by Roger Taylor
The atmosphere in the room heightened perceptibly. Unknowingly, Hawklan had used the very words spoken to each Goraidin after his successful training and before his acceptance into the corps. No one moved or spoke and the distant comings and goings of the householders filtered into the room. Yatsu stood up and looked at his men, his friends, standing in two uncertain ranks either side of the extended sword.
'My apologies, Commander Yatsu,’ Hawklan said. ‘But time is not with us. I don't know whether I chose this road, or whether I was chosen for it, but I am here, and I must set the pace, not follow it.'
Yatsu looked straight at him. ‘Hawklan, we're Goraidin. No slavish followers of any man. But you fit no mould—neither Goraidin nor Lord, nor anything I've ever met. You leave us at a loss.’ He looked again at his men and seemed to receive some subtle acquiescence. Gently he laid his hand on the black blade, and bowed. ‘Until time shows otherwise we'll trust you to guard our backs,’ he said.
Hawklan bowed in reply. The Goraidin had given him the highest accolade they could. He returned it. ‘And I'll trust you to guard mine, Commander—men.'
* * *
Chapter 37
It was a baleful sight that greeted those who looked across their City the following day. Early morning mist often swathed the plains around Vakloss, lapping like an idle tide at the foot of the great hill which bore the City, but today it had seeped up into the very streets and above, curling around the rooftops, its normal soft whiteness now a pale infected yellow. A single mottled plume of smoke rose straight into the air like a slender column supporting the hazy sky.
The sun shone a feeble and watery light over the scene as if the previous day had prematurely aged it into winter. No street traders jostled the morning quiet with their ritual contests for the most favourable places. No craftsmen or servants purposefully marched the streets to start their daily tasks. The streets were empty and quiet except for an occasional flitting shadow scurrying for safety and the rhythmic tramp of Mathidrin patrols seeking out such stragglers, and inexorably binding the City in a web of black intent.
Dan-Tor smiled, his teeth predatory white. The sight beneath him reminded him of Narsindal, with its creeping mists and long waiting silences. It was a good omen and it fed his soul. Today was going to be an excellent day, the first of many. Today he would begin to seize the power which he had been patiently edging towards for so long. His enemies had thrust it into his hands.
A movement disturbed him, like a mote in his eye. His forehead creased a little and the smile froze as his gaze flicked from side to side to seek out the offender. Then he saw it: sharp, black and clear-cut, a great black bird gliding over the City—his City—offending its portentous stillness. The black scar of clarity and its smooth harmonious movements jarred his pleasure at the sight of the exhausted, blurred City, unfocussed under its gauzy blanket and, without thinking, he reached out his hand to destroy the creature.
Hawklan, came the thought, and drawing in his breath, Dan-Tor withdrew also his intent. The bird disappeared behind a nearby tower and Dan-Tor leaned forward in anticipation of its gliding reappearance, but it did not emerge and he felt a wave of irritation at this further, if petty, unfulfilment.
Straightening up, he scowled angrily. That had been a serious mistake. He had used the rioting well for his own ends but the cause must surely have been Hawklan. Hawklan, elusive and enigmatic, must now be here, playing the hunter, seeking him out in his own lair. Briefly, he felt a twinge of fear, but he crushed it. That is your mistake, Hawklan, he thought. Your successes have made you over-confident. Now you've given me Fyorlund and I'll draw you in like a fish in a net. And on a mere whimsy he might have dashed the cup from his own lips. To send the Old Power winging across the City, the City where Hawklan lay, just do destroy a bird! He closed his eyes in silent rage at his near folly.
* * * *
Another figure stood looking out of a window, meditating on the same events.
'Keep away from the window, Hawklan,’ said Yatsu, entering the room quietly. ‘There are Mathidrin patrols everywhere and they need only the slightest excuse to arrest people. Just watching them is more than enough.'
Hawklan nodded and moved across to a low comfortable chair that had housed him for most of the night. ‘You look tired,’ he said as Yatsu flopped into the chair's partner opposite.
Yatsu blew a noisy breath and rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am. And worried. I've been prowling the City all night trying to find out what's happened.'
'Can the Lords leave today?’ Hawklan said.
Yatsu shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We'll not even be able to move about the streets today. They're already posting edicts up to that effect.’ He frowned. ‘They've been so fast. They seem to have recovered from the disturbance almost immediately. I was counting on at least one clear day of general confusion in which we could slip away, but...’ His voice tailed off and he sat silent for a moment. ‘It's all gone wrong,’ he concluded bitterly. ‘But I can't begin to see where or why.'
'Not all, Yatsu, not by any means,’ said Hawklan. ‘The Lords are free and at comparatively little cost. You've found two allies—for what they're worth. And you know your Queen is with you, and perhaps thus your King.'
Yatsu looked at Hawklan. So the men had told him about their escapade. That was an interesting sign. ‘But...’ he began.
Hawklan waved the word aside. ‘No buts, Yatsu. The game proved to be bigger than you thought. Probably more players than you realized. Still, if we can't leave, then we must make the most of the time we have in talking and planning. But first, you must rest.'
Yatsu smiled wearily. ‘Needing to rest and being able to are not the same, healer. I'm battle-weary I know, and there are too many moves and counter-moves flowing through my head. But I can't lay them to rest like I used to. I'm not the man I was twenty years ago. Can't take the pace any more.'
Hawklan felt the man's doubts and regrets. ‘You misjudge yourself,’ he said. ‘But I'll help you.'
Yatsu shook his head and made as if to rise. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven't the time.'
Hawklan reached across and put a hand on his shoulder and gently restrained him. ‘Yes you have, Commander,’ he said, his voice low and reassuring. ‘You've just admitted it.’ Yatsu felt the hand heavy and immovable on his shoulder. ‘You must rest quietly now,’ continued the low voice. ‘Just for a little while. Your friends are all rested and will watch for you. You know you can trust them. Soon we'll talk and plan ... talk and plan ... when you're rested ... rested...'
Hawklan's voice faded into silence and, taking his hand from the now sleeping Yatsu's shoulder, he gently placed a cushion under his head. He sat down again.
'Come in, Lord Eldric,’ he said.
Rather sheepishly Eldric stepped into the room. ‘I can't make you out, Hawklan,’ he said softly to avoid disturbing Yatsu. ‘Or your friend for that matter. The two of you faced down a Goraidin patrol, then, from what I can gather, virtually took charge of them. Your every move marks you out as a warrior and yet you look after our wounded and weary like...’ He left the sentence unfinished and looked down at the sleeping Yatsu. He shuffled awkwardly. ‘I wasn't spying out there, you know, I ... I just didn't want to disturb you.’ Hawklan smiled broadly and Eldric looked upwards, a mixture of annoyance and confusion on his face. ‘Why am I justifying myself to you?’ he said, then he leaned forward and asked the inevitable question. ‘Hawklan, who are you?'
Hawklan looked into the old man's face. Through the scars of his recent captivity he could read a splendid mixture of compassion and wisdom though they were only barely containing an almost youthful impatience.
'Lord Eldric,’ he said. ‘I'm Hawklan. A healer from Pedhavin in Orthlund.’ Eldric began a gesture of rebuttal, but Hawklan continued without pause. ‘Events over the last few months have shown me that that's not all I am, but little else. I've more questions about myself than you have, Lord. When I know
who I am, I'll tell you. But for now, the question can't be answered. Certainly not by me nor any I've met, including your Lord Dan-Tor.'
Eldric looked at him, his eyes narrow. ‘Then I must judge you by your deeds,’ he said.
Hawklan sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you must judge, then my deeds will suffice as evidence, and I'll abide by your verdict,’ he said.
Eldric raised his hands and lowered his head. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘It was an ill-chosen word. I'm already in your debt for your help to Lord Arinndier and Dacu. How can I repay you?'
'There's no question of payment, Lord Eldric,’ Hawklan said. ‘We're all under siege here, and in desperate straits, I imagine, for all the comfort of our immediate surroundings. Isloman and I came to Fyorlund to find out what was happening here and to seek out this Dan-Tor. That's still our aim. You and the others will be looking to leave the City as soon as possible, I presume, to flee from him, for your own sakes and for the sake of these people sheltering us.’ Eldric nodded and Hawklan leaned forward. ‘Dan-Tor's machinations are common to us both. The greatest service we can do one another, therefore, is to share our knowledge, then we can define our intentions and plan our actions. As a military man I think you might say—intelligence, strategy and tactics.'
Eldric nodded again. ‘Indeed, healer,’ he said, with a soft irony. ‘Indeed.'
* * * *
Through the day, Dan-Tor also gathered in his intelligence, sitting still and silent at the centre of the web his Mathidrin were weaving over the City. Occasionally he would walk over to the window and stare out at the slender strand of smoke still rising in the distance. Like incense from a votive offering, he thought.
A light breeze had risen with the sun, bending and dispersing the column, and the jaundiced haze of the dawn was gradually being swept aside by air that brought with it the fresh scents of the fertile plains that surrounded the City. The sight was much less to his taste, but little could alloy his satisfaction at what had been achieved. On the whole, it was substantial.
True, the Lords had been released; that was not good, but had presumably been the reason for the start of the disturbance. Two of his workshops had been destroyed; that was unfortunate. Several Mathidrin had been killed; that was of little concern. And several citizens had been killed; that was of even less concern. But the greatest gain came from his being able to lay the blame for all the havoc squarely at the feet of the four Lords, and their more active supporters, even though he sensed Hawklan was the true originator. ‘Didn't I tell you? There's treachery all around us,’ he could say. ‘Look what these people have wrought with their greed and ambition. And these are our own kind. What then can we expect from the Orthlundyn?'
On the pretext of rooting out the traitor Lords and their helpers, he could increase the power of his Mathidrin, and with the terror that they would spread he could gradually dispense with the irritating forms of law behind which he was still obliged to shelter.
Idly his long forefinger pushed a pen along the thick book lying on the desk in front of him. For a while it overhung the edge of the book, then, at his next touch, it tilted down on to the desk top. The balance swings my way, he thought. Suddenly and with little effort, because of what has gone before. And it will not swing back. Fyorlund will go ever downwards under the weight of my Master's heel. A substantial achievement indeed.
Nevertheless, Hawklan and the Lords weighed too heavily in this balance. At liberty, they could dispute this version of events, could rouse many of the people, particularly away from the City, where the Mathidrin had less influence. They could cause endless trouble.
And Hawklan? Still an enigma. It must be he who started this, but why? And how?
His mind went back to the green at Pedhavin. What demon had made him think he could sell his corruption to the Orthlundyn, of all people? That remnant of the ancient race. He should have followed his original intention and moved quietly through Orthlund and out into a world that was ripe for him. But he had had to stop. Had to try their mettle. And what demon had made him play the clown at the foot of that accursed Castle, and brought him face to face with the man who might house the greatest of all enemies? But, above all, what demon had prompted him to try to enslave the man without His aid?
Was it that old buffoon, chance? Was it some dark test by his Master? Was it even some plot by Ethriss himself? If the devil were awake, might not he too have the infinite patience and cunning of Him? Searching and learning in his mortal frame, not wasting his power on lesser fry, until he knew the strength of his long-silent enemy. The thought was as sharp and clear as the black bird that had soared through the morning murk and it unsettled Dan-Tor profoundly. A powerful servant to an infinitely cruel and subtle master, he knew he was. But a puppet? One whose strings could be seen and pulled by those who had the sight, to make him jerk and twist unaware of their will? He glanced uneasily from side to side as if listening for distant and mocking laughter.
Then, rolling in the wake of these doubts came the most terrible of all. That even the deeds of Ethriss and Him might be determined by a force beyond them all.
With a grim effort, he shook the convoluting thoughts from his mind. None have the vision for that, he thought. You seek that which must be forever from you. Deal with matters of immediate moment. You'll gain scant reward for doing anything else. Hawklan must be in the City. The Lords could still be. They must be found and taken before the balance of his progress did indeed slip away from him.
He walked over to the door and stepped into a small ante-room. An immaculate Mathidrin officer stood smartly to attention as he entered. ‘Lord?’ he said.
'Have Commander Urssain join me on the north battlements immediately he returns.'
* * * *
As the day progressed, an ordinary upstairs room in an ordinary Vakloss house saw Hawklan's suggestion put into practice, as the Lords and their rescuers and finally Hawklan himself told their respective tales.
The room was lit only by such daylight as could percolate through the thin curtains that had been left drawn since the house awoke. The movement of people in an upstairs room might possibly attract the attention of the patrolling Mathidrin, but torchlight shining through curtains certainly would.
Eldric spoke for the Lords. His telling was simple, precise, and short, if a little formal. Hawklan noted some of the Goraidin winking at one another as he rose and began as though he were in the Geadrol. He told of their arrest and imprisonment and of their unexpected and tenuous link with the Queen, but he made no observations on the motivation of the King or Dan-Tor.
Yatsu's telling, however, was longer and more anguished.
The patterned curtains threw uneven shadows across his face like an imprisoning mask. He told of his decision to mobilize his old Goraidin companions when he read of the disbanding of the High Guards. ‘Without the Geadrol, everything is mist and fog. The course of the country's affairs can't be seen, nor who steers it. Appeals by the other Lords for your release or trial were met with endless and wilful prevarication. The Mathidrin ignored and abused both the Law and the people. I saw no alternative but to attempt to release you so that some light could be shone into the gloom.'
Eldric nodded, but when he spoke, his tone was stern. ‘Hawklan has told us, and you've confirmed yourself, some of the things that have happened because of your actions. The City ravaged, with rapine, murder, looting. That's an appalling price to pay just for our freedom. How can you justify it, Goraidin?'
Hawklan watched Yatsu closely. Eldric's blunt question forced the man's pain to the surface, and for all his control, he could not keep it from his face. ‘I can neither justify it, nor account for it, Lord,’ he said. ‘We planned carefully. We studied the City patrols. We chose reliable High Guards officers.’ He emphasized reliable. ‘The older ones. We arranged an extensive series of diversionary riots and the firing of one of Dan-Tor's workshops to draw out the garrison from the Palace. We knew there was a risk that we wo
uldn't succeed. We knew there was a risk that some civilians would be hurt. That I would have laid to my accounting. But what's happened...’ He shook his head and clenched his hands together. ‘I don't understand. The Mathidrin seemed to have run amok and, vicious though they are, they're not undisciplined. It makes no sense. Why should they do that?'
'I'm afraid that's obvious.’ Hreldar's voice was cold. ‘Dan-Tor ordered it.'
'Your Gathering's premature, Lord,’ said Eldric quickly.
Hreldar waved the comment aside. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Dan-Tor intends to seize all power to himself—that, we've decided, even if we don't know why. The Law and its many manifestations in our society are his greatest obstacles. Anything that disturbs them is to his advantage. He merely played the pieces that Goraidin Yatsu and his companions laid out.'
'I agree,’ said Darek. ‘We have much rumour and gossip here today, but the speed with which events appear to have moved can only be because Dan-Tor has had such a blow long planned—probably one of many. He was never short of an alternative in debate, if you recall, Lords.'
Eldric rested his forehead in his hand. Then he nodded. ‘I fear you're right,’ he said. ‘Goraidin Yatsu, I know I can't lift the burden of these events from you, but my own feeling concurs with that of my friends. You can't accept responsibility for what someone else has done with your sword.'
Finally came Hawklan. The strange Orthlundyn. The healer? The man who held the loyalty of the outland Goraidin, Isloman. The man whose very presence had virtually commanded their loyalty. Following Yatsu's grim distress, the atmosphere in the room became jagged with attention when Eldric motioned him to speak.
He told of Dan-Tor's strange incursion into Orthlund and of its tragic conclusion. The group listened quietly and patiently until at the end he mentioned the name of Jaldaric and revealed the true nature of the patrol that had attacked them. For a moment there was a stunned silence and then uproar broke out, and Hawklan found himself assailed by disbelief and anger on all sides.
