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

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  Accompanying the Lords in Vakloss were many of their High Guards. Etron was one such. A country lad who had recently finished his training with the cadets, he took an innocent pride in strolling through the streets of the City when he was not on duty, pleasantly aware of the quiet stir his elegant uniform caused. Had not his troop, after all, won the Grand Tournament only last year? And had they not received the praise of Lord Dan-Tor personally for their splendid turnout? Apart from one or two grim comments from the older officers about the Watch, the old Narsindal patrols, and how they should be brought back again, he had come to the conclusion that life in the High Guards was both enjoyable and civilized.

  One evening he was strolling through the narrow crowded streets near the Palace debating where he might best eat that night, when the sound of raised angry voices reached him, one, a woman's. Curious, he ran towards a small crowd that appeared to be the source of the noise.

  A girl, a street trader, was arguing with a Mathidrin trooper. She spoke rapidly and with a strong Vakloss accent, and Etron had some difficulty in understanding her, but it seemed the Mathidrin was accusing her of selling bad fruit and was refusing to pay. Etron saw the Mathidrin was of an age similar to himself, as were his two companions who were laughing nearby.

  For a moment he was inclined to intervene, but then thought better of it. Standing orders were to avoid the Mathidrin where possible, and this young man seemed to represent the Mathidrin at their worst: loutish, arrogant and sneering. Etron was about to turn away when the Mathidrin's expression changed at some remark and he knocked the girl to the ground with a savage punch in the face. The watching crowd widened suddenly. One man protested, but the Mathidrin turned on him fiercely and held his clenched fist under the man's nose.

  'I know you,’ he said menacingly. ‘You shouldn't go around speaking up for liars and cheats like this.'

  The girl was clambering to her feet, sobbing and bleeding profusely from her nose and mouth. She staggered against the Mathidrin and coughed up a gout of blood and saliva. It splattered on to the trooper's chest and Etron winced as he noticed a white tooth sliding down the black tunic. The man swore and pushed her away violently, sending her sprawling again. Then he turned his attention back to the protester.

  'You'd better look to your own affairs. Especially with that nice little shop of yours only just around the corner. I've seen some very suspicious people going in and out of there. Very suspicious.’ He looked significantly at his friends who nodded in confirmation.

  The man paled a little and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  The Mathidrin, however, was not inclined to let the matter drop. Bending down, he took hold of the girl's hair and, staring into the man's face, said, ‘This is a liar and a cheat. Shall I show you what we do to liars and cheats?'

  The shopkeeper stared at him icily, frightened to do anything that might bring retribution on himself or make things worse for the girl.

  'We do this,’ continued the Mathidrin. And, dragging the girl by her hair, he pushed her face brutally into a box of soft fruits standing in front of her stall, much to the amusement of his two friends.

  Almost in spite of himself, Etron pushed through the crowd and seized the Mathidrin's arm.

  'No,’ he said. ‘That's enough. That's no way to behave. If she's cheated you there's...’ He stopped in mid-sentence as the Mathidrin turned slowly to look first at his gripped arm and then at him. Etron released the arm nervously. An unpleasant smile appeared on the Mathidrin's face as he looked up and down Etron's uniform, vivid and ornate compared with his own black tunic.

  'There's what, flower?’ he said coaxingly.

  Etron cleared his throat. He wanted to be somewhere else at that moment, but could not walk away. He wished an officer would appear round the corner. ‘Let the girl go,’ he said. ‘There's the Law or the Chief of Markets if you've a complaint.’ The Mathidrin looked at him in disbelief, and then at his friends, who were smirking. ‘Petal here wants us to run and tell tales,’ he said. ‘Petal doesn't think we can handle our own problems, does it?’ And he pinched Etron's cheek between his thumb and forefinger. Angry at the humiliation, Etron struck the hand away. The Mathidrin sneered, showing his teeth, and with a great push sent Etron staggering into the remains of the girl's fruit stall. ‘Down where you belong, flower,’ he jeered. ‘With the rest of the fruit.'

  Though a High Guard, Etron was not really a fighting man, and certainly not a street brawler, but the tone of the insult and the damage to his uniform was too much. Scrambling to his feet, he flew furiously at the taunting black figure.

  For a while, the two wrestled incongruously until they skidded on the slippery ground and crashed to the floor. Somewhat to his surprise, Etron recovered himself first and, standing up, seized his opponent by the scruff of the neck and thrust his face into the same box that the girl had been pushed into. ‘See what it feels like, you cockroach,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  There was some applause and cheering from the crowd.

  The Mathidrin got slowly to his feet, his face fruit-splattered and ridiculous. He put his hand on Etron's shoulder, as if for balance, and then hit him in the stomach. It was a stunning and unexpected blow—and worse. Etron realized that more than the wind had gone out of him. Everywhere suddenly felt strange and distant, and his legs wouldn't respond properly. They wouldn't even hold him up. There was a roaring in his ears and, as he slithered to the ground and rolled on to his back, his eye lighted on a brightly painted carved eagle looking down at him from the pinnacle of a nearby building. It was framed in a ring of concerned faces.

  Daddy used to carve ridge birds, he thought, and then the roaring overwhelmed him in blackness.

  The Mathidrin, pale and nervously defiant, leaned forward and taking hold of Etron's tunic wiped the blood from his dagger. It was an act more repellent in its callousness than the stabbing itself. The crowd seemed to be paralysed. He looked coldly at each one of them in turn as if memorizing their faces. ‘Go home all of you,’ he said. ‘This man attacked me and I had to defend myself. Don't forget that.'

  Etron's Lord, a simple unaffected man, was beside himself with rage and grief and a shocked Dan-Tor promised him a full investigation. But no reliable witnesses could be found, and the Mathidrin, self-assured and smug, left the Inquiry to the congratulations of his companions. The older officers of Etron's troop looked at their Lord and saw him impotent and livid. They took the wish in his eyes for their orders.

  There was a great deal of rivalry between the High Guards of the different Lords, but not sufficient to divide them against a common foe, and the next few days saw several discreet and cautious meetings in the deep shadows provided by the bright glare of Dan-Tor's globes hovering over the City.

  A week after the incident, the Mathidrin trooper was found dead in a park some way away from the Palace. He had a sword in his hand, a wreath of flowers around his neck and a rotting fruit in his gaping mouth. From the footprints in the grass it seemed that the young man had been fighting a duel. Dan-Tor noted that aspect of the incident and smiled to himself. So you're not quite up to cold-blooded murder yet, are you, you precious guardians of the Lords? But it's a good start. Then, turning to a servant, he said, ‘Have Commander Urssain come to me immediately.'

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  Chapter 30

  Sylvriss had made her main concern the locating of the four imprisoned Lords. Contact with them would, she believed, form an important strand in the rope she was weaving to trip, if not to strangle, Dan-Tor.

  The Palace had cells suitable only for the temporary detention of offenders, and she found very quickly that they were not being kept in any of these. Dilrap was not able to help a great deal.

  'They're being kept exclusively by the Mathidrin, Majesty,’ he told her. ‘Probably somewhere over in the Westerclave, but nobody seems to know where. And I have to be diffident in my inquiries.'

  'I understand, Dilrap,’ said Sylv
riss. ‘Don't jeopardize yourself for this. Your other tasks are more important. However, I can't see our precious Mathidrin cooking and washing for the Lords. Can you find out which servants are working over there? And can we put our own in?'

  Dilrap hitched his errant robe on to his shoulders and nodded. ‘It might be possible, Majesty,’ he said. ‘At least to find out which servants are in the Westerclave. The Keeper of the Rooms is a bit peculiar about his schedules, but I'm known to be close enough to Dan-Tor now to say it's a spot check ordered personally by the Lord.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I can always smooth any furrows with a little high praise and a promise that a good report would be made. But as for putting one of our own in there ... ?’ Dilrap puffed out his cheeks.

  Sylvriss stared at the door for a little while when he had left. He was proving to be a staunch and capable ally, ferreting out information for her and spending hours preparing long and opaque legal arguments to litter Dan-Tor's path while ostensibly clearing it.

  But if Dan-Tor began to suspect, what then? Dilrap would be no match for the man and her own part in the proceedings would surely come to light. Then she too would be assailed in some way, and the effort she was now able to put into thwarting her enemy would almost certainly be taken up fully in protecting herself and her treatment of the King. She must not overburden Dilrap.

  She sighed, and, eyes closed, allowed herself a brief indulgence, taking her mind back to quieter, simpler times.

  Once, such an action would have distressed and torn her with longing, but she had come to accept that, whatever the present and future held, the past was inviolate. It could not be relived, but equally it could not be destroyed. It would remain a solid and sure foundation to support her at all times, and its rich memories would continue to sustain the slow recovery of her husband.

  Rested, she opened her eyes to the harsher present. The Westerclave, she thought. Dilrap's findings confirmed what her other informants had told her. But no one could tell her further. She fidgeted restlessly on the soft upholstered seat as if it had been made of stone. These same informants had also been bringing strange and worrying rumours: the Lords had attempted to escape; they were being poisoned; they were being starved; they had confessed their guilt; and many others, but all too vague and insubstantial. Bubbles from the depths of a dark pool.

  She had tried approaching Dan-Tor directly, casually asking after the welfare of the Lords during a lull in a public function they were obliged to attend, but he had merely given her an uninformative answer and then deftly changed the subject. The incident reminded her clearly that she could not hope to lure careless admissions from such a man, and that to attempt to do so might well prove dangerous.

  Abruptly, she made a decision. Her informants could obtain little more, if anything. She could not ask more of Dilrap. Now, perhaps a little blundering might not go amiss, she thought.

  Within minutes she was mounted on her favourite horse and trotting around the Palace grounds. It was her normal habit to ride almost daily and was unlikely to attract any special comment. On the way to one of the side gates that would lead her into the City and thence to one of the great parks, she passed the wide stone-arched maw of the Westerclave.

  The weather was overcast, a mottled grey sky promising no sign of sun that day. But even in the brightest sunshine,, the Westerclave had a gloomy aspect. A strange jumbled building joining two of the Palace towers, it was backed by a huge earth mound and looked as if it had once been built into the side of a hill. Situated where it was, it lay in almost permanent shadow.

  That it was older than the rest of the Palace was obvious even to an untutored eye. Its stonework was weathered and crumbling, and lichen and ivy disfigured where they should have enhanced. Also its style of construction was markedly different, harsher and more brutal in its demands of the stone that formed it. Sylvriss always thought it like a rotten tooth wedged into a healthy jaw, an image in which its gaping entrance became a manifestation of decay.

  Legend had it that the Westerclave had been built during the First Coming; that it was the handiwork of the corrupted humans who served Sumeral; that it had been fought over many times and had been many times won and lost. Over the years it had served various purposes—workshops and storerooms, servants’ quarters, temporary barracks for High Guards briefly posted to the City, and now, Headquarters for the Mathidrin.

  Sylvriss reined in her horse and looked at the ugly façade. It suited these cockroaches, she thought, using the term of abuse that the locals had discovered for the Mathidrin. Then, following her earlier impulse, she took a deep breath and, swinging down from her horse, walked briskly towards the arch.

  Two Mathidrin guards standing stiffly either side of the entrance saluted but looked decidedly uncomfortable as she strode past them into the gloom. They had quite specific orders about allowing anyone into Westerclave, but this was the Queen and their Commander-in-Chief, albeit honorary. Their orders did not cover such a contingency.

  She noted with some amusement the frantic footsteps behind her as she headed for a flight of stairs at the end of the broad entrance tunnel, her own footsteps echoing purposefully around the curved stonework. Clattering down the stairs, she tried to recall the layout of the building, but it was a long time since she had been in it and its maze of corridors and stairways were even more convoluted than those in the main Palace.

  The stairs led directly into a broad corridor along which, as she recalled, used to be administrative offices. The only difference between her memory and its present appearance was that now it was brilliantly lit by two rows of globes. Strangely, she found that this was an improvement.

  Less of an improvement, however, was the figure seated at a desk which blocked her further progress. He was the most unlikely clerk that Sylvriss had ever seen. His uniform was immaculate, but it could not begin to disguise the bulge of his arm and shoulder muscles. He sat motionless except for his powerful, hairy hands which guided a quailing pen painstakingly but unerringly across a report form. Topped with short-cropped black hair and fronted by a battered and scarred face, an oval head sported the remains of a nose, a full-lipped and vicious mouth, and dark jowls through which beard was fighting a powerful counter-attack after the morning's onslaught.

  Sylvriss stood in front of the desk but the head, though clearly aware of a presence, did not stir. The hand moved steadily on. How sweet, she thought maliciously. He wants to play a game.

  She cleared her throat discreetly and very deeply. The head, rapt in spurious concentration, slowly looked across to another document and then, satisfied with what it had seen, equally slowly returned to its work.

  Time's up, thought Sylvriss. Coming ready or not. And she brought her riding crop smartly down on the desk between the carefully placed hands. With some satisfaction, she saw the eyes widen with disbelief, and the whole frame swell with rage. Then, with calculated anticipation, the eyes followed the riding crop slowly upwards until they met her own steady gaze. Very professional, she thought, a second later. The man had almost totally recovered his composure by the time he had stood up and saluted.

  'My apologies, sir ... ma'am,’ he barked. ‘We weren't expecting you.'

  Sylvriss nodded. ‘Yes. I noticed,’ she said significantly. ‘At ease, Sirshiant. Perhaps you'd take me to the duty officer.'

  'Ma'am.’ He saluted again and stiffly bent forward to open a small gate to allow the Queen to pass by his desk. ‘If you'd follow me.'

  Sylvriss made a wilfully stately progress with her bulky escort, pausing frequently to examine a notice board here, or to peer down a staircase there, or to run a very female finger along a ridge and examine it knowingly. The Sirshiant struggled with this gait, so different from his normal martial stride. Obviously he couldn't march and, equally obviously, he couldn't stroll casually by her side like some courtier. In the end he oscillated between the two, and developed a peculiar twitch of the hands in so doing.

  His behaviour told her a great deal a
bout her status within the Mathidrin, as did that of those they passed on the way, all snapping to attention. She acknowledged each with a nod and a direct look in the eyes, marking each face and response for future reference.

  I'll rot your corpse from its very head, Dan-Tor, she thought.

  She was particularly struck by the look of uncertainty clearly visible in every gaze. Fear is the bonding of this structure, she realized suddenly, and, as if on cue, the Sirshiant stopped at a door and licked his lips before knocking.

  The same look was in Commander Urssain's eyes, but briefly it gave way to a ruthless shrewdness, before a calculating blankness hid everything. Without knowing why I'm here, he's already thinking how he can turn my visit to his advantage, the Queen thought, as he came forward and bowed politely.

  'Majesty. This is an unexpected surprise. You do us great honour,’ he said. ‘I'm Commander Urssain.'

  'Yes, Commander, I remember you,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘I recall your promotion ceremony.’ And I recall wondering what you'd done to deserve such promotion so quickly, she thought. Nothing pleasant, I'm sure.

  Urssain had the confident, arrogant presence that seemed to be the predominant feature of the Mathidrin, but she could sense he was aware of it and was attempting to control it. The room, too, bore signs of a personality in transition. Spartan and functional, but furnished with a strange mixture of brash cheapness and tasteful elegance. The whole looked incongruous, but she realized that Urssain was learning a new trade. The room represented the first fumbling steps on a ladder of unknown height. One of the rising stars. Would he flare and dazzle for a brief instant, or would he take a permanent place in a constellation that would hover around Dan-Tor?

  'I hope I'm not disturbing your routine, Commander,’ she continued. ‘I'm afraid I've called purely on impulse. It's such a long time since I've been in the Westerclave, and it used to be such a dismal place. It occurred to me as I was passing that as your Commander-in-Chief I really should see how you're all faring here.'