by Roger Taylor
'Your answer, Lord.’ Eldric's voice reached through to him. Patience, came a thought from deep within.
Dan-Tor brought his mind sharply to the present and, under the shade of his cowl, he scanned the waiting crowd. Another irony began to unfold itself. Eldric was to be his unwitting saviour. The man's majestic presence as a protector of the Law was tempering the crowd's baser nature. They had not fallen on him immediately. The form would be observed. They would stand and listen. Dan-Tor felt the darkness move imperceptibly from him. Patience. Time would be everything.
Slowly, he began to reply to the charges. First in broad and general terms, and then working repeatedly over each in turn, in ever-increasing detail. The crisis passed.
In the crowd were two Goraidin, Yengar and Olvric, sent by Yatsu, unbeknown to Eldric, to report on the Accounting. After a while they exchanged glances. Dan-Tor's tactics were becoming clear. Having survived the first and most serious part of the confrontation, he would weary the crowd and wear Eldric down with interminable argument, until exhaustion determined the outcome.
It was an effective tactic. As the day progressed the crowd gradually thinned and Eldric himself began to feel very weary. His concentration wandered. He wished Darek could have been by his side to bolster him against the bombardment of petty items that Dan-Tor assailed him with. He longed for the comfortable debating chambers of the Geadrol. Then Dan-Tor would be off on another tack. Stretching out explanations and precedents until they became lost in a cloud of detail.
It came to Eldric slowly that he had misjudged his opponent. The man was appallingly formidable. Eldric had chosen this Accounting almost on impulse, hoping that his oratory and the blatant justice of his case would see him through. But Dan-Tor picked away relentlessly; confusing, obfuscating, corroding his arguments.
Eldric looked down at the lengthening afternoon shadows and realized abruptly that he was going to lose. The Fyordyn had listened patiently, as he knew they would. And they were judging, as he knew they must. But this form of debate was ancient and, at heart, crude. From it had grown the Geadrol and the Law with their elaborate and sophisticated ways, but it was a meagre parent to such fine children, and now he saw the obvious. In this simple arena the people could only judge the matter on the skill of the advocates, not on its merits painstakingly and objectively examined.
He felt that he had betrayed the people again, and it was only a monumental effort of will that kept the self-reproach from his face.
Dan-Tor, however, sensed him failing. ‘Lord Eldric,’ he said. ‘I've shown you every courtesy, but I'm wearying of this endless picking over trivia. I am Ffyrst, and I've given you the reasons for this as determined by the Law and by the necessity of circumstances. I've answered each of your baseless accusations fully, in front of all the people here, when I should have had you arrested.’ He paused to feel the mood of the crowd.
Slowly it had changed. Now doubts, bewilderment and fatigue mixed liberally with the partisanship that had initially been almost totally Eldric's. And there was increasing support for himself among the more foolish elements, aided by some calculated noisiness and irresponsibility emanating, he judged, from men that Urssain had placed in the crowd earlier.
In the tone of an affectionate parent whose patience had been tried too far by an erring child, he said, ‘You mock the Law you pretend to defend, Lord Eldric. Had you any real regard for it, you'd not have taken such pains to escape lawful detention before a trial could be arranged and, given that the aberration mightn't have been totally of your own making, you would now lay down your weapons and return to the King's custody in peace and await his will.'
After so many hours of debate and argument, Eldric was in no mood to countenance such a device. ‘You ignore the form again, Lord Dan-Tor, as you did at the beginning. You've answered none of my charges. Not one. At best you've thrown up a cloud of trivialities to obscure the real nature of your crimes. Your sole object has been to confuse and mislead. If my own inadequate advocacy hasn't served me well, it's at least shown the people here that while I strive towards the truth for them, you wish them to remain in confused ignorance.'
There was a mixture of cheering and jeering from the crowd and Eldric winced inwardly as he felt the rightness of his case fading into the darkness cast by Dan-Tor.
'If you believe that, Lord Eldric, then let the people judge us both now,’ shouted Dan-Tor, sweeping his long left arm across the crowd. This provoked more noise.
'No!’ roared Eldric above the clamour. ‘No. How can the people judge when so much has yet to be presented? You weave fifty lies for every one you affect to refute.’ He stood up in his saddle, his blazing eyes peering relentlessly into the gloom of Dan-Tor's cowl.
Dan-Tor started. It was a look he had not seen since he battled by the side of his Master, wielding world-shattering power against the Demons of the Great Alliance and all their forces.
The line still runs then, he thought. Through all this time. ‘I'm not to be assailed, Lord Eldric.’ His voice rumbled ominously.
The crowd fell suddenly silent, but Eldric did not yield. ‘I don't assail you, Lord Dan-Tor,’ he said. ‘It's the weight of your crimes that assails you. The weight which will crush you when the people learn of them fully.’ A tension began to build in the square. ‘And they shall know, Lord Dan-Tor. I'll shine a light into every cranny of your dark Narsindal-misted soul. I'll untangle your every lie in front of these people, if I've to stay here on this horse until the Second Coming.'
Urssain shifted his feet wearily and fidgeted with his hands. Abruptly, there was uproar in the crowd. Seeing the hand signal, Urssain's men in the crowd began shouting noisily.
'It appears the people wish to make their judgement now, Lord Eldric,’ Dan-Tor said.
Eldric's expression changed to an angry scowl as he turned to look at the crowd. ‘Your Mathidrin agitators wish to make a judgement you mean,’ he said.
Dan-Tor shrugged innocently. ‘My agitators, Lord? More accusations. Doesn't the form dictate that all accusations be stated at the commencement of the Accounting?’ His white teeth shone a malevolent sneer at Eldric.
Despite himself, Eldric laid his hand on his axe, but released it immediately as a triumphant red glare flashed from Dan-Tor's eyes.
The crowd, however, had not heard Dan-Tor's provocation and saw only Eldric's angry movement. Urged on by Urssain's men the localized shouting and scuffling spread through them like a wind-blown fire in grass. The frustration and confusions of the day polarized the crowd and, as Dan-Tor had intended, brought them rapidly to the edge of riot.
As Eldric turned again to the crowd, Dan-Tor walked over to him quickly. ‘We must stop this,’ he said urgently. ‘There'll be bloodshed again. The people are still unsettled after the riots. There's no saying where it might end.'
Eldric spun round, startled to find his enemy so close. He glowered down at him. ‘This is your doing, Dan-Tor. Your men have been stirring this crowd all day. Do you think I'm so blind? And Urssain might as well have used a flag for all the subtlety of his hand signals.'
'I know nothing of this, Lord, I swear,’ Dan-Tor replied, his tone sincere and concerned. ‘If Urssain's arranged this I'll see he's punished, have no fear. But we must stop it now.'
Eldric's expression did not change.
Dan-Tor scowled as if looking for a solution as the noise of the crowd rose. ‘Lord Eldric,’ he said anxiously. ‘Accept voluntary custody at the house of...’ He cast about. ‘...Lord Oremson. You surely trust him? And we'll continue this...’ His voice became angry, as if he were being reluctantly obliged to yield something against his better judgement, ‘this ... matter ... tomorrow. And for as many days as needs be.'
Eldric thought for a moment. He knew that he had been out-manoeuvred in some way; that Dan-Tor had reached a decision from the crowd's reactions. But the suggestion was reasonable and the crowd was becoming unmanageable. Oremson was an old friend and a staunch Geadrol Lord. It was unlikely he
would countenance any treachery whatever he thought of recent happenings. Eldric nodded brusquely.
Reluctantly he found himself joining with his foe to quieten the crowd by urging on them Dan-Tor's suggestion as if it were his own.
During the confusion, Yengar and Olvric, having identified Urssain's men in the crowd, took the opportunity to down four or five of them discreetly.
* * * *
Through Astrom, Eldric had asked those Lords remaining in Vakloss not to attend the Accounting. ‘When the Geadrol meets again, I'll give you my own Accounting and accept your judgement,’ read his message to them. ‘For the time being, I beg your indulgence.'
Lord Oremson was thus most happy to welcome his unexpected and battle-clad guest. He himself had much to discuss. He welcomed also the large number of people who had accompanied Eldric, determined to see that the Accounting would not be foreshortened by some act of treachery on Dan-Tor's part.
'I can't offer you beds, my friends,’ he told them. ‘Although I can give you some food and drink after your long day. And the hardy among you are welcome to rest on my lawns if you wish.’ For a little while, there was an almost carnival atmosphere as the people ate and drank Lord Oremson's fare and talked about the day's events. Gradually the late afternoon faded through a soft evening into a purple, star-strewn night and, as the wind fell and the last clouds drifted into stillness overhead, a silence descended on the tree-lined gardens and the people settled to their night vigil. Yengar vanished into the shade guarding an old oak tree, from where he could see both entrances to the grounds. He settled into a deep state of relaxation so that his body could rest and recover from the day's activities while his mind would watch and wait.
As the night deepened, the torches in Oremson's house went out one by one and the low background of conversation from the waiting people gradually faded as they drifted into sleep. Yengar's eyes and ears adjusted to the shadows and the myriad tiny movements of the night. Occasionally there was a cry, a laugh, or a snatch of incoherent conversation as some portion of a dream emerged briefly into reality like the tip of a great iceberg. Yengar sank deeper into his own quietness.
At the darkest part of the night, Yengar's eyes picked out a flitting shadow entering the grounds. He knew it for Olvric; only a Goraidin could move like that. He made a low soft night-bird signal to guide his friend. As Olvric neared, Yengar sensed his agitation. A hand signal brought him to his feet and the two of them moved noiselessly and quickly out of the grounds.
Within minutes of their leaving, a large Mathidrin patrol moved quietly into the gardens.
* * *
Chapter 45
Yatsu, though reluctant to lose Serian and Gavor, did not feel inclined to oppose Hawklan in his declaration that he and Isloman should ride with Ordan to Lord Evison's castle. He did, however, insist that two of his own men, Lorac and Tel-Odrel, ride with them.
'They'll gather information that's appropriate to the way the High Guards fight, Hawklan—that's what the Goraidin are for. And they'll be able to bring you to Eldric's estate through the mountains—save you days of exposed travel.'
Maintaining a steady pace, the five riders came within sight of the northern mountains that separated Fyorlund from Narsindal within two days. Ordan pointed to them. ‘That's the northern boundary of Lord Evison's estate,’ he said. ‘If we ride hard we can reach the castle before evening.'
The two Goraidin looked at Hawklan. Waiting.
'No, Ordan,’ said Hawklan, definitely but gently. ‘If your Lord's under siege we'll be no help arriving exhausted at nightfall. Besides, five of us aren't going to be able to relieve him. We need to be able to approach cautiously and leave quickly. We'll keep on steadily and then camp so that we can come to the castle early in the morning.’ Then, turning, he intercepted a brief exchange of significant looks between the two Goraidin. ‘Is that acceptable, gentlemen?'
Caught thus in their judgement, both men nodded, half apologetically. Isloman smiled to himself.
The rest of the day was spent for the most part in companionable silence as the group rode on through the rolling lands which marked the southern edge of the Lord Evison's estate. They avoided such few villages as they saw, uncertain of the reception they might receive, particularly as the Goraidin were still wearing Mathidrin livery. Their night, however, was restless with even Gavor and the horses fretful and anxious. Hawklan, too, found himself frowning as he lay awake, listening to their disturbed and spasmodic slumbering.
As if wilfully belying their unease, the following day arrived with a soft misty dawn that promised a bright summer's warmth. It did little, however, to lift their spirits as they mounted and continued their journey. Then, as if in confirmation of their concern, a thin column of smoke came into view, rising over the horizon like an admonitory finger. The group halted and Hawklan motioned to Gavor. Without comment, the bird rose into the sunny air, circled a few times, as if reluctant to leave them, then unhurriedly turned towards the rising smoke.
'That's from a dying fire,’ said Lorac quietly, glancing anxiously at Ordan. Hawklan nodded and urged Serian forward into a trot. ‘Gavor will warn us if there's trouble ahead,’ he said.
As they topped a small rise, the Lord Evison's castle came into view. It was broken and devastated. The column of smoke that had guided them rose fitfully up from the ruin to be dissipated in the rising morning breeze.
As Serian carried him forward, Hawklan tensed his stomach as if to prepare for a powerful impact.
Gutted by fire, the castle stood like a jagged black crystal mounted in a setting of unpolished granite. But the rock on which the Lord Evison's castle was founded was far below ground. Fertile fields fringed its feet; fertile fields now churned brown, and mottled white and carmine with hacked bodies. The summer breeze cried a sweet, appalling confirmation of the vision to the riders’ nostrils.
His own sensations suddenly numbed, Hawklan felt Serian quivering beneath him. ‘There are horses dying there, Hawklan,’ said the horse. ‘Can't you hear them? The humans have been dispatched, but the horses are still dying. Help them, Hawklan.'
The five men dismounted in silence. Round the castle were hundreds of bodies; bodies that had been stripped and mutilated in an orgy of violence. Hawklan felt the blood pounding in his ears, and steadied himself against Serian. For a moment he was overwhelmed by a roaring surge of old memories smashing through whatever had been holding them back to inundate him, like a raging sea storming through ancient sand dunes. But, like the sea, they ebbed as quickly as they had come and left Hawklan only with the knowledge that he had seen this and worse many times before; and would again.
As he recovered, this cruel knowledge contended with the pain of the healer rising within him in a futile howl, but gradually some deeper knowledge told him to harness the two in a grim alliance. Truth was truth, however fearful, and healing had inevitable limitations. Equally, his healing skills in all their forms must strive forward, accepting the pain of knowledge and refusing to become calloused by repeated impact.
Ordan vomited. The sound brought Hawklan to himself. He looked at the others. Their faces were grey with disbelief and horror. Then he became aware that among the bodies there were murmurings and scufflings.
Suddenly Gavor dropped from the sky and swooped low over the dreadful field with a terrible cry. For a brief instant, the scene was alive with birds and small mammals fleeing; fear of this vengeful shadow overwhelming their greed. Where they scurried a black smoky cloud rose up briefly.
Flies, Hawklan mouthed to himself. He shuddered. Unbidden, Serian moved forward, stepping delicately between the strewn bodies and severed limbs. Hawklan drew his sword and followed. There were no live humans left here, he could sense that, but he could meet Serian's plea and perform a last healing act for any of the horses that were still alive.
There were only a few and they had already passed the worst of their suffering. Hawklan could make nothing of such mutterings as he heard, but Serian bent
low over each one and listened intently.
'You're fearful creatures, you humans,’ he said when the task was finished. ‘Fearful.'
Hawklan had no answer for him. ‘Did any of them say what had happened?’ he asked.
Serian's tone was one of barely restrained anger. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They were too near the portals to recall such matters without great pain. It's not for you or I to demand such a price. They've played their parts, they must rest now. I commend your skill in easing them over, healer.’ Then he walked away to join the other horses.
Hawklan said nothing. There were no words for Serian's response. He turned his attention to his companions. He could not see Ordan, but Isloman and the two Goraidin were wandering among the bodies. Hawklan picked an uneasy path through to them, his boots clogging with bloodstained mud. Enter the pain, he reminded himself as he neared them.
Lorac looked up as he approached. His eyes were tormented, but his voice was firm and almost formal. ‘Goraidin see clearly and accept what they see for what it is.’ Yatsu's words came back to Hawklan. But you must cling to some things at times like this, mustn't you? he thought. Even if it's only the reassurance of your own voice.
'Never seen anything like this,’ said Lorac. ‘Never. There were some bad things in the Morlider War, but nothing...’ His voice faltered. ‘I keep hoping I'll wake up. Who'd do this to dead men?'
Hawklan looked at him. ‘A foe we don't want to meet unprepared,’ he said. ‘We'll have to close our hearts to the horror of this until another time, Lorac. We must find out everything we can and take it back to the others. Then perhaps these men won't have died in vain.'
