by Roger Taylor
Urssain, however, had noted immediately how the attitudes of both servants and officials had changed from surprise to near alarm when he first appeared and produced his special pass bearing the Lord Dan-Tor’s mark. It was said that the Lord Dan-Tor was the real force behind the Mathidrin, though those who said it did so softly and carefully, and with many admonitions to secrecy. Undoubtedly however, power lay in this man. Power that would lead to this wealth and, Urssain reasoned, wealth to those who knew and served him well.
He relished the soft creak of the expensive upholstery as he stood up to walk over to the window. The carpet too was soft and deep under his feet, feet that had known only rocks, stirrups and barrack-room floors, and its touch drew him further along the path he realized he had begun to tread: the path towards the acquisition of this power and this wealth. His hand clenched in excitement. He looked out of the window, but there was little to be seen other than a courtyard some way below, marked out in harsh light and deep shade by the globe lights. Shadows to hide in, he thought. Hide indeed.
He went over his speech again. It would be important with this Lord. He had little illusion about why Aelang had sent him instead of coming himself. Ostensibly it was because he had to accompany the Mandrocs on their clandestine return to their barracks hidden deep in the bleak northern mountains bordering Narsindal. There was some truth in this as the Mandrocs had been greatly disturbed by what had happened in Orthlund and were proving very difficult to handle. But the reality was that the venture had nearly been a disaster. Finding Dan-Tor unexpectedly absent, Urssain had mishandled his initial approach to Jaldaric and Aelang had done little better. Then those High Guards had fought like fiends, inflicting appalling losses on the Mandrocs. Urssain patted his sling unconsciously. And those Orthlundyn! What a trail they had left. The capture of Jaldaric had been the sole saving grace. His forehead wrinkled as he struggled with the words that he hoped would present him in the most favourable light and, with luck, ensure it was Aelang who bore any odium. Let him end up training Mandroc recruits in Narsindal, Urssain thought. He pulled a bitter face at the prospect and pressed his left hand on to the polished and finely worked windowsill as if for comfort. Orthlund might give you the creeps, but the interior of Narsindal . . .
Looking up he saw himself reflected in the night-backed window. He straightened up to examine his image critically. Not bad, he thought. At one stage he had considered changing into formal uniform to impress this Lord but, on reflection, he had decided that the dust of travel and the rough field bandage would serve him better. It would add just that extra to his account of his heroic actions. Yes, he reflected, he’d done the right thing. This Lord certainly wouldn’t be impressed by a parade-ground uniform. Nevertheless, as he looked down at his tunic he straightened out a crease with his left hand.
When he looked up to examine himself again in the window, he found he was looking into the eyes of Lord Dan-Tor. The man had entered the room unheard and was standing watching him. Urssain spun round, eyes wide and mouth hanging open momentarily. He stammered.
‘Lord . . .’
Dan-Tor neither spoke nor moved. He simply continued to stare at Urssain, as if the sudden flurry of movement had never happened. Urssain found his eyes fixed by this tall still figure. Though he had heard much about this strange Lord and seen him distantly on occasions, he had never before met him face to face. Now he felt the awesome force of the man as he stood impaled on his gaze like a fish on a spear. His carefully rehearsed speech evaporated. To tell this man anything other than the truth would be pointless and foolish, not to say dangerous. Yes, very dangerous. Here was some kind of fountainhead. Urssain could not have found the words for what he wanted out of his life, but he knew beyond doubt that it flowed from this man.
The spear was withdrawn.
‘Captain Urssain. You’ve news of a prisoner I believe.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ said Urssain, recovering himself somewhat and coming smartly to attention. ‘We’ve taken the man Jaldaric, son of the traitor Eldric.’
Dan-Tor seemed to grow a little smaller and a look of angry disappointment passed briefly across his long face. He lowered himself into a chair.
‘No other prisoner?’ he demanded harshly.
Urssain looked a little puzzled. What had he missed?
‘No, Lord,’ he replied.
Dan-Tor sat in silence for a moment. Urssain became aware of the hiss of the globe lighting the room.
‘Make your report, Captain,’ Dan-Tor said eventually. His voice was matter-of-fact, but the eyes again impaled Urssain and, not a little to his own surprise, he told his tale truthfully.
When he had finished, Dan-Tor withdrew his gaze and stared thoughtfully downwards, toying idly with the medallion around his neck.
‘The two Orthlundyn. Are they among the dead you brought back?’
Orthlundyn? thought Urssain.
‘No, Lord,’ he said. ‘They disappeared into the trees with the others, but they must have run away when the fighting started.’ He paused, then added: ‘It’s as well they did. They must have hacked down a dozen Mandrocs on their way, and left a lot more gibbering – you know the way they do when . . .’
Dan-Tor silenced him with a movement of his hand. ‘And was there no woman with them?’
Urssain hesitated. ‘No, Lord.’
Dan-Tor fell silent again, pondering the absence of Tirilen and the apparent friendship of Hawklan and Jaldaric.
‘Jaldaric is below, you say?’
‘Yes, Lord.’
More silence.
Urssain’s shoulder started to throb, but he did not dare to move. Dan-Tor looked up.
‘Your shoulder is troubling you,’ he said. It was a statement not a question. Urssain affected stoicism.
‘It’s nothing serious, Lord.’
Dan-Tor stood up and walked over to him. Expertly he removed the bandage and exposed the wound. Urssain stayed stiffly to attention.
‘Relax, Captain. Stand easy,’ said the Lord’s soft voice. ‘You’re right, it isn’t serious. But it’ll be troublesome and painful for some time, and I can give you something for it.’
He went to a large cupboard behind his chair. The lacquered doors clicked open as he approached, revealing an enormous array of bottles, jars and pieces of equipment whose function Urssain preferred not to guess at. Dan-Tor’s long fingers went unerringly into the apparent confusion and retrieved a jar and a roll of bandage.
Urssain rolled his shoulder to ease the pain, but that only made it worse and the jolt made the blood run from his face. He swayed.
Without looking at him, Dan-Tor, said, ‘Don’t move.’
The ointment from the jar brought Immediate relief to the wound, and Dan-Tor’s expert bandaging left Urssain feeling at once freer and more secure. Standing right in front of him, his brown wrinkled face filling Urssain’s vision, Dan-Tor smiled. Something predatory in the rows of white teeth chilled Urssain more than any amount of scowling could have done.
‘Your arm will be well very soon,’ said Dan-Tor. Then, after a long pause. ‘I’ve taken the trouble to repair it for a purpose, Captain. Your meeting with Jaldaric was as ill-judged an affair as I could have imagined. Thanks to it we’ve lost a large number of fully trained Mandrocs, and landed ourselves with a severe morale problem – those creatures aren’t totally stupid you know, not by any means. And worse, we’ve lost two very important prisoners.’ He toyed with his medallion again. ‘Putting it bluntly, Urssain, better than you by far have made lesser mistakes and suffered for it more than you could ever imagine.’
Urssain stood very still.
Dan-Tor sat down. ‘However, there were forces at work that were beyond you, and . . . I sense qualities in you which are worth developing.’
Urssain breathed out very quietly.
‘You’re a man who’ll learn. And quickly when needs be. You learned immediately that to tell me other than the truth would be not only foolish but dangerous.’ There was a dr
eadful chill in his voice and the coincidence of the words with his own earlier thoughts shook Urssain profoundly. He remained motionless and involuntarily held his breath again. He wanted to be a long way from here.
‘And you have wants, have you not? Desires?’ A long bony hand airily encompassed the room. ‘Ambitions? For wealth? For power?’ Again the coincidence of words. Urssain shrank within himself as if to close off his own thoughts.
‘Nothing is hidden from me, Urssain,’ Dan-Tor stood up and, placing his hands on Urssain’s shoulders, stared deeply into his eyes. Urssain felt himself dwindle into nothingness in the shadow of such power, then he felt himself lifted up and carried somewhere high above his wildest ambitions.
Abruptly the power was withdrawn, leaving only a lingering after-image of some attainable goal burning in his mind. Dan-Tor was matter-of-fact again.
‘I’ll call you when I need you, Captain. Return to your barracks.’
‘Lord,’ said Urssain as steadily as he could, then he turned to leave the room.
As he reached the door, Dan-Tor spoke again. ‘The Mandrocs, Urssain. How did they behave in Orthlund?’
Urssain thought for a moment. ‘It upset them, Lord. It’s a creepy place. They were very unsettled – anxious to be . . . home . . . somewhere else. I didn’t like it very much myself to be honest. But they fought well enough.’
Dan-Tor nodded slowly. ‘Send word they’re to be kept in isolation until I’ve had an opportunity to study them. Don’t let them mix with their own.’
Urssain acknowledged the order and closed the door quietly behind himself.
That at least is one useful piece of salvage from this wreck, thought Dan-Tor when Urssain had left. He had been watching the man for some time, looking for someone suitable to place in charge of the restructuring of the City Garrisons as the Mathidrin were gradually eased into power. Urssain’s conduct while making his report had confirmed his worth – the right balance of self-seeking cunning and stark fear, a perceptive man in his own barbarous way. And his ambition! Dan-Tor nodded to himself. You haven’t even got your own measure of it yet, Urssain, he thought.
But, despite this, Dan-Tor’s thoughts were dominated by Hawklan. Escaped again. Escaped with the knowledge that Fyorlund was under threat from some unknown enemy. Escaped to tell the Orthlundyn that Mandrocs were abroad and had killed on their blessed land – if they didn’t feel it already. Not even his Master could foresee how the Orthlundyn would react to such news. And why were Hawklan and that oaf of a Carver riding armed with Jaldaric? And where was the girl? Things were moving too quickly. Dan-Tor had the uneasy feeling that he was watching one pebble dislodge two as it rolled away from him down a hillside.
He dismissed the thought. Whatever the Orthlundyn had been, they were not so now and, in any case, they were too few to offer any serious opposition. All the damage that had been done could be repaired with a little thought. Useful experience would have been gained from the Mandrocs’ exposure to Orthlund. More traps could be laid for Hawklan. Time was on the Master’s side. Tomorrow he would interrogate Jaldaric.
‘We’ll weave a net to hold you yet, Hawklan,’ Dan-Tor muttered softly to himself. ‘Weave one from the threads your new-found friend will give us.’
A moth fluttered against the window, futilely rattling its wings against the glass as the invisible barrier kept it from its goal of light.
Chapter 13
The journey back to Pedhavin was a strange, uncomfortable affair. Hawklan and Isloman both wavered in and out of different moods as they tried to adjust to recent events. But no real peace was to be found. Something had been lost forever. Such tranquillity as they could achieve from time to time was only the stillness of the sea between breaking waves. Havoc would descend again on their minds all too quickly and with it came the grim feeling that it would never end.
Gavor returned eventually, exhausted but with news that Hawklan, at least, found heartening. The Mandroc patrol had maintained its rapid progress to the north and, leaving the road, had assiduously avoided all contact with the villages and communities that lay between it and Fyorlund. Jaldaric was alive and mounted, though bound.
‘It looked to me as if they were leaving by the same way they came in, judging from the tracks,’ he concluded.
‘That’s a relief,’ said Hawklan. ‘At least there’ll be no more killing.’
Isloman snorted. ‘The presence of those creatures in Orthlund is a murder in itself. Wherever they’ve come from they’re a defilement. The very ground they tread on cries out in pain.’
Hawklan looked at him, a puzzled frown on his face at this unexpected vehemence. Isloman met his gaze.
‘Can’t you feel it?’ he said impatiently, as to an obtuse pupil.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ began Hawklan, but Isloman interrupted him with a remorseful gesture.
‘Don’t apologize, Hawklan. It’s my fault. It’s hard to remember you weren’t born here.’ There was regret in his voice, though whether it was at his own impatience or because Hawklan was not an Orthlundyn was not clear. A little further on he spoke again. ‘I can’t explain, Hawklan, any more than I can explain rock lore to you, but everyone will know that something terrible has happened. You see. The first village we reach – they’ll be out, asking, worried.’
And that, thought Hawklan, is all the explanation I’m going to get, judging from the tone of your voice.
Gavor broke the slight uneasiness with a throaty chuckle. ‘I’ll tell you what those Mandrocs don’t like, though.’ He fell silent, awaiting a response from one of them. Hawklan looked at him sideways and raised his eyebrows, indicating it would not be from him. After a few moments, Isloman’s curiosity got the better of him and, reluctantly, he asked what that might be. ‘Ravens,’ laughed Gavor. There was a note of malevolent exultation in his voice that made Hawklan turn sharply.
‘What have you been doing, Gavor?’ he asked before Isloman could respond.
‘Nothing, dear boy,’ replied Gavor innocently. ‘Just ruffled a few feathers, metaphorically speaking.’
‘Never mind the metaphors,’ Hawklan said firmly. ‘What have you done?’
‘Well . . . I just flew round a little.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing much. Just sang them a little tune I’d remembered.’ Green eyes and black eyes locked. Old friends.
‘That little tune, as you call it, is a death cry, isn’t it? A warning. Something out of your murky past, you feathered ancient.’
Then Gavor was all devilment. ‘Yes it is. Yes it is. I don’t know what it means, dear boy, but they do. And they don’t like it. They became very restless. The poor man at the front had a very difficult time with them.’ He chuckled again and hopped on to Hawklan’s head. ‘And less of the ancient, dear boy,’ he said, ruffling Hawklan’s hair with his wooden leg and hopping nimbly out of the way as a hand came up to dislodge him. ‘After all, we’re no hatchling ourselves, are we?’
Hawklan ignored the comment. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Well what?’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Oh. Nothing special. Just had a closer look at them once or twice.’
‘How close?’
Gavor was gone, then . . .
‘This close,’ he shrieked, flying tumultuously between the two men from behind, and catching their heads with his thrashing wings. Both of them jumped at his sudden appearance and Isloman offered him a clenched fist as he soared high up above them. Gavor laughed raucously and tumbled over in the air.
‘They didn’t like it either,’ he cried.
‘I’ll put you in a pot, you black-hearted crow,’ roared Isloman as he struggled to regain control of his startled mount.
‘Really, dear boy,’ came the reply from above. ‘Crow. Tut tut. No need to be personal. Your little brother’s influence, I suppose.’
Then he soared in a great circle over their heads laughing to himself. The sound was infectious and Hawklan laughed quiet
ly. ‘There’s a paradox for you, Isloman. It takes a bird to put our feet back on the ground again.’
Isloman replied with a formidable grunt and the two men rode on, the silence between them now a little easier and more companionable.
Shortly afterwards, strange noises could be heard overhead. Hawklan’s face assumed an expression of mock pain, and Isloman slumped noticeably.
‘He’s practicing his bird impressions again,’ said Hawklan plaintively.
Isloman looked up. ‘There are times when life seems to be just one burden after another,’ he said.
A faint voice came down to them. ‘Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentleman. Now – the nightingale . . .’
* * * *
The first village they came to was Little Hapter.
As Isloman had foreseen, the people came out to meet them. Hawklan knew many of them, and they acknowledged his greetings courteously enough, but there was a general air of preoccupation about them that was unfamiliar, and it was around Isloman that they all gathered.
Hawklan looked at the growing crowd, and for the first time in twenty years felt that he was not one of these people. There was nothing hostile in their attitude, or even unpleasant, but something had disturbed them at a level which heightened his position as an outsider and drew them to look first to their own kind. Sensing it was a time to listen and learn, he was content to let Isloman answer their questions. He wanted to ask, ‘How did you know?’ but he knew that no answer would be forthcoming. Their responses to the news of the Mandrocs and the fighting ran the gamut of shock, alarm, and anger, as might be expected, but though these were sincere, Hawklan felt that the deeper shadows in the Orthlundyn were eased by the light of knowledge, however bad, and he felt himself brought back into their circle again.
He was inclined to dismiss the feeling of being an outsider as being over-sensitivity on his part or perhaps even a little residual shock, but he examined it again and found it true. There had been a strange but definite mood in the crowd as they turned initially to Isloman. One that he had never seen before. He set the thought aside for future consideration. It seemed to be important in some way.
