The Fall of Fyorlund [Book Two of The Chronicles of Hawklan] Read online

  Loman, however, fared less well; he appeared considerably less than enthusiastic about Gulda's return. Hawklan gained the distinct impression that the great barrel-chested man was hiding behind his daughter's skirts, but Gulda winkled him out and transfixed him against a wall with both stick and blue-eyed gaze, while her face reflected a memory's journeying through the years. Then her eyes narrowed as a destination was reached.

  'Young Loman, isn't it?’ she proclaimed. Loman coughed slightly, nodded, and went red. Gulda pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes further. The stick tapped him twice on the chest. ‘I'll be watching you more carefully this time, young man,’ she said.

  That was all. Loman cleared his throat and looked vaguely into the distance. Gulda cast another look at Tirilen who was trying not to smile at her father's discomfiture.

  'Hrmph. You take after your mother, child,’ said the old woman, turning and walking away.

  It was Gulda who led the procession up the steep winding road to the Castle. This time Hawklan did offer her the saddle, although her pace had not slackened. The stick twitched menacingly.

  'Are you trying to make a fool of me, young man?’ came the unhesitating reply. Hawklan declined to answer, knowing by now when his foot was on quicksand and when a further step would leave him in inextricable distress. He walked quietly by her side, discreetly listening to her mutterings and snorts.

  Many of the others continued to ride, but none felt inclined to pass Gulda.

  Gavor gazed groggily down at the approaching group from far above in a cosy cranny high in the eaves of one of the towers. The front tip of the distant, shuffling snake gave him trouble. Closing one eye, and concentrating hard, he still failed to make the two black images merge into one. He looked reproachfully at his ‘friend’ snoring contentedly in the dusty sunlight and muttered something about abstinence, then he wriggled cautiously to try to straighten out some troublesome feathers. His companion's eye opened.

  'Gavor,’ said a soft voice, carrying a quite unmistakable implication.

  Gavor affected to ignore the request and squinted gamely down the dizzying perspective of the tower.

  'Gavor.’ More urgently.

  Gavor debated with himself. Should he fly down and greet Hawklan or should he ... ?

  'Gavor ...

  Then again, in his present condition he'd probably not remember how to fly before he hit the ground. He looked round.

  'You really care for these spurs, do you ... ?

  * * * *

  There were many halls in Anderras Darion that could have accommodated the group which Gulda and Hawklan led in through the Great Gate, but Hawklan chose one of the courtyards. Ostensibly it was because the day was too fine to sit talking inside, even in the airy chambers of Anderras Darion, but in his heart he wanted an open sky and bright daylight to witness what was to be said. Time enough later for confinement and flickering shadows. This matter would not be resolved at one sitting.

  Loman used his office as Castellan to make some semblance of a dignified escape from Gulda's scrutiny and soon apprentices were walking among the visitors with food and drink, galvanized as much by curiosity as by the unusual zealousness of their master.

  Gulda dropped herself unceremoniously on to a large stone slab in the middle of the courtyard and, leaning forward until it looked as if she were going to tumble off, dropped her chin on to her two long hands which were folded over the top of her stick.

  'I'll be listening,’ she said to Hawklan, then her eyes closed. The Orthlundyn were a patient people, and Hawklan and Isloman had not been plied with questions after they had announced that all would be discussed fully in due course. But now, fed and a little rested, their concern and curiosity started to bubble out like water from a spring. Twice Hawklan raised his arms to try to quell the mounting hubbub, but to no avail. Then he noticed one of Gulda's long fingers start tapping the back of her other hand impatiently. Better I chastise them than you, he thought.

  'Enough,’ he shouted, his voice ringing round the courtyard and soaring up to the rooftops from where it bounced up into the sky.

  High above, a scruffy black bundle tumbled out of a niche in the eaves of one of the taller towers.

  'Enough,’ shouted Hawklan again, jumping on to the stone slab beside Gulda. ‘Sit down, everyone, please, sit down. Isloman and I will tell you what's happened, then we can all decide what to do.'

  There was a note in his voice that forbade any remonstrance and the crowd fell silent.

  'Sit down, my friends,’ he repeated more gently. ‘We've bad things to talk about as you know, and I suspect I've as many questions as you.'

  A few minutes later, everyone seemed to have found somewhere to sit or lie, either on the chairs and benches that the apprentices had brought out, or on the soft lawns around the courtyard. Hawklan jumped to the ground and sat down next to the hunched black form of Gulda. He looked over the waiting faces.

  Quietly and simply he told them everything that had happened to himself and the others since the visit of the tinker, omitting only the more unbelievable details of his experiences at the Gretmearc. He concluded with their parting from Idrace and Fel-Astian.

  There was a long silence when he had finished as if the mountains themselves were listening. He felt he could almost hear the white clouds moving overhead and he resisted a temptation to look up and search for a Viladrien.

  A small black disturbance, Gavor landed uncertainly on the stone by Hawklan's side and staggered slightly.

  'Have they taken their dead with them?’ asked one of the elders eventually, his voice sounding strange after the long silence.

  'Yes,’ replied Hawklan, slightly puzzled. ‘And the bodies of the Fyordyn.'

  There was a great deal of what seemed to be relieved head nodding from the crowd.

  'I doubt they'll be tending their dead well,’ said Hawklan, in a slightly injured tone. ‘They've probably only taken them to hide them. To cover their tracks.'

  This caused some tolerant amusement.

  'Hawklan,’ said one man kindly. ‘You've been with us for twenty years or so, but in some ways you're still blind. No outlander can hide his passing in Orthlund.'

  Hawklan gestured vaguely. ‘Even so, that's probably why they've removed the dead. To avoid discovery rather than for respectful burial.'

  'The dead return to the earth wherever they fall,’ said another elder with a shrug. It seemed to Hawklan to be a peculiarly harsh remark, but it brought no response from the others except some more head nodding.

  'But it's better that the murdered lie away from Orthlund,’ concluded the man, to further agreement.

  Hawklan felt alone again; separated from the deeper lives of these people.

  Another spoke. ‘The dead sing their new song now. We must look to the living.’ The speaker was a frail old man from Wosod Heath. ‘There can be no shadows without light.’ Then, unexpectedly, ‘Hawklan, what shall we do?'

  Hawklan started. He had expected to tell his tale and then stand aside while the elders decided what to do—if anything.

  'I don't know,’ he said after an uncertain delay. ‘I'm a healer. I know little of your history and lore, less about Fyorlund, and nothing at all about Mandrocs. Just going to the Gretmearc was an adventure for me. I can't advise you.'

  The man from Wosod Heath spoke again. ‘No, Hawklan. You're more than a healer. It's a long time since you've been to Wosod and I can see the changes in you. And if the truth's told, you yourself must feel them. You'll pursue this Dan-Tor no matter what we decide, won't you?'

  Hawklan remained silent, his head bowed.

  The old man continued, ‘A horror has been wrought on our land. There's a disease in Fyorlund which will spread ever outwards if it's not checked. You're our healer. Your time has come. Your inner sense of purpose will guide you truly. Tell us what to do. It will be right.'

  Hawklan put his hand to his head and swayed slightly. For an instant he was back in the darkness again. A ter
rible roaring filling his head, darkness everywhere, even the sky flickering black. And under his feet ... ? More than that ... it was all his fault.

  He felt unreasonably angry. He wanted no burden. He wanted the peace and tranquillity of the last twenty years. These people asked too much. They should not put their hopes in one man.

  'No, no, no,’ he burst out. ‘I can't do it. I'm not a leader, you can't ask it of me. Whatever I am, I'm an outlander. I don't have your wisdom. I can heal most of your ills and hurts, but I don't understand you, not deep inside. I can't advise you. I...’ His voice faded. ‘I can't take this burden. Sometime, somewhere I've betrayed the trust of others.'

  The remark brought no response from the quiet crowd. The old man rose shakily to his feet and, leaning on the arm of a young apprentice, he walked slowly forward. Shaking his head, he laid a compassionate hand on Hawklan's arm.

  'No, Hawklan. It's not in you to betray. Perhaps, once, you failed. Stumbled under too heavy a load. Maybe you, and others, paid some terrible price. Who can say? But no betrayal. Don't be afraid.'

  Hawklan looked from side to side as if for an escape. ‘Perhaps nothing else will happen,’ he said faintly, but the old man shook his head and smiled sadly.

  'Even I can hear this illness crying out, Hawklan,’ he said.

  Hawklan twined his fingers together. ‘It's wrong that you should place such faith in one person,’ he said.

  'We know that,’ replied the old man. ‘And no one's going to follow you blindly. But then others have followed something or someone blindly and brought death to our land, and we've no choice. We love you. We wouldn't ask this of you if a choice existed.'

  'I may stumble and fall again.'

  The old man shrugged. ‘If you fall, you fall. We share the guilt for having so burdened you.'

  'But...'

  'There is no one else, Hawklan.'

  'Why? Why me?'

  'You've answered that yourself by now I imagine.’ It was Gulda's voice, cross and impatient still. ‘This Dan-Tor wants you. Why he should is unknown, but he obviously won't rest until he has you, nor scruple to destroy your loved ones. You can't flee—abandon them—you must face him. None of these can do that for you.’ Her stick swept the crowd in a broad purposeful arc.

  'That's your immediate problem. But if you can't feel deeper things stirring then you're indeed a fool, and the Orthlundyn have been particularly ill-served by fate.'

  Hawklan's mouth tightened grimly at Gulda's harsh and definitive delineation of his position.

  'Yes,’ he said angrily. ‘But why me?’ Banging his fist on his chest, he used the same words to ask a different question. Why should anyone go to such lengths to capture him?

  Somewhere, high above, in one of the many towers, a bell rang out. A single chime. A deep and restful note. The many bells of Anderras Darion rang rarely and to a rhythm of their own choosing.

  All eyes turned upwards as the sound echoed round the towers and spires, spilled over roofs and tiers of ramping walls, surged through empty halls and corridors, and overflowed down into the courtyard to submerge the watching crowd.

  Gulda threw up both arms to encompass the whole Castle. ‘That answers all your questions, Hawklan—Key Bearer to Anderras Darion. The voice of the Castle itself.'

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  As Urssain had remarked, the blatantly illegal appellation, King's High Guard, had caused more adverse reaction from the ordinary people of Vakloss than the suspension of the Geadrol itself and, on his re-appearance at the Palace, Dan-Tor had rapidly declared this to be ‘an unfortunate bureaucratic error by a junior official'. The new Guards were a ‘temporary force’ answerable to himself and intended to ‘relieve the High Guards of the Lords from routine duties, to leave them better able to meet the difficulties which have led to the suspension of the Geadrol'. This announcement, though vague, was couched in bland apologetic terms and was sufficient to quieten most of the public unease. The new Guards, he said, were known as Mathidrin, from an old Fyordyn word meaning, ‘Those who walk'. One or two scholars noted that the word meant, ‘Those who trample underfoot', but its misuse thus was attributed by them to the ‘general deterioration in the knowledge of our language these days', and caused no general comment.

  Staring out of a high window at the black-liveried men parading below, Sylvriss laid her curse on them, though years of habit prevented her face betraying any emotion. Then she mouthed their name. Riddinvolk to her very heart, she was no student of ancient Fyorlund grammar, but the word Mathidrin had an unpleasant sound to her ears. Her main concern, however, was not the name but the men themselves. Endlessly marching up and down the Palace corridors, the tattoo of their clicking heels announcing their arrival and echoing their departure. Even one alone had to march as if he were with twenty. The High Guard had been formal, but they'd carried out their duties efficiently and without stir. But these creatures ...

  A double gate opened into the courtyard below and a small patrol marched in through the sunny gap.

  ... Nor had the High Guard marched through the streets except for ceremonial parades, while these Guards seemed to thrive on it: making people move out of their relentless way. Why? It was so unnecessary. But, she knew, Dan-Tor did nothing unnecessarily.

  An answer came to her even as she watched the arriving patrol.

  The narrow twisting streets that surrounded the Palace were invariably crowded and hectic, and the frequent patrols by the Mathidrin often provoked outbursts from citizens angry at their arrogant attitude. Outbursts that were always put down with some degree of violence. The Mathidrin were beginning to spread fear before them. Again, why?

  And Dan-Tor had appointed her their Honorary Commander-in-Chief! She wrinkled her face in distaste at the memory of this unwanted and unrefusable honour.

  The leader of the patrol below swung down from his horse. I've seen pigs ride better, Sylvriss thought, then she leaned forward and cast an expert eye over the animal. It was good enough. Certainly good enough for the graceless oaf who had been riding it, but it was no Muster horse; few could match the Muster horses for stamina, strength, speed or intelligence. The thought gave her a twinge of homesickness.

  Although she still communicated with her father, she had not seen him for many years and from time to time she missed him deeply. At such times she would recall a childhood memory of riding a fine strong horse by her father's side, mile after tireless mile across the broad open meadows of Riddin, the wind in her face, the rhythmic pounding of hooves and that exhilarating unity, not only with her steed but with her father and his steed, and all the others riding with them. The memory sustained her powerfully.

  The rider had left his mount to the attentions of an underling and was engaged in conversation with one of the other officers. A rider should tend his own, she thought angrily, but at least they're caring for them a little more now. The anger within her faded into satisfaction as she remembered her outburst when she had caught one of them beating a horse.

  Drawn to the scene by the cries of both man and horse she had arrived to find an officer laying into the animal with a leather crop. All sense of queenly decorum had fallen away from her in a haze of fury and, striding forward, she had seized the crop as it swung back and delivered a mighty whack with it across the man's rump. As he spun round, she had back-handed the crop across his face. The man drew his clenched fist back automatically before he had identified his attacker, and thereby made his second mistake that day. Not that he raised his fist to his Queen, but that he raised it to a Muster-trained woman.

  His apparent intention had triggered an old reflex in Sylvriss from her training days and, without a pause, she drove the first two knuckles of her tightly clenched fist into the space between his nose and his upper lip, her entire body behind the blow.

  Sitting on the windowsill, Sylvriss smiled one of her rare smiles and flexed her right hand. It had been bruised and sore for several days, but she had found the pain almos
t delightful. She wished all her other problems could be solved as easily.

  The man had staggered back several paces before his legs buckled and left him sitting incongruously in the dust, his eyes wide with shock and his mouth gaping. He placed his hands to the sides of his head and shook it to try to stop the din inside. It was only later that someone told him what had happened. The watching men stood frozen to attention by Sylvriss's icy gaze.

  'In future,’ she said slowly, ‘you will treat your horses correctly. Is that clear?'

  Her soft voice had more menace than the loudest Drill Sirshiant's and, while no official mention was ever made of the incident, the word had spread like fire through bracken into barracks and staterooms alike, and thereafter there had been a perceptible improvement in the treatment of the Mathidrin's horses.

  But everything seemed to be like that these days. Almost every aspect of policy was determined by some unspoken command. Where there had once been clear and open discourse, currents and undercurrents of gossip and intrigue now ran muddy and deep and, she suspected, for less high than herself, dangerous.

  It was alien to her nature to dabble in such water, but it was of Dan-Tor's making, and she had no alternative if she were not to be left isolated and ignorant, which, she sensed, was his desire. She knew full well that the affection she was held in by so many had always been a thorn in Dan-Tor's side, but now she had begun using it as a weapon.

  Ironically, felling one of the Mathidrin officers aided in this in that it raised her in the esteem of friend and foe alike. More significantly, it delivered a death-blow to Dan-Tor's plans to train the Mathidrin as cavalry.

  Traditionally, the High Guards were trained to act as both cavalry and infantry, as well as being competent as individual fighters. High Guards at their best, such as those of Lord Eldric, thus formed a formidable fighting force. Dan-Tor had tried to emulate this in the Mathidrin, but early attempts at co-ordinated horsemanship had indicated a rocky path ahead and no certainty of reaching the destination. He had persisted in a half-hearted fashion, but the Queen's actions had reminded him of the Riddin Muster and the comparison had tilted the final balance.