by Roger Taylor
'No,’ Dan-Tor replied simply and without hesitation.
'But...'
'The logic for a defensive stand against the Lords is sound, is it not, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked brusquely, still looking out of the window.
Urssain hesitated. Dan-Tor turned slowly and looked at him. ‘It is still valid, is it not?’ he pressed. ‘Better they weary themselves trekking across the countryside to face an entrenched defensive line than we, surely?'
'For armies of men, Ffyrst, yes,’ Urssain said awkwardly. ‘But...’ He was aware that his eyes were widening in fear as his thoughts began to form into words, but he knew he could do no other than plunge on. It had been discussed by the Mathidrin but it was the first time it had been spoken of before Dan-Tor. ‘But you have ... weapons far beyond the limits of sword and spear. You could destroy their enclaves with a gesture. I thought...'
A glimmer of red shone faintly in Dan-Tor's eyes and Urssain's voice tailed off. He quailed.
But the distant storm came no nearer.
'You would reduce your Ffyrst to a siege piece, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked flatly. Urssain's mouth opened, but as Dan-Tor's tone betrayed neither humour nor reproach, he could find no reply.
Dan-Tor released him. ‘Look to no such aid from me, Commander,’ he said, moving to a nearby chair. ‘The Orthlundyn was a darker force than you can know. What was done was necessary, but men must fight men. The new Fyordyn must prove themselves in battle if they are to be of any value to me. Those who survive will become the heart of the even mightier force that will be needed for our future conquests. Those who do not survive will serve a useful end simply by wearying the enemy.’ Involuntarily, he placed his hand over the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his side. ‘And we face more enemies than you know, Commander,’ he added enigmatically.
Urssain chose to ignore this last remark. ‘But you spoke of a blow against the Lords, Ffyrst,’ he said.
'Indeed I did,’ Dan-Tor replied. ‘Indeed I did.'
He fell silent.
His euphoria following the death of the King had gradually faded. He was more whole now, his truer self, but the limitations imposed on his use of the Old Power by his Master and by Hawklan's embedded arrow weighed on him appallingly.
It gave him little consolation that he knew the restraint was the result of his own weakness, and that a far greater punishment could have been meted out to him. Everything since Rgoric's madness in suspending the Geadrol and bringing the Mathidrin to Vakloss had betokened too much haste. That, and his own folly in disturbing Hawklan in his lair at Anderras Darion, had obliged him to move with, and manipulate, events, rather than dictate and control them. That was almost inexcusable in His schemes.
Now His icy grip had ensured His favourite Uhriel would not easily commit a similar folly again. Hawklan's arrow would return upon him much of the consequences of using the Old Power and only He could remove it. Dan-Tor looked down at his hand. A great weal ran across it where he had seized the shaft of the newly fired arrow, but that wound at least had healed eventually, though it was still painful from time to time. Ironically, the arrow itself and its eternally bleeding wound, gave him no pain except when he used the Old Power; rather, it burdened and wearied him, as if it were constantly drawing him to some other purpose.
And he was blind still! One of the birds was bound and his precious, hard-crafted, Vrwystin A Goleg, with its all-seeing eyes, was impotent and useless. He should have torn it free when he had the power, he thought. Then he tightened his hand painfully on the livid scar in atonement for this persistent residue of his too human impatience and impetuosity.
It would have to be sufficient recompense for the loss of his spies that he had learnt that the Cadwanol still watched, for surely no others could have the knowledge and the power to do such a deed? And if the Cadwanol had survived the millennia, how great now was their knowledge and power? Not great enough to prevent the corruption of Fyorlund and the re-awakening of Narsindal, it seemed, but it would have been folly to pit himself against them with Hawklan roaming free to be an accidental beneficiary of the Old Power that would have been levied to such a battle.
And, inexorably, the thought of Hawklan took Dan-Tor along a well-trodden pathway. Who was the man, and what had happened to him? True, Ethriss had not risen, grim and terrible out of the maelstrom to thank his wakener by dashing him into oblivion, but neither Hawklan's body nor that of his oafish companion had been found in the debris, and still Dan-Tor sensed him watching, waiting.
But if he was not Ethriss, who was he? The question was strangely terrifying. Key-bearer to Anderras Darion, holder of Ethriss's sword, and seemingly protected, at least in part, by the Cadwanol ... ?
Yet, Dan-Tor consoled himself ironically, he might still be Ethriss. Perhaps the Guardian's host had thwarted his master's design by defending himself too well with that sword? Perhaps he had deflected the very power that was to waken the greatest of the Guardians?
The questions would not rest. Dan-Tor squeezed his hand tighter, and forced his mind back to the bewildered Urssain and present realities.
To use the Old Power against Eldric's castle would not only wrack his body beyond belief, but with Hawklan's whereabouts unknown, it would still risk awakening the sleeping Ethriss and bringing down His wrath as never before.
'You can be expunged at my whim, and others made in your image.’ His Master's words hung cold in his mind.
Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Master, he thought.
He must return as soon as possible to the steady patient progress that had ensured Fyorlund would fall so easily when the great tree of state was shaken. Haste could destroy His schemes more effectively than the strength of His enemies.
Yet, some modest haste was perhaps now appropriate. His power, underwritten predominantly by the Mathidrin, held the heartland of Fyorlund: the routes to Narsindalvak, and Vakloss and its environs. But the further-flung estates were maintaining an uncertain neutrality; their Lords avoiding contact with Vakloss as far as was diplomatically possible and, when it wasn't, giving pledges of loyalty that had a distinctly hollow ring.
To aid such unsteady allies in their reflections, Dan-Tor had co-opted various of their relatives into palace service, thus holding them as discreet hostages. It was a hazardous device to use with the Fyordyn, however, and he knew its limitations well enough.
And even the securely held territory was uncertain. For all the ranting success of the rallies, and the support given to the Mathidrin by the rapidly swelling ranks of the Militia and the Youth Corps, Dan-Tor knew that there was an underlying stratum of opposition to him which was impervious to rumour and gossip and which only the destruction of the hope offered by the continuing resistance of the eastern Lords would crush.
His power had always been at risk while these Lords remained to defy it. But was it now increasingly so?
The summer had been good and the Lords’ granaries would be well-stocked. Almost certainly, he reasoned, they could survive the winter without difficulty and still have adequate food to carry them across country in the spring without burdening the communities they passed through. In any event, many of these would welcome and aid the Lords’ army.
It would be pointless, even dangerous, to risk waiting another year, before facing the inevitable armed conflict. The Lords would be husbanding their resources already and, beyond doubt, the High Guards, with their greater self-discipline, would withstand the debilitating effects of delay better than the ruthlessly controlled and ambitious Mathidrin, whose main motivation was the promise of the lands and wealth they would come to when the Lords fell.
He faltered. The High Guards of Eldric and Arinndier would be a formidable force ...
But those fops and dandies of Hreldar and Darek ... ?
He had superior numbers by far. The High Guards would be weary and sick at heart, by the time they had cut their way through rank upon rank of the hapless Militia to reach their real opponents, the Math
idrin. And while they might have superior fighting skills, he doubted they could match his black liveried troops in sheer brutal ferocity.
Dan-Tor frowned. It was not satisfactory. But it would never be so. Too much rode on chance in such encounters. Yet, boldly done, it could be a fitting end to this difficult, turbulent period, and would leave him with his foot on the neck of a quiescent Fyorlund, free to continue silently preparing the way for his return.
On balance, he decided, conclusions could and should be made soon, before the Fyordyn winter arrived to preclude the matter.
It was simply a matter of luring the Lords forth.
He looked up at the now anxious Urssain. ‘Listen to me carefully, Commander,’ he said.
* * *
Chapter 32
Ledvrin was a small village lying about half a day's march to the west of Lord Eldric's estate. There was nothing about it to make it materially different from many other Fyordyn villages in that region. A small stone bridge carried the road, hump-backed, over a narrow river to mark its western end, and a modest trotting would soon bring a rider to the woods that lay along its eastern edge. Traditional steep-pitched roofs topped its cottages, colourful carvings abounded on doors and gates and any other visible woodwork, and gardens and elaborate window-boxes echoed these through the seasons with their own rich displays of flowers and shrubs.
The village was part of the estate of Lord Garieth, an able but young and inexperienced man who had recently, and quite unexpectedly, inherited the title from a cousin. He had arrived to find the estate in a run-down condition and had set about its improvement with considerable enthusiasm, soon earning the respect of his older neighbour, Eldric, to whom he had turned quite openly for all manner of advice.
Though from the west of Fyorlund, on the matter of loyalty Garieth was a traditionalist and strongly favoured the eastern Lords in their opposition to Dan-Tor. However, Eldric's advice here was discreet but unequivocal. ‘We can't protect you this far out,’ he said. ‘And you can't begin to protect yourself with what's left of your cousin's old High Guard. Keep your heart with us but, in so far as you can, do Dan-Tor's bidding; there's a lot you can do for us silently. Disband the few High Guards you still have, as he's decreed, but tell them they can join us if they wish. And tell those who don't wish to that they'll serve us just as well if they return to their ordinary lives and prepare themselves quietly for when the times change in our favour.'
This same advice had percolated down to the village Redes and thence to the villagers. ‘Be patient. Stay quiet and polite. Our time will come.'
The advice had been sound. All manner of Mathidrin patrols began to pass regularly through Ledvrin and other villages, on their way to test the vague but currently static boundaries that separated the old and the new orders in Fyorlund. Thus the appearance of a large patrol out of the early morning autumn mist brought only a passing glance from the few villagers who were about at that time.
Unusually, however, though led by a group of Mathidrin, the patrol consisted mainly of brown-liveried Militia and, equally unusually, instead of passing through the village, it halted at the small green in the middle of the village. The morning greyness filled with the misting breaths of the gathering. After a moment conferring with his companions, the leader of the patrol, an ill-favoured, sallow-faced man, stood in his stirrups, looked around, and then beckoned silently to the passers-by.
He remained silent as they gathered round, with varying degrees of patience and curiosity, and waited to hear the reason for this unexpected conduct.
But no explanation came. Instead, the patrol leader casually drew his sword and without warning swung it down on the head of the nearest watcher. It cut though the man's woven cap and wedged in his skull so that the rider was obliged to kick the man about the head and chest to wrench it free. The effort made his horse rear and the dying man jigged ludicrously until the blade released him. He stood for a moment, his mouth moving but making no sound, then he fell to his knees and rolled over, childlike, in the damp grass, his limbs moving in a vague and disjointed manner and disturbing the brown and gold leaves that littered the little green.
Although unhurried, the incident happened so quickly that the other bystanders stood frozen in disbelief at what they had just seen. Before they could recover, the patrol closed around them and in a brief flurry of thudding blows, muffled curses, and gasps of effort, they too were cut down. Scarcely a cry was uttered.
Abruptly, the patrol began to spread out from the carnage, as if suddenly repelled by it. Only the clattering of their tackle now broke the morning silence.
Then a scream rent a jagged tear through it.
The patrol leader started and looked up to see a woman rushing from one of the cottages. She was moving towards one of the stricken men, her hair and loose gown flying. He frowned irritably, then, without a pause, spurred his horse forward into a sudden gallop.
Riding between the woman and her goal, he filled her vision, but her eyes were in another world and she did not see him even as he crashed straight into her. Her dreadful scream stopped as sharply as it had begun as the fearful impact knocked her to the ground.
Tangled briefly in the horse's flailing hooves she rolled over several times until, her body twisted and broken. Her eyes and mouth still open and silently screaming, she finally came to rest, sprawled across a neat and orderly flower bed.
For a moment, silence rolled back over the village, then from every direction came noises and movement as the villagers, roused by the woman's terrible clarion, came out, puzzled, smiling, concerned, to greet the soft autumn morning.
The patrol leader shouted an order.
On a nearby hill overlooking the village, three riders stood, unnaturally motionless. They were dressed like ordinary villagers and even the Goraidin who had supervised them would have been hard pressed to identify them as otherwise. Their leader was Jaldaric, son of Lord Eldric, and a Captain in his High Guard. With him were a trooper and a young cadet.
The High Guards, like the Mathidrin, routinely patrolled the fringes of their masters’ influence, though more discreetly. This trio had happened on the Militia patrol and were observing it when it entered the village. Now they stood white-faced and helpless as the spectacle below them unfolded.
'We must do something, Captain,’ the trooper said, wide-eyed and hoarse. ‘We can't just stand here...’ Distant screams and cries rose up and mingled with his words.
Jaldaric's face twisted as he fought for control of the emotions that were swirling inside him. ‘All we can do is watch, trooper,’ he said slowly, as though the words were choking him. ‘Watch, so that we can tell what's happened.'
The trooper looked at him, his face a mixture of disbelief and horror. ‘We can't just watch,’ he said. ‘They're killing unarmed men and women down there.'
Jaldaric clenched his teeth, feeling the weight of the Goraidin's burden. ‘We've no alternative,’ he said grimly.
The trooper's mouth curled up into a snarl. ‘You spent too long near Dan-Tor, you cold-hearted...'
Jaldaric did not allow him to finish. ‘Do you want to die this day, trooper?’ he said, turning to him, his face savage and his voice taut with restraint. The words were ambivalent and the trooper flinched, but Jaldaric levelled his hand towards the village. ‘Is our dying going to save those people?’ he said. ‘Use your eyes. If we killed ten each, that patrol would still out-number us.’ His manner softened as despair replaced anger in the trooper's face. ‘Just remember this ... for the future,’ he managed. ‘Perhaps one day we'll get the opportunity to...’ His voice tailed off.
As if jolted by this sudden additional violence between his normally companionable superiors, the cadet slithered awkwardly from his horse and slumped on to all fours, his legs refusing to support him.
'But...’ the trooper began.
'But nothing,’ Jaldaric said quietly. ‘Look to your cadet, trooper. He's about to be sick.'
The cadet was retchi
ng violently. Then he vomited. The trooper dismounted and, crouching down by him, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
For a long moment neither moved, then the cadet looked up, his eyes damp and his face almost grey. ‘I'm sorry, Sir,’ he said, to Jaldaric. ‘I'm all right now, I think.'
Jaldaric looked at the youth intently. ‘No you're not, but there's no need to apologize,’ he said.
'I'm all right, Sir,’ the cadet repeated, unhearing, as the trooper helped him to his feet. ‘But is there nothing we can do?'
Jaldaric looked down at the village again. The patrol was forming up to leave. The road winding through the village was littered with bodies and some of the houses were now on fire, adding their dense smoke to the autumn haze. I wish I had a bow, he thought, and in his mind he sent a hail of lethal arrows through the misty morning, into the gathering group below.
Then he set the indulgence aside.
'You know the valley to the north-east of here?’ he asked the cadet.
The youth nodded. ‘Yes sir,’ he replied.
'Captain Hrostir should be there now with a larger group. Go and find him. Tell him what's happened and bring him back to help here.’ The cadet nodded again and, scrambling back on to his horse, pulled it round to leave. Jaldaric reached out and took hold of his reins. ‘Tell me the way you're going to go,’ he said, fixing the youth with a stern look.
The cadet stammered out the route he would take and, satisfied, Jaldaric handed the reins back to him. ‘Ride carefully,’ he said. ‘Some of those people down there might live if Hrostir can get here quickly, and he won't get here at all if you break your neck riding recklessly.'
'Yes, Captain,’ the cadet said, anxious to be away. ‘I understand. Are you going down into the village now?'
Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No, I'm going back to my ... to Lord Eldric's to report,’ he said. He turned to the trooper. ‘You go on down there now and help where you can until Hrostir arrives. Be careful,’ he added. ‘We've no guarantee that patrol won't come back.’ His discreet hand signal told the trooper to go and search for Hrostir himself if he did not arrive within two hours.
