The Waking of Orthlund [Book Three of The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Before Urssain could relinquish his burden to implement this command, Dilrap fell to his knees, his mouth working noiselessly. At last he found his voice. ‘Ffyrst. I beg of you. What have I done?'

  Dan-Tor looked at him. ‘Done, Dilrap?’ he said. ‘You've done well. You were serving my ends admirably, but circumstances have cut across my plans and brought about their conclusion sooner than I had hoped...'

  Dilrap interrupted desperately. ‘Why kill me then, Master?'

  Dan-Tor turned away his face suddenly as if he had been struck. ‘Don't presume to question me, Dilrap,’ he said angrily, turning back. ‘Your eternal terror clouds my vision, and your eternal fretting over the minutiae of the Law rings in my ears like the buzzing of a trapped insect. Now all can be swept aside. The New Order will be one of simplicity. One requiring only the swords of my Mathidrin and my will. I would be free of you, Dilrap. Urssain, attend to it now. I grow weary.'

  Dilrap stared at him, unable to either speak or move, finding no resource within himself that could hope to deflect such malice. All courses of action were closed to him now. Let me not whimper, he thought again. Had he not just seen men dispatched by a single swift stroke from the King's sword? There would be a moment's pain and then his journey through his worrisome life would be over. Surely he could receive that with dignity and calm. But immediately behind this calmness came an unexpected and raging anger. No, he would not go so lightly. He would give this ... obscenity a measure of what it could expect should it hope to hold sway over humanity. Before anyone could seize him he would tear that black arrow from its side and plunge it into its heart.

  As the thought came to him, he caught Urssain's eye. Will you be next, Commander? was the message he sent. Will you serve him as I have and end thus? At his whim? No longer needed?

  Urssain hesitated. ‘Ffyrst, may I speak?’ he said softly to his burden.

  Irritably, Dan-Tor inclined his head. Urssain nodded to the other trooper to dismiss, and taking Dan-Tor's full weight turned him gently away from the kneeling figure.

  'Ffyrst,’ he said, his voice low so that only Dan-Tor could hear him. ‘After today the men will be stretched to the limit just to keep public order. Large tracts of the City have been razed. The disruption to the normal life of the City will be enormous and will provide all manner of opportunities for malcontents to foment trouble. We had to bring men in for the arrest of Eldric and now they'll have to stay until some semblance of normality is restored.’ Dan-Tor frowned, though whether it was at his remarks or at some pain, Urssain could not judge. He pressed on. ‘Dilrap understands the people and their ways. He also understands the detailed administration of the Palace and the City. For all his faults, it will be virtually impossible to find a replacement who's remotely as able. We have none, save yourself, and your efforts should be bent to dealing with the rebels in the east...’ Then, almost whispering, ‘and your greater design.'

  Dan-Tor was silent for a moment. ‘Will you not obey my order, Commander?’ he said eventually.

  Urssain quailed at the soft menace in the voice. ‘Ffyrst. I'm nothing without your favour. All I have is yours. I try to serve you and I'll do anything you tell me to. But we have difficult problems ahead in the immediate future: why not let Dilrap carry some of the odium that solving them will produce?'

  Dan-Tor nodded slowly. Urssain's crawling fear for his own ultimate fate was apparent in his every movement, but his comments were logical. This had been a day of great progress, though at what risk and at what cost? He was burdened with a twofold anger: that his plans had been so jeopardized, and that it was this selfsame anger that had so marred his judgement. What had prompted him to respond to that cursed bird's ancient taunt? If he had not tried to strike it, Hawklan would not have attacked him, and ...

  Angrily, he dismissed the circling and fruitless reproaches, though he knew they would return to haunt him repeatedly. They would burden him as surely as this arrow in his side, as did those for the folly he had committed on the sunlit green at Pedhavin when he had succumbed to the vanity that he might bind the dormant Ethriss.

  His only solace was that whatever that green-eyed abomination was, he had come from Anderras Darion, and where the shadow of that sink-hole fell, so His writ ran false, and His servants were deceived. The place was an aberration. Suffice it that the deed was done now. The Old Power had been both used and defied, and Ethriss had not arisen to strike him down effortlessly before turning to his real foe. As his reward for his wanton impetuosity however, he was impaled now on this accursed arrow until He chose to remove it.

  Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Master, Dan-Tor intoned inwardly, lifting his hand to his side again. The words showed him another truth; the pain of the arrow would after all be a second solace to him. It was a measure of his worth that He had not destroyed him utterly in His cold fury.

  Or could it be that He too had been afraid of what Hawklan might be? Afraid to use the Power that was His? Dan-Tor stretched up suddenly so that his pain would at once obliterate and atone for such a blasphemy.

  Urssain started at the sudden movement. ‘Ffyrst?’ he gasped, his eyes wide and fearful.

  Dan-Tor turned to him. He too must remember the value of his servants. They were the carefully honed cutting edge of his will. They could be punished when they did not cut true but they should not be needlessly squandered. His desire to slaughter Dilrap for the petty irritations that his help had entailed was yet another reminder of the spiteful residue of his humanity. Who could foretell what consequences might ensue from pandering again to a whim arising from so flawed a source?

  Urssain too should be encouraged to follow willingly the paths of power and ambition that he could see opening before him in today's events. One day, Urssain, you will be to me as I am to Him, Dan-Tor mused, and each step will make your ultimate binding easier. An act of petty spleen now, however, could make him reluctant to venture forward; could divert his talents into caution and self-protective conspiracy and that would serve no useful purpose.

  A whisper of doubt, however, still lingered around the fate of Dilrap. The man's true self was permanently hidden in a miasma of terror; part of him was inaccessible and therefore dangerous. Dan-Tor rejected the thought. There could be little at the heart of such a creature, and should he prove worthless or treacherous, he was neither warrior nor leader; none would flock to his banner and he could easily be dealt with at any time.

  'Thank you for your guidance, Commander,’ he said. ‘I spoke in my pain. You're right. A good servant should not be used thus. Take Dilrap and use him. I must retire to my quarters and attend to my wound.'

  Urssain bowed and then signalled to two of his men. As they moved forward to support the injured Ffyrst, he waved them away.

  'Shall I send the healers to you, Ffyrst?’ Urssain asked, seemingly concerned.

  'No,’ replied Dan-Tor. For a moment Urssain saw the Ffyrst's eyes flicker red like an ominous sunrise, and he seemed to feel a rumble of distant thunder. But the instant passed almost before he could register it, and Dan-Tor was continuing. ‘I know the nature of my injury only too well, Commander, and only I can tend it. You tend the injury to the City that that ... Orthlundyn has wrought. We must have order again. We have new plans to make.'

  Turning, he moved slowly towards one of the side doors to the Throne Room. Urssain snapped to attention as did all the other Mathidrin. Dilrap rose unsteadily and a deep silence descended on the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the Ffyrst's robes as he made his laboured progress across the hall.

  Through the open doorway of the main entrance came a soft and unexpected stirring as an eddy from the wind outside found itself wandering the palace corridors in search of escape. Dilrap felt it cool and fresh on his cheek, though his robes were pressed cold against his back. Then the noise of a distant door slamming shut reverberated through the hall, and the breeze was gone.

  No one moved.

  Briefly a shaft of sunlight shone bri
ghtly through the large window at the end of the hall. It fell on Dan-Tor's retreating figure like a warning finger. He stopped and turned again to Urssain. ‘Before all other things, Commander, find me that man's body.’ Then the sunlight was gone and Dan-Tor finished his journey to the door in dusty shade. As he slipped from view it seemed as though the whole room breathed out in release.

  Relaxing, Urssain looked around, his face wrinkled with distaste. ‘Get this mess cleaned up, and quickly,’ he shouted to a Sirshiant. ‘Then seal the room and put a guard on the Ffyrst's room. There could be all manner of people wandering the Palace.’ Then, more softly, looking significantly at the man:

  'And remind these...’ His glance took in the waiting Mathidrin, ‘of the life enhancing value of silence, until I have the chance to talk to them properly.’ The Sirshiant saluted and Urssain turned towards Dilrap.

  As he approached the Secretary, he noted his strange expression and oddly still posture. He paused. Dilrap did not know what had passed between him and Dan-Tor and would still be expecting summary execution. Urssain had seen what cornered men could do before now and he lifted a hand in reassurance before he came too close. He had no desire to cut down the Secretary in self-defence after having taken such risks to keep him alive.

  'It's all right, Dilrap,’ he said discreetly when he reached him. ‘You're safe for the time being. As am I.’ His manner was casual, for the benefit of onlookers, but his eyes bore a different, more urgent, message—intimate almost. ‘We've a great deal to organize,’ he continued. ‘Come with me.'

  As they walked along the palace corridors towards the main entrance, the activity and noise grew, and Dilrap noted dust and grime layering the floor and darkening statues and ornaments. Equally soiled Mathidrin troopers and palace servants were running to and fro, brought together in common humanity to tend the needs of those damaged by the blow that Oklar had launched at Hawklan.

  'Commander, we couldn't find you.’ It was a Mathidrin Captain, his face flushed and sweat-stained.

  Urssain waved the remark aside. ‘I've been tending the Ffyrst,’ he said coldly. ‘Report.'

  The report was brief. Impromptu groups were digging in the rubble to find survivors and clear the streets. The dead and the wounded were being taken to various large halls about the City. ‘The Guilds and the Rede's people are doing most of the organizing,’ the Captain concluded rather awkwardly.

  Urssain nodded. This last remark reminded him why he needed Dilrap. The Mathidrin had neither the administrators nor the resources to run a city. ‘Is there any sign of rioting?’ he said.

  'Not so far,’ replied the Captain. ‘But it could happen. There's a lot of angry talk about, and when the shock and panic die down, it could boil over.'

  Urssain nodded again. Nor did they have the forces to contend with any serious rioting. ‘We must be circumspect, Captain. We mustn't play into the hands of our enemies by inflaming matters. Check the Palace for intruders. Gently—many of them will just be shocked or seeking shelter—then discreetly seal the Palace. When that's done, find such Commanders and senior Captains as you can, and report to me in the Westerclave.’ Then mindful of his Lord's last order. ‘And get a party to clear the gateway immediately. The Ffyrst needs to know that his would-be assassin is dead. Immediately, Captain.'

  'It's almost finished, Commander,’ the Captain replied. ‘We've found some bodies, but not the ... archer's.'

  'Keep looking, then. And hurry,’ Urssain said, dismissing the man with a curt gesture.

  Scowling at this distraction, Urssain looked around. ‘In here,’ he said, pushing open the door of a small ante-room. As Dilrap entered, Urssain closed the door and bolted it.

  'We have to talk, Dilrap,’ he said without preliminaries.

  Dilrap did not reply. His legs failing him, he dropped into a chair. He looked at his unexpected saviour.

  In contrast to Dilrap's stillness, Urssain paced fretfully up and down the small room as he spoke. ‘The Ffyrst is changed, Dilrap,’ he said. ‘I don't know what or who he is, but he's changed, and changed unbelievably, and you and I must change also if we're to survive.'

  'I don't understand,’ Dilrap lied. ‘What do you mean, changed? And who shot him? And why was the King kill—'

  Urssain waved him silent irritably, and Dilrap saw for the first time the fear and deep shock that the man was barely keeping under control. Another reassuring sign of humanity in his enemies.

  Urssain stopped pacing and stood looking down at him. ‘Some Orthlundyn assassin shot him, Dilrap. I don't know why, but the Ffyrst has been fretting about him ever since he got back from Orthlund. It's not a matter I'd inquire into if I were you, especially now.'

  For an instant his composure slipped, his mouth trembled and his terror showed naked on his face. He turned away. In the Mathidrin it was potentially a fatal mistake to show fear. It was almost as bad just to admit to it. For a moment however, Urssain felt drawn to tell Dilrap of the maelstrom of emotions that had torn and twisted him as he had stood by Dan-Tor to face that strange Orthlundyn. Dilrap would understand. He was permanently terrified. He could offer no threat.

  But apart from his years of restraint, where could he find the words for such a tale? He could tell of his fear at being faced unexpectedly by a massive and seemingly organized mob. Fear that the ancient will of the Fyordyn had suddenly awakened to call him to account for his deeds. Perhaps he could tell of the eerie tension between his Lord and Hawklan, the one charming yet malevolent, the other grim-faced yet open and honest. Perhaps also he could tell of his horror as Dan-Tor fell to the ground, struck by Hawklan's arrow. Was this to be the end? His leader slain and the mob free to surge forward to overwhelm the guards and destroy him?

  But how could he tell of his emotions as Dan-Tor rose again and revealed his true self? How could he tell of his impotence, his inadequacy, at being less than the merest mote swept up in the howling wake of Oklar's fury? Or of his joy at finding himself returned unhurt and whole to this world when it had passed? It was beyond all description.

  And yet still less could he tell of the dark and vile exhilaration that he had felt at being part of such power, or of his unholy communion with the being that wielded it. That above all was for his own inner contemplation.

  Dilrap watched Urssain's back and read his indecision and torment.

  Confess to me, Commander, he willed. Show me your weaknesses for my future use. The harshness of the thought surprised him.

  'Why was the King killed, then?’ he asked bluntly. Urssain started and for a moment looked at him blankly. Dilrap pressed on. ‘I was trying to stop the King releasing Eldric and his son. He was so angry I thought he was going to have me killed on the spot. Then the whole Palace shook and I just ran away. Now he's dead—killed by your men. What's happening, Urssain?'

  Urssain scowled and crushed his own turmoil under the needs of the present. He leaned forward and brought his face close to Dilrap's. ‘Too many questions, Honoured Secretary. I didn't save your blubbering neck just to be interrogated by you. Obedience is the law now. Obedience without question. I've saved your life today. Listen to what I say, and learn, and you may stay alive.’ He brought his face even closer until it was almost touching Dilrap's. His voice was soft and menacing.

  'The Lord Dan-Tor has powers beyond our imaginations, Dilrap. I've seen them. I stood by him when he razed half the City with a wave of his hand. For those who follow and serve him, there'll be rewards beyond imagination, and for those who do not, there'll be extinction. Nothing can oppose him, have no doubts about that. I have his favour and now you have mine. Obey me as I obey him and those rewards will be yours also. But remember, Dilrap. You are useful to me. Valuable, even. But I am indispensable to you. Do you understand?'

  Dilrap nodded. Out of habit, his body shook and twitched, but his mind was calmer than he had ever known. I understand you perfectly, Commander, he thought. You're Oklar's creature, bound utterly by the folly of your greed and lust. There cou
ld be no safer place for me than to shelter behind you. I'll gladly defend your back.

  Urssain nodded, then, without a word, unbolted the door and left, leaving it swinging open.

  Dilrap watched the hubbub in the corridor, but did not move. Nothing can oppose him, he thought, reiterating Urssain's remark. But a black arrow from a mysterious Orthlundyn has done you no small ill, hasn't it, Uhriel? Orthlund. The blessed land of Orthlund as it was called in the Law. Unexpectedly, the thought slipped into Dilrap's mind that if He were abroad again, a force from an ancient, long-forgotten time, what other forces might not be waking?

  A voice reached him from the corridor. It was Urssain's, raised in anger. ‘Keep searching. The body must be there. Nothing could have withstood the Lord's power.'

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Isloman reached forward and pressed his fingers against Hawklan's throat again. Closing his eyes to shut out the relentless drumming of the horses’ hooves and the throbbing fatigue of his body, he waited. The pulse was still there. Not strong, but steady and unchanged.

  It was a reassurance, but Isloman barely knew now why he sought it, so tired was he. It seemed as though he had never known anything but this bumping, pounding twilight world.

  He became aware that Sylvriss was laughing at him. With an effort he looked across at her. She too looked tired, but she was still alert, and riding easily.

  'Let go, Isloman,’ she was saying. ‘Let go. Serian won't let either you or Hawklan fall off. Just go to sleep.'

  Isloman scowled and Sylvriss laughed again. It was strange, Isloman thought, how the riding calmed her, kept at bay the terrors of the day and the fears for her husband. On the rare occasions that they stopped she soon became fretful and anxious, her brow furrowing and her eyes becoming haunted, being drawn ever back towards Vakloss.

  Not that they had stopped very often. By some instinct Isloman could not fathom, Sylvriss, like Hawklan before, had let Serian judge the pace, and the horse had shown little regard for either his or Sylvriss's needs—although Isloman felt that such stops as they did make were in some way for Hawklan's benefit.