The Fall of Fyorlund Read online

  The three men remained there for a long time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Hawklan leaning against the buttress, arms folded and looking moodily downwards; Isloman leaning against the wall, and Loman leaning over the parapet staring out over the Castle grounds in the darkness below.

  Somewhere in the distance there was a brief stir of voices and a door was opened and closed.

  Hawklan looked up along the stairway, faintly visible in the starlight. Over him the main wall of Anderras Darion loomed protectively. He frowned again at the unforgiving truth of his reasoning.

  ‘We’ve no alternative, have we?’ he said.

  The two brothers shook their heads.

  Loman spoke. ‘We’ll remember and relearn all our old “skills”, Hawklan.’ There was bitterness in his voice. ‘And we’ll learn from such others as we can find in the Library, then . . .’ He turned and looked at Hawklan, ‘then we’ll teach them to . . . to everyone.’

  Hawklan nodded, and echoed their thoughts. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘There’s a great wrongness in all this. I can’t fault our conclusions in the light of what’s happened. There is no alternative. But,’ he shook his head, ‘I can’t escape the feeling that the very existence of armed power in Orthlund may in itself destroy the Great Harmony, or that it may somehow attract those it’s meant to deter.’

  Chapter 24

  As Loman stepped out of the maze of ornate columns that guarded the Armoury, he turned round and, with arm extended, snapped his fingers into the maze. It was a childish trick he indulged in occasionally, for the snap of his fingers was deliberately off the path through the maze, and the sounds of its increasing echoes swirled round and round until they surged thunderously against the unseen bounds set by the columns, like an enraged animal crashing against the bars of its cage.

  He shook his head at his own whimsy and strode off purposefully down one of the long aisles of the Armoury towards the great mound of weapons. The mysterious appearance of Ethriss’s black sword had unsettled him more than he was prepared to admit. Had he not known this place intimately for some twenty years? A blade like that could not have lain hidden from him. And yet . . .?

  Thus, since his return to the Castle with Tirilen, he had haunted the Armoury, trying to view it with a newer eye and carrying with him a vague compulsion that there was something he should be doing. He had little doubt that the metal was speaking to him but he did not seem to be able to hear it clearly.

  His subsequent discovery of the small black blades that became Gavor’s fighting spurs unsettled him even further, and the vague compulsion became almost an obsession. Repeatedly now, he cast his eye over the great mound of weapons, wondering what other mysteries it was concealing from him. But everything seemed to be as it had been since he first followed the strange tall outlander into this stronghold twenty or so years ago and stood open-mouthed amid the harvest-field rows of points and edges glittering in a bright summer sun.

  Reaching the mound, he stood there once again on an uneasy vigil, all too aware that the familiarity around him still persisted in declaiming itself changed.

  ‘Loman?’

  The voice behind him drew his mind from its reverie, and air into his lungs, in one heart-jolting blow. He spun round, eyes wide, his mind encompassing uncountable numbers of alternatives and his body incapable of facing any of them.

  Gulda raised an eyebrow at this sudden flurry.

  Loman finally succeeded in gaining control of his jaw and raised his hand to point in the direction of the distant entrance.

  ‘Memsa,’ he demanded. ‘How did you get in here? Through the columns . . .’

  Gulda brought her stick up and placed the end of it against the smith’s stomach. ‘I’m looking for Ethriss’s bow, young Loman, where is it?’

  Loman continued pointing for a moment and then lowered his hand resignedly. So far, Gulda had met questions about her knowledge of Anderras Darion by simply ignoring them. A prod from the stick focused his attention again. Better head for safer ground.

  ‘The bows are over there,’ he said brusquely, pointing now to a nearby rack. Gulda clicked her tongue impatiently, and levering Loman to one side with her stick walked in the opposite direction.

  ‘Don’t clench your fists at me, young man,’ she said as she passed. Loman felt a rumbling growl forming inside him and quickly cleared his throat.

  Gulda was muttering to herself. ‘Now let me . . . so long ago.’ Her hand came to her chin pensively and the great nose twitched as if scenting out quarry. Then she did a brief mime, head bowed, eyes closed and face earnest. Her hands pointed forward, as if marking out some earlier entry she had once made into the Armoury, then they flicked hither and thither, tracing her old route; sometimes decisively, followed by a flick of confirmation; and sometimes hesitantly, followed by a palmy wave to expunge the error. Finally she arrived.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘I’ll swear to it.’ And off she went, Loman trudging behind suspiciously. Eventually they stopped in front of one of the ornately painted wall carvings that decorated those walls of the Armoury that contained no weapon racks.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding triumphantly. ‘Here it is.’

  Loman looked at the picture and then at her. ‘It was a picture of the bow you were looking for, was it?’ he asked uncertainly, looking at the vivid battle scene portrayed in front of him. A faint smile lit up Gulda’s face and she shook her head.

  ‘No, Loman,’ she said. ‘I wanted this.’ And reaching her hand forward into the strange perspective of the carving, she took hold of a black bow held by one of the distant figures, and lifted it out reverently.

  Loman was well used to the complexity and distortion of distance inherent in all Orthlundyn carving but, in spite of himself he found his mouth dropping open. Before he could recover himself fully, Gulda placed the now man-sized bow gently in his hands.

  ‘Hawklan tells me you’ve turned into a passable smith, young Loman, for all your earlier ways.’ She eyed him significantly. ‘What do you make of that?’ But Loman made no reply. As with the sword, the first touch of the bow had plunged him into another world, and his whole body seemed to be straining to ring out praises for the incredible artifact he was holding, even though such praises could not begin to measure its worth. After a timeless moment, he returned the bow to Gulda.

  ‘It’s beyond words,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Like the sword. Made by the same hand and in the same manner.’ He closed his eyes and swayed slightly. Gulda watched him closely. ‘I can’t handle work like that too much, it’s too . . . daunting.’

  Gulda seemed satisfied. ‘There’s some hope for you then,’ she grunted. ‘And for the Orthlundyn.’

  Loman recovered himself. ‘I’ve never seen a metal bow before,’ he said. ‘The bows in here are all of wood.’

  ‘Could you make one?’ Gulda asked.

  Loman was grateful for the commonplace question. It kept his mind from soaring uncontrollably after the perfection he had just held. ‘Not like that,’ he said hastily.

  ‘Of course not,’ came an unusually sympathetic reply. ‘But could you make a metal bow?’

  Loman pursed his lips. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘Well think about it now,’ said Gulda. ‘And quickly. I want to see what you can do.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘But start with some arrows. I’ve no idea where Ethriss’s arrows are, if there were any left, and Hawklan can’t go wandering off with a bow and no arrows.’

  ‘Hawklan?’ said Loman in surprise. ‘What does Hawklan want with a bow? He’s never handled one in his life.’

  ‘In the last twenty years you mean,’ said Gulda bluntly. Loman nodded unhappily. That was true of course. Hawklan had never handled a sword either, but Isloman had told him how he had used it against the Mandrocs. And he himself would not soon forget how Hawklan had laid out the two High Guards so effortlessly when they had burst into Jaldaric’s tent. Hawkl
an was an enigma. Loman looked intently at Gulda. So was she.

  ‘I’m no weapons maker,’ he said suddenly.

  Gulda brandished the bow. ‘Neither was the maker of this,’ she said fiercely. ‘But circumstances gave him no choice, and he learned. As you will.’

  Her tone brooked no argument but, in any case, the idea intrigued the craftsman in Loman sufficiently to overcome any qualms he might have about the matter. After all, he had seen men killed with rocks and branches and all manner of innocuous articles seized casually in the heat of battle, just as he had seen works of great beauty engraved on the shafts and blades of swords and axes. And hadn’t he seen appalling accidents occur with innocent farm implements that he had made? He knew well enough that the word weapon was vested in an object by the use to which it was put, not by the intention of its maker.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I can’t make anything worthy of that bow.’

  ‘Make what you can, Loman,’ Gulda replied. ‘It will be truer than most, and the bow won’t spurn it.’

  On their way out of the Armoury, they passed the great mound again. Gulda cast a baleful eye over it. ‘And you can start tidying that lot up,’ she said, jerking her thumb towards it. ‘You’re going to need them.’

  Loman looked aghast at the towering pile.

  Gulda forestalled his protest. ‘They’re no good in here and there’s precious little point in training people to fight if they’ve nothing to fight with, is there?’

  * * * *

  Hawklan said little about how the Orthlundyn should be prepared and trained.

  ‘They’re your people, Loman,’ he said. ‘And you and your friends know more about practical fighting than I do. With that, and the Library and Gulda, there’s nothing I can add.’ But he nodded approvingly as he saw Loman supervising the removal of the weapons from the Armoury, and his very presence seemed to sustain their efforts.

  Thus the day of Hawklan’s departure for Fyorlund dawned darkly for Loman and the others despite the promise it held of bright summer.

  Uncertain himself, Hawklan sought solace in repeating what he had already discussed at length with his friends. ‘We’ll need people strong and flexible in mind and body, Loman,’ he said as he made final adjustments to Serian’s harness. ‘Teach them every skill you know in fighting and surviving, and then teach them they must improve themselves.’

  ‘They’re Carvers, Hawklan,’ replied Loman patiently. ‘They know that already.’ A frown clouded his face.

  Hawklan looked at him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘How can any of us find comfort in this, Loman, but what else can we do? At least having a tool on your bench gives you choices.’

  The remark brought an unexpected response. ‘Yes, but I’ve never had a tool on my bench that I haven’t used eventually.’

  Hawklan turned and looked northward. ‘I’ve no answer, Loman, you know that. Having some choice is still better than having none, and all choices, hard or easy, carry responsibility. Having seen what we’ve seen and learned what we’ve learned can we do anything other than tell the people the truth and teach them what we can?’

  Loman bowed his head. He had not meant to bring his unease to this difficult parting.

  Hawklan put his hands on the Smith’s solid shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, Loman. It’ll be a far worse day for all of us when we don’t concern ourselves with these problems. And worse yet if we ever convince ourselves we’ve found a simple answer.’

  And with that, and brief affectionate farewells to Tirilen and Gulda and the others gathered there, Isloman and Hawklan rode off along the steep winding road leading down from Anderras Darion.

  Loman watched them for a long time, until eventually they shimmered and disappeared into the early morning haze. A faint cry high above him drew his attention upwards to a tiny black dot which had just floated from one of the towers. Loman raised a hand in salute, and Gavor dropped and spun over and over in acknowledgement. Knowing Gavor’s mischievous temperament, Loman took a judicious pace backwards more into the lee of the Castle wall, but the solemnity of the moment must have infected Gavor, also, for nothing more unsavoury fell to earth than an iridescent black feather. Loman picked it up and examined it thoughtfully before handing it to Tirilen and turning back to the Castle. Tirilen wiped her eyes, sniffed and then, fumbling with a brooch, fixed the feather behind it. Its blackness seemed even darker against her white gown and, satisfied with her work, she turned and followed her father through the wicket gate.

  Gulda remained. A tiny black dot dwarfed by the Castle wall and the Great Gate. For a long time she stared into the misty distance as if she could still see Hawklan and Isloman wending their way along the road until, with a grunt, she too turned and stumped resolutely into the Castle.

  Strangely, Hawklan had felt impelled to ask Gulda if she wished to accompany them to Fyorlund. She had shown no surprise at the question but had not answered for some time. Instead she questioned Hawklan about Dan-Tor again. Hawklan told her once more what little he knew. ‘According to Jaldaric he’s some kind of adviser to their King. The adviser in fact.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ Gulda replied impatiently. ‘I want to know what he looks . . .’ She paused. ‘This King’s ill, you say?’ Hawklan nodded. ‘And has been ever since this Dan-Tor arrived?’

  Hawklan nodded again. ‘Yes, I’m sure Jaldaric said something like that. The man’s not popular with everyone as far as I could gather. He’s changed many of their traditional ways, and caused a lot of upheaval. Apparently many people think his influence over the King is excessive and pernicious.’

  Gulda digested this in silence for a while. ‘And what does he look like?’ she said, reverting to her earlier question. Hawklan described the twitching figure of the tinker as well as he could.

  ‘If we stand him upright and still, what would he look like then?’ Gulda asked when he had finished.

  Hawklan thought for a moment. ‘Tall, very tall. Thin. Long brown wrinkled face. Gloomy-looking except when he smiles, then he’s got bright white teeth.’

  Gulda turned away from him suddenly and pulled her hood forward. Hawklan could hear her breathing nervously. ‘Yes,’ she said very softly after a while. Her voice was strained.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Hawklan asked, incredulous.

  ‘Never mind.’

  Hawklan started. Gulda’s voice was like the closing of a steel trap. Then, more gently, ‘I won’t come with you, Hawklan. I’m afraid this burden is yours alone. I’m not . . . strong enough yet. Too long doing too little.’

  Hawklan tried to pursue the matter further but Gulda waved his questions to silence. ‘Just you remember that this man’s dangerous,’ she said, her face still averted. ‘Unbelievably dangerous. He’s not what he seems. Be very careful. Very careful. You’ll need your every resource. There’s no limit to his treachery, his cunning, and his knowledge of ancient skills.’

  After Hawklan had left, Gulda seemed intent on making up for doing too little for too long and, to Loman, she seemed to fill the Castle as much as all the other visitors put together. She took charge of all the new arrivals, told them in detail what had happened, what was happening, and why. She worked with Loman and the other Morlider veterans on training programmes and co-ordinated their work to minimize duplication of effort. Then, continuing the work she had begun at the first meeting of the Elders, she ruthlessly graded the arrivals to ensure that they received the most appropriate training. Loman was impressed, not only with her tireless efficiency, but with what he considered to be a totally uncharacteristic diplomacy.

  For his own part, he found himself studying ancient volumes on military tactics and strategy, his earlier repugnance being grudgingly replaced by satisfaction at the acquisition of new knowledge. He began walking about the Castle, looking at it with a new eye, seeing features in its design and location that added to his appreciation of its original creators – something he would not have thought possible only weeks earlier. He studied weaponr
y also, but here with the relentless eye of a Master Craftsman. And he was pleased to the point of smugness when he found that while he could not equal the craftsmanship of most of the weapons from the Armoury, he was satisfied that he could improve their design.

  Not that his studying allowed him to escape the rigours of his own training programmes, and in the early days he was frequently to be found discreetly seeking the ministrations of his daughter. Massively strong he might be, but his flexibility and agility left a great deal to be desired, and his striving to attain the standards set by younger and more pliable souls resulted in his acquiring a great many unusual pains.

  Tirilen was sympathetic and helpful, but she lacked the detachment she possessed with her other charges.

  ‘You giggling and saying “Poor old soul” isn’t helping,’ he was obliged to say on more than one occasion. ‘Yes, Papa,’ she would smirk, driving her fingers into his ribs.

  Like everyone else, Tirilen was kept busy by the changed circumstances in the Castle. Her long blonde hair was invariably swept back and held by a simple ribbon, and her white robe was replaced by a practical grass-green one, though its lapel was still adorned by Gavor’s black feather. Bumps, bruises, cuts, scratches, sprains, fractures, aches and pains of every kind paraded in front of her daily, borne with varying degrees of dignity and stoicism, but the more she treated the more she glowed. The worried and the anxious she delegated to Gulda’s tender mercies, rightly judging her better suited for dealing with such problems. ‘No mithered middle-aged farmer is going to take any notice of me, is he?’ she declared.

  Not that she was without concerns herself. She knew her father was ever alert in the Armoury for some glittering black relic of Ethriss, and that the absence of the bow and sword in which he had seen such perfection disturbed him in some subtle fashion which was totally beyond her ability to reach.

  Following her own advice, she finally confided in Gulda.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the old woman. ‘You’re Orthlundyn. You understand really. Your father’s waking, like many others round here. Just the touch of those weapons has taught him so much. Look.’ She clumped around her spartan room and returned with a long black arrow which she held up for Tirilen’s inspection. ‘This was only your father’s first attempt. The ones Hawklan took with him were better yet.’