by Roger Taylor
'The how should present no serious problem,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘You're allowed to move freely in and out of the Palace and I'm still allowed to move freely inside. A rendezvous and a small cache of supplies can be arranged inconspicuously enough then it'll just be a matter of surprise and speed when a suitable opportunity presents itself.'
Dilrap's hands butterflied up in spite of himself. Sylvriss looked at him. ‘Majesty...’ he began awkwardly, ‘I ... can't ride.'
Sylvriss could not prevent a smile. ‘I've held more inept than you on a saddle at full gallop, Dilrap,’ she said, with a soft laugh. ‘You won't enjoy it, but you'll survive.'
Dilrap bowed his head. ‘I'm a poor support to you, Majesty. In constant need of encouragement and courage.'
Sylvriss's hands took his and she looked directly at him, all humour gone. ‘No, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘You work daily by the side of that man, deceiving him, lying to his evil, cracked face, delaying and gently hindering him. And you do this in the face of your own fear. Your courage and strength have sustained me over all these dark months. You belong among the very greatest who've ever held your office.'
Dilrap stood. No courtier, he was at a loss what to say. He bowed deeply to hide his face.
Sylvriss stood up also. ‘There is one thing, however, that I must ask of you,’ she said. Dilrap's eyes remained downcast. ‘If the King and I are thwarted in this, you must keep yourself clear of all blame. Speak against us if you must.'
Dilrap looked up sharply.
Sylvriss raised her hand to prevent his protest. ‘This is my order, Honoured Secretary,’ she said. ‘My Royal Command. I leave you no discretion. If all goes against us, it's imperative that you stay by Dan-Tor as long as you can and work for a time when you can make links with the Lords in the east. You understand?'
Dilrap bowed again.
When he had gone, Sylvriss reached out and extinguished the torches that illuminated her room. The darkness was restful. For a long time she sat on the broad sill of the window and stared up at the stars.
Now she would have to tell the King.
* * *
Chapter 52
Although Dan-Tor now controlled Vakloss and various other towns and villages, he was not sanguine about the Lords gathering their forces in the east. He knew that, quite rightly, Arinndier and the other Lords would never trust him to honour any treaty he might offer, so armed conflict seemed inevitable. He had little doubt that his forces would ultimately be victorious, but while the prospect of these creatures slaughtering one another was not without its appeal, he would have preferred a quieter, more subtle approach. Chance rampaged too wildly through the ranks of war no matter what powers were ranged, and it was a way chosen by Him only as a last extremity.
Nor was his mind eased by the paucity of information that reached him from the east. With the birds bound he had, reluctantly, to rely on human spies, and these either never returned or brought him vague and contradictory information, thanks to the watchfulness and diligent deceit of the Goraidin.
Urssain fretted noisily. ‘We've men enough, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Trained, disciplined and willing. More than enough. We should move now and overwhelm the Lords before they can build up their strength further.'
'Commander,’ said Dan-Tor benignly, ‘you must learn patience. Consider the consequences of such a venture. How many men would you need to keep this City subdued? There's little point winning a great victory against the Lords to find your back assailed by a rebellious Vakloss. And how many would you need to protect our flanks as you moved through increasingly debatable areas of the country?’ Urssain looked inclined to answer but Dan-Tor continued, his tone becoming more severe. ‘And who do you think you'll be facing? It won't be their ornamental regiments. It'll be the kindred of those you saw fight in Orthlund. And they were youths led by a youth. You'll be facing skilled fighters on their own ground, led by battle-hardened veterans from the Morlider War.’ Dan-Tor brought his face close to Urssain's. ‘And say you break them, what then? They'll scatter into the mountains before they're damaged beyond repair, and we'll never be rid of them.'
Urssain bridled. This was defeatist talk. He would have killed any other man for less. The given word was that the Mathidrin were the new hope. They had brought peace back to the streets, and would now sustain a New Order that would make Fyorlund great again. The old High Guards had fled before them—unequivocal proof of the guilty part they had played in the decay of the country, and an unequivocal demonstration of the invincibility of the Mathidrin. With difficulty he swallowed his reply.
Dan-Tor noted the conflict in his protégé, and permitted himself a white-lined smile which made Urssain offer up a prayer to whatever spirit had bidden him keep his tongue still.
'Surely we can't leave them alone, Ffyrst?’ he risked.
Dan-Tor turned and walked away from him. ‘Can't we?’ he said casually. ‘We'll see what your fellows think, Urssain. Arrange a meeting of all the City Commanders. It's time we discussed the matter. Perhaps it would be appropriate to call it a Council of War.'
* * * *
Urssain spent the time waiting for the meeting pacing his room or sitting sprawled in his chair rapt in thought. He still couldn't read the brown devil. What had he missed? Why had Dan-Tor so mocked the idea of attacking the Lords, and why had he answered so enigmatically when he'd suggested they shouldn't be left there unhindered?
He had still reached no conclusion when he accompanied Dan-Tor into the sparse, cold room where the Commanders were gathered, but he had determined to play a very cautious hand. This would be another time for watching and learning. He might not be able to read the man completely, but he could read him a damn sight better than any of the others.
He was disconcerted, however, to find that several of the waiting men were completely unknown to him, and he was only a little reassured when a quick glance at their faces showed that everyone, strangers included, seem to be unsettled to find themselves amongst unfamiliar faces.
As Dan-Tor entered, they rose as one, coming smartly to attention to greet their Lord. Like Urssain, they were all immaculate in dress uniform.
'Sit down, gentlemen,’ said Dan-Tor affably, seating himself at the head of the long rectangular table, and motioning Urssain to sit at his right-hand side. ‘I've asked you here because I wish to have your ideas about our problem in the east.'
Straight in, thought Urssain. No introductions. What's he doing? Who are these people? The questions thrust themselves into Urssain's mind, but be dismissed them for later consideration. Now he must watch and listen.
'Our discussion will be informal,’ continued Dan-Tor. ‘I'm expecting no great strategy to emerge, but with the City and much of the countryside reasonably under control we must begin to bend our minds to this problem, and we have to start somewhere.'
Urssain kept his own face neutral as he watched those now turned to focus on the presence beside him. Only Aelang understood. The others were relaxing. They were taking their Ffyrst's affability at its face value.
The immediate consensus accorded with Urssain's initial view. Attack now—hard—before they grow too strong. Dan-Tor listened with nodding interest as various company prides and promises were paraded before him. Urssain said nothing.
Then, as he had with Urssain, Dan-Tor dropped in the occasional comment about troop strengths, supply problems, lack of reliable intelligence, debatable loyalties etc, and slowly, his own strategy appeared. The Lords should be left, he suggested.
The idea was dismissed out of hand. With respect, Ffyrst, allow your enemy to build up his strength? The talk bubbled on again.
But in gathering his strength would he not also gather more mouths to feed, more bodies to shelter, more minds to keep busy? Dan-Tor offered tentatively.
Again the idea was dismissed without consideration. Urssain continued to say nothing, and began to sit very still. He noticed that Aelang was doing the same.
Inexorably, however, tangled in
the snares and traps that Dan-Tor had strewn, the meeting drifted into repetition.
The Lords must be attacked.
But that would be very dangerous.
They couldn't be left because they'd build up their strength and ...
'And?’ asked Dan-Tor.
And they'll attack us, obviously.
Dan-Tor spoke very quietly. Who then would have the long supply lines to maintain? Who then would have the odium of living off the land they passed over, local disaffection ever threatening their flanks? Who then would have to assault fresh troops in entrenched positions after a long journey? Aren't these the very reasons why it's too dangerous for us to attack them?
A silence descended on the room. One of the globes spluttered fitfully.
Dan-Tor stood up. ‘Gentlemen, ponder this before we meet again: the consolidation and cautious expansion of the territory we hold and the building up of a conscript army to defend it. Will not this, together with the pressure of maintaining their own growing army, eventually force the Lords to leave their mountain strongholds and attack us? And when they arrive, tired and extended, should we not offer them first our conscripts, whose destruction will tire them further and rack their consciences with its pointless horror? Will that then not leave us with the simple task of holding our ground until they are so weakened and demoralized that we can destroy them utterly at little cost to ourselves?'
No one spoke.
Dan-Tor continued, his voice icy. ‘Ponder this also, gentlemen. If I can defeat your strategy with mere words, have no illusions what the Lords and their High Guards will do to you. There is enough uncertainty in combat without adding mindless folly to it. For your future guidance, do not speak at these meetings unless you have something pertinent to say. And save your barrack-room bravado for the youth corps.'
Then, suddenly and terribly, his presence filled the room.
'You are the Commanders of my Mathidrin. Faithful servants who will be rewarded as my power grows; grows beyond limits you can imagine. But you are bound to me and by me. You can be expunged at my whim. Serve me well.'
* * * *
Urssain stood outside the Westerclave watching his fellow Commanders leave. He was glad of the overcast sky and the failing light which made it easier for him to keep his eyes in the shade. What a massacre! Lessons within lessons there. He would need to think about what had happened very carefully. Those strange faces? Faces themselves surprised to be among strangers. I alone know my resources, was Urssain's reading of the message. You are all dispensable—there are others who can replace you.
'Weather's a little more like home, eh, Urss?’ The voice was unmistakable and brought Urssain very sharply to the present. There was one lesson for a start. He'd been too long at the Palace. Too long away from the treacherous and dangerous in-fighting that was the stock-in-trade of ambitious Mathidrin. That was a serious mistake.
He turned to look at Aelang, his erstwhile sponsor and Commander at Narsindalvak. Feared throughout the ranks of the Mathidrin, Aelang's vicious cruelty and ruthless scheming were almost legendary. It had come as no surprise to Urssain when he learnt that the Sirshiant the Queen had killed had belonged to one of Aelang's companies.
'Indeed,’ said Urssain, trying to focus on Aelang's eyes. However, like his own, they were shaded in the poor light by his helmet. Standing watchfully behind Aelang were two aides. Urssain knew well enough the trail of disappearances and accidents that had marked the rise of Aelang, and the presence of the two men reminded him that he too must be more careful in dark and lonely places with so many high-ranking Mathidrin now in the City. His nearness to Dan-Tor was as much a provocation as it was a protection. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated. It was some measure of Aelang that he thought of Narsindal as home. ‘But I'm afraid I've grown used to the mellower climes of Fyorlund.'
Aelang smiled, revealing an array of discoloured teeth with prominent canines. Urssain remembered that in their bolder moods, and well out of earshot, the troopers used to call him Mandrocsson.
'Ah. You always had your eye to softer billets, Urss,’ Aelang growled jovially. ‘Always anxious to rise above us humble foot soldiers.'
Part jibe, part congratulation, part threat, part calling in of old debts, thought Urssain. Don't turn your back.
'It's not quite as soft as it looks, Aelang,’ he replied with equal joviality. ‘As you'll find out now you've managed to find your way about here.'
Aelang laughed knowingly. ‘Well you've not changed, I'll say that. I should've known better than to bandy words with a courtier.’ He stepped closer and spoke softly, confidentially. ‘Things are happening that we'd hardly dared to imagine, Urss. Our ... beloved Ffyrst has used the King's folly to considerable effect. Plenty of opportunities now for those who can see them ... and more to come if I'm any judge.’ Urssain did not reply. Aelang continued, his voice even lower. ‘You're the Ffyrst's man in Vakloss.’ Thanks to me, said his eyes. ‘I'm his man at Narsindalvak. But there were strange faces amongst us today, Urss? The Ffyrst looks only for the most ... capable, does he not? I think that with all these changes going on, you and I should protect one another's backs, don't you?'
Urssain scrutinized Aelang's shaded face. He must be feeling insecure, he thought, to suggest that. Or was it a threat? Join me, or else. Urssain's eyes turned to the departing Commanders. Either way, it made sense. He and Aelang were well placed, but they would indeed be targets for any ambitious sparks looking to improve their lots. And he did know Aelang for what he was. It could do little harm to have him ... in partnership ... as it were. At least he'd be able to keep an eye on him.
Slowly he nodded. ‘I'd be only too happy to give you any assistance that you might expect from a brother officer, Commander,’ he said with a smile.
Aelang chuckled. ‘Brother officer,’ he said approvingly. ‘You have been here a long time. Still, as I said, you've not changed. It's been good seeing you again.’ And, slapping Urssain's arm affectionately, he strode off towards his waiting carriage, followed by his two companions.
Urssain cursed silently, and placing his left hand casually behind his back flexed his fingers frantically. Aelang had struck a nerve with his heavy gold ring and Urssain knew the arm would be dead for over a minute. It had been Aelang's signature on their agreement.
That could have been poison, it said. Or I could have disembowelled you while you groped for feeling in that arm. So look to me. These things happen so easily. Urssain cursed again.
Aelang, reaching his carriage, turned and threw a jaunty acknowledgement to him with a flick of his hand. Urssain let his sleeve knife fall into his right hand and returned the same friendly gesture making sure that the light caught its blade as he let it slip back into his sleeve again. Aelang's Mandroc grin and his grim laugh reached him, then the carriage was driving away, merging into the failing light.
Urssain turned and strode briskly through the maw of the Westerclave. His left arm was easier, but Aelang's message had shaken him. Fear of Dan-Tor was one thing. That was deep and abiding, the fear of the rabbit for the lion. There was no question of resistance, so superior was the one over the other. But fear of Aelang—the old barrack-room fear—that was insupportable.
You're right, Aelang, he thought, as his heels beat a relentless tattoo along the Westerclave's corridors. I've grown too lax and easy away from Narsindalvak. But I'll not risk everything I've gained out of carelessness. Not now. I've hacked my way through the ranks and now I hold the high ground. Your reminder's most timely. It could also be your death warrant in due course.
* * *
Chapter 53
A strong, ill-tempered wind blew the rain in gusty squalls across the fields, bending and shaking the trees and bushes and confining most living things to the warmth of their nests and burrows. It rattled branches against windows like urgent messengers and whispered through cracks and crannies the draughty news that soon the weather would turn its face from light and warmth and start its journey into the co
ld Fyorlund winter.
Wrapped and huddled against its raucous jostling, four horsemen moved greyly through the countryside by quiet and little-used paths. For a moment they paused and then they faded into the gloom of a small copse. Within minutes they had rigged and camouflaged the small shelter that had housed them each night since they had left Eldric's stronghold.
Sitting on the torch-dried earth, they ate a frugal meal in companionable silence as the wind buffeted their shelter peevishly and showers of raindrops cascaded intermittently from the wind-shaken trees to drum over their heads like horses galloping suddenly by.
Gavor eyed a spider struggling to climb its slender swinging thread, but settled ungraciously for the bread that Hawklan gave him.
'We've been lucky so far,’ said Tel-Odrel. ‘The weather's been very helpful. But we'll not get much further by stealth; we're nearly at Vakloss.'
Hawklan looked at the Goraidin and nodded. ‘We'll have to separate soon, then,’ he said. ‘Having us around might jeopardize your mission.'
The two Goraidin exchanged glances.
Tel-Odrel shrugged apologetically. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I'm afraid so.’ He looked a little embarrassed. ‘Establishing contacts in and around Vakloss is vital. You realize that. Given that that must come first, we'll help you all we can, but you don't even know what you're going to do, do you?’ There was a barely controlled exasperation in his voice.
'I know exactly what I'm going to do, Tel,’ said Hawklan light-heartedly. ‘I'm going to meet Dan-Tor and ask him why he's done what he's done.’ But his affected levity merely darkened the mood that Tel-Odrel's words had created.
Both the Goraidin frowned. They had stopped trying to dissuade the two Orthlundyn from what they saw as a suicidal mission, but its apparent futility still distressed them.
Hawklan continued, more seriously. ‘You're a soldier, Tel, and you've a clear-cut task before you. I'm not and I haven't. But we both know that when logic and reason end, we have to follow our intuition. I'm a healer. I have to go to the heart of the sickness, whatever it costs me.'
