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

by Roger Taylor

  The woman screamed and cradled the man's head desperately. Hawklan drew his hand across his forehead, which was suddenly damp. He knew before he touched the man that he was dead, but to comfort himself in the immediate pain of his discovery, the healer in him had to search for signs of life.

  'I'm sorry,’ he said to the woman, easing her to her feet. ‘I'm sorry.'

  The woman fell suddenly silent. Ghastly in the yellowing light, she stood motionless, her eyes and mouth wide, as if all the flailing hysteria had wound itself into a tight, unassailable ball within her. When at last she spoke, her voice carried a harsh calm. ‘Why should you be sorry?’ she said. ‘You didn't kill him did you? The cockroaches did it. We were just trying to get away from the crowds and the fighting.’ She was not talking to anyone. She was looking back through the darkness to a brighter, happier life only a few minutes past. ‘They chased us, and stabbed him for nothing.'

  Hawklan looked at Isloman having no words to speak. Another concussion shook the street and for a few seconds a flickering light filtered down over them. Then the sound of the nearby crowds rose suddenly. Hawklan looked at the woman, now kneeling silent by her dead man, her hunched shadow fading as the light disappeared upwards into the thickening mask. The sight cleared his mind. He took Isloman's arm.

  'We go where the sick and injured are, then we find Dan-Tor,’ he said.

  Isloman looked uncertain. ‘What about the woman?’ he said.

  Hawklan's face twisted, as if the words he had to speak were sour in his mouth. ‘There's nothing I can do for the man, and only time can help her now. At least she's not lost. There'll be some of her own nearby ... somewhere.’ Isloman seemed about to protest, but the pain in Hawklan's face stopped him. Hawklan closed his eyes to shut out his friend's reproach. ‘Right now, people are suffering who I can help. I have to do something before the stench of pain and terror overwhelms me.’ Isloman looked again at the silent woman, and then nodded reluctantly. Hawklan turned and began walking in the direction the couple had come from. Isloman followed.

  The two men were scarcely halfway to the end of the street when a scream from the woman cut through the gloom. Turning, they could make out several figures moving round the body of the fallen man. The scream rang out again and the movement resolved itself into a struggle. Without hesitation, both Hawklan and Isloman began to run back up the street. As they neared the group, they saw that the figures were Mathidrin. Two of them were holding the woman and a third was threatening her with a knife. Her dress had been ripped wide open. Four other Mathidrin were standing by laughing and shouting encouragement.

  Isloman hesitated momentarily. The intent of the Mathidrin was quite obvious and it could well be followed by murder. What action he should take was also quite obvious—but there were seven of them, and all armed. In the brief moment it took him to dispatch this thought, he felt Hawklan surge away from his side like a wild hunting animal and, before he could collect himself, he saw the Mathidrin with the knife fall to the ground senseless. It was the sound of the knife clattering across the patterned stones that brought Isloman's faculties sharply into the present. A distinctly dangerous present. The Mathidrin were drawing their swords. So was Hawklan.

  Isloman caught a glimpse of the now discarded woman and then the dead man lying in his own entrails. A spark of vengeance lit up his mind, transforming his fear into an ancient rage. Stepping forward, he drew his iron-bound club—his stone and Loman's metal. A terrible weapon it had once been.

  Hawklan faced the two who had been holding the woman. Eyes cold, he swung his sword high and purposefully with his right hand. Instinctively, the two men raised their own swords to block a downward cut but, even as they did so, Hawklan stepped in low, striking one full in the throat with his left hand, to send him choking to the ground. Then bringing his right hand down and across, he smashed the pommel of his sword into the other man's temple.

  Facing an opponent of his own, Isloman noted these manoeuvres almost subliminally. Thoughts came to him again. Where had Hawklan learned to fight like that? So sure, so fast. What powers and ancient learning lay hidden in that familiar frame?

  But it was no time for pondering. These Mathidrin were not without skill themselves. He felt a blade tear his tunic and cut into his side as he misjudged a feint by his attacker. The pain galvanized him and, before the blade could be withdrawn, he wrapped his arm around his opponent's and with a sudden turn of his body broke it. Continuing the turn he hurled the screaming man into his fellows, knocking two of them down and making a third drop his sword. A few swirling seconds later the skirmish was over, and the Mathidrin were all disarmed and on the ground, either unconscious or nearly so.

  Hawklan's eyes were blazing green in the gloom and he seemed to be transfixed, as if wrestling with some appalling urge as he slowly sheathed his sword. Isloman moved over to the woman cowering by the side of the street.

  'You're safe now,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. But she looked up at him with such a strange expression on her face that he withdrew his hand. As he straightened up, a shape moved rapidly towards him out of the gloom. Before he could react, it passed by his head and there was a scuffle and a strangled cry from behind him. Turning he found himself staring into the wild-eyed face of another Mathidrin. In one hand, the man held a knife, but the other was groping at his throat and blood was pouring through his fingers. Isloman stepped aside as the figure staggered dementedly forward to crash headlong on to the ground after a few paces. There was a burst of coughing from above.

  'Sorry I was a little late, dear boy.’ Cough. ‘Difficult to see in all this.'

  The incident brought Hawklan to himself again. He glanced down at the dead Mathidrin and then looked upwards. ‘Gavor, you shouldn't...’ he began angrily.

  'He saved my life,’ interrupted Isloman angrily. ‘It was my fault. I was careless.'

  Doubt and anger spread over Hawklan's face but, before he could speak, a cry came from one of the fallen Mathidrin. The woman had picked up a dagger and stabbed him. Before Hawklan reached her, she had stabbed a second. None too gently he wrenched the knife from her hand.

  'What are you doing?’ he shouted furiously.

  The woman met his stare unflinchingly. ‘I'm killing these cockroaches just like they killed my husband,’ she said savagely. Hawklan did not reply but, keeping hold of her wrist, he bent briefly over the two men. ‘They're dead,’ he said.

  'So will the others be in a moment,’ said the woman, struggling to free herself.

  'No,’ cried Hawklan.

  But with a desperate effort the woman tore her hand from his grip. ‘You're foreigners, aren't you?’ she said, backing away. Then without waiting for an answer, ‘You saved my life and I owe you that debt, but you don't understand what's happening here.’ Her face crumpled momentarily, but she controlled it almost immediately. ‘You don't understand. Everything's gone. No Geadrol. No Law. No High Guards. Only a sick King, a Warlock Lord and these vermin.’ She drove her foot brutally into one of the Mathidrin who was trying to rise to his feet. ‘They killed my husband. Now I'm killing them.’ She kicked him again repeatedly. Hawklan moved forward and she backed away from the fallen man. ‘If no one's going to look after us, then we Fyordyn look after ourselves,’ and, bending down suddenly, she scooped up another dagger and drove it into the Mathidrin's stomach before Hawklan could move.

  Isloman stepped forward and caught her arm, but she spun round and drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over and she ran off into the gloom.

  'Leave her,’ Isloman gasped painfully as Hawklan made to run after her. ‘Leave her. She's right. She knows what's happening and, as you said, she knows where she is, which is more than we do.'

  Hawklan stared uncertainly after the now-vanished woman, and then looked at his friend. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Isloman scowled and bent forward again. ‘Of course I'm not,’ he said acidly. ‘Just give me a minute or two.'

>   'I'm not sure we've got that long,’ said Hawklan, looking round at the carnage. ‘There's nothing we can do here, and there's too much summary justice in the air for us to try explaining this. Come on. Mount up.'

  Isloman glowered at him, but straightened up gingerly and hobbled to his horse. Gritting his teeth he accepted Hawklan's support as he heaved himself painfully into the saddle.

  No sooner were they both mounted than Gavor flapped between them. ‘Run. Quickly,’ he croaked, breathlessly.

  As they disappeared into the gloom, a large patrol of Mathidrin emerged from the opposite direction and halted by the scattered bodies.

  * * *

  Chapter 35

  The nerve centre of Urssain's response to the fighting in the streets was high in one of the Palace towers, where he could supplement the information he was receiving simply by looking out of the window. It was for this reason that the lower floors of the Westerclave were fairly empty.

  With the Goraidin setting a stern marching pace, and the Lords looking suitably harassed, the group had little difficulty in making their way through to its arched entrance. Such few Mathidrin as they met stepped smartly out of their way and saluted Yatsu's officer's uniform.

  At the entrance, however, they found their horses being scrutinized by an officer. His uniform indicated a high rank, though how high, Yatsu did not know. Two other Mathidrin were standing by talking idly. Yatsu set his face and hoped that his ignorance of Mathidrin ranks and procedures would not betray them.

  Maintaining the determined pace, Yatsu steered the group to the far side of the horses from the officer and loudly ordered them to mount, shouting, ‘Move, you sluggards, or you'll answer to the Lord Dan-Tor personally.'

  Following his lead, the Goraidin and the Lords mounted quickly and prepared to ride off.

  'Sirshiant,’ came an authoritative and supercilious voice. It was the officer.

  Yatsu discreetly allowed his horse to move forward a few paces and then twisted round in his saddle as if seeking the owner of the voice. Finding him, he looked suitably surprised and then saluted smartly. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Didn't see you. Watching the prisoners. They're needed urgently.'

  The officer's eyes narrowed slightly. Adjusting the grip on his reins, Yatsu sent a danger signal to his men.

  'By whose authority have you released these men?’ the officer demanded.

  'Lord Dan-Tor's direct command, sir,’ Yatsu replied.

  The officer's eyebrows rose slowly. ‘Direct command,’ he echoed, as if testing its soundness. His look of suspicion increased. On the side away from the officer, Yatsu discreetly tapped his horse with his knee, to make it restive. Seeing this, the others did the same and the group fell into a slight but fluid disarray which spread out the watching Mathidrin and made the officer step back a little.

  The movement enabled Yatsu to take his eyes off the officer and look around the courtyard. He could see no signs of ambush but his sense of danger was growing by the second. Somewhere a trap was closing, and this officer was playing for time.

  As if in confirmation of this the officer waited very deliberately for the horses to quieten down, eyeing Yatsu coldly all the time. A horse jostled Yatsu and as its rider made soothing noises to quieten it Yatsu heard a soft whisper in the Battle Language. ‘They've recognized the horses.'

  That had always been a risk. They had had to use the horses from the ambushed patrol because the Mathidrin horses were from the north of Fyorlund and were of a build and colour markedly different from local animals. Now some sharp eye had spotted a horse last seen going out on long patrol. Whatever this officer had set in motion, time was against them. Yatsu reached into a belt pouch with his left hand.

  'Direct command, sir. I've the orders here.'

  Even as his hand left the pouch and swung across him to release his knife in a back-handed flick towards the throat of the watching officer, a flash of realization passed between the two of them. Ah, Yatsu thought, Mathidrin don't keep orders in that pouch do they? And you spotted it soon enough to avoid my knife—nearly.

  The officer's supercilious expression vanished, not into fear, but into resolution as, with unexpected speed, he twisted to one side to avoid the blade which just caught the side of his neck. Yatsu registered the man's reaction and the speed of his responses. We must find out more about these men, he thought, as he drove his horse forward powerfully.

  The Lords and the Goraidin followed his move with barely any delay and, crouching low over their horses, they charged towards the nearest gate. As they rode, Yatsu turned to check the disarray back in the entrance to the Westerclave. As he did so, he saw several figures running forward.

  'Archers,’ he shouted. ‘Spread out—weave—and converge on the gate. Close round the Lords as we go through.'

  Scarcely had he finished when an arrow narrowly missed his head. The group split up, making themselves into smaller, fast-moving targets, and forcing the Mathidrin archers to concentrate on rate of fire rather than accuracy. The first casualty was Arinndier who, with a cry, slumped forward over his horse's neck with an arrow in his back. Next, one of the horses went down throwing its rider heavily on to the paved courtyard. Eldric seized the bridle of Arinndier's horse, while one of the Goraidin swung low out of his saddle and unceremoniously swept up his dazed companion and threw him across his horse's neck. Then the group came together raggedly for its final dash through the gate, arrows clattering about them.

  The officer had obviously sent for the archers as some vague precautionary measure, as the gate still stood open to allow the speedy passage of messengers. An attempt was being made to close it now but the few guards there were milling around in mounting confusion as the riders drew nearer. Their confusion was not helped by the arrows falling among them.

  Unused to horses in combat, the Mathidrin's confusion turned rapidly to alarm and then to panic and flight as the group reached them and thundered into the short passage of the gateway, swords glinting through the gloom, and war cries mingling with the deafening clatter of the horses’ hooves. Two of the guards were downed and trampled underfoot and those who tried to assail the riders from the side were cut down ruthlessly.

  Then, like a sudden summer squall, the riders were gone, swallowed up in the swirling murk.

  Minutes later, Yatsu slowed the group down to a walk. ‘We'll be less conspicuous walking than galloping now,’ he said. ‘This ... fog ... is unpleasant, but at least it's working to our advantage.'

  Eldric and the Lords were looking round in bewilderment at the pervasive evil-smelling gloom, but Eldric confined his questions to the important matters of the moment.

  'Where are you taking us, Yatsu?’ he asked anxiously. ‘The Lord Arinndier's wounded.'

  Arinndier was slumped across his horse's neck and though conscious he was barely maintaining his grip on the animal. Yatsu looked at him and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Help him keep his seat, Lord,’ he said to Eldric, then he cast an inquiring glance back to the rider who had picked up the fallen Goraidin. ‘How's Dacu?’ he asked.

  'Shoulder's broken I think, Commander,’ came the answer.

  'We've been lucky to get off so lightly,’ said Yatsu, returning to Eldric.

  'We've been lucky to get away at all, Goraidin. Your planning left a little to be desired didn't it?’ Eldric had no sooner spoken than he pulled an angry face at himself for having allowed his anxiety to express itself as such ingratitude.

  Yatsu caught the look of repentance in the old Lord's eye and his own dark look softened. After all, he thought, they'd been quite impressive, those four.

  'Yes, Lord,’ he replied. ‘But circumstances left us no alternative. Dan-Tor's wreaking havoc, and repression is growing daily. He's disbanded the High Guards now. We had to do something and information's not easy come by. The Mathidrin have got as many zealots as thugs in their ranks and they all live in fear of one another. They're not as easily corrupted as you'd imagine.'

  The party turned into a wi
der street. It was illuminated by globes which had lit automatically when the light faded. Their garish light shone eerily through the haze and, because several of them had been broken, the street was littered with patches of light, like wet stepping stones catching the sunlight. Acrid fumes from the broken globes added to the already foul atmosphere. A great many people were running about, and the street rang with the sounds of voices raised in both anger and fear.

  Eldric thought he saw bodies lying in the shadows but everything was too indistinct. In spite of himself, he spoke out. ‘What's happened, Yatsu? What in Ethriss's name's happened?’ Yatsu, however, was looking worried and was glancing round frequently.

  Eldric let his question lie. ‘Do you think we're being followed?’ he said.

  Yatsu shook his head. ‘No, Lord, but these uniforms will have us in trouble soon unless we're lucky. Damn!'

  The oath was provoked by the sight of a crowd gathered at the end of the street. Yatsu reined his horse back and listened. ‘Quickly. This way,’ he said, and, turning sharply, he cantered off down a narrow alleyway. The others followed. A roar greeted their manoeuvre and the crowd started up the street towards them. Slowly at first, then running. However, by the time the crowd reached the alleyway, the riders were well out of the way, though they could hear the abuse that followed them and the sounds of missiles falling short and rattling along the paved way.

  'What's happening?’ Eldric demanded of Yatsu again.

  'Later, Lord—please,’ replied the Goraidin. ‘When we're in a safer place. Accountings will be made, but right now we're in danger from both sides.'

  'Sides?’ Eldric muttered to himself, but he did not pursue his questioning.

  'Mind your heads,’ Yatsu called out as he led his horse under a low arch into an even narrower alley. ‘We're nearly there now.'