by Roger Taylor
His voice disappeared under the great cry of ‘Vengeance for Rgoric. Vengeance for Rgoric. Vengeance for Rgoric.’ Over and over, it filled the night air.
Dan-Tor's arms stretched out again and suddenly, amid the tumult, the drums began to beat and the trumpets and horns to sound; louder and more raucous than before. The Mathidrin, the Militia, and the Youth Corps began to divide and execute a series of elaborate marching and counter-marching exercises, the rhythm of their iron shod feet underscoring the brutal rhythm of the music. Dan-Tor stepped back from the front of the platform.
Different this time, Dilrap thought, as the party on the platform began to relax. A strike against the enemy soon, he had said. Soon!
How soon?
Dilrap let the thought pass; Dan-Tor would give no further clues that night. He glanced at Urssain and Aelang, heads close, smiling knowingly as if at some private jest. For all the sinister power these two exercised, he suspected that the Ffyrst's announcement had been news to them. He would just have to watch and listen; watch events and listen for the meaning behind the words.
His train of thought led him to Tel-Odrel and Lorac and the other agents of the Lords currently in Vakloss. His eyes flickered over the crowd. He knew that it would not be possible to see anyone clearly from such a height in that grotesque mixture of subdued globelight and flickering firelight, not to mention the haze of smoke that was accumulating in the still night air, but it offered him a small comfort to know that they would be there.
For there they would be, beyond doubt, as they had been at all the other rallies. Indeed, Dilrap had hoped when these rallies began that the Goraidin would be able to stop Dan-Tor's progress with another single arrow. He had stood on the platform, almost holding his breath, waiting for the Goraidin's messenger to come singing out of the darkness to strike down Dan-Tor as he stood exposed to view. But, gently, the Goraidin had disabused him: good archers though they were, the nearest houses were too far away for a safe shot, especially at night; Dan-Tor might well be wearing body armour now; indeed, could an ordinary arrow even injure him? Who knew what strange protections such as a creature might have? And the price of a failed attempt? It would surely cost those Fyordyn under Dan-Tor's sway what few liberties they still had left. No, the Goraidin must do as Dilrap did: watch and listen.
And that is what they would be doing now: watching, listening. They too would have noted the change in emphasis from previous such speeches. Shorter than many, and no mention this time of the enemy within; no calls for the people to ‘Be vigilant. The Lords have many friends and sympathizers amongst us.’ No corrosive insinuations: ‘Look around you. How many of your friends and neighbours are not here tonight? How many of your work-mates? Have these people no wish to hear what we intend against our enemies in the east? No wish to support us in our work?’ Followed invariably, with voice lowered and bony finger jabbing the air, by, ‘If they are not here, where are they? What are they doing?’ and then, ‘Be vigilant. Listen for the words of doubt and treachery that will inevitably betray those who lapse from honour. Bring their names forward so that they can be reasoned with and given the opportunity to admit their error before it spreads and corrodes us all.'
Perhaps more than anything, Dilrap was grieved by the harvest that these seeds yielded: the growth of secret informers whispering and denouncing, settling old scores, real and imagined; the growth of the Citizens’ Militia, a grotesque imitation of the High Guards, peevish and strutting at its best, savagely vicious at its worst—a haven for the self-righteous, the unrepentant ignorant and the petty. But worst of all was the Youth Corps—the ‘next generation of Mathidrin’ as Dan-Tor called them. Dilrap knew already of several people who had been denounced to the Mathidrin by their own children.
The next generation!
Fighting now, against today's enemies, was grim enough for Dilrap, but the thought that Dan-Tor had his eyes on some distant future, that his vision was one of a rule that would last for generations, chilled Dilrap utterly.
Yet at the same time it stiffened his resolve. Dan-Tor's towering intent would be but the foundation for His plans, and if the one could be undermined at its inception, then so perhaps could be the other. And Dilrap was sure that Dan-Tor's hold on the hearts of the Fyordyn was far less than the rapturous hysteria of the rallies seemed to indicate.
Dilrap understood fear, and it was fear that held the Fyordyn silent and acquiescent; fear of the naked brutality of the Mathidrin holding the streets, and fear of the knocking at the door in the dark hours of the night that would leave houses greeting the morning empty and deserted.
And tightening the bonds of fear was ignorance: ignorance of the truth of the fate of their King and Queen, and ignorance of the deeds and intentions of the Lords. It was ignorance which fed the whispering web of lies and mistrust that grew daily, bringing rumours of unseen violence and horror from the dark heart of the Mathidrin's power, the Westerclave; bringing rumours of massacres of innocents by High Guards in distant estates, and rumours of Orthlundyn armies massing on the borders, led by a terrible warlock Lord. It was ignorance that brought the darkness and confusion through which only Dan-Tor seemed to offer a way.
Yet other threads mingled with the choking gossamer of this web—threads based no less in ignorance but with a truer, sounder, feel: Dan-Tor had poisoned the King for years and had murdered him when he attempted to regain his power and released Eldric and Jaldaric; the Queen had fled to the Lords for safety, carrying Rgoric's child inside her; and, sibilant under these, were whispered words such as ‘Mandrocs', ‘Narsindal’ and, softest of all ... ‘Sumeral, risen again’ ... and was not Dan-Tor, Oklar, His erstwhile lieutenant, come to prepare a way for Him? And was it not Dan-Tor who had destroyed the city to silence the accusation of the strange Orthlundyn?
But the darkness dominated. Fear of unknown informants, unheard denunciations and silent arrests seeped into every aspect of the people's lives, cracking apart old friendships, straining and even destroying families. Yet the very darkness itself hid the opposition to their new ruler that bubbled within many of the Fyordyn, so that it waited, silent and watchful, until eventually his step would falter.
A voice roused Dilrap from his reverie.
'The people grow more enthusiastic with each demonstration, don't you think, Secretary?'
The voice was Dan-Tor's, normal now, and it brought Dilrap sharply and coldly back to the present.
'Indeed, Ffyrst,’ he said, bowing and stepping forward. ‘Your spirit fires us all.’ He looked down at the interchanging columns and ranks of marchers with their swaying banners and blazing torches.
Dan-Tor watched him intently, but without the awful eyes of his true self. ‘Yet you yourself do not seem inspired by the sight of our growing army,’ he said.
Dilrap did as he always did when opportunity allowed, he spoke as much of the truth as he dared.
'I'm not a military man, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I find the prospect of war frightening and these displays of your power quite overwhelming.'
Unexpectedly, Dan-Tor almost sneered. He waved a dismissive hand across the bellowing scene in front of him. ‘This is not my power, Dilrap,’ he said. ‘This is the puny ranting of a crushed people. When they have destroyed the Lords, then you will begin to see my power: the true power.'
Dilrap said nothing, but held his breath close. His stomach turned over. Why does he talk to me like this? he thought. Why does he come so near to saying who he truly is?
Abruptly, Dan-Tor turned. Dilrap's chest tightened. But the Ffyrst ignored him. ‘Stay here and watch,’ he said brusquely to the people around him, then he strode from the platform. Dilrap bowed hastily, as did all the others, then, turning back to the crowd, he gripped the guard rail and, closing his eyes briefly, let out as long a breath as he dared.
When he opened his eyes, Urssain was standing beside him. He looked at the Mathidrin Commander. The man was changing perceptibly. Learning from his master, Dilrap thought. He was bec
oming less surly, and seemed even to be developing a peculiar charm at times. It made Dilrap's flesh crawl. Urssain as an ambitious thug was bad enough, but at least it had a certain honesty. Now, with his greater authority and power allowing more rein to his true nature, the civilized veneer he was affecting was repellent in the extreme.
Ironically, though, it made Dilrap feel easier with the man. It gave him a measure of the Mathidrin's monstrous ego. It was a weakness. Dilrap had begun looking for weaknesses in the moths that fluttered around Dan-Tor's dangerous flame. As Urssain learned from Dan-Tor, so, inadvertently, Dilrap followed the example set by Sylvriss, by wilfully ingratiating himself into the favours of anyone who could be remotely useful. This he did not by obsequious fawning, but by simple straightforward courtesy and by ensuring that where favours were sought, they would be granted if possible. But always he left a gentle, unfelt, barb in his debtor. ‘I'm sure you'll be able to do something for me one day,’ he would say, smiling, and waving his hand airily, while his eyes said, equally dearly, ‘These are difficult times. We who see this reality must help one another when need arises. Be prepared.'
It would have been an ineffective device once, when he was Rgoric's flustered and flapping Secretary, but now, because he had not only survived the demise of Rgoric but also retained his old office, and because Dan-Tor would speak to him alone on occasions in conspicuous privacy, it was assumed that he had the Ffyrst's ear and that he was thus a man to be both courted and feared. In reality, no one had Dan-Tor's ear, and Dilrap was meticulous in never claiming such a privilege; but equally, he did nothing to disabuse people of the idea. It was far too valuable a misunderstanding. Indeed, it left even Urssain uncertain.
'Is the Ffyrst angry, Secretary?’ Urssain asked.
Dilrap looked at him enigmatically, but did not reply. This was another device that he was finding increasingly valuable. What was not said could not be argued and could not be repeated or distorted.
'He left so suddenly,’ Urssain tried again, following the lure. ‘I thought his speech and the marching went down well.'
Dilrap turned away from him and looked down at the still marching figures. ‘The Ffyrst is the Ffyrst, Commander,’ he said. ‘Who can tell what he's thinking?'
Urssain nodded. ‘It's just that he spoke to you,’ he said affecting a casualness that Dilrap could smell was far from the reality of his inner feelings. Dilrap's earlier suspicions returned. I wonder if this is the first he's heard of this imminent assault on the Lords, he thought.
'Just a small administrative matter,’ Dilrap said off-handedly, then, turning to the Mathidrin, he smiled nervously and attacked. ‘I didn't realize your battle plans were so advanced, Commander. I thought your intention was still to fight a defensive war—letting the Lords move to Vakloss, rather than risk moving across country to attack them on their own territory.'
Urssain's eyes narrowed briefly at this unexpected observation, then he remembered his new persona and Dilrap's uncertain status. ‘I can't discuss that with you, Dilrap,’ he said, managing a nice balance of menace and regret.
Dilrap looked understanding, and bowed his head respectfully. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And I'm sure I wouldn't understand it if you did. The sooner the whole business is over, the better, as far as I'm concerned. Then we can get on with running the country properly.'
We, noted Urssain. Sooner or later, Dilrap would have to go, without a doubt. If only he could be certain of Dan-Tor's response to such a deed.
He gave Dilrap a curt bow and returned to Aelang.
You didn't know, did you, Commander? Dilrap thought with some glee. Your precious leader prods you along like cattle, doesn't he?
He looked again at the weaving mass of Mathidrin, Militia and Youth Corps below him. He had no concern for the Mathidrin; let them take their chances against the Lords’ High Guards. But the Militia? That was only a sad aberration. Didn't he himself respond to the drama of Dan-Tor's rallies? And he knew what the creature was! How could weaker, less knowledgeable souls resist such rousing blandishments? But it would be tragic indeed if they came to be pitched into battle.
He pushed the thought away painfully. The fate of the members of the Militia was in their own hands and in any event was beyond his control. Once battle lines were drawn, many terrible things would happen, and they would only end when the conflict ended. It was his self-appointed duty to ensure that the Lords knew as much as possible about the Mathidrin so that such an end came as swiftly as it could.
When he next saw Lorac or Tel-Odrel, he would give them his impression of Urssain's response to Dan-Tor's announcement, but he could still tell them nothing in answer to the question that concerned the Lords most. How could Dan-Tor's—Oklar's—terrible, city-wrecking power be faced and overcome by ordinary flesh and blood?
He turned, and with a pleasant bow to those around him, made his way down the long winding stairs into the glaring globelight of the courtyard.
* * * *
Part of Urssain told him that he would be happier pottering about Fyorlund as he used to do, surviving on a judicious mixture of small-scale thieving and occasional employment. It was only a small part however, and only made itself heard with any force when he was facing the prospect of speaking, or worse, questioning Dan-Tor, as now. At all other times it was well submerged, lost under his desire to attain the goals that Dan-Tor had shown him at their very first meeting: goals of wealth and power.
Now, however, it was proving extremely alluring even though he knew it was an illusion, and a foolish one at that. His itinerant life held charm only in retrospect and in any event could not have been pursued in these troubled times. Besides, he was trapped; willingly, admittedly, but trapped nevertheless. He could go nowhere now but where Dan-Tor led; knives waited in every other direction.
He took a deep breath and crushed the foolishness utterly. Walk forward, he forced himself to think. Better I hold this position than someone else.
Gradually he took control of his unease. It was not, after all, unfamiliar; he had never relished talking to Dan-Tor. Against the likes of Aelang and the other senior Mathidrin officers he would risk cunning for cunning, steel for steel. Dangerous and ruthless though such men were, they were no more so than he, and he had always had the wit to learn as he moved through life. But Dan-Tor! Words such as dangerous and ruthless dwindled into insignificance, so inadequate were they, and no knowledge could assail him. And since that Orthlundyn had attacked him! Since his ... transformation ... Urssain shuddered inwardly and raised his hand ...
'Come in, Commander,’ Dan-Tor's voice spoke before Urssain had struck the door. He started and almost lost the inner balance he was maintaining so precariously. Then he straightened up and pushed the door open.
A faint, familiar scent pervaded the room. Familiar now because it lingered wherever Dan-Tor had been. It was delicate perfume, underlain by the smell of blood.
The palace servants did sterling and silent work to eradicate all signs of the Ffyrst's slight but relentless bleeding, but traces always remained. Urssain had long stopped asking himself why Dan-Tor would not allow the arrow to be drawn, or why the wound did not either heal or fester. One day, when Dan-Tor appeared, the shaft of the arrow had been mysteriously broken, but there was an aura about the Ffyrst that forbade all questions, and the barbed head still protruded from his back.
What kind of a creature are you? Urssain's mind still screamed at times, when the inhuman reality of Dan-Tor and his affliction touched some still uncalloused part of his nature. How can you live impaled thus? And where in your fragile human flame hides the power to destroy a city? But the answer was always: he is your future, Urssain, your only future.
Dan-Tor was standing by the window, staring northwards out over the City. His posture was slightly stooped as usual and, as he turned to face Urssain, his eyes were still focussed in the far distance. Briefly, Urssain thought he felt a fleeting sense of homesickness, a longing for other places, other times, but it p
assed almost before he was aware of it as Dan-Tor turned his attention to him.
'You come to quiz me about my speech, Commander?’ he said, almost good-humouredly.
Urssain hesitated. ‘I have come to ask if you could clarify it for me, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Last night was our most effective rally so far—very exhilarating. I was concerned that in the excitement I might have misunderstood what you were saying.'
Dan-Tor's eyes narrowed and Urssain felt a ripple pass through his already pervasive terror. That was wrong, he thought, bracing himself for the reproach that must inevitably come.
But no soul-searing glance came to mark his folly. A wave of relief passed over him. The Ffyrst was in a quiet, seemingly straightforward mood. The force of his presence dominated the room as ever, but there was little if any of the terrifying malevolence that the Orthlundyn's arrow had seemingly released: the malevolence of Oklar. Occasionally, Urssain allowed himself to think of that name when he was in the Ffyrst's presence, but not often, and not for long. The implications of the name were more than terrifying and he knew he must gradually school himself to them if they were not to overwhelm him. Rumours were all over the City about the true nature of Dan-Tor but, like the King in his death throes, Urssain knew the truth. He had been too close to the unleashing of Oklar for it to be otherwise.
'Urssain,’ Dan-Tor said coldly. ‘Is palace life addling your wits that you think to flatter me? Don't do that again if you wish to remain of service to me. I need your obedience, that is all. Ask your question.'
He turned away to recommence his vigil, and Urssain breathed out softly. He knew that to apologize now would be to compound his error, so he gave Dan-Tor what he required: obedience.
'Is it your intention now to mount a campaign against the Lords in the east, Ffyrst?’ he asked.
