by Roger Taylor
* * *
Chapter 39
Dan-Tor's satisfaction grew apace. So, Hawklan, he thought, you'd hunt me? Me of all creatures. And hunt me to my own lair. He smiled as he arranged the recent events into their new pattern. With Urssain's report of the rooftop escape it was clear beyond doubt now that Hawklan had used disaffected High Guards to start the rioting and effect the release of the four Lords from the Westerclave.
He felt almost jovial. True, Hawklan had eluded him yet again, and the High Guards had shown themselves to be resourceful and terrible fighters, but a bloodied nose would do the Mathidrin no harm, and the benefits that would accrue from Hawklan's error would be considerable.
Only one solitary stain of unease marred his grim rejoicing. Hawklan's reach was far longer than he had imagined. Had not a survivor of a border patrol caught in the rioting reported escorting Hawklan from the border to the City in the guise of an envoy from Orthlund, with a message for Lord Dan-Tor? Before the rioting!
The stain spread and clouded his thoughts. Hawklan had moved subtly, silently, and with great cunning in his preparations, and had erred in his plan only because he, Dan-Tor, had seen the play and joined the game. Indeed, Hawklan's strategy in attacking what he saw as the source of his troubles, and his tactical skill in planning and launching the attack while seemingly absent, showed him to be a dangerous enemy.
Safe from the use of the Old Power because of my own doubts about your true nature, healer, he thought, and now increasingly alert to your peril as a man—how deep have you penetrated unfelt into my side, you green-eyed thorn ... ?
Dan-Tor set the thought aside. No matter how difficult the task, Hawklan would have to be brought down and bound. Well bound.
But still softly. Very softly.
'Urssain.’ Dan-Tor ended his musings abruptly as the spectre of his own Mathidrin patrols rose in front of him.
The waiting Commander snapped to attention.
'This man, Hawklan—the Orthlundyn—I know him. He's dangerous and very able. While he guides the Lords they'll be difficult to find and, once found, their taking will be expensive. We've too much to do with our City force consolidating the success of the last few days, to have them wasted in a futile search for these renegades which could only end in conflict.'
He stood up and levelled a baleful gaze at Urssain. ‘There are reasons why the man Hawklan must not be assailed. We'll lay a lure to draw back the Lords, and if perchance they're discovered they can be taken, but...’ Dan-Tor's cold eyes flickered suddenly red and it seemed to Urssain that they filled his entire soul. He caught his breath as if fearful what his least movement might unleash. ‘Understand,’ said a voice through Urssain's terror. ‘And make sure that every last one of your men understands. If found, Hawklan is to be offered courtesy and respect. If he is offered violence or even threat of violence, the perpetrator can look to a death longer and more awful than his wildest nightmares—as can those with him.'
When a shaking and fearful Urssain had left, Dan-Tor sat down and closed his eyes leisurely. Now he was satisfied. Now began the real fall of Fyorlund. Now it passed the point beyond which it could not recover by its own resource. Years of careful corrosion had done their work. As he tightened his web of fear over the country, the weak, the craven, the appeasers, all those in whom the darker side of humanity dominated, would be squeezed to the surface as out of some weeping sore, to spread the infection even further. Soon Fyorlund would crash down like a great tree, leaving a carcass as host and home for the scavengers who would overrun it. The death knell of Fyorlund would be the birth cry of the new order. And all sooner than had been planned.
Although the presence of Hawklan disturbed this flow, there was an irony in the balance of events. A longer delay, and Fyorlund would have been weaker, but Ethriss, wherever he lay, might have been nearer waking.
Dan-Tor nodded to himself. There was always a price to be paid. It would differ from one time to another, but paid it would have to be. And when all was finished it would be measured in time only. A mere blinking of the eye to the eternities that were to come.
* * * *
Beyond the houses from which Hawklan and the others had escaped lay a rambling patchwork roofscape of plains, peaks and valleys as elaborate and varied as any ice-broken mountain range. The group scurried and scrambled across this strange terrain, invisible to the street watchers and overlooked only by a black dot circling high in the summer sky above them. Eventually they were able to drop down into the disused upper storey of one of the many public buildings that littered Vakloss.
The presence of so many Mathidrin on the streets and the shock of the previous days’ events kept many people to their homes, but daily needs and the innate and massive momentum of normal commercial activity had brought more than a few out automatically and, moving cautiously down through the building, Hawklan and Yatsu found themselves looking down from an internal balcony on to a busy trading hall that by its very activity seemed to be trying to scour away the recent horrors.
Hawklan shook his head as he looked down. ‘I don't know whether to be happy or sad to see such a sight so soon after what's happened,’ he said.
'Think about it later,’ Yatsu said sharply. ‘We've still got to find a way out of the City.’ He cast his mind over his charges. The Lords were sufficiently unkempt to pass perhaps for labourers or craftsmen, although Arinndier and Dacu were wilting noticeably. However, the Mathidrin uniforms that he and the other Goraidin were wearing were soiled and scuffed and would inevitably attract attention, as would the foreign clothes worn by Hawklan and Isloman. ‘It's too dangerous,’ he said. ‘We're too conspicuous. We can't risk the Lords being recognized in the streets, or running into any patrols. We'll have to wait for darkness. There are plenty of empty rooms upstairs.’ Hawklan made no argument with this conclusion.
'Twilight will be the time to move. Before the globes come on.’ For the few remaining hours of daylight, they rested in an empty storeroom high in the building.
'Not too palatial, Lords, I'm afraid,’ said Yatsu apologetically. ‘Nor too fitting for an Envoy from Orthlund.'
Hreldar flopped on to a pile of sacks. ‘It has a door that opens, Commander Yatsu. That's all the palace we need.’ Darek and Eldric signalled their agreement with this sentiment, but Arinndier was asleep. He was lying on the wooden floor next to Dacu, both of them resting on makeshift sackcloth pillows. Hawklan was sitting by them, leaning on a rough wooden pillar. He looked pensive.
'Are they all right?’ asked Yatsu.
Hawklan nodded, then smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Dacu's body has a resilience that would be the envy of many a man half his age, and the Lord Arinndier's strong and fit for his years. But they'll need rest and careful attention to recover quickly.’ Yatsu looked up at the faded and cracked ceiling. ‘There'll be precious little rest, and only such attention as you can give them, healer,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry.'
'I'm sorry, Yatsu,’ Hawklan replied. ‘I understand. I didn't mean to burden you further.'
They lapsed into an easy silence and Hawklan looked round at the others.
Once they had decided to wait, the urgency that had been driving them evaporated. Routinely, the Goraidin had examined the escape routes from the building, agreed watches, and then settled themselves down in various places about the storeroom. To a man they were now asleep.
Yatsu caught the look on Hawklan's face and smiled. ‘Goraidin see clearly and accept what they see for what it is, Hawklan. They cling to nothing. Not place, object, person nor time. That way lies turmoil, and in turmoil lies fruitless death. Death of the spirit, death of the body, death of love. Only by letting go of what we value can we retain it. I'm sure you understand that, whoever you are.'
Hawklan laid his hand on Yatsu's arm by way of reply. The man's words seemed like a timeless thread of hope and wisdom stretching back through countless generations.
The sinking sun shone in through a small, high window. Looking at the sleepi
ng figures around him, misty in the half light, Hawklan felt he might be in some Orthlund barn, tired and satisfied after a hard day's harvesting. He focused on the silent motes hovering in the sun's yellow beam and allowed himself to sink into the deep calm pervading the room. The countless tiny lights reminded him of the stars deep in the handle of his sword.
He did not sleep. Instead he seemed to float among the myriad lights, just another speck amongst the uncountable. Strange images and sounds floated by him. Calm at first, a forgotten memory of a time when all was radiance and song, an eternity of time, an endless unfolding into richer and more beautiful patterns. Then a wave of unease, slight and distant, rippled the patterns. A faint clarion call sounded and, with an appalling suddenness, horror and darkness engulfed him as he battled, weary in every fibre of his soul and body, against the endless waves of an unseen enemy that must inevitably triumph. He was choking on his despair and guilt.
Hawklan jerked upright, his eyes wide and sweat slicking his forehead. The sudden movement caused a flurry of eddies in the watching motes and they twisted and darted in the now-reddening light as if trying to escape. Through their dance, Hawklan saw the figure of Andawyr, transparent yet strangely solid in the softly swirling air, and radiating that same embattled weariness and despair. His head was bowed but, as if hearing an unexpected sound, he looked up suddenly and gazed directly at Hawklan. For a moment he stared in disbelief, then a faint hope flickered in his eyes.
'How did you come here, Hawklan?’ he said, his voice strained and distant. ‘Help me.’ His hands reached out in supplication. Unhesitatingly, Hawklan leaned forward and took them. He felt the healing spirit flow through into the figure as if into some terrible wound.
'Ah,’ came Andawyr's voice again. ‘You're here and not here, just as I'm bound and not bound. We've hope yet ... Seek out the Cadwanol and the Guardians ... His power holds me in thrall ... Waken Eth...’ The figure vanished abruptly and for an instant Hawklan felt a terrible chill seize his hands.
'What are you doing?’ a voice hissed in his ear. Turning, he saw Yatsu's alarmed face staring at him. It seemed to be at once very close and very distant. ‘What are you doing?’ Yatsu repeated.
Hawklan turned to indicate Andawyr, puzzled by Yatsu's question. But the figure was no longer there, although he could still feel the healing flowing from his hands. He blinked in surprise and, as he did so, his head suddenly cleared and he was alone with Yatsu in the storeroom again.
He was half inclined to ask Yatsu if he had seen Andawyr, but he knew it would be to no avail. Whether it was dream or vision, he did not know but, whatever it was, it was for him only to see. He lowered his outstretched arms.
'Just dreaming,’ he said apologetically, with a faint smile. ‘Just dreaming.'
Yatsu's face, however, indicated that something more urgent than his strange companion's eccentricities was troubling him. ‘What's the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
'I've been out,’ Yatsu replied. ‘The Mathidrin are posting Dan-Tor's response to our escapade everywhere.'
'Well?’ said Hawklan.
Yatsu looked quickly at the others still lying asleep, then he whispered in Hawklan's ear.
Hawklan's eyes opened wide in horror. ‘That's beyond me to advise,’ he said after a moment. ‘You know your own country and the value of these people to it. What will you do?'
Yatsu, however, had clearly made up his mind. ‘The Lords mustn't know. Especially Eldric. I'll take the consequences. We must get them out of the City immediately and away to their estates to start raising some real opposition to this man.'
Hawklan looked at him, unable to ease his burden. It had been no error on Eldric's part to accept this man as Commander.
'It's a choice of evils,’ Yatsu said. ‘No choice really.'
'What about Dacu and Lord Arinndier?’ said Hawklan.
Yatsu looked at the two figures on the floor. ‘Also no choice,’ he said. ‘They can't stay here. I can't leave them with any of our friends here, it's too dangerous. They'll have to travel with us. It'll be easier, the further we get from the City. Will you come with us?'
'How long's the journey?’ Hawklan asked.
Yatsu shrugged unhappily. ‘Anything from one to two weeks, it just depends. Conditions are changing so quickly.'
Hawklan was torn. He was loath to leave the two sick men to face such a journey, but he was loath also to become involved in what was surely to be a protracted and bloody dispute between Dan-Tor and the Lords. He had come here to confront Dan-Tor for his own reasons, which, though still ill-defined, seemed more urgent than ever now. Then, there was the renewed urgency of Andawyr's appeal. Go to the Cadwanol. Waken Ethriss.
A cold calculation came into his head. Let the Fyordyn fight. What better protection for Orthlund than their neighbours torn with civil strife? He crushed it angrily. Orthlund would not be served well by neighbours who had fallen into corruption and he sensed that Fyorlund now stood precariously balanced. The least movement could have consequences that would spread forever.
'I'll come with you, Yatsu,’ he said simply. ‘Isloman and I must face Dan-Tor at some other time, when he is weaker, or we stronger. I need to know more about you and your people. Fyorlund is perhaps Orthlund's only defence against Dan-Tor's corruption and, at the moment, you are Fyorlund's. I'll help you all I can.'
There was open, honest relief on Yatsu's face. Hawklan's heart went out to him. Here indeed was a man who would be more cruel than his enemy, but who would seek no violence and would stay his hand in victory.
* * *
Chapter 40
Dan-Tor pursued his leisurely walk around the Palace grounds. It was a rare moment for him. A pivotal moment. It had the stillness of a pendulum at the height of its sweep. For a little while there was nothing he could do. For a little while he must sit and wait on the actions, the responses, of others.
It was not a circumstance he relished. To sit too long was to release thoughts that should be forever bound. Constrained as he was against the use of the Old Power, the True Power, it was better by far to be scheming, manipulating, subtly betraying, weaving his own patterns into the Great Design that was His, each tiny stitch imperceptibly bringing nearer the whole, as a wind carves its will into a rock over the centuries.
Dan-Tor consoled himself with the knowledge that masks and cunning could soon be dispensed with, at least in part, and knives could be sharpened and used. Now was a time of harsh and sudden reality.
As if echoing his thoughts, the setting sun emerged from behind a cloud and glared across the expansive gardens, dazzling the eyes and throwing long dark shadows which melted down the solidity of the trees and ornaments and cast a strange new landscape of their own.
But mine will be more permanent, he thought. Neither passing cloud nor turn of the planet will change it.
A towering figure loomed ahead of him in the yellow-white glare, and he had to move into its shadow to see more clearly. It was the Queen, sitting motionless on her favourite horse and staring into the distance. Even in stillness she had a harmony with the animal that irked him.
He walked forward and stood silently by the carved stone balustrade that edged the raised area they were on and curved down a broad flight of shallow steps into a garden laid out with innumerable paths and elaborate shrubberies and flower beds. The glaring sunlight had leached all the colour from the scene transforming it into an unrecognizable patchwork of light and shadow which stretched out towards the two watchers as if trying to escape the sun's mockery.
'Lord Dan-Tor,’ said Sylvriss, acknowledging him with a slight nod.
'Majesty,’ he bowed. ‘I didn't mean to disturb you. I was taking a stroll to clear my mind of the turmoil of these past days.'
'Terrible events, Lord Dan-Tor,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘I'm afraid I've had to tell the King something of them. It's made him very restless.'
Dan-Tor did not reply immediately. It was the first time he had thought of the King since the riot
started. Now Rgoric figured even less in future plans than before, but he would still be needed for some time, and could still prove a considerable nuisance if handled wrongly.
He nodded sympathetically. ‘Forgive me, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I've been so occupied, I'm afraid my duties as Chief Adviser have displaced my duties as Physician. I'll come to him immediately.'
Sylvriss looked at him and smiled sadly. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘He's quiet again now, and sleeping. It eased him to know you were looking after his affairs. It may unsettle him if he felt you were neglecting State duties to attend to him.'
Dan-Tor feigned doubtfulness.
'Have no fear, Lord,’ Sylvriss continued reassuringly. ‘I'll seek you out if his illness worsens.'
'Perhaps you'd care to tell him that I've plans afoot that will bring the four Lords to heel very shortly,’ Dan-Tor volunteered. ‘And further plans to root out the other traitors in our midst.'
Sylvriss's heart froze, but she gave no outward sign of her fear. What did this ... creature know? How many of her informants would be, had been, discovered? And Dilrap? Her horse shifted uneasily, aware of its rider's distress. She reached forward and stroked its cheek. Dan-Tor edged away a little. He had no love for animals, nor they for him.
'That will be a comfort indeed should he ask,’ Sylvriss said, with mild indifference. Then, gently backing her horse, ‘Your burdens have been greater by far than mine, Lord. I'll not disturb you further. Enjoy the solace of the sunset.'
Dan-Tor bowed again, and watched her as the horse trod slowly down the narrow steps into the gardens. Soon she had disappeared into the glaring sun.
Later, Sylvriss discreetly sought out Dilrap. She studied him as he sat opposite her. Being constantly in the presence of Dan-Tor had, over the months, taken its toll on the Secretary. She remembered her entry into the Lords’ cell and the sudden shock of seeing them all so changed, so grim-faced and lean. Now Dilrap was wearing the same expression. She asked him about the plans to which Dan-Tor had referred.
