The Fall of Fyorlund [Book Two of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'Daren't, Commander?’ said Dan-Tor, his voice heavy with contempt. ‘The Mathidrin, who were prepared to face the High Guards in open battle? Daren't deal with a rabble led by a bumpkin of a healer?'

  Urssain made no answer.

  * * * *

  Hawklan had found the latter part of his journey torturously difficult. The chorus of tiny cries that emanated from all the living things around the City had grown appallingly as he had drawn nearer. A myriad spirits sensed him for a healer and reached out to him. Their pleas hung about him like a damp cloth, impeding his movements and distracting his thoughts.

  'I can't help you,’ he cried out finally. ‘I must find the heart of the ill that afflicts you all.'

  And it's here, he thought, as the lank figure of Dan-Tor appeared at the head of the steps leading to the main doors of the Palace. It seemed to Hawklan, however, that the figure in front of him was only part of a whole, a projection into this time and place of something unbelievably wrong. So wrong that Dan-Tor's very frame seemed to tear its way through the very daylight.

  It came to Hawklan suddenly that he had been preposterously foolish in searching so diligently for this confrontation. Perhaps indeed all his journeyings had been but the following of a carefully laid bait. Perhaps he was destined to be caught and bound by this creature. But then another voice spoke to him: told him he had had no alternative. Other things were waking than Sumeral's creatures and he must play the part he saw before him, no matter what the cost. Less would be a betrayal.

  The figure rent its way further through the daylight as it moved down the steps towards him, but it stopped part way as if it had walked into some unseen barrier. A white scimitar smile split its face, but illuminated nothing.

  'My Lord Hawklan,’ a kindly voice floated across the courtyard. ‘I can understand that you might wish to twit me for my unusual visit to your fair village, but this...’ A long arm swept over the crowd at Hawklan's back, now watchful and silent.

  The voice was amused, but nothing in Hawklan's sight radiated humour. The crowd had grown rapidly and spontaneously around him, as if his single act of defiance had crystallized the City's brooding tensions.

  Before he could reply, Dan-Tor spoke again. ‘I fancy we've much to talk over, you and I. Mistakes and misunderstandings to be rectified.'

  Hawklan neither moved or replied, Dan-Tor's words and his awful presence belied each other so starkly.

  Dan-Tor's smile broadened reassuringly. ‘I'm unfamiliar with the ways of Orthlund, but if you've been any time in Fyorlund, then you must know by now that it's our way to talk. To talk endlessly, in fact. It's an old and trusted way.'

  Hawklan's uncertainty grew. To stand there silent would serve no purpose. To bandy words with the man in public would be hazardous. But to enter his lair ... ?

  There was a slight disturbance behind him. ‘It's only the horses,’ whispered Isloman, and Hawklan turned as Serian and Isloman's horse walked through the surprised crowd. Dan-Tor quailed as he saw the sword and bow hanging from Serian's saddle. Casually, Hawklan lifted down the sword and fastened it about his waist.

  Dan-Tor's smile did not fade, but the aura around him shifted restlessly. ‘Lord Hawklan,’ he said, ‘I offer you speech, in the manner of the Fyordyn, and you arm for violence.'

  Hawklan was about to speak when Serian breathed softly to him. ‘Take care. The people don't have your sight. They see only his smile and your sword and stony face.'

  With difficulty, Hawklan bent his mouth into a smile. ‘Isn't it the way of the Fyordyn to be armed for battle when speaking in the Geadrol?'

  Dan-Tor bowed slightly but did not answer.

  The smile on Hawklan's face faded. It was no use. He couldn't maintain any pretence in the presence of this abomination. He felt himself being overwhelmed by forces he did not understand, and it was taking all his conscious will to restrain them. Like distant thunder, drums and trumpets sounded in his mind, as if presaging a terrible battle.

  Dan-Tor felt himself similarly assailed, though he knew too well the nature of the forces he was dealing with. Around Hawklan was an aura such as he had not seen since the time of the First Coming. Every fibre of him strained to leap out and destroy this obscenity; this distortion and obstacle to His plans. But the danger ...

  Two great and opposite forces lowered over one another like black storm clouds, held back by who knew what restraints until some tiny stirring would unleash their lightning. Each grew with the other.

  Serian whinnied nervously and stepped back.

  Hawklan watched, impotent, as the vague ill-formed hopes he had carried with him died at the sight of the pitiless reality he was facing. Visions of ills cured, problems solved, wrongs righted through debate and reason, laughed at him distantly for his naivety, scorned him for a fool.

  The few words that he and Dan-Tor had exchanged lay between them like dead leaves: a pitiful rustling futility echoing in the awesome silence. Both pondered the featureless terrain of doubt. Neither could leave the object of his long search. Neither could seize it. The people watched, silent and uncomprehending.

  Then from high above came a raucous cry. A cry that had sounded over the Mandrocs as they marched on the High Guards in Orthlund. Dan-Tor started violently. His smile vanished and he looked up at the circling Gavor. Hawklan felt the spirit around the man darken and writhe. Then abruptly he was gazing into Dan-Tor's hate-filled eyes.

  'I'll not be mocked by your death bird, Orthlundyn,’ came a grim and terrible voice, that seemed to fill the very sky, and Hawklan felt a great blow being gathered for the destruction of his friend.

  His vision cleared. He had been drawn from Orthlund on a search for the source of a great evil. Now it lay before him, strong, vigorous and purposeful. The world would crumble before it if it were not struck down.

  The healer in him urged, ‘Excise this diseased tissue.’ The warrior roared, ‘Kill it before it kills you.’ And all the living things about Vakloss cried out for release and vengeance. Words would avail nothing here. The first stroke must now be his, no matter how it seemed in the eyes of the watchers.

  With a movement as natural as the swaying of rushes in the wind, Hawklan swung round and lifted the Black Bow and a single arrow from his waiting horse. Dan-Tor's blow for Gavor gathered in strength then faltered, distracted by this sinister harmony at the edge of his vision. As he turned, Hawklan nocked the arrow and drew back Ethriss's Black Bow. It creaked like the mast of a tall ship then, without pause, Hawklan released Loman's arrow towards the very heart of the terrible creation that stood before him.

  Dan-Tor heard its ancient song but, for all he despised humanity, it was his human frame that saved him, not his vaunted Power. Reflexes that were ancient even before he was born turned him from the path of the approaching doom, and though the arrow tore through flesh and smashed bones before it tore out through flesh again, it struck no vital organ.

  The impact drove him backwards and he stumbled on the steps. Both crowd and Mathidrin stood paralysed by the suddenness of the assault and, seeing its failure, Hawklan reached for a second arrow. But the wound to Dan-Tor was to more than his mortal form. Loman had not the skills of the craftsmen of the Great Alliance, but he was a fine apprentice to them, and the arrow was as perfect in its making as any could be in that time.

  Delivered from the Black Bow of Ethriss by a great warrior-healer, it rent not only Dan-Tor's flesh, but his black spirit also. His eyes widened and blazed a baleful red, and his mouth cracked open, his brown face like the crater of an angry volcano. From its depths, rising interminably from the faintest whisper was unleashed a sound that became so loud it seemed solid in the air, and so inhuman that all who heard it, save Hawklan, staggered and fell to the ground in terror.

  Far to the north, a dark and brooding form heard the cry of His servant, and in cold anger reached out over the mountains and plains to deny its will.

  Unnoticed, an enfeebled form slipped from His thrall.

 
Hawklan recognized now the creature that writhed on Loman's arrow and stood paralysed with horror. He felt no stirring within him. No resurrection of the Guardian Ethriss or any other spirit to save him from the fate that was to be his—he who had released Oklar, the earth corrupter, First among the Uhriel of Sumeral.

  Images of desolated, war-sacked lands, of Tirilen, Loman, Gulda and countless others rose up to reproach him for his failure. Then in the uttermost darkness of his fear a faint familiar voice spoke to him. ‘The sword, Hawklan. Ethriss's sword.’ The voice was Andawyr's—pained, weak, and distant.

  Unthinking, Hawklan drew the sword and held it in front of himself with trembling hands as Oklar unleashed the Old Power at him.

  The ground at his feet started to rage and heave as if it were a wind-lashed ocean. Great fissures opened and closed about him like the mouths of predatory animals. A terrible rumbling seemed to fill the very universe and a million tiny barbs entered his body as if to rend and tear his every cell. Somewhere in the distance was the faint noise of falling masonry and a screaming crowd crushing itself in panic.

  Hawklan knew only the sword. He poured out his spirit into its perfection and strength, hoping in some way to save those around him. But even as he did so, he knew he could not use the sword as it should be used and he felt his own strength ebbing as the tumult grew louder and louder.

  Slowly he sank to his knees and, as his mind slid into oblivion, he felt a cold presence passing near him. Sweetly spoken words, faint but filled with appalling malevolence formed like ice burns in his heart: ‘ ... Keeper ... Ethriss's lair ... Mine ... '

  Then it was gone, and darkness took him.

  * * *

  Chapter 56

  The King sat motionless and stunned as the awesome rumbling and shaking faded and gave way to the more identifiable sounds of panic and disorder spreading through the Palace. The torches which had flared up and filled the Throne Room with a dazzling brightness, as if to protect him from some terrible assault, now returned to normal, and Rgoric found himself tremblingly aware that some great evil was near.

  Dilrap staggered into the room, wide-eyed and bewildered.

  'What's happened?’ the King demanded. ‘That noise. And the whole Palace shaking?'

  Dilrap gesticulated aimlessly. ‘I don't know, Majesty,’ he said fearfully. ‘I was helping the Lord Eldric and his son. People are running everywhere in panic. I came straight back here.'

  The King put his hand to his head in despair, then almost angrily, ‘And what are you doing here anyway? You were to leave with the Lord Eldric.'

  Dilrap looked at the King with unexpected resolution. ‘I'm no rider, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Still less a warrior. It's my duty as your Secretary to stay by your side. A duty determined by the Law...'

  'Never mind the Law,’ shouted the King, his eyes widening in disbelief. ‘Do as I order you—get after them.'

  Dilrap looked apologetic. ‘Majesty, you're not above the Law. You're at once sustained and constrained by it. You can't break it without due penalty.'

  Rgoric clenched his fists, but Dilrap moved forward urgently. ‘Majesty, if you kill Dan-Tor, then punish me as you see fit. But if he kills you, then I'll be the only person close to Dan-Tor and loyal to the old way. I'll corrode his New Order as he corroded the old one. It may be precious little that I can do, but it's more than I can do anywhere else, and I intend to do it.'

  Before the King could recover from the shock of Dilrap's unequivocal statement, a grim procession made a noisy entrance into the hall, bearing the injured Dan-Tor in a chair.

  Briefly Rgoric caught Dilrap's eye. ‘Go, Honoured Secretary,’ he said, very softly. ‘You humble me. This is all the protection I can offer you.’ Then he shouted, ‘Get out, you treacherous ingrate, I'll deal with you later.'

  Dilrap fled.

  Turning from the retreating figure, the King started in shock as he looked at his erstwhile minister and jailer. The man was both unchanged and changed beyond recognition. He radiated a force that made the King tremble. Only a black arrow embedded in his side seemed to be wholesome; only the arrow seemed to be restraining this force. All inquiry about what had happened left the King.

  I must strike now, he thought. Kill this creature swiftly and have done.

  Then the figure's eyes opened: distant, baleful and glowing red. They stared directly at Rgoric and fear swept over the King such as he had never known. His mind touched on the edge of the truth that was Dan-Tor.

  But he returned the gaze, and the red eyes themselves became uncertain. ‘I see you for what you are,’ Rgoric said quietly. ‘My battle against your own poisons has given me a true sight.'

  A pained hand was lifted and levelled at the King, but though Rgoric felt a power touch him, he could see the arrow absorbing much of it and, with a soundless cry, the seated figure arched its back and tugged vainly at the shaft.

  Swiftly Rgoric drew his sword and strode towards the struggling figure. Fear and hatred burned in its eyes as he neared it.

  'You may have some sight, Rgoric,’ came a low, cavernous voice. ‘But so do these, after their own light, and they're mine.'

  Rgoric paused and looked at the Mathidrin standing by the figure. ‘Stand aside,’ he said, but none of them moved.

  The fear in the red eyes faded.

  'Your time is finished, Rgoric,’ said Urssain. ‘A new hand rules Fyorlund now. A hand stronger than yours, even though he's been foully struck down.’ He looked at his men. ‘Kill him,’ he said.

  Without hesitation, the Mathidrin moved towards the King, drawing their swords. Rgoric took his own sword in two hands and swinging it upwards cut one of them open with a terrible gaping wound from stomach to shoulder. Then, turning and swinging the sword sideways, he almost severed the head of another.

  Turning again under the momentum of this stroke he impaled a third before one of them drove a sword into his back. The King rounded on his attacker and severed his hand, but another struck him from behind. His onslaught would have scattered ordinary men, but the Mathidrin were creatures possessed as they closed on him like a pack of hunting animals, regardless of their own safety.

  After a few seconds, Rgoric lay face down in a welter of blood, his back and head torn and gashed with appalling wounds.

  'Thus perish all our enemies,’ said Urssain, his face exhilarated and his eyes shining with a strange fervour.

  But, no sooner had he spoken the words, than he stepped back in alarm. The King's hands moved. With painful slowness, they started to claw at the defiled floor and pull the wrecked and bloody body forward towards the pinioned form of Dan-Tor. The circle of Mathidrin widened, horror overcoming their bloodlust.

  The King raised his head and stared into the baleful eyes again.

  'I see you truly now,’ said the King weakly. ‘Oklar, Servant of the Great Corruptor.'

  'Little may it avail you,’ replied the Uhriel, though he pushed himself back in his chair as if to escape this relentless witness.

  'And I see more,’ said the King. A spasm of pain shook him and he grimaced, but still he crawled forward. He seemed to be looking at some distant scene.

  'When you die, Oklar,’ he said, ‘it will be at the height of your power, when all are set to fall before you.'

  The red eyes could not free themselves from Rgoric's dying stare. ‘You lie,’ rumbled Oklar's voice. ‘You ramble in your death throes, King. I am immortal. None can slay me. And none can read the future. Not even He.'

  The King laughed faintly and shook his head, scattering a skein of blood across the Uhriel's feet. ‘Ah, Oklar. How have you been deceived? Your death is before me now. Am I not descended from the Lords of the Iron Ring? Your assassin ... He coughed and his body twisted in pain. ‘Your assassin will be ancient and insignificant, but you will die as surely as I die now, though you will die in failure, while I die in victory ... Know that my wife carries my heir.'

  The King's voice was failing, but his dying body was all that mov
ed in the hall.

  'I see beyond your death, Oklar.’ Again pain interrupted him, and his voice was weaker still when he spoke next. ‘Know this. And take what solace you can, for it is not what it seems. Nothing shall end the reign of your Master.’ Then he laughed strangely and, with a last effort, his bloodied hand clawed forward and gripped the foot of the cringing Uhriel before he fell dead.

  Oklar stared down at the stricken King. His eyes blazed red and terrible, but any who could have met his gaze would have seen also fear and doubt. His boast of immortality had been idle. There was a weapon and a hand for any creature; even Him. The King's words burned inside him. Could it come to pass that he, Oklar, greatest of His Uhriel, would perish at the hands of a mere assassin, while He would reign without end? Was that to be his reward at the end of his interminable journeyings through the ages? A great roar of denial swirled inside him at this blasphemy, but he knew that he was impaled on Rgoric's death vision as surely as he was impaled on Hawklan's Black Arrow.

  Slowly, the dead King's hand relaxed and slid from Oklar's foot. The movement seemed to release the Uhriel. ‘Get rid of this carrion,’ he said grimly.

  Almost desperate to be away from the terrible presence of their Lord, several Mathidrin ran forward and, seizing the body, began dragging it across the floor. Oklar looked at the bloodstained path trailing behind the corpse and then struggled to his feet. He grimaced and Urssain stepped forward.

  'Ffyrst, your injuries...’ but his words died on his lips at Oklar's glance.

  'Are beyond your aid ... Commander,’ he said. ‘Beyond all aid until...'

  He looked down at his hand. A deep and festering weal ran across its palm where he had seized the shaft of Hawklan's arrow.

  But the pain of that was dwarfed by the threefold pain he still felt. The pain of the arrow smashing into and through him. An arrow forged in the Great Harmony of Orthlund and delivered from Ethriss's Black Bow. Then the pain of the Old Power he had released in his rage and hurt, for Ethriss's Black Sword, ineptly wielded though it had been, had returned much of it upon him. But, worse by far, was the wrath of his Master as His hand had reached out belatedly to tear his very soul in its cold fury.