by Roger Taylor
Hawklan returned him no courtesies, however.
‘Call your men back,’ he said urgently. ‘Call them back.’
Agreth hesitated and looked uncertainly at his neighbour. Urthryn took off his helm; his face was grim, and strained with great weariness.
‘Take care,’ Serian said softly.
‘You are the man Hawklan,’ Urthryn said apprais-ingly. ‘I should have known you from your demeanour without Agreth’s calling your name. We are greatly in your debt. A matter to be honoured in due time. But we’ve ridden as the Muster has never ridden before to find these murderers, and nothing will stop us meting out due punishment.’
Hawklan glanced over his shoulder and saw the Muster reaching some of the stragglers.
‘Call them back!’ he shouted furiously. ‘They’re retreating. Let them go.’
Urthryn recoiled from Hawklan’s outburst, then his face darkened. A rider next to him, misunderstanding his movement, brought a lance up protectively towards Hawklan’s throat.
Almost off-handedly, Hawklan seized the shaft as it moved forward, and with a barely perceptible move-ment unbalanced the man so that he toppled from his saddle. Another rider reached for a sword, only to find Hawklan’s newly acquired lance resting heavily across his hand. Other swords were drawn rapidly.
‘No!’ shouted Agreth, holding out a hand before his own angry leader. Then, to Hawklan, ‘What are you doing, threatening the Ffyrst? These invaders slaugh-tered thousands of our kin mercilessly. They must be punished.’
Hawklan struggled with his anger. ‘Whoever fought your people in the south, it was not these. They’ve been on this shore for weeks and the only people they’ve killed have been Orthlundyn, and that only today. Call your riders back.’
‘Hawklan, they swept our people away like so much dung out of a stable.’ Agreth’s face was pained. ‘Smashed and drowned them all as they waited on the beach… ’
Hawklan’s brow furrowed. ‘Drowned?’ he queried.
Agreth faltered, ‘A wave. A great wave… ’ he said, his voice fading as his gaze turned to the sea, sparkling now golden and grey, and alive with fluttering sails and bobbing vessels.
Hawklan turned to Urthryn. ‘If your people were slain by the sea, then their murderer is Creost,’ he said, his voice now urgent and pleading. ‘And he has fled this field, injured and robbed of his mortal army.’ He swung his arm over the retreating masses. ‘These people were deceived and misled. They’ve taken a hundred losses to our one and now their very lands are drifting from them. Let them go. Call your riders back. Your true foe-our true foe-lies yonder.’
He turned and pointed to the north, but as he did so, he froze. Serian whinnied uncertainly. Low over the horizon and black against the distant clouds was an unmistakable silhouette. Usgreckan and its unholy burden were returning.
Andawyr’s fears returned to Hawklan. Together the two Uhriel might yet reverse this rout. A great silent cry of denial rose up within him and he swung Serian round, scattering the gathered Muster riders. ‘Break your heart, prince of horses,’ he said, his face savage. ‘We must kill these before they reach our peoples.’
And wild though Serian’s charge had been to inter-cept the Muster, it was as naught before the tumultuous black wind of his race to greet the Uhriel, with Hawklan carrying high the bow of Ethriss and the ranks of friend and fleeing enemy parting before him like the sea before a surging prow.
‘Hawklan, no! You’ll be killed! Stay by us!’ Andawyr cried as the great stallion sped by, but nothing could stay such purpose, and Andawyr and Atelon spurred their horses after him like flotsam in his wake.
The sound of Usgreckan came ahead of him, bearing the Uhriels’ rage like a foul wind. It mingled with the cry rising in Hawklan’s throat as he nocked one of Loman’s black arrows on to the glistening string of Ethriss’s bow.
But as the two foes closed, a third figure appeared; a small black dot falling precipitously from high out of the sky.
As it seemed set to fall past the screeching Us-greckan, its wings spread wide and it arced down to strike the ghastly white head of Dar Hastuin a punishing blow.
‘Gavor!’ Hawklan shouted in alarm and distress. ‘No!’
But the battle was far from his reach and Serian’s pounding charge slowed as both horse and rider found themselves helpless spectators to Gavor’s lone assault.
The two Uhriel struggled and flailed their arms to repel Gavor’s frenzied attacks while Usgreckan twisted and swooped, but all was to little avail against Gavor’s consummate flying until eventually a fortuitous blow struck the raven full square.
Even as his friend fell, Hawklan released an arrow, and then another and another. The first glanced off Creost’s hand which was reaching out to deliver some final blow to the falling Gavor; the second and third did no hurt, but passed close by, causing Usgreckan to tumble and almost unseat its riders. Then Andawyr was by Hawklan’s side, his bright eyes blazing and his arms extended, adding his own menace to Hawklan’s assault.
Usgreckan shrieked and fled, its fearful cry echoing over the whole field. Gavor struck the ground.
Hawklan galloped desperately to his stricken friend.
The black form looked fragile and broken in the deep Riddin snow and there was blood all around him. As Hawklan knelt by him, Gavor opened his eyes weakly and said, very faintly, ‘Sorry, dear boy.’
Then his eyes closed and he lay very still.
Chapter 19
The snow-covered landscape was yellowed by a low, watery sun as it peered fitfully through the wintry haze. Vague patches of grey shadow picked their way over the fields uncertainly as, high above, unseen clouds formed and changed and drifted slowly by.
‘Thaw coming soon,’ Eldric said, feeling the cold dampness in the air.
A few heads nodded indifferently. No one relished the raw, blustering interregnum between the paternal tyranny of winter with its white, biting certainty, and the usurping anarchy of spring with its irreverent, unas-suageable energy.
Eldric did not pursue his foretelling. It had only been a nervous twitch to break the silence which had enfolded the waiting group as they watched the distant Orthlundyn army winding its way through the brighten-ing morning towards the City. Turning to Hreldar and Darek, he became prosaic.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m freezing to death here. Let’s go and meet them.’
The two lords exchanged a brief smile. Eldric inter-cepted it and scowled inquiringly.
‘We had a small wager that you wouldn’t wait,’ Darek said, his smile broadening unrepentantly.
Eldric snorted and clicked his horse forward. His entourage fell in behind him, noticeably more cheerful for being on the move again.
‘I wonder what this Gulda’s like,’ Hreldar said.
‘Memsa Gulda,’ Darek said sternly. ‘If Arinndier’s underlining is anything to go by.’
‘Remarkable I should imagine,’ Eldric said. ‘All our messengers come back looking slightly stunned, and delivering her messages with great precision.’ He laughed. ‘And I swear Arin’s hand was shaking every time he wrote her name.’
As the troop rode on, the road became more and more crowded with people walking the same way for the same purpose. Gulda had politely declined the Geadrol’s suggestion that the Orthlundyn march through Vakloss to receive a formal welcome.
‘We’re an army, but we’re not soldiers, Lords. We’re a people come to aid in the destruction of Sumeral, not to tourney. Your good will and a place to pitch our shelters will be welcome and honour enough.’
‘I did tell you!’ Arinndier wrote.
But nothing could prevent the people of Vakloss providing their own informal welcome, muffled and gloved though they might be.
Eldric was pleased to see the crowds. Dan-Tor’s rule and his bloody deposition had left many scars on the Fyordyn; scars which ached and throbbed from time to time and some of which might take generations to heal fully. But the Uhriel’s leeching corrosion had d
estroyed none of the vital threads which bound the people together. The re-establishment of the Geadrol and, above all, the open meting out of justice in the tradi-tional courts, proved too rich a fare for the ranks of malcontents that had thrived on Dan-Tor’s diet of envy, vindictiveness and secretive treachery. The recovery had gone on apace.
It had been helped, too, by the news from Orthlund. With old enemies threatening Riddin, and the Orthlundyn-the quiet, gentle Orthlundyn-marching through the winter mountains to their aid, the Fyor-dyn’s own sufferings could be seen as part of a wider torment. A combination of guilt at their failure to fulfil their ancient duties, and anger at Dan-Tor’s personal betrayal swept away many lesser grievances.
Now the Orthlundyn were here. And soon the winter would be ended. Then the creator of this long nightmare would feel the wrath of his victims!
The Fyordyn were optimistic.
Except for the news from Riddin, Eldric thought. Or, more correctly, the absence of news. According to messages from Arinndier, the Alphraan had reported that the army had left the mountains to enter Riddin in good heart, but since then there had been only silence. What had happened there? What had happened to the Muster? The Orthlundyn? Hawklan? And, not least, Sylvriss? And, though heard only in Eldric’s heart, Jaldaric?
It had been suggested that some of the Goraidin be sent through the mountains to find the answers to these questions, but Yatsu calmly, if regretfully, stated the obvious. ‘Men could die on such a journey,’ he said. ‘That’s probably why they’ve not sent any news themselves. And at the worst, what information could such a venture bring us that we can’t already make preparation for? The Goraidin should be used where they’ll be of greatest benefit. They must stay in the north, preparing for the assault on the mines.’
Nobody had seriously disputed his comments, but still the silence from Riddin lay across all considerations like a cold hand.
Distant cheering brought Eldric out of his brief reverie and he saw that the road ahead was blocked by a milling crowd. Beyond the bobbing heads he could see wagons and horsemen, prominent among the latter being Arinndier.
Eldric reined to a halt and smiled.
‘Commander Varak,’ he said. ‘Take a few troopers and see if you can gently open up a way for us… and our allies.’
Varak saluted smartly and signalled to a group of High Guards. Their offices, however, were not required. Even before they had moved forward, the crowd ahead parted to reveal a black, stooping figure leaning on a stick.
‘Gulda,’ said Eldric and Darek simultaneously.
‘Memsa!’ Hreldar reminded them raising his eye-brows in mock warning.
Gulda moved purposefully towards them, Arinndier and other horsemen following in her wake. Eldric and the party dismounted to greet her.
For the first time in many years, Eldric felt young again as the black figure bore down on him; too young. He had the distinct feeling that he was a child again, standing in front of one of his old teachers. There was quality about Gulda that belied utterly the stooped form and the stick she seemed to lean on.
‘Lord Eldric,’ she said-a statement, not a question, he noted. He took the offered hand. Her grip was like a man’s; indeed, not unlike Hawklan’s in the feeling it gave of great power finely and totally controlled. He found his balance being subtly tested. A brief apprecia-tive smile passed over Gulda’s face, then her piercing blue eyes looked into his and reduced him unequivo-cally to the schoolroom again.
The word ‘Gulda’ formed in his throat, but ‘Memsa’ came out as he scrabbled back to his true age and dignity. ‘Lord Arinndier has written much about you. It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘I deduce from what he’s told me that you conducted a fine campaign,’ Gulda said, without preliminaries. ‘You and your Goraidin. Well done. Bravely done, against such a foe.’ Then, before Eldric could speak, she moved to Darek and Hreldar, gave them their names and tested them similarly.
As she did so, her gaze took in the other waiting dignitaries and their High Guard escort.
‘Commander Varak,’ she said.
‘Yes, Memsa,’ the startled commander replied, click-ing his heels and bowing slightly.
Gulda nodded and grunted non-committally. ‘Thank you for the escort you sent us,’ she said warmly. ‘They’ve been most efficient and helpful. Disciplined but with lots of initiative. You and I will get on well.’
Varak’s mouth opened, but no sound came.
Eldric moved to rescue his flustered aide. ‘Memsa, we’ve come to greet you and your people and to escort you and your senior officers to the Palace for a small ceremony of welcome.’
Gulda pursed her lips. ‘These people are all the wel-come we need, Lord,’ she said, looking at the surrounding crowd. ‘That and a place to camp.’
‘That’s all arranged, Memsa,’ Eldric said. ‘These Guards and your escort will attend to it.’ He looked at her intently. ‘Join us please. We see the value of our small ceremonies much more since the passing of Dan-Tor.’
Gulda looked at him keenly for a moment then gave a consenting nod.
‘A perceptive observation, Lord, I commend you,’ she said. ‘Give me a little time to see the people settled first-we’ve covered a good distance today and they’re tired, cold and hungry-then, with your permission, I’d like to walk your city again-alone-see for myself the damage that Oklar wrought on it.’
‘Alone, Memsa?’ Eldric queried awkwardly.
‘I’m well acquainted with the place, Lord,’ Gulda replied, mildly indignant. ‘You needn’t fear for my getting lost.’
Eldric began to flounder. ‘Memsa, there are a small number of disaffected elements in the City… ’ he began.
‘They’ll not bother a harmless old woman,’ Gulda said, turning away from him and heading back to her army. ‘Have no fear, I shall join you before noon.’
Arinndier dismounted. He was smiling broadly as he greeted Eldric and his friends warmly. ‘Welcome to the ranks of the intimidated,’ he said. ‘If it’s any consola-tion, the Memsa gets worse as you get to know her.’
Eldric looked at him uncertainly. ‘That’s most reas-suring,’ he said.
‘I can see you don’t believe me,’ Arinndier went on, laughing. ‘Well, if I were so inclined, I’d wager that you’ll be discussing strategy and tactics with her before sunset, welcoming celebration or not.’
Arinndier was correct. At noon, Gulda presented herself at the Palace where, in one of the great halls, and together with a few senior company commanders, she patiently accepted an official welcome in the form of a rather long speech from the City Rede, and a hastily shortened one from Eldric. This was followed by what was to have been a feast of welcome, but Gulda took the initiative.
‘Lords, I thank you for your welcome, but now we’ve much to discuss. We’ll eat as we work,’ she said, but with an unexpected graciousness that disarmed even the cooks and chefs.
Thus, to Arinndier’s amusement, and well before sunset, the Fyordyn found themselves retailing the history of Fyorlund from the Morlider War to the present; retailing it in great detail under Gulda’s gently incessant interrogation. At times it seemed she was allowing the discussion to ramble aimlessly; the Mandroc found in Lord Evison’s castle, the brief use of the Old Power, if such it was, by Dan-Tor prior to the Lords’ assault on Vakloss, the terrible fire wagons that had been launched against the infantry, the gradual deterioration of the High Guards over the years, Hawklan’s confrontation with Dan-Tor and its conse-quences, the illness and recovery of the King; an apparently endless list of topics were touched on and then left until, quite abruptly, Gulda clapped her hands.
‘Good, good, good,’ she said. ‘This has been most helpful. As I expected, we shall all get on splendidly. However, I must return to camp now; we all of us have duties to perform. I shall come back tomorrow and we can begin in earnest.’
As she reached the door of the hall, she stopped and turned round. ‘You didn’t falter in your duty, Fyord
yn. You were foully brought down by an infinitely subtle hand. A hand that has led astray wiser than you by far before now.’ Her face became stern and the stick came up. ‘Your tellings are full of self-reproach. That must end. Cling to your past only in so far as you can learn from it. All else will cloud your vision and get your throats cut.’
Eldric started at the unexpected harshness in her voice as she made this last comment, but before he could respond, Gulda and her small company were gone.
He slumped back into his chair and slapped the table with his hand. A nearby goblet chimed out in protesting harmony.
‘Good grief, Arin, is she always like that? Where does she come from? The way she takes charge of things she reminds me of Dan-Tor. Are you sure they’re not related?’
Arinndier laughed. ‘No one seems to know anything about her,’ he said. ‘And she won’t tell you, rest assured. I did tell you about her in my letters.’
‘I presumed you were exaggerating,’ Eldric said ruefully. Then he looked affectionately at his old friend. ‘Still, it’s good to have you back. And whatever that woman is I’m glad she’s on our side. From what little I saw, the Orthlundyn have sent as fine a body of men as you said.’
‘Men and women,’ Arinndier corrected off-handedly, reaching across the table for a piece of bread.
Eldric frowned. ‘Women?’ he said as if he had mis-heard.
‘Women,’ confirmed Arinndier. Then catching El-dric’s eye he raised his hand hastily to forestall the impending outburst. ‘And, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll accept it without comment.’
Despite the seriousness in Arinndier’s voice how-ever, the observation was to little avail. ‘Women can’t wield axes and swords, draw bows, fend for themselves in the field,’ Eldric exclaimed.
‘The Riddinvolk do,’ Arinndier said.
Eldric waved a dismissive hand. ‘Cavalry’s not infan-try,’ he said rather peevishly, unexpectedly stung by this immediate riposte from someone who should have been an ally. ‘Besides, they’re a different people.’
