The Fall of Fyorlund

by Roger Taylor

  Hawklan shuddered as some darker memory flitted round the edges of his mind. He searched for something more prosaic. ‘And now they’re serving this King . . . Rgoric’ he said, half question, half statement.

  Isloman shrugged. ‘It would appear so.’

  The two men fell silent. High in the foliage above, birds sang out to the spring sunshine, and scufflings in the undergrowth marked the activities of countless forest creatures, lives uninterrupted by the grim swirling thoughts preoccupying the two men. A butterfly landed on Hawklan’s boot, folded its wings and then spread them out luxuriously. It flew off abruptly as a dark shadow glided silently to land where it had lain.

  A rather tattered Gavor put his head on one side and gazed at Hawklan. ‘You did well to run when you did, dear boy,’ he said, then he bent his head and fiddled with the straps that held his spurs to avoid Hawklan’s gaze. ‘Very good, these,’ he added, proprietorially, though a little uneasily. ‘Very good. I killed a dozen or so, but I couldn’t save any of the Guards. There were just too many of those things and they didn’t seem to care whether they lived or died.’

  Hawklan looked at Gavor, his strange and comical companion – he had killed these creatures too? Then the memory of Gavor’s strange cry returned. It was a death song. That’s what it was. He recognized it now though he could not say from where or when – an ancient death song – an awful warning of terrible vengeance. He tapped his knee and Gavor jumped up on to it. Hawklan smoothed out his iridescent blue-black feathers. A tear ran down his face.

  ‘What’s happening, Gavor?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know, dear boy,’ the bird replied after a moment. ‘But it’s happened before. It’s all there on the Gate. Evil things are abroad and we have to fight them. The time of peace is ending. Your rest is over. Soon you’ll come to yourself.’ His voice was distant.

  Hawklan looked at him. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, for the first time in twenty years.

  Gavor shook his head. ‘Dear boy, I don’t even know who I am. My life started with yours, twenty years ago, trapped by the leg in those bitter mountains.’

  Hawklan put his hands to his eyes and the memory of the last few days flowed past him. Young men, proud and disciplined. Looking forward to being home and yarning of their exploits in Orthlund, for all the problems they knew they would face. Looking at least towards order and justice. Young men excitedly quizzing Isloman about the Morlider War, and then Hawklan about Anderras Darion. Making plans to visit Pedhavin again in the future. Young men patiently tending their animals, riding jauntily through the spring sunshine and quietly through the grey rain.

  All gone. Swept away like dead leaves in autumn. Swept away by their worst nightmare without knowing any part of why. Irrelevant pieces in a greater game.

  Hawklan’s throat tightened and abruptly, unbidden, his grief burst out. He sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes. Neither Gavor nor Isloman spoke and, when Hawklan finally looked up, Isloman’s eyes, too, were damp.

  Hawklan wiped his face with a kerchief and then, almost involuntarily, began to clean his sword with it. Soon the cloth was soiled with the blood from the blade, and Hawklan’s hands too were red-streaked. He felt an overwhelming sadness as he looked down at them. Where in all Orthlund can I find a stream that would not be desecrated by washing these hands? he thought. He dragged his mind back to their predicament.

  ‘Where are they now?’ he asked Gavor.

  ‘Heading north,’ came the reply. ‘Taking all the dead with them. They’re not as cocky as they were. Between us we took quite a toll.’

  ‘There were no survivors at all?’ asked Isloman.

  Gavor shook his head. ‘Only Jaldaric. I presume he was alive. He was thrown over a saddle and well bound. And those two outriders might be alive somewhere. I don’t remember seeing them come back.’

  Hawklan wiped his eyes again with the back of his hand, and his face hardened. He stood up wearily. ‘Go and look for them, Gavor. Bring them back here if they’re alive. And find the horses. I’ve no idea where they are. We’ll stay here.’

  Serian, however, needed no guide, and when Gavor returned with the two Guards, he found the great horse standing quietly by as Hawklan calmed Isloman’s mount. It was no easy task. Though uninjured, the animal was terrified.

  When he had finished Hawklan spoke to Serian. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Weren’t you frightened?’

  ‘I’m a Muster horse, Hawklan,’ replied Serian. ‘Of course I was frightened, but I had to look after this, didn’t I? I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I lost the others. They just scattered.’

  Hawklan patted Serian’s nose reassuringly and turned away to attend to the newly arrived men, Fel-Astian and Idrace. They were uninjured, but were badly shocked. It took Hawklan some time to piece their story together.

  As instructed, they had ridden a wide flanking path to find and observe the approaching patrol. They had, however, overshot it and come back to the road far to its rear. By the time they had realized their mistake and retraced their steps, the battle was virtually finished. From a distance they witnessed the last of their friends disappearing under a wave of chanting Mandrocs. Then both had turned and fled in terror.

  It was this last act that haunted them most.

  Idrace, dark-haired and stocky, with a hooked nose and powerful deep-set eyes, talked and talked, clenching and unclenching his hands and pacing up and down fretfully.

  ‘All gone. Even that worm Esselt and his cronies. Died fighting while we ran away. Ran away.’ Over and over. Then he would stop, drive his nails into his palms and grind his teeth as if he could expunge his shame by slow self-destruction.

  Hawklan, however, looked first to Fel-Astian who, though quieter, was probably the more affected of the two. Idrace’s remorse would temper into a formidable and unrelenting resolve, but Fel-Astian was of a different mettle.

  He was not unlike Jaldaric in appearance, with fair hair and a strong build, though with a harsher, less innocent face. Sitting in the shade of a tree, he shivered continually and wrapped his arms around himself as if for protection against some outward enemy. Hawklan knew that his pain was no less than Idrace’s for all its lack of outward raging but, being turned inward, it would destroy him if it found no outlet. It would need care and understanding and all Hawklan’s healing skills to draw this man forth relatively unscathed. But it would also need time, and time was not available. Hawklan could form no plan of what he should do next, but he knew that urgency must be its hallmark.

  He struck Fel-Astian a stinging blow across the face. The sound stopped Idrace in his tracks and made Isloman look up, startled. Fel-Astian jerked back and looked mildly surprised and reproachful. Hawklan hit him again. This time Fel-Astian sprang to his feet angrily, his fists raised. Hawklan swept down the extended arms effortlessly and thrust a grim face within inches of Fel-Astian’s.

  ‘You’re one of the Fyorlund High Guard. An elite fighting corps. You set aside your grief and suffering and consider what you must do for your country before all else.’ His voice was harsh and commanding. Isloman stared up at him, seeing once again one of the princely carved figures from Anderras Darion standing in this spring-lit glade.

  Fel-Astian’s face contorted with conflicting emotions, but Hawklan’s countenance defied their outlet.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he shouted. ‘Your Captain’s taken. Your country’s undergoing some strange and awful trial, and you, alive, unhurt and armed, sit nursing yourself like a sick infant.’ There was a contempt in his voice which outweighed even that in the content of his words. He lifted his hand as if to strike the man again but, this time, Fel-Astian’s hand came out and seized his wrist powerfully. Again Fel-Astian’s face twisted painfully until, at last, a long, uncontrollable, almost screaming cry came out from him.

  ‘No,’ he bellowed into Hawklan’s face. ‘Sumeral take you. No. I hear you. I understand you. Damn you.’

  He pushed Hawklan to one si
de and striding forward drew his sword and brought it down in a whistling arc into the soft forest turf. Then he leaned forward on to it and slowly sank to his knees as his weight forced it into the ground. Head bowed, he knelt silent and unmoving.

  Idrace stood watching him, his face pale under his dark hair. Fel-Astian’s outburst had dwarfed his own loud distress.

  Eventually Fel-Astian rose to his feet quietly. He withdrew his sword from the ground and, as Hawklan had done before, took out a kerchief and began cleaning the blade. He gave Hawklan an enigmatic look.

  Hawklan’s face softened a little and stepping forward he took both of the Guards by the arm. A voice that Isloman recognized now spoke.

  ‘We’ve no time to dwell on matters. We can’t wait for the luxury of time’s healing. Listen carefully and remember what I say in your darker hours. You’re young and you’re strong. Your pain will pass, as does all pain, but you’ll not recover from the death of your friends. Still less will you recover from what you’ve taken to be your failure, your cowardice, in running away from their destruction. But you’ll become a little wiser.’ His grip tightened in emphasis. ‘You must learn from what has happened and what you felt. Learn so that you’ll recognize and know it again and know you can accept such things. In that way your friends won’t have died in vain.’

  Neither man spoke. Hawklan continued, his voice gentle but hypnotic and powerful. ‘Your bodies and your emotions accepted the truth of what was happening before your pride and your vanity could interfere. Isloman and I fled the battle as well. With sadness but without qualms. The die was cast. The only thing the patrol could’ve done was withdraw against those odds – and quickly – but . . .’ He shrugged sadly, unable to finish. ‘Now other needs call us. Our only way is forward. Let the past arm you for the future and illumine your way. Don’t let it obscure your path.’

  Later, mounted and ready to part, Hawklan leaned across and grasped first Idrace’s wrist and then Fel-Astian’s. Isloman did the same. They had considered only briefly the possibly of rescuing Jaldaric but, though badly depleted, the Mandroc patrol was too large and, according to Gavor, was making exceptionally rapid progress towards Fyorlund. Their hopes for Jaldaric lay in the efforts Aelang had taken to keep him alive when the rest of his group were so casually slaughtered.

  No further words were spoken as the two couples parted. Idrace and Fel-Astian, grim, but more composed, rode north. It was their intention to enter Fyorlund quietly and find out what had happened in their absence. Hawklan and Isloman turned south, back towards Pedhavin and Anderras Darion, intending to rouse on the way such village elders as they could. The need to seek out Dan-Tor seemed more pressing than ever, but too much had happened for them blithely to enter Fyorlund and leave the Orthlundyn unaware of what had happened on their soil. They would have to return later.

  Gavor had flown north again, at Hawklan’s request, to observe the Mandroc patrol before himself returning to Pedhavin.

  The sun was setting when Hawklan and Isloman emerged from the wood and set off along the ancient road. A slight mist was forming, smothering the land in white anonymity. In places it arched up over the road to form translucent grottos. Through it, the dying sun shone blood red.

  Chapter 10

  Dan-Tor idly fingered the medallion of office hanging from a slender gold chain around his neck. Then abruptly he released it with a grimace; these lingering traits of his fretful humanity irked him profoundly.

  Uncharacteristically he found himself longing bitterly for the day when all pretence could be discarded, when the Old Power could be used, when battle lines could be drawn and he could join with his companions and lead His hordes out of Narsindal to sweep all before them and raise Him, and themselves, to the height that destiny had ordained.

  But the road to such a day was hazardous. The past had shown the folly of too lightly dismissing the forces that could be ranged against them. Humans could be endlessly troublesome for all their weakness and inconsistency.

  Now, ensconced in his eyrie, in the highest tower of the King’s Palace far above Vakloss, unfamiliar doubts pervaded his thoughts.

  His encounter with Hawklan – Ethriss? – had made him terminate his journey and go scuttling back to Narsindal with the news. No other could be trusted with that. But He had shown only His cold silent anger at the risks that had been taken in provoking Hawklan. Then, looking into Dan-Tor for a trembling eternity, He had delivered a further blow, a stunning, unexpected blow. ‘You have erred twofold. Your King runs amok. Abandon the south, I have others better suited.’

  No counsel had been offered, nor aid. Only a brooding silence. Only the weight of that endless dark patience. From this Dan-Tor knew that the consequences of his actions must run their course, however erratic and unforeseeable, and he must bear them.

  He closed his eyes and heard again the words of his Master when He had finally wakened. ‘You are my faithful servant and will again be rewarded as my power grows – as grow it will – beyond even its ancient greatness.’ Then, the re-affirmation:

  ‘But recall. You are bound to me and by me. You can be expunged at my whim and others made in your image. Serve me well.’ It was a statement cold beyond measure and a verdict beyond appeal.

  ‘Expunged at my whim,’ Dan-Tor mouthed to himself into the silence of his room.

  With an effort, he dismissed from his mind the questions that his Master’s knowledge about the King had prompted. Who could know what sight He had? What dark envoys?

  Then, standing up, he moved to the window and stared out over the great avenues and parks and proud old buildings that were Vakloss, out over its bustling heart nestling around the Palace walls in a maze of twisting, narrow streets thronged with people. But he saw only the distant mountains to the north, red-tipped and strangely shadowed in the setting sun. Frustration hissed through his clenched teeth and he turned to more immediate problems.

  Who could have rescued Hawklan from the Gretmearc and avoided his agents? And what had happened to the birds? A long-forgotten name came into his mind. The Cadwanol. Could they still exist? After such a time? The Cadwanol: Ethriss’s ancient allies and repository of most of the knowledge of the First Coming. A constant thorn in His side, but elusive and cunning, hiding in deep and strange places, deep beyond even Oklar’s power.

  It was a disturbing thought, and it persisted. And yet Ethriss was not awake. The Cadwanol must surely know how to waken their old master? Had not he and his companions learned how to waken theirs after countless aeons bound in darkness? But Hawklan had fled from the Gretmearc; he could not be Ethriss. And yet . . .

  Beyond doubt, he must be captured, Dan-Tor resolved again. But captured with great cunning.

  A discreet scratching at the door interrupted his reverie. Face twitching irritably, he paused until he could smell the servant’s fear leaking through to him.

  Was the Lord there? Had he scratched loudly enough? Should he scratch again and risk the Lord’s wrath at his impatience?

  Dan-Tor could charm the most obdurate of Lords when needed, but the lesser fry of Fyorlund who dealt with him, being both less burdened with office and more perceptive, knew him more truly. He sensed a hand rising hesitantly and on an impulse spared his victim.

  ‘Enter,’ he said calmly. The wave of relief sickened him. These humans were contemptible – a small distant voice within him reminded him that he, too, had once been thus.

  ‘His Majesty has asked me to request that you attend him in his rooms, Lord.’

  You mean he’s told you to tell me, you worm, thought Dan-Tor viciously.

  ‘Please inform His Majesty that I’ll attend him immediately,’ he said courteously. Another repellent wave of relief, and the servant walked out backwards before fleeing down the Palace’s twisting stairs and corridors to safer quarters.

  With the King in his present unstable condition, Dan-Tor knew he must not be left alone for long. The damage the King had accomplished in so short a time verged on bein
g a considerable achievement and nothing could be taken for granted until he was completely under control again. This, however, might prove none too easy. In Dan-Tor’s absence, the King had unconsciously turned to his wife, Sylvriss, and her influence, though weak, lay deep. Deeper than Dan-Tor dared risk threatening.

  * * * *

  The King lay alone in his chamber, stretched along a wide couch and gazing vacantly up at the ornate painted ceiling. That he was in this room indicated the influence of Sylvriss. It had been their bridal chamber and still carried resonances of happier times.

  It made Dan-Tor’s flesh crawl.

  Large clear crystal doors at the far end of the room looked across a beautifully tended garden of lawns, shrubs and fountains, but, as they faced east, to bring the morning sun into the chamber, they showed now only the mounting evening darkness, as purple mountains merged into the purple sky.

  Dan-Tor noted with malicious satisfaction the harsh shadows cast by the light of the globes which had replaced the older, gentler torches. He entered with a discreet amount of noise, and bowed low.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said gently and with concern. ‘The pain has returned?’

  Rgoric made no reply. Dan-Tor did not move, but tried to sense the man’s mood. Little ripples of anger still crossed Dan-Tor’s mind at what the King had done and at having such inadequate material for the weaving of his Master’s design, but he swept them away ruthlessly. Such self-indulgence offered nothing but hindrance and, he thought bitterly, reminded him too much of the King himself.

  He moved forward into the King’s line of sight, but kept his face slightly in the shade. He was uncertain what might be showing in his eyes and how sensitive the King might be to what he saw there.

  ‘Majesty?’

  The King’s eyes unfixed themselves from the ceiling and turned to Dan-Tor.