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

by Roger Taylor

  The alley was strangely quiet, all the distant sounds of the City being blocked out by the tall buildings between which it was squeezed. When the last horse had clattered through the echoing arch, the hoofbeats became flat and attenuated, and such talking as went on dropped into whispers.

  Yatsu began to feel relieved. The day had had consequences far beyond his calculation and who knew what more would follow? Would he indeed be able to face an accounting? But at least the Lords were free. He breathed out and patted his horse's neck gently.

  As he looked up, two figures appeared as if from nowhere out of the shade within shade that lined the narrow alley. He started. Why hadn't he seen them? Where had they been hiding? He cursed himself for letting his attention drift so near to their goal. Some old memory flitted uneasily in his mind.

  One of the figures lifted his hand and, in a voice well used to command, said, ‘Enough, Mathidrin, enough.'

  * * *

  Chapter 36

  Hawklan stared up at the rider facing him. The man was nervous, but he had a calm about him which he had not seen before in any of the Mathidrin. It was a relaxed confidence that reminded him of Tel-Mindor. Still, these men were Mathidrin and enough was enough.

  'We've seen some of the things you've done this day, Mathidrin, and been pursued through these streets like animals for our pains,’ he said. ‘We're strangers here from another country, simply seeking food and shelter from this storm you've stirred up. If you could help us, we'd be grateful. If you pass by us peacefully, we'll offer you no hindrance. But,’ he slapped his sword hilt purposely, ‘if you seek to harm us as your fellows have, then you'll die.’ He felt Isloman's sidelong glance. ‘I've used the flat of my blade too much today on people who should have felt its edge.'

  Yatsu listened to this speech anxiously, but kept his face as bland as he could manage. Instinctively he tried to assess the danger from these two men. A faint memory stirred as he looked at the hefty one, standing there like a rock outcrop and gently swinging that strange club. Obviously strong and powerful and, Yatsu felt, perhaps faster than his size might indicate. Not a man to be tackled lightly, least of all in a narrow alleyway. But the other one, the speaker, was different. He offered no gratuitous menace in either his tone or his manner, but Yatsu felt fear rising in him such as he had never known and for an instant he felt as though he were not really there, but looking through someone else's eyes. Shock, he noted uneasily. Trained to listen to his instincts where reason was inadequate, they were unequivocal in their message. To assail this man would be to die.

  Isloman swung his club in a lazy circle and smacked it into the palm of his hand. ‘My friend's too good-natured,’ he said. ‘After what I've seen today, I'm ready to kill you no matter what you do, and then discuss it with your Lord Dan-Tor in like manner.'

  Hawklan laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  Oddly, the overt threat and Hawklan's reaction made Yatsu feel easier. It had substance. It was something to work on. He smiled. ‘Orthlundyn aren't you? By your speech. You've picked a bad time for visiting our country.’ There was much he would have liked to ask of these men, but time was against them. ‘We mean you no harm. In fact, I'd not have seen you if you hadn't moved. We're not what we seem, Orthlundyn, but we are in a hurry, and we have two sick men in need of urgent help. Will you allow us to pass?'

  Hawklan was uncertain. The rider's manner, as well as his posture, was decidedly unlike any of the Mathidrin they had encountered so far. ‘Sick, you say?’ he queried.

  This time it was Isloman's hand that did the restraining.

  'Take care,’ he said. ‘There's something odd about this lot.'

  Eldric, unable to bring his horse by the side of Yatsu in the narrow alley, dismounted and came forward. Hawklan watched him without expression.

  'Stranger,’ said Eldric, ‘I give you my word as a Lord of Fyorlund that we mean you no harm. But our business is urgent, and we do have two wounded men who need immediate attention. Please let us pass.'

  Hawklan glanced at Isloman. The Carver was blunt. ‘What's a Lord doing riding with these ... cockroaches?’ he demanded.

  Arinndier groaned softly. Eldric looked back at his friend and then at Yatsu. Yatsu's hands flickered casually—we'll charge through if necessary, but it'll be dangerous, they said.

  'Very,’ said Isloman stepping forward menacingly, making a hand signal of his own, ‘and you'll be the first to go if you do.'

  Yatsu started as if he had been stung. An Orthlundyn understanding their hand language?

  Eldric shook his head. ‘I think you, too, are not what you seem. I'll risk the truth with you. I'm the Lord Eldric and with me are the Lords Arinndier, Darek and Hreldar. These riders are not Mathidrin, but High Guards in disguise. They've rescued us from Dan-Tor's custody but the Lord Arinndier and one of their number have been hurt. That's information enough for you to collect a sizeable reward from the Lord Dan-Tor if you wish.'

  There was a long, tense silence, during which Isloman looked at Eldric intently. Then he nodded slowly and with great deliberation placed his club back in its belt strap.

  'Not quite the truth, Lord,’ he said. ‘These men aren't just High Guards, they're Goraidin or I'm a wood carver. But that's for later. It's enough we needn't be enemies at the moment. We need help ourselves. Have you a place of safety anywhere in this nightmare?'

  This time it was Eldric who was taken aback by Isloman's unexpected knowledge, but he recovered quickly. ‘Follow us,’ he said decisively and turned to return to his horse.

  'There's no need to mount, Lord,’ said Yatsu. ‘We're only paces away. Come.'

  Despite Eldric's acceptance, all the Goraidin were watching Hawklan and Isloman carefully as the two men stepped back and faded into the shade to allow them to pass.

  * * * *

  'You're a considerable healer, Hawklan,’ said Arinndier weakly. Hawklan did not reply, but laid a hand gently over Arinndier's eyes. Standing up, he turned to Eldric who was standing by the window looking out into the globe-lit murk and scowling. ‘He'll sleep for a little while now,’ he said. ‘He was very lucky.'

  Eldric did not hear him. Thoughts were tumbling through his mind, defying his every effort to stem their flow and introduce some order. The Goraidin fulfilling their ancient role, dressed as the enemy and venturing into the heart of their territory; the Queen appearing from nowhere, like the Muster itself, eyes ablaze and wielding a dagger; Arinndier wounded; the City as he had never known it, a nightmare of choking fumes, mayhem and chaos. Then these two strangers—Orthlundyn, of all things—an odd pair to say the least. Hawklan exuding an awesome presence, first like a dark presager of death in that gloomy alley and then a giver of life. And Isloman, who knew the hand language and who knew of the Goraidin. He closed his eyes irritably. A hand touched his shoulder, gently and temporarily stilling the turmoil. Turning, he found himself looking into Hawklan's face.

  'Lord Eldric,’ Hawklan said quietly, ‘from what I can gather, a great deal has happened, very quickly. You and your friends must rest.'

  Eldric waved his hand dismissively. ‘No ... Hawklan. You don't understand. We must get to our estates as soon as possible. Find out what's happened to our families, our High Guards, our lands ... everything.'

  Hawklan raised a finger for silence. ‘Yatsu tells me his plans for moving you from the City have proved to be impractical at the moment. The disruption in the streets is far worse than they envisaged. He feels it's too dangerous for you to go out.’ Eldric made to interrupt, but Hawklan was implacable. ‘I'm a stranger here, Lord Eldric, and I know nothing of your City or your people, but I do know the streets are dangerous, and I think it'd be unwise to ignore the advice of one of your Goraidin, don't you?'

  Eldric fidgeted with his beard for a moment, and Hawklan's tone became a little more conciliatory. ‘Yatsu says this house is safe, and Isloman and I will make two useful extra defenders if the need arises.'

  But Eldric's turmoil merely flowe
d into this softening by his opponent. ‘No, no,’ he burst out. ‘This is no time for rest. We can fight our way out of the City if necessary.'

  Hawklan stood up very straight. ‘You'll rest,’ he said, in a tone that Eldric had not heard for many, many years. ‘And your friends will rest. You're no use to yourself, to your families, to the country, anything, while you're in this state. When you've rested we'll talk. Answer all the questions we have of one another, and then decide what to do. That's the way of your Geadrol, isn't it?'

  Eldric clenched his fist and his jaw. Hawklan raised an eyebrow. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘you were just prepared to ignore the advice of your Goraidin. Now you'd offer me violence? Is that the act of a wise leader or an exhausted man?’ He paused, locking Eldric's gaze with his own. ‘But perhaps there's a flaw in my logic. I'm not used to your ways.'

  It was enough. Eldric surrendered totally though with a commendable degree of dignity, and soon Hawklan had placed the three Lords into a deep and restful sleep. He smiled as he watched the strain ease from their faces, then he went over to the window, as if to continue the vigil that Eldric had abandoned.

  * * * *

  After leaving Hawklan at the house to attend to the wounded men, Yatsu and the others had taken the horses to a nearby stable and bedded them down. Yatsu had then made a brief excursion alone into the nearby streets to try to form some impression of the mayhem that had followed the diversionary riot he and his fellows had planned. As he returned to the house, he felt he was being observed, and once or twice thought he heard someone coughing nearby. Above him? You're getting old and tired, he thought.

  Closing the door, he leaned back against it, took off the black Mathidrin helmet and puffed out his cheeks in some relief. Almost immediately, his nose sensed a savoury trail and he followed it down a short red-flagged passage towards a lighted doorway. It opened on to a small room lit by the thoughtful glow of an old torch. His men were sitting round a narrow table eating hungrily and talking noisily, while the man and the wife of the house busied around them, constantly filling their bowls and plates. The smallness of the room made it seem very full.

  'This'll get you started,’ the woman was saying. ‘Big lads like you should eat plenty. Keep your strength up.'

  Yatsu smiled. ‘Anything for a little lad then, mother?’ he said.

  She bustled him to a seat at the end of the table and thrust a large bowl in front of him. ‘Less of the mother,’ she said with a playful slap. ‘You're no sapling yourself, young Yatsu. Just put yourself outside that.'

  Yatsu took the admonishing hand in both of his and pressed it to his face affectionately.

  'Go on with you, you daft thing,’ she said as she retrieved her hand and scuttled off to attend to some culinary chore.

  Yatsu looked distastefully at the helmet he was carrying, then laid it down on the floor by his chair. When he looked up he found himself staring along the table at Isloman. The man was more familiar than ever, but the memory still would not click into place. He saw, however, that Isloman recognized him. ‘Well I'm damned,’ said Isloman. ‘I thought my shadow-lore was deceiving me out in that murk, with you hiding in that black ... soup bowl, but it is you. Yatsu?'

  Yatsu half rose. Pieces of memory juddered together. ‘Is-lo-man,’ he articulated slowly as his mind arced back through the years. ‘Of course. That rock for a head. And that club. Who else could it have been? How could I have forgotten?'

  'You forgot because you were once young and stupid, and now you've grown old and stupid,’ said Isloman. ‘As opposed to me who was young and wise, and am even wiser now.'

  Yatsu walked round the table and, seizing Isloman by his short cropped hair, shook his head from side to side, laughing. Isloman wrapped his arms around him and lifted him well clear of the floor.

  'Enough, enough,’ cried Yatsu almost at once. ‘Never let it be said that I didn't know when to surrender.'

  Isloman lowered him effortlessly and the two men stared at one another affectionately.

  'It was no wise thing to come to Vakloss in the middle of a riot ... old man,’ said Yatsu eventually. Then, before Isloman could reply, Yatsu turned to his men who were open-mouthed at the bizarre spectacle they had just witnessed.

  'Men,’ he said, ‘stand up.’ One or two pushed their chairs back hesitantly. ‘Up, up, up,’ Yatsu repeated, gesturing. Then, placing an arm around Isloman's shoulders, ‘Men. Raise your...’ No glasses! ‘Raise your mugs. A toast to Isloman here. The Isloman. With his brother Loman, the only outlanders ever to ride—and fight—with the Goraidin.'

  There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then the room was alive with applause and the babble of countless questions. For a while Yatsu and Isloman both found themselves recalling and recounting many long-hidden memories—funny, bewildering, tragic—all the personal paraphernalia that combat leaves in its wake. Their discourse was interrupted only by the insistence of the woman of the house that they attend to the really important business of eating the considerable quantities of food she was steadily placing in front of them.

  Suddenly Yatsu slapped his forehead angrily and swore. ‘I was so engrossed, I forgot,’ he said. ‘What's happened to the Lord Arinndier and Dacu?'

  'Your friend has a broken shoulder bone, some lacerations and some bad bruising.’ It was Hawklan's voice. He had been standing quietly in the doorway for some time listening to the hubbub of reminiscences filling the room. ‘I've set the one and bound it up, and given him something to soothe the others. He'll be all right if he does as I say, as will the Lord Arinndier. Right now, they and your other Lords are sleeping. I think we'd all better do the same as soon as possible. I suspect the next few days are going to make heavy demands of us.'

  The room had fallen suddenly silent at Hawklan's entry and all eyes were on him.

  Isloman cut through the uneasiness with forced joviality. ‘Men,’ he said, ‘this is my friend Hawklan. A healer by inclination, but quite useful in a fight if sufficiently provoked.’ Then, more earnestly, ‘I consider it a great honour and privilege to ride with him.'

  Yatsu, who had faced Hawklan directly in the alley, leaned back in his chair and nodded quietly to himself. He was watching the response of the others. The Goraidin was a close-knit group, its strength lying not least in the knowledge of the severe training that each member had undertaken. They would accept Isloman on his recommendation and because he and his brother had their own special niche in Goraidin lore. But this man was different, even though he had faced down their Commander, done service to Lord Arinndier and one of their own, and had Isloman's loyalty. Courtesy he would certainly be given, but acceptance? That was another matter.

  One of the men stood up and offered his chair. ‘Lord Hawklan,’ he said, ‘please join us. You must be hungry yourself after your unusual welcome to Vakloss.'

  Hawklan thanked the man, but declined the seat. ‘I'm no Lord,’ he said. ‘There are no Lords in Orthlund. I'm just a healer, as Isloman said.'

  'Well, healer,’ said another with a laugh. ‘You still need to eat. Put down your sword and any other tools of your healing trade, and join us in the meal the good lady has prepared.'

  Hawklan conceded and, leaning his sword against the wall, he pulled up an empty seat and helped himself to a large portion of bread from a great brown loaf in the centre of the table. Yatsu watched carefully to see what his men would do next. He knew that in spite of his approval of the man they would test him in some small way, even if they were not aware that they were doing it.

  Isloman watched also, sensing the same, and, as the conversation picked up again, various remarks headed Hawklan's way which might have provoked a more defensive spirit. He knew that Hawklan would not lose his temper, but he was far from sure how the Goraidin would interpret his apparently placid acceptance of their wilful probing.

  Then, to the considerable surprise of both Isloman and Yatsu, Hawklan started to laugh. Not laughter clanging with hollow defiance, but open and full of genui
ne amusement.

  He's going to test them! Yatsu realized, and he could not forbear smiling to himself a little.

  'Gentlemen,’ said Hawklan, ‘we're all too old for this cadet's game, aren't we? You're uncertain because I'm not one of you. I've shared neither your training nor your experiences. I'm not one of the spiritual descendants of the men who guarded Ethriss at the Last Battle. And it worries you that your Commander didn't just ride right over me in that alley, doesn't it?'

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room at this sudden declaration.

  Hawklan pointed to Isloman and continued. ‘We came to Fyorlund because of certain evil deeds done by your Lord Dan-Tor in Orthlund. Now we find a sickness in your land that will spread and corrode far beyond your borders if it's not stopped.’ He stood up. ‘What I need to know is what kind of men you are. Are you good enough to help us fight against this ill?'

  Some of the men were beginning to scowl angrily, but Hawklan's voice had a power that commanded their attention.

  'I'm prepared to accept Isloman's word as to your worth as fighters, but time is against us and I'm not prepared to wait for all of you to come to the same conclusion about me.'

  What's he doing? thought Yatsu, in mounting alarm.

  'Look at me, each of you,’ continued Hawklan. ‘You value truth and openness. Speak your minds, now. Look into your hearts and form your conclusions now, for there'll be precious little time later and I want no doubters around me when I have to seek out Dan-Tor and hold him to account for what he's done.'

  Reaching out, he picked up his sword, drew it and held it out along the table. It gleamed jet black in the torchlight. Slowly he looked from one man to the next. None spoke, but each stood up as his gaze met theirs.

  'This is an ancient sword,’ he said. ‘Let the resolves in your heart be sealed by the sight of it. It's an enemy to the enemies of life. It will serve you if you will serve it. I will serve you if you will serve me. The threat to Fyorlund is not to Fyorlund alone, and lies deeper by far than the machinations of one evil Lord. Its destruction may be the work of many generations.’ Then, looking round again at each of the standing men, ‘If this work, this service, is beyond you, speak now and go in peace, without reproach.'