The Fall of Fyorlund [Book Two of The Chronicles of Hawklan] Page 28

  'Welcome to our little market, sirs,’ he said. The Mathidrin made no response. Unabashed, the man continued, addressing the whole patrol through its leader. ‘May I offer you a drink, gentlemen? Or perhaps I can find you bargains for your ladies.'

  He winked.

  The leader looked down at him contemptuously, sighed and then, turning away, jerked his horse's reins. The horse moved sideways and bumped into the smiling man. He staggered and muttered something.

  The Mathidrin leader spun round, eyes blazing. ‘What did you say?’ he growled.

  The stallholder held his gaze, all smiles gone. He spoke loudly and clearly. ‘I said, be careful what you're doing with your nag, cockroach.'

  There was a gasp from the crowd in the immediate vicinity and a space opened around him. The two men stared at one another and slowly the square became quiet. Women started to lead their children away urgently. The Mathidrin drinking on the far side of the square stood up to see what was happening and several of them began to move forward expectantly, pushing their way deep into the crowd.

  Then, into the silence, came the harsh, rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps. The rider and the stallholder paused and within seconds a Mathidrin foot patrol entered the square. The insulted leader stood in his stirrups and signalled to it. It turned towards him urgently, but its formation soon became extended and fragmented as it manoeuvred along the congested aisles between the stalls. The crowd closed silently around it like water round the hull of a passing ship.

  The rider watched this disintegration passively then, making a small hand signal to the stallholder, he swung his foot from the stirrup and aimed a seemingly vicious kick at the man's head. The man, however, caught the extended foot easily and with a great heave pushed the Mathidrin out of his saddle.

  Yatsu affected a conspicuous attempt to retain his seat before slithering from sight down the far side of his horse with a loud cry. A roar went up from the crowd around him.

  The leader of the foot patrol turned to urge his men forward, only to find them scattered and isolated. He started to shout angrily but, even as he did so, hands seized him and the roar of the crowd crashed over him like a great tidal wave.

  At the far corner of the square, Yatsu turned briefly to check that the attack on the Mathidrin patrol was well under way then, with a quick signal of thanks to the stallholder and the now silent crowd around him, he and his men slipped quietly away. They had other diversions to set in train that day.

  * * *

  Chapter 33

  Since his journey to the Gretmearc, Hawklan had ceased to be surprised by his knowledge of places that should have been strange to him. It was intriguing, as were many other aspects of his life, but with so much mystery surrounding him he knew that nothing was to be gained from arbitrary questioning. His approach was pragmatic. The knowledge was there and it was indisputably useful, and that would have to suffice for the time being.

  However, as he travelled across Fyorlund with his Mathidrin escort, an uneasiness began to seep into that very knowledge—an uneasiness that deepened profoundly as they neared Vakloss.

  The City seeped into view as they travelled through Fyorlund's relatively flat and fertile central plain. At first it was exposed and hidden alternately by minor features in the landscape but, as they drew nearer, it began to dominate the surrounding countryside.

  It was built on a great isolated hill and its towers and high buildings, culminating in the towering edifice of the Palace at its central and highest point, topped it like a many-pointed crown. Hawklan realized that he knew the country, but not the City. But even his knowledge of the country was ... dark ... fearful?

  The Palace was no Anderras Darion, but it soared majestically above the City's lesser buildings, although these also were of no mean worth: Vakloss had been built by craftsmen of great skill. It seemed to Hawklan, however, that the splendour was inappropriate. This place troubled him. It was a focus for something dark inside him.

  'You've no cities as fine as this in Orthlund, I'll wager,’ said the Mathidrin Captain, riding to his side. Hawklan started out of his reverie and stared about foolishly for a moment. The Captain's tone had an unpleasant edge and reflected his continuing uncertainty about Hawklan, but Hawklan ignored the inflection and took the comment as if it had been a pleasantry.

  'No,’ he replied, ‘we've no cities in Orthlund. Only villages. I've never seen a city before. I can't imagine what it's like to live in one. It seems to be rather a strange idea, but I suppose if you've a great many people in your land, then the ways in which you live together will inevitably be different from ours.’ The Captain smiled uncertainly. Hawklan's constant willingness to accede to his boastful assertions about Fyorlund unsettled him, left him off balance. There was nothing there for him to argue about or defend. He had the feeling that he was both winning and losing at the same time.

  'I find it strange to imagine a country that's only farms, countryside and villages,’ he said weakly.

  Hawklan smiled. ‘That probably means we're both victims of our histories,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how old is Vakloss?'

  The Captain frowned. This man asked the strangest questions. ‘I've no idea,’ he replied. ‘It's always been there.'

  'Always?’ said Hawklan, raising his eyebrows humorously and fixing the Captain with his green-eyed stare. The man avoided the gaze by looking back and rebuking one of his men for some non-existent offence.

  'Always?’ repeated Hawklan, turning to the front again.

  The Captain looked embarrassed. This man had an unnerving way of drawing confidences from people. ‘Learning's not encouraged in the Mathidrin,’ he said brusquely. ‘And too close an interest in the past would be viewed very suspiciously. We're told it's just been one long tale of abuse of the people by the Lords and the Geadrol, and treachery against the Kings. It's our job to put it right, not debate it.'

  Hawklan raised a placatory hand. ‘Just an innocent question, Captain,’ he said. ‘It looks such a splendid sight I was naturally interested in who would build such a place.'

  Mollified, the Captain volunteered, ‘When I was a kid, they used to say it was built after the First Coming. I suppose that just means it's very old and no one really knows.'

  Hawklan nodded. ‘It's certainly very old, but...’ his voice tailed off. A dark swirling and roaring surged round him and he heard a distant, failing, trumpet call. A sense of horror overwhelmed him and he felt a cry of unbearable despair forming inside him.

  'But?’ The Captain's voice brought him back to the day's sunshine.

  Hawklan shook his head apologetically. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Reining his horse back discreetly, the Captain fell behind Hawklan slightly, so that he could study him again.

  Tall and straight, Hawklan rode his splendid black horse with an ease that the Captain had only seen before in Queen Sylvriss. He was relaxed and easy in everything he did and almost always good-humoured and acquiescent. But, nevertheless, he gave the impression of being very much his own man; unassailable. And, deep inside, the Captain sensed that to provoke him to anger—no, that somehow, would be unlikely—but to provoke him to violence, would be to risk a very swift death. That bow. That sword. Those damned green eyes. The man gave him the creeps. It came to him abruptly that he had similar feelings when near the Lord Dan-Tor. He would be glad when he was back in the City. Ambition or no, people like that were best avoided.

  The Captain consoled himself with his assessment of Isloman. Big, powerful, easily a match for several men. Superficially affable, but with his eyes ever watchful and unable to hide their suspicion. Easier to provoke than his companion if need arose, Isloman was more ... normal. That was it. He was more normal than Hawklan.

  On the whole, he thought, he'd done the right thing giving them an escort and coming along himself. He couldn't see how any reproach could be levelled at him for that. If it transpired they were unimportant then he'd been sensibly cautious, while if they were importan
t then his action would be duly noted.

  Certainty, however, continued to elude him, and he eased his horse forward to come by Hawklan's side again. On reflection, he thought, the man's not quite like Dan-Tor. He'd helped two of the horses that went lame, and very effectively, too. And he'd pitched in with the work in their overnight camps. Then, of course, he's bound to behave like that if he's looking to make a favourable impression.

  'What's that smoke, Captain?’ Hawklan's voice broke into his reverie. Screwing up his eyes against the summer glare, he followed Hawklan's extended arm. As if aspiring to join the soaring towers and spires of Vakloss, a single column of dense black smoke was rising from the City.

  'A celebration perhaps?’ offered Hawklan.

  The Captain shook his head. ‘No,’ he said definitely. ‘But I don't know what it is. Probably a house fire.'

  'It's a big one, Captain,’ said one of the men. ‘Look how high it's going.'

  The Captain nodded and then shrugged. ‘Well, there's nothing we can do.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I'm sure someone knows it's there.’ This shaft of wit seemed to go down well with the men but, as they rode on, the smoke grew more dense and all eyes were fastened on it.

  The party became very quiet, disturbing the country stillness only with the sound of lightly treading hooves and the soft creak and clatter of tackle and arms. Abruptly, the rising column of smoke seemed to gather momentum and, disregarding the vagaries of the rooftop breezes, began to billow upwards relentlessly, until it was well above the Palace towers. Soon it was dominating the entire sky in front of them.

  'That's no house fire,’ someone said hoarsely, mirroring all their thoughts.

  Hawklan realized he was craning back his head to see the top of the column. Faintly a distant sound reached him. ‘Quiet,’ he said, raising his hand and reining his horse to a halt.

  Without thinking, the Captain halted the troop as if the order had been passed to him by a senior officer. The group stood motionless and silent as if paying homage to the towering manifestation before them. Across the intervening fields a confused jumble of sounds mingled with the birdsong and the hissing of the gently waving trees. Hawklan's hand remained in the air. Then, quite distinctly, the rapid tolling of a bell reached them. The urgency of its tone galvanized the Captain.

  'It's the General Alarm,’ he said, almost in disbelief. For an instant he looked flustered. He gave Hawklan and Isloman a worried look then, turning his horse around to face his men, he shouted, ‘You three, no, you five, escort the envoys into Vakloss. Straight to the Palace and notify the Lord Dan-Tor of their arrival. The rest of you come with me at the gallop.’ Then, to Hawklan, ‘I'm sorry, but if the General Alarm's being sounded, something serious must've happened. We have to ride to it as fast as we can. These men will escort you safely to the Palace.’ And then he was gone, together with the rest of his patrol, leaving the seven men staring after them through the dust they were raising.

  Hawklan looked round at his reduced entourage. The past few days had taught him a great deal about the Mathidrin and, sadly, this confirmed what he had learned from his encounter with Urssain and Aelang. They were for the most part loutish and brutal, caring little for the animals they rode, nothing for the terrain they lived off, and precious little for the people they had encountered on their journey. Hawklan suspected that it was only his presence that had saved the animals and some of the villagers they had met from casual acts of gratuitous violence—sadism even. Admittedly they were well disciplined, but it was a discipline patently derived from fear. Such glimmers of intelligence as he had seen were heavily larded with cunning and dedicated to self-interested opportunism. It had been hard to keep his feelings to himself. Now, he did not feel disposed to accept the authority of this frayed remnant.

  'If that fire's as big as it looks, there'll be a lot of people hurt and needing help. Quickly now,’ he said authoritatively. ‘You two lead the way. Full gallop.’ The men hesitated. Hawklan glared at them. ‘Quickly, I said,’ he repeated menacingly with a flick of his head in the direction of the City. He could almost see the men's reflexes crushing their doubts. Fear is an important key with these people, Hawklan reminded himself again.

  * * * *

  Sylvriss burst into the room unannounced. ‘Lord Dan-Tor. What is this? What's happening?'

  Dan-Tor, tall and very still, was standing at the window, staring out at the smoke rising high above the City. His gaze was baleful and, as he turned to face his Queen, a lingering residue of malevolence hung in his eyes like morning frost reluctant to obey the sun's bidding. Sylvriss almost started under the impact of this look, but neither her face nor her posture showed any sign of alarm. Resolutely she reminded herself that this was the true nature of the man, and she forgot it at her peril.

  'With your permission, Majesty,’ he said, indicating Urssain and a group of other senior Mathidrin officers standing stiffly by. Sylvriss nodded her consent.

  'You have your orders,’ he said curtly. ‘I want the fire and the people under control with maximum dispatch. And I want the ringleaders taken alive if possible. There's more to this than a spontaneous outburst. Dismissed.'

  The men saluted and, after bowing to the Queen, left as stiffly as they had stood.

  'Lord Dan-Tor, what's happening?’ the Queen repeated as the door closed.

  'Majesty,’ said Dan-Tor, his face now more composed. ‘I'm afraid a small number of troublemakers have started a disturbance over in the west of the City. Unfortunately they've also started that.’ He indicated the view from the window.

  Sylvriss went to the window and stared up at the towering column of smoke. ‘The King nearly saw it,’ she said anxiously. ‘I managed to get him to a room on the other side. He's asleep now.'

  Dan-Tor nodded solicitously, his eyes indifferent.

  'What is it that's burning?’ Sylvriss continued.

  'One of my workshops,’ Dan-Tor replied.

  'But that smoke. So black, so dense, and that awful smell.'

  Dan-Tor did not reply.

  'Who would do such a thing?’ Sylvriss asked, turning away from the window.

  Dan-Tor allowed himself a small sigh of resignation, just sufficient to reach but not overstep the bounds of insolence. ‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘The Geadrol was suspended because enemies within were weakening us. We have the leaders of those enemies in our hands, but their followers, those they've deceived, are still at large, working their will.'

  'Surely the Lord Eldric and the others wouldn't sanction such...’ She gestured to the window, ‘such destruction?'

  Dan-Tor gathered some documents together. ‘Majesty, my evidence tells me so.'

  For a moment the Queen considered arguing the point, but changed her mind. Conflict with Dan-Tor at this point would serve no useful purpose, and he was in an odd mood. With a distressed look on her face, she turned back to the window and stared out again at the rising column of smoke. Then, looking down, she saw large numbers of Mathidrin, mounted and on foot, in the courtyard below. A faint spark of an idea formed in her mind. It threw its dim light on plans that she and Dilrap had laid. Plans laid mainly to allay the frustration of their impotence, but thorough for all that.

  'What are the Mathidrin doing?’ she asked.

  Dan-Tor put his hand to his head. ‘Majesty, I'm afraid the disturbance is a large one. I suspect that there may be disaffected High Guards involved. It will have to be stamped out quickly and effectively or we may have serious and widespread violence to deal with.'

  Before Sylvriss could speak, there was an urgent knocking at the door.

  'Enter,’ said Dan-Tor. The door opened immediately and a young Mathidrin trooper marched in. His face was blackened and a livid red graze above his right eye glistened painfully. His uniform was scuffed and crumpled, and he was breathing heavily. Saluting, he handed two notes to Dan-Tor whose face darkened as he read them.

  Bad news, I trust, thought Sylvriss. Then, aloud, ‘Lord Dan-Tor. I can see you've
the matter well in hand. I must return to the King. I'll not disturb you further.'

  Dan-Tor looked up. ‘Majesty,’ he acknowledged offhandedly.

  Sylvriss turned and walked to the door ignoring the slight implicit in his tone. An odd mood indeed. As she passed the young Mathidrin she said, ‘Young man, when the Lord Dan-Tor has finished with you, go and have that gash attended to.’ The Mathidrin saluted smartly and there was a brief look of gratitude in his eyes.

  Once outside the room, Sylvriss moved quickly to one of the upper rooms of the Palace. Throwing open a window, she leaned out and listened. Alongside the column of dense black smoke, another, equally dense, but of a deathly white hue, was rising. She could both hear and feel muffled concussions in the distance. What in the world has he got in those workshops? she thought. The man pollutes everything he touches.

  Faintly, she could hear another sound coming from the same direction. Eventually she identified it as people shouting. Not in fear or alarm, but in anger. A great many people shouting. Dan-Tor's disturbance must be a full-blown riot, she realized, though she found it almost impossible to conceive the Fyordyn, with their painstaking patience, resorting to such indiscriminate violence.

  The tainted summer breeze blew her hair across her face and she swept it to one side. At the same time, the spark of the idea she had had flared up brightly, filling her mind with an uneasy mixture of excitement and fear. She craned further out of the window and peered down into the courtyard far below. It was seething black with Mathidrin, as were most of the streets she could see.

  She looked intently at a marching column and then superimposed the image on those gathered in the courtyard. A quick calculation confirmed her earlier, more subjective impression formed in Dan-Tor's room. Almost the entire City garrison was being committed to deal with this minor disturbance.