by Roger Taylor
'I don't know, Majesty,’ Dilrap replied. ‘But it wouldn't matter if I did. I don't think any of us will be able to do anything now.'
'What's happened?’ she said in a mixture of fear and concern.
'Majesty,’ replied Dilrap, ‘Dan-Tor's declared himself Ffyrst.'
The news made no impression on Sylvriss. ‘My father's title is Ffyrst,’ she said. ‘What's significant about that?'
'Majesty,’ said Dilrap, ‘the position of Ffyrst in Fyorlund is very different from that in Riddin. It's a legacy from the distant past. In times of grave national danger the Geadrol would appoint someone as Ffyrst to govern the country until the danger was past. Usually it was the King, and he would select a small group of senior Lords as advisers. But it was a temporary appointment and was constantly reviewed by the Geadrol.'
'And Dan-Tor has appointed himself to this position, using the riots as an excuse?’ said Sylvriss.
'I'm afraid so, Majesty,’ said Dilrap. ‘He's using the Law to destroy the Law. The Geadrol is suspended. The Lords are in disarray, divided by conflicting loyalties and confused by rumour. The Mathidrin hold the streets in Vakloss and many other villages and towns. He has a sufficient veneer of legality in the title to satisfy many ordinary people...’ He waved his hands in angry despair.
'What of you then?’ Sylvriss asked.
'I was of use to him only for dealing with the minutiae of the Law, Majesty. His word's the Law now. He needs no guide there. All my tangling and twisting has counted for nothing in the end. The Goraidin's bold stroke cut through them all. And the Law. And probably my neck.’ The comment sounded oddly flat, without bitterness or reproach.
Sylvriss looked away from him. ‘At least the Lords are free,’ she said eventually. ‘Dan-Tor may not be the gainer after all. He's only changed the name of what he already had.'
Though what she said was true, she could not sound convinced. Dan-Tor's power would undoubtedly grow the faster for being uncluttered by the trappings of the Law, and the direction of his achievements boded ill not only for the Honoured Secretary but for herself and the King if unchecked. Dilrap looked at her. ‘How is the King's health, Majesty?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Ruthlessly she cut his last thread. ‘Better, Dilrap, but he's still weak. We can look to no help from him, I'm afraid.'
In desperation he clutched again. ‘Majesty. I'm ill-fitted for the role Fate's cast me in, but the man's destroyed everything I valued, and will eventually destroy everything ... everything I love.’ He pulled an ornate dagger from the folds of his robe. ‘For a little while I should still be able to get close to him. Physically close. One swift stroke and it would be done with.'
Sylvriss reached forward and took his wrists gently. She remembered vividly her own futile attempt to stab Yatsu and the contemptuous ease with which she had been disarmed and almost killed for her pains. And she was Muster-trained.
'No, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘That would be a useless gesture. You'd die achieving nothing. You and I have no choices now. I shall continue to nurse my husband. Playing the foolish stable girl until times swing our way. Your task is harder. You've been useful to him of late and his very contempt for you may be your saving. You must become his lackey. Law or no Law, he'll need men to administer his ... stewardship. You've learned to dissemble. Continue. Make yourself of value to this ... new order. For your sake, and all our sakes, Dilrap, allow no other underling to interpose himself between you and this demon.'
Then slowly, ‘As you love me, Dilrap, be as ruthless as he. No one must stand in your way. Our nearness to him is our only protection, maybe even Fyorlund's only protection.'
When Dilrap had left, Sylvriss went over to the window and, drawing back the tapestried curtain, looked out into the night sky. It was ablaze with stars. Beautiful, but cold and distant. A spartan solace for her. She stood there for a long time.
* * *
Chapter 41
The Lord Evison's estate was in the north of Fyorlund, its borders disappearing vaguely into the mountains that lay between Fyorlund and Narsindal.
Occasionally, Mandroc raiding parties would venture down into the bleak northerly stretches of the estate to steal cattle and sheep. It was a perennial problem for most of the northern Lords but not usually a serious one as the parties tended to be small and disorganized and would invariably scatter as soon as the villagers started unearthing their old Threshold Swords and spears. On the rare occasions that raids became too frequent or the parties too large, the High Guards would be sent to deal with them. However, there being no benefit to be gained from capturing or killing Mandrocs, they were normally allowed to escape back into the mountains.
Then, abruptly, the pattern changed. The raids grew in intensity. The Mandrocs became more persistent and even started to stand their ground and fight.
Following a bitter year in which both villagers and High Guards were killed, Lord Evison requested permission from the King to extend his High Guard in order to patrol his northern border more effectively.
Such a request was considered to be only a courtesy which the King could not reasonably refuse, but the King had refused it. Like most of the northern Lords, Evison was a traditionalist in the mould of Eldric, though somewhat more blunt. In his immediate anger, therefore, his reply to the King's refusal was less than diplomatic. The King, in turn, cited some ancient statute and declared Evison a rebel, along with several other Lords who had made the same request.
This caused some stir but, knowing of the King's illness, the offending Lords let the matter lie in the fairly certain knowledge that they would eventually be able to sort it out in the Geadrol. No harm would come of it. In the meantime, they had a more pressing problem to deal with that required men, so they levied their full High Guards and increased the number of reserves.
Despite the extra patrols, however, the raiding parties continued with increasing frequency and violence, and reluctantly Evison decided that he must mount a major operation against the Mandrocs, pursuing them back into the mountains so that he could find and perhaps even treat with their leaders or, if necessary, destroy their bases. Accordingly, he consolidated his High Guards and, on a bright summer day, set forth at the head of several thousand men to resolve the problem once and for all.
Commander Ordan, Lord Evison's Second-in-Command, walked fitfully up and down the battlements of his Lord's castle. His frustration at being ordered to remain behind in charge of the castle had gradually been displaced by concern. It had been too long since any message had come back from the troop. The last one had said they were entering the mountains following the trail of a large raiding party, but had contacted no Mandrocs so far. Since then, silence.
'Riders!'
The look-out's cry cut into his dark reverie like a ray of sunlight. Jumping up on to the wall, he looked northwards, following the look-out's pointing hand. He felt a great relief as he saw the distant riders approaching and there was some cheering from others who had been keeping informal watch on the battlements.
Within minutes, however, all elation was gone, and Ordan found himself running wide-eyed and alarmed out of the main gate to greet his Lord. Bloodied by battle, and fouled with a desperate journey, Lord Evison slithered from his mount only seconds before it collapsed, foaming and steaming. The riders following him were in no better condition.
Urgently shouting orders for the care of the returning men and beasts, Ordan bent forward and swung his Lord's arm around his shoulder for support.
'My Lord,’ he said. ‘What happened?'
The old man did not answer but leaned heavily on his Second-in-Command. ‘Who'll believe us?’ he said after a moment.
Ordan looked at him. ‘My Lord?’ But Evison's eyes showed he was in some other place. ‘My Lord,’ Ordan said again, more urgently, above the mounting clatter of activity that was filling the courtyard.
Abruptly, Evison jerked upright and stared at him, a distant look of recognition in his eyes. Then he seized Ordan
's arm and, limping slightly, dragged him into the castle.
Unable to resist his Lord's urgent grasp, Ordan was pulled through familiar rooms and passageways in a strange, almost nightmare silence. Their journey ended in the Hall of the Four Guardians.
Evison walked purposefully over to an ornate cabinet housing his family's Festival Shrine. He stared at it for a moment, his face riven with conflicting emotions, then without warning he smashed the glass with his mailed fist. Before Ordan could speak, a second blow smashed into the shrine itself, splintering its delicate painted woodwork and sending its simple contents scattering.
Ordan stood aghast as Evison groped through the wreckage and, with an almost touching carefulness in his awkward gloved hand, picked up one of the fallen figures.
Ordan's first thought was that his Lord had gone insane, but when he looked into his eyes, he saw cold reason underpinning pain and horror.
'Commander,’ said the Lord, wrapping the figure in a blood-stained kerchief, ‘you understand what this is?’ He held out the small bundle. Ordan nodded and opened his mouth to speak but Evison cut him short with a wave of his hand, then taking hold of his arm began to manoeuvre him powerfully out of the hall. ‘Ask no questions, Ordan,’ he said, striding relentlessly, his face pained with the effort. ‘This is my last order to you. Every second means death for someone. Take this to Lord Eldric. He'll believe me.'
'My Lord...’ Ordan protested, but Evison's pace allowed him no pause.
'No questions, Commander. Obey my order. Ride as you've never ridden. Destroy anything that stands in your way. Tell Eldric we have captives by way of proof, but ... they ... they're coming after us.’ His voice faltered, and a look of disbelief washed momentarily into his eyes. ‘We'll hold if we can,’ he said softly.
When they reached the courtyard it was choked with wounded and exhausted men, and more were straggling in through the open gate. Ordan hesitated, unable to accept what he was seeing, but Evison's momentum propelled him forward irresistibly towards a fresh courier mount.
'Go,’ Evison said. ‘Lord Eldric and none other.'
Still under the impetus of his Lord's driving urgency, Ordan mounted the horse. For a moment he paused and looked down at Evison, hoping for some explanation, however brief. But the despair on the old man's face would bear no interrogation. Very softly, Evison said, ‘My blessings will be with you, Ordan, but as you love and have served me, go, now.'
Then Ordan was galloping frantically through the gates and along the dusty road lined with bright sunlit flowers and filled with buzzing insects, his vision stained with the sight of the returning remnants of his companions and his ears filled with the sound of his Lord calling his quiet, ordered castle to Battle Stations.
* * * *
On Yatsu's command, the group filtered casually into the darkening streets in twos and threes. No sooner were they all out of the building, however, than there was a clatter of horses’ hooves behind them. Yatsu spun round in disbelief. He had checked the area only minutes earlier, and there were no patrols about.
The horses, however, were their own.
'Not a bad bunch of nags,’ Serian declared to Hawklan patronizingly. ‘They'll knock into shape. At least they do as they're told.'
Hawklan looked at the powerful animal and then at the smaller mounts the Goraidin had stolen. I'll wager they do, he thought, when you tell them. However, he kept his peace, knowing from past experience that it was unwise to become involved in debates with animals about their hierarchies.
'Good,’ he replied. ‘Look after them, Serian. We need them.'
Yatsu was impressed and heartened. Being mounted from the start could make all the difference to their chances. ‘Have you any more surprises for us, healer?’ he asked.
Hawklan could not forbear a smile. ‘I've a friend in high places,’ he said, and raising his hand he signalled to Gavor circling high above. The raven glided down silently and landed on his shoulder. Yatsu started.
'This is Yatsu, Gavor,’ said Hawklan. ‘You've seen what he's done for us. I've accepted him as Commander, will you do the same?'
Gavor put his head on one side. ‘Very martial, aren't we, dear boy?’ he said. ‘But whatever you say.’ Then, after pausing to give Yatsu a beady and unnerving look, he launched himself at the unsuspecting and bewildered Goraidin. Yatsu raised his hand instinctively, but Gavor avoided the manoeuvre and landed with wilful awkwardness on his shoulder.
That, though, was the end of his clowning. Soon he was flying high above them and looking for patrols, floating down occasionally to alight on a post or low eaves from which he could speak to Yatsu without being conspicuous.
At Yatsu's orders, some of the fragmented group were walking by their horses, some riding slowly, so that they could mingle more easily with the other traffic in the street. Such people as were abroad, however, were, for the most part, making for their homes after their day's work, and were oblivious to other travellers. In addition, the Mathidrin uniforms, soiled though they were, tended to make passers-by avert their gaze and hurry past as quickly as they dared.
Gavor's high-flying observations of the real Mathidrin patrols sent the group scurrying into byways several times but, on the whole, their journey was uneventful. It was not easy, however. They had a long way to go and the strain of maintaining a slow pace fatigued them almost as much as if they had been running.
'This is loathsome,’ said Eldric. ‘Sneaking through Vakloss like thieves.'
'Be quiet, Lord,’ said the Goraidin accompanying him, sharply. ‘Keep your eyes on the Commander.'
'I'm sorry,’ Eldric said, genuinely. ‘An old man's impatience.'
The Goraidin looked at him significantly. ‘Stay calm and watch, Lord,’ he said slowly and firmly.
Eventually they reached the far side of one of the great parks, and the tension eased a little.
'There's nothing near,’ Gavor said to Yatsu. ‘I think you should make some speed now. I'll keep watching.'
Yatsu nodded, and swung up into his saddle. ‘Mount up,’ he said. ‘Let's take our ... scout's ... advice. There's only one small group of houses to pass through and we'll be in open country.’ He spurred his horse to a trot, glad to be rid of their slow progress. It was important that they be as far away as possible by dawn. Vakloss had a commanding and far-reaching view of the surrounding plain.
As they neared the houses, Gavor floated down out of the growing darkness and landed on Yatsu's head. Bending forward he tapped his beak irreverently on the Mathidrin helmet.
'Slow down a little, Commander,’ he said. ‘There are two cockroaches putting up a notice. They'll be gone in a moment.'
Yatsu nodded. Gavor flapped his wings to regain his balance.
A small crowd had gathered when the group arrived. They were examining the notice to which Gavor had referred. Yatsu slowed his horse to an easy walk and led the riders quietly forward. Hawklan noticed that the light was different. Looking round, he saw the ubiquitous globes had been broken, and that the light was being provided by newly rigged torches similar to those he had seen in the house in Vakloss and, so long ago it seemed now, in Jaldaric's tent. The light they emitted was less bright than that of the globes, but under it, details were more clearly visible and shadows less harsh. They enhance the darkness, he realized. He noted Isloman nodding to himself.
Yatsu followed Hawklan's gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Dan-Tor may have power but there's been a lot of opposition in the past to many of his ... improvements.’ He curled his lip in distaste as he said the word. ‘I think more will surface after the mess those burning workshops made.'
Suddenly there was an angry noise from the crowd and Hawklan looked down to see several of its members approaching purposefully towards them. Their leader, a tall rangy man, seized Yatsu's bridle. He had the mien of a scholar rather than a warrior and, to Hawklan, his actions indicated he had been considerably provoked. Yatsu, too, was surprised but, before he could speak, this man burst out angrily
.
'Get out! Get out! Get away from here. You're not wanted, nor any of your kind. Clear off!'
His cry was taken up by several others. Hawklan looked at the growing crowd. It was different from that which had greeted him in the border village. That had been hostile, but calm and quite curious. These people, however, were in the first flush of anger and a powerful animal sense of threat surged over him. He knew it would take very little to make them push aside the normal social restraints that controlled their dealings with others.
To his relief, however, Yatsu's response was conciliatory.
'Come now, sir,’ the Goraidin said, leaning forward slightly to stroke his horse and at the same time nudging it gently into restlessness, ‘you're frightening my horse. We'll be gone as soon as you let us through.'
The tall man hesitated at Yatsu's quiet response but Hawklan sensed his rage uncoiling. Something had released a long-held anger in the man and, unleashed, it would run its course like an overflowing river, sweeping aside anything that stood in its way.
The man shook the bridle violently and the horse reared its head up in alarm. ‘Curse you and all your kind,’ he said through clenched teeth. The small act of misdirected violence seemed to calm him a little and, still glowering at Yatsu, he stroked the horse's cheek, regretful of any small hurt he might have done the animal. ‘Damn you all. You make us all like yourselves,’ he muttered.
Yatsu waited uncertainly. Like Hawklan, he too understood the nature of the man's anger and knew that it was neither fully expended nor yet controlled. There was no saying what he might do next. He looked like a teacher; a man unused to violence and, as such, unused to its control. That made him unpredictable and very dangerous, both to himself and to anyone else who got in the way. Yatsu wished he were somewhere else.
