached the same conclusion about the Mathidrin as Hawklan during their journey.

  'Still,’ Hawklan continued, ‘we could have been badly hurt in all that confusion. We're well out of it.’ He patted Serian's neck.

  'What shall we do now?’ asked Isloman.

  Hawklan stared up and down the street. Figures were flitting here and there, and at both ends he could see crowds milling around. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘I'd like to find out what's happened here before we make any decisions.'

  That, however, proved to be harder than he had imagined. Those passers-by who were prepared to stop and speak to him left him with more questions than he had started with. The Mathidrin had launched an unprovoked attack on a crowd. The High Guards were attacking the Palace. Malcontents disguised as High Guards—or Mathidrin—were trying to seize the City. Mathidrin—or High Guards—disguised as ordinary citizens, were trying to do the same. Several parties had, of course, started the fires. They had also been started by accident. The fumes had driven the people mad, etc, etc.

  Eventually Hawklan stopped trying and sat down on a short flight of steps leading to an upper walkway that ran along the street. Out of the mounting gloom, two stumbling figures emerged. A man, staggering badly and holding his hand to his tunic, and a woman, trying to support him and encouraging him between near hysterical sobs.

  Hawklan stood up just as the two slithered to the ground. Instantly the woman disentangled herself and, struggling to her feet, tried to help the man. But he was obviously too weak. He rose to a kneeling position, supporting himself with one hand on the ground, but could do no more. Hawklan and Isloman ran across to them and Hawklan knelt down by the man. Gently he took the man's hand. It was clenched in front of his tunic and as Hawklan pulled it away he saw that the man had been holding in part of his intestines. Hawklan grimaced in spite of himself and Isloman, eyes wide, involuntarily raised his hand to his mouth as if to silence himself.