by Roger Taylor
Yengar's manner had become increasingly disdainful and casual as he spoke but, unexpectedly, Drago did not rise to his subtle taunting.
'That was twenty years ago, High Guard,’ he repeated, shaking his head, knowingly. ‘I told you, things have changed. We've learned how to fight your way.’ He waved his hands about. ‘In lines and squares. And our islands aren't moved at the whim of the tides anymore.'
Yengar turned to Olvric. ‘I said there'd be no point talking to him,’ he said. ‘He's just an under-chief of some kind. Blustering because a woman bested him.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Armies!’ he said to himself with a chuckle. ‘Lines and squares. Morlider Infantry!’ Then, with a laugh, and his hands holding imaginary reins, ‘It'll be Morlider Muster next.’ His manner was cruelly infectious and the laughter spread round the group.
'And how do you defy the tides, Drago? How do you stop your islands floating away?’ he managed after a moment. ‘All line up on the shore with oars, and row?'
Drago leapt to his feet furiously as the laughter rose around him. The two guards restrained him, although he did not struggle. ‘You'll sing a different song when our fleets land and when we cut through your precious horses without even breaking step,’ he shouted. ‘As for the Fyordyn and the Orthlundyn, let them come—as fast as they like. We'll deal with them when they get here and then we'll take their lands too.'
Yengar pulled a face of mock concern. ‘Riddin, Orthlund and Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘Things have changed. Your chief must be quite a big talker.'
Surprisingly, Drago's anger fell from him, and for an instant he looked frightened. ‘I wouldn't be too free with your abuse, if I were you,’ he said, sitting down again.
Yengar's mood changed with the Morlider's and he looked sympathetic. ‘He frightens you, Drago?’ he said, seriously.
Drago looked at him uncertainly. ‘All leaders frighten those they lead, Fyordyn. Even in your country.'
Yengar made no comment but leaned forward, concerned. ‘Drago, look around,’ he said. ‘We're none of us children. We know something of your ways. Your tribes are fiercely independent. You said yourself that they quarrelled amongst themselves even during the war. It's just not possible for one tribe to do what you've described, however fearsome a leader they might have.'
Drago did not reply.
'And, realistically, do you seriously expect us to believe that you can stop your islands following the flow of the tides?’ Yengar concluded.
Drago looked down. ‘I don't give a damn whether you believe it or not,’ he said softly. ‘You'll find out soon enough when his heel's on your neck as well.'
Yengar looked at him shrewdly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That's it, is it? One of the tribes on your island has conquered the others and forced you into some kind of alliance.'
Drago turned away from him.
'What's this chief called, then?’ Yengar continued. ‘Which tribe did he come from?'
'I've said enough,’ Drago replied. ‘I'll tell you nothing further. Take me back to my men.'
Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances. Yengar's casual and seemingly irrelevant probing had yielded all it could for the moment; another approach could now be tried.
'Let him go,’ Olvric said caustically. ‘He's just another loud-mouthed ruffian, full of wind and sea-water. They're all the same.’ He gestured towards Sylvriss. ‘One good woman's worth a dozen of them, fancy new chief or not.'
Drago's eyes narrowed at Olvric's tone. ‘You won't be so brave when you look into his face, Fyordyn,’ he said menacingly.
Olvric sneered. ‘Nasty stare, has he?’ he said. ‘Well, it wouldn't take much more than a stern look to intimidate someone who lets his men do infantile tricks like Symm did with his biiig knife. How's his toothache, by the way?’ He smacked his fist into his hand and laughed scornfully.
Drago gripped the arms of his chair, goaded by Olvric's tone. The Goraidin sneered again and, holding out his hands, palms upwards, mockingly beckoned him forward. Drago snarled at this further taunt then leapt up before his two guards could prevent him.
Three strides would have brought him to Olvric, but he had scarcely completed one when he staggered backwards as if a great blow had struck him in the chest.
There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room. No one had touched him.
Olvric, half standing, in anticipation of Drago's assault, gazed in amazement at the sprawling figure. For all his size, the Morlider would have been no match for Olvric, and the intention in their impromptu interrogation had been for Yengar to intervene and rescue Drago from Olvric's brutality.
Now the Morlider was struggling to rise as if a heavy weight were pressing down on him.
'Get up slowly, Drago, and take your seat again.’ The voice cut quietly through the confusion. It was Oslang's.
Urthryn looked at him sharply.
The two guards, as stunned as everyone else, bent down to help Drago, but he shook them off angrily and staggered to his feet unaided, his face riven with fear and rage. He pointed a shaking hand at Oslang and his mouth opened and shut several times before he managed to speak. Yengar frowned in sympathy with the man's massive distress.
'You're the same,’ Drago managed eventually, his voice hoarse and cracked. ‘I'll...'
Oslang lifted his hand and Drago fell silent. ‘Take your seat, Drago,’ he said again, gently.
The Morlider did as he was bidden.
Oslang caught Urthryn's eye and looked quickly at the guards. ‘It's all right, lads,’ Urthryn said to them. ‘You can wait outside. I don't think there'll be any more trouble.'
As soon as the two men had left, however, Olvric made a brief signal to Yengar then, drawing his knife, he swung round and held it to Oslang's throat. The movement was hypnotically fast, and no one reacted except Yengar who, at the same time, drew his sword and levelled it at Drago.
Urthryn started up, but Sylvriss restrained him.
'Explain,’ Olvric said grimly. ‘Very quickly. Make no movement. If I feel any force acting on me, I'll kill you without further warning.’ Oslang's eyes widened in terror at the simple unemotional resolve in his voice and in the cold steel against his throat.
'I'm sorry,’ he managed after a moment. ‘It was a reflex. He startled me when he jumped up. I didn't mean to...’ His voice faded.
'Goraidin, you abuse your rights here,’ Urthryn said angrily, but still Sylvriss restrained him, though she too was wide-eyed and anxious at this sudden development. Yengar and Olvric had been so sensitive to her needs on their journey, tendering her many subtle kindnesses, yet now they were threatening this seemingly harmless old man. But was he harmless? Something had knocked the Morlider down. She realized abruptly that it was the Goraidin's very sensitivity that gave them such appallingly clear vision and the freedom to act on it.
Olvric ignored Urthryn's outburst, his gaze never once wavering from Oslang's frightened face. ‘The only person we know who can deliver a blow at a distance without a weapon is Dan-Tor,’ he said quietly but coldly. ‘This one just did the same. Perhaps he too could raze a city if he wished. We can't afford the risk of him being one of Dan-Tor's lackeys. I'll give him the opportunity to explain himself, but a hint of any such power again and he dies.'
'Please...’ gasped Oslang.
'Are you here to do Dan-Tor's will?’ Olvric asked simply.
'No,’ Oslang replied, swallowing. ‘Truly. We oppose him and his Master, utterly.'
'But you use his weapons,’ Olvric pressed.
'Yes—no—they're not his weapons. They're anyone's. Anyone with the knowledge of how to use them,’ Oslang replied. ‘You could kill friend and foe alike with your dagger, couldn't you, Goraidin?'
Olvric did not reply.
'You'll not face Dan-Tor, let alone Sumeral, with any chance of victory without those beside you who can use the same power,’ Oslang gasped. ‘You must have learned that already.'
Olvric's eye narrowed, then he withdrew the knife. Oslan
g slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. He was shaking violently. Only Sylvriss and Yengar noted that Olvric's hand too was shaking as he sheathed his knife.
When Oslang sat up, he was white-faced and still trembling. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I'm a student of lore, not a warrior. I feel sick—let me have a moment to recover myself.’ He looked at Olvric. ‘You're a terrifying man, Goraidin,’ he said softly.
'I take no pride in it,’ Olvric replied. ‘It's one of the more unpleasant aspects of our calling. But it's saved my life and others’ before now. Another aspect is to use my instinct and it's that which has saved your life. But we still need an explanation from you.'
Oslang nodded. ‘In a moment,’ he said, still disturbed.
Urthryn looked on doubtfully, still angry at the Goraidin's savage threat to his guest. Only his daughter's silent support for Olvric had restrained him from calling to the guards waiting outside. Yet he too was alarmed by the demonstration of power that Oslang had inadvertently given.
'I'll have the Morlider taken away before we do any more talking,’ he said. ‘We can deal with him later.'
'No, Ffyrst,’ Oslang said, anxiously. ‘With your permission I'd like to ask him something.'
Glancing first at Olvric, Urthryn nodded his assent.
Drago, still with Yengar's sword at his breast, looked at Oslang like a trapped animal.
Oslang cleared his throat. ‘Why've you come here, Drago?’ he said gently. The Morlider did not reply. Oslang looked puzzled. ‘Just twelve of you, in that little boat. Your raiding parties used to be much bigger.'
Drago shot an anxious glance at Urthryn. ‘You have our boat?’ he asked.
Urthryn nodded, then in response to the almost paternal concern in the man's voice said, ‘Don't worry. It's unharmed. We want you away from here as soon as we can. Just tell us why you were here. Did you get lost or something?'
Drago seemed grateful for Urthryn's news about his boat but curled his lip at his last remark. ‘Lost,’ he said. ‘I'm Morlider. I don't get lost at sea. For what it's worth to you—which is nothing—we were here looking for suitable landing places for our fleet.'
Urthryn's eyes widened at this unexpected admission.
Drago looked at him. ‘I'm not a fool, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I know what I've told you. But it'll make no difference. Not this time.'
Urthryn seemed inclined to pursue the matter but Oslang spoke again. ‘Tell us about your new chief then, Drago,’ he said casually. ‘You're a quarrelsome and fractious people if history tells aright. I'd be interested to know about a man who could bring together not only the tribes of one island, but the tribes of all the islands.'
Drago started. ‘I said nothing about that,’ he said defensively.
Oslang shrugged. ‘What else could you have meant?’ he asked. ‘You allied yourselves after a fashion last time when chance brought you together. Now I presume what Yengar said is true: one of your chiefs has taken over an entire Island. He's also persuaded some of the other islands to join him in another assault on Riddin.’ He looked impressed. ‘It's not the first time that a strong man has brought disparate tribes together,’ he went on. ‘And I don't suppose it'll be the last. But it's rare, and the men who achieve it are usually fascinating people. Is he a young man? A great fighter in personal combat? Or is he a thinker? An organizer?'
'It's more likely to be an old woman,’ Olvric inserted acidly.
Drago gritted his teeth, and levelled his finger at Olvric. ‘If you were my greatest friend, High Guard, I'd drag you behind my ship for the sharks before I'd wish Karios's attention to fall on you,’ he said viciously. Then, suddenly, he looked desperate, as if the very mention of his leader's name were likely to bring some dire punishment down on his head immediately.
Oslang raised his hand gently and when he spoke his voice was low and thoughtful, almost rhythmic. Drago leaned towards him attentively, as if he were listening to a voice that none of the others could hear. His anxious look gradually faded.
'It sounds to me as though your leader is a fearsome fighter, Drago,’ the Cadwanwr said. ‘A man who cut his way up through the ranks of the tribe unexpectedly. A younger son perhaps? Killed his brothers?'
Drago shook his head, his manner becoming increasingly relaxed and calm. ‘He's not one of us,’ he said. ‘I've no idea where he came from. A boat brought him from the battle shore during the war.'
'A slave has taken charge of your people?’ Oslang asked in amazement.
Drago shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘He was a healer. He saved my old chief. Dragged him out from under a pile of bodies on the battle shore, got him to a boat and back to his ship and then nursed him until he was well again.'
Oslang nodded his head steadily. ‘And then?’ he prompted.
Drago shrugged. ‘He just became part of the tribe. Doctoring people, then advising, then tending to tribal matters when the chief was sick again.'
Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances at this brief telling, with its similarities to the progress of Dan-Tor through the government of Fyorlund.
'Your chief's illness kept recurring?’ Yengar asked.
Drago did not seem to hear him. Oslang repeated the question.
The Morlider nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fighting fit one minute. Down the next. But never bad enough to be set aside by acclaim.’ He grinned, as if at old memories. ‘Any sign of any real opposition to his authority and he was out, axe swinging. Soon put paid to anyone looking to take his place.'
'How did this Karios become chief of all the islands, Drago?’ Oslang asked softly.
Drago frowned, as if confused. ‘The chief was murdered,’ he said. ‘His other advisers were jealous of Karios. They turned on him for some reason...'
'Don't you know?’ Oslang probed gently.
Drago hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was at sea. It was all over when I got back.’ The alarm came back into his face. ‘It's as well I was,’ he said. ‘A lot of the chief's men died that day, one way and another, fighting for or against him...’ He fell silent.
Oslang prompted him gently.
'They say Karios protected him with his own body,’ Drago began again. ‘But there were too many attackers, and although they were all killed in the end, it was too late.'
'And Karios took command?’ Oslang asked.
Drago nodded. ‘He was the only one who could,’ he said enigmatically. ‘But he was changed.'
'In what way?’ Oslang asked.
Drago looked up, his eyes fearful. ‘He had ... power,’ he said, as though the words were being dragged from him. ‘Terrible power.’ Then, anxious at even this slight betrayal of his leader, ‘But he uses it only on his enemies, those who oppose him. He's changed many of our ways ... for the better.’ His voice became strident. ‘Now we're one people. He's united us. Promised us our old country back.'
Oslang's gesture prevented Urthryn intervening. Drago's voice dropped and he became confidential.
'He has power over the waves,’ he said. ‘Now the islands move at his will, not the whim of the tides.'
He fell silent again.
Oslang, now seemingly fully recovered from Olvric's threat, went pale again at Drago's last remark. He moved his hand gently from side to side, and the Morlider leaned back in his chair and fell asleep.
'What have you done to him?’ Urthryn said, his voice low in amazement.
Oslang, preoccupied, started slightly. ‘Oh. Just deceived him a little,’ he said.
'You have some surprising skills,’ Olvric said.
Oslang looked at him nervously. ‘He was frightened and alone,’ he said. ‘And his ways of thinking are simpler, more primitive than ours. Even so, it wasn't easy. Have no fear, it's not a device I could use on you.'
Olvric raised an eyebrow. Sylvriss looked between the two men. ‘You must understand, Oslang,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor smashed houses, streets, people, with a wave of his hand. We're ordinary
people. We're frightened enough by swords and spears, but these—powers—that you and he seem able to use, take us far beyond that fear and our thinking becomes primitive in its presence.'
Oslang looked at her. ‘I do understand, lady,’ he said. ‘And I'll explain as best I can, but you must understand also: Sumeral will have to be opposed both with swords and spears, and the Old Power.’ He turned to the two Goraidin. ‘You know that, don't you? You'd not have let me go if you hadn't already asked yourselves how an army of men could stand against the destructive force that Oklar used against Vakloss.'
Olvric eyed him narrowly. ‘Have you the power to oppose Dan-Tor's strength?’ he asked.
Oslang smiled ruefully. ‘To oppose, yes. To survive, no,’ he said, looking round at the others. ‘Not alone. Any more than you could oppose a cavalry charge and live. My skills, like those you possess—riding, fighting, ruling—are such as can be acquired by one man with a lifetime's hard study and practice. Dan-Tor's ... Oklar's ... were acquired over generations, under the tutelage of Sumeral Himself. I'm little or nothing compared to him, but there are many in our Order and such skills as we have between us we will ally with yours to oppose Him. Your swords, our knowledge, are all we have, be they inadequate or no.'
Olvric leaned forward to speak, but Oslang continued. ‘Now we have another consideration. Now we must ask whose power is it that can move the Morlider islands against the ways of the ocean?'
This abrupt reversion to Drago's remark brought an uneasy silence to the room.
'No riddles, Oslang,’ Urthryn said, cutting through it. ‘Let's hear this tangled saga to its end, then we can debate conclusions.'
