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

  Dan-Tor looked down at Dilrap. The man was still an irritation, but he'd been undeniably useful over the months. Now he seemed to be developing a reassuring self-interest; ambition even. He was harder to fathom than Urssain but he could still be useful. An interesting and unexpected development. The Secretary twitched under the gaze but kept his eyes fixed on the shifting crowds below.

  'So your advice is?’ Dan-Tor asked.

  Dilrap turned to Urssain. ‘Can you find him and seize him quietly?’ he asked.

  Urssain shook his head. ‘Not without time and a great deal of good luck,’ he said.

  Dilrap turned back to Dan-Tor. ‘There's your answer, Ffyrst. You don't need my advice. If Eldric appears, you must meet him in debate and defeat him. It would be useful, however, if you announced that Jaldaric's sentence is being reviewed. That will make the crowd a little less partisan.'

  'You say must, again, Secretary,’ said Dan-Tor quietly but angrily, a red fire flashing momentarily in his eyes.

  Dilrap staggered back as if he has been struck. Steadying himself against the chair he had backed into, he gasped for breath, then frantically and needlessly adjusting his robe he stepped to the window again. ‘It's not I who say must, Ffyrst,’ he said, unashamedly fearful. ‘It's they who say it.’ And he prodded a desperate finger down towards the throngs choking the streets below. ‘If Eldric appears and you assail him by force, then they—those people—in that mood will bring us all down. With or without the help of High Guards.'

  Bring us down, Dan-Tor noted, looking at the quaking figure in front of him, still desperately trying to advise him in spite of his mortal terror. Slowly he turned his gaze back to the window. ‘What of the Orthlundyn, Urssain. The man Hawklan?'

  'The same rumour says he left with the others, tending their sick,’ replied Urssain.

  Ah, Hawklan, Dan-Tor thought, I'd not expected to catch you today, but I continue to learn about you. You're an arrogant player to give me such a piece as Eldric, albeit I have to cut my way through this farce. You attack too recklessly, far too recklessly.

  However, came a cautionary thought, I must not be lured into the same folly.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Your advice is sound, gentlemen. We mustn't lose what we've so carefully gained for want of a little more patience, must we? When Eldric appears, I'll confront him. It'll be interesting to see how he defends the riots his men started, and his links with the Orthlundyn. Stay near, Dilrap. Your agile knowledge of the Law could prove useful.'

  Dilrap bowed.

  'In the meantime, Urssain. If your men happen upon Eldric and can take him discreetly—very discreetly—do so. It'll save complications. But if they encounter him on his way here, publicly, they're to escort him with every courtesy. If we have to play this farce, and it seems we have, then that will doubtless make a favourable impression on the...’ He waved a dismissive hand towards the crowds. ‘...on the jury.'

  * * * *

  The sun was high in the sky and the streaming clouds white and triumphant as they surged overhead in the strengthening wind, when a perceptible change was noted in the crowds thronging the City streets.

  It became apparent first to curious observers high in the Palace towers, and the bustle in the streets was reflected by a bustle in the Palace corridors as the news hissed rapidly from room to room. Soon all the windows and balconies were filled with excited faces and the battlements themselves began to fill with servants and officials jostling for position between the rigid Mathidrin Guard.

  Seeing the activity in the Palace, the crowds by the gate received the message sooner than did those who were much nearer to the approaching Eldric and the atmosphere became almost unbearably tense. Not for nothing was Eldric one of the most loved and respected Lords of the Geadrol. He had a natural gift of leadership, and years of experience had honed and hardened it into a formidable weapon which he could use with very little effort. But what planted him deep in the hearts of the people was his honest open nature. He had asked only two things of Astrom and his neighbours. Shelter, until he could ride through the City to the Palace, and their help in spreading the truth.

  When Yatsu and the others had said their uneasy farewells, he had spoken to the gathered crowd. ‘Go to as many of your friends as you safely can, and tell them everything you've heard this evening. Tell them it's my wish that they in turn tell as many as they can of what's happened.'

  Astrom looked alarmed. ‘Everything, Lord? What you've ordered the other Lords to do? Are you sure?'

  'Yes, Astrom,’ Eldric replied. ‘I can account for the truth to the people and accept their verdict. Let Dan-Tor weave his web of lies. It'll bind him soon enough, and I've no desire to be caught out in some petty deceit that will taint my whole story.’ He took Astrom's arm. ‘Besides, this ... gossiping ... may be dangerous for you. If you're questioned by these Mathidrin, you'll have nothing to hide from them. Tell them the truth. Hide nothing. And tell them it's my specific order that you should do so.'

  It had been a wise judgement, he thought now, as he walked his horse slowly through the quiet crowds. It was the most useful thing that Astrom and his enthusiastic friends could have done, and it was the best protection he could have given them. The truth had added a quality to the consequent rumours that had cut through the murky innuendoes being spread routinely by Dan-Tor's aides.

  He had to admit to no small pride when he saw the crowds waiting for him, but he knew it for the treacherous bloom it was. He had spoken long and earnestly to Astrom's wife when her husband was out spreading his tale, and she had confirmed and amplified all that the Goraidin had told him of the events that had occurred since his arrest. It had been a sad and sobering experience.

  Be careful, he reminded himself. You know you're innocent, but these people have been ravaged in many ways since you last walked among them. They'll need to have the obvious proved to them. And looking into the faces around him, he felt the responsibility of his position more keenly than for many years. Yes, he thought, I've failed. We've all failed; we Lords of the Geadrol. We lowered a guard which was not for our protection, but yours. We didn't maintain our vigilance, and it's you who suffer the most as a result. Perhaps we can start rooting out the evil that our negligence had allowed to seed here.

  Quite suddenly he realized his pulse was racing. It puzzled him at first. His ride through the crowd was leisurely, and the crowd's mood was full of friendly welcome. There was nothing to excite or alarm him. Then an old memory returned to him and he identified the sensation. Battle fever, you old fool, he thought. Many a time he'd ridden through his High Guards before doing battle against the Morlider willing them to take that fear and weld it into anger. An old lesson re-learned. He smiled to himself and several people in the crowd cheered.

  But there was a darker quality to his thoughts that eluded him for some while. He recognized it only as he passed by The Warrior, a statue of an armed man leaning exhausted on his battered shield, a hacked and blunted sword in his hand. It was a haunting sight, almost certainly the work of some ancient Orthlundyn carver. Its original purpose was unknown, but it had been rededicated to the memory of those men who died in the Morlider War. As Eldric drew near, he turned to face it and bowed, as was the tradition. When he looked up he found he was staring directly into the statue's eyes. A trick of the light, he thought as he turned away from what he had seen, but the sight had chilled him. The ancient stone eyes were alive with torment and doubt, with unresolved conflict. Then he recognized the unfamiliar shape in his own thoughts. The dark figure shepherding his pride and battle fever was vengeance, the spirit that tapped deep into the ancient darkness of the mind and bound both madness and sanity with chains of self-justification.

  Laying in ambush for me were you? he thought. I recognize you, you old fiend. I've seen too many good men go down to your blandishments. Well, you may watch and take what relish you can, but you'll not guide me further.

  Then, as if echoing his inner declaration, the sun blazed o
ut from behind the cloud that had hidden it for several minutes, and bright warm light flooded over the crowd. On an impulse, Eldric reined in his horse and gazed around at the crowd.

  'My friends,’ he shouted. ‘I thank you for your welcome. Many things have happened of late that shouldn't have happened. I'm going to the Palace to seek an Accounting of the Lord Dan-Tor. Your presence would honour us both. I beg of you, attend on us. I'm in need of your verdict and your judgement.'

  * * * *

  'They're cheering,’ said Urssain, turning to look at the seated figure of Dan-Tor. ‘He's stopped to make a speech. We could have an angry crowd on our hands when he arrives.'

  'No, no,’ said Dan-Tor, ‘that's not his way. He'll wait until he's here before he lays out any recriminations. Right now he's just trying to “sway the jury” a little, that's all. It'll present no problem. I can play this game as well as he, I'm sure.'

  'Game?’ queried Urssain.

  Dan-Tor said nothing. It's as well you don't know how small a pawn you are, Commander, he thought. Nor the nature of the Master who plays with you. The very thought of him would shrivel your vaulting ambition out of its feeble existence.

  Urssain did not press his question, but turned again to look at the now visible Eldric approaching the Palace gates below.

  'He's a splendid sight,’ he said involuntarily.

  Dan-Tor rose and joined him at the window. ‘Indeed,’ he said after a moment's contemplation. ‘Indeed he is. Most picturesque. A relic of days long gone, like something out of an old picture. It's quite fitting that such a figure should attend the death of the old order and the birth of the new.'

  But the sight irritated him, bringing back ancient and bitter memories of the time when many, dressed thus, had unjustly brought down his Master and sent him into the long darkness. For Eldric was in battledress. Not the formal battledress he would have worn for the Geadrol, but the full battledress worn by the High Guards at the time of the First Coming. A light, close-knit mailcoat that would turn almost any edge or point, and a rounded helm that would deflect them. A white surcoat with the symbol of the Iron Ring emblazoned on it, and a red cloak to denote his rank and make him conspicuous in combat—an invitation to the enemy and a focus of courage and leadership for his own men. At his left side hung a sword in a decorated scabbard, and at his right swung a double-headed axe that glinted bright in the sunlight.

  Dan-Tor looked at the glittering axe. Developed from a much cruder Mandroc weapon, he remembered. Ethriss was always learning and improving. Suddenly a great swell of primordial rage rose up through him, as if these old memories had opened a long-closed door. Closing his eyes, he struggled to fight it down. Had Urssain chosen that moment to turn around, he would have seen his master strangely and evilly transfigured, but Dan-Tor's restraint prevailed and the moment passed.

  'A brief word of advice for your men, Commander,’ he said.

  'Ffyrst?'

  'Patience,’ replied Dan-Tor. ‘Move only on my express command. I intend to make this a long and tedious day, and I want no acts of “initiative” from any of your more foolish young men, do you understand? Behaviour to Eldric and to the crowd is to be both impeccable and friendly.'

  'Yes, Ffyrst,’ Urssain acknowledged.

  'Besides,’ continued Dan-Tor, ‘he may be an old relic, but he's a dangerous one, and he's come dressed for close-quarter fighting. Armed like that, he'd slaughter dozens before you could bring him down.'

  Urssain offered no comment on this judgement of his men. He still carried the memories of how the High Guards had fought in Orthlund and he would not make the mistake of underestimating them again.

  Below, an expectant semi-circle formed in the crowd and Eldric rode slowly forward into the open space.

  'Ah,’ said Dan-Tor. ‘We're here. Let's attend the honourable Lord, Commander, and make ourselves available for the Accounting.'

  * * *

  Chapter 43

  As they left the outskirts of Vakloss, Hawklan advised Yatsu to allow Serian to set the pace. ‘He's a better judge of horses than either of us, and time's important.’ The Goraidin acceded with some reluctance and was uncertain for some time until he saw the progress they were making and how fresh the horses remained after following Serian's unseen commands.

  On a few occasions Hawklan asked Serian to stop for the sake of the men, but the horse remonstrated with him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We're going well. We're in harmony. Our spirits are flowing. You look to your own, Hawklan, I'll look to mine.’ And Hawklan had to content himself with tending Dacu and Arinndier and encouraging the others while in the saddle, until Serian deemed it fitting to stop.

  A combination of Serian's will and Isloman's shadow lore sped them through the night, and Gavor's high circling watch kept them clear of Mathidrin patrols during the day.

  'They're not looking for anyone,’ he concluded eventually. ‘We've been too fast for them. They don't know what's happened.'

  A further, lengthy sortie by Gavor yielded the information that they were apparently not being pursued at all. Yatsu was uneasy.

  'It could be for many reasons,’ Hawklan said. ‘Perhaps Eldric's giving Dan-Tor severe cause for thought. Perhaps he's uncertain of your support in the country and is frightened of over-extending himself.'

  Yatsu shook his head. ‘No. He has enough Mathidrin in the country to deal with us. He must know where we're going and why by now. If he's not pursuing us with everything he has, then he doesn't care that we'll raise an army against him, which means...'

  'He's got greater forces at his command somewhere than we've seen so far.’ Hawklan anticipated his conclusion.

  'Yes,’ Yatsu acknowledged. ‘We must execute Lord Eldric's orders as quickly as possible.'

  On the third day out from Vakloss Gavor swooped down unexpectedly out of the windy sky. ‘Rider coming,’ he said. ‘Very fast.'

  'Mathidrin?’ asked Yatsu.

  'No,’ said Gavor. ‘But he's liveried, armed and riding as if his life depended on it.'

  Yatsu spoke a few soft orders and four of the Goraidin melted into the adjacent fields and hedgerows. Within minutes, the rider thundered round a bend in the road ahead. Seeing the waiting group blocking the road he brought his sweating mount to a precipitate halt. Hawklan could see the mixture of emotions that illuminated the man's face as he looked at them. Then, with apparent reluctance he turned his horse as if to flee, only to find Goraidin emerging from the fields to seal his retreat.

  He spun his horse round several times indecisively, then abruptly lifted a double-headed axe from his saddle and held it high and menacingly in the air. The gesture and the man's attitude radiated an unequivocal intention. Hawklan heard Yatsu draw in a sharp breath.

  'He's battle crazy,’ he shouted. ‘Defend yourselves.'

  The man's horse reared violently, and with a terrible roaring cry he urged it forward straight at Yatsu's group.

  The force of the man's desperate passion hit Hawklan like a breaking wave, and he felt a strange stirring deep within him.

  'Stop,’ he shouted. Not to the charging figure, but to the Goraidin by him, who were drawing back bows to end this threat at a safe distance. Before anyone could argue, Serian leapt forward into a full gallop seeming to read Hawklan's will without words being spoken.

  The group watched, stunned, as Serian gathered speed and headed straight for the oncoming rider. But Isloman's eyes opened wide, almost in terror, as once again his old friend had disappeared and in front of him was some ancient figure sprung alive from the walls of Anderras Darion.

  At the sight of Hawklan approaching, both the man's cry and his horse faltered slightly, but not sufficiently to stem either the physical or the emotional momentum that had been built up. The axe swung around his head in a lethal hissing circle, and his cry became more shrill, but Yatsu screwed up his eyes in a sympathetic grimace as he heard the fear in it.

  As the two horses closed, Serian swerved suddenly to the right and Hawkla
n leaned to the left, bringing his hand up in front of the man's face. The move was so rapid and unexpected that the man rose up out of his saddle and crashed backwards on to the ground even though Hawklan had barely touched him.

  Hawklan dismounted quickly and ran to the fallen man, the grim aura that had surrounded him during his charge falling from him like an unwanted cloak. He knelt down by the man's side and began gently and swiftly checking for injury. Isloman watched uncertainly, two images lingering in his mind: Hawklan the healer he had known for so many years; and Hawklan the terrible warrior who appeared in times of physical trial.

  As Hawklan's hands moved across the man's face, his eyes flickered open and gazed upward, unfocused and bewildered.

  'You're badly winded, but uninjured,’ said Hawklan. ‘You were lucky. I'm sorry I had to be so rough, but you were about to be killed.'

  Memory returned to the man's face and he tried to rise.

  Hawklan restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest. ‘Just rest for a moment,’ he said. ‘You're safe now.'

  The Goraidin gathered round and the man struggled for a moment unavailingly against Hawklan's hand. Then his head dropped back despairingly. ‘Damn you,’ he said weakly. ‘Damn you and all your kind.'

  Hawklan smiled. ‘I don't think there are a great many like me, and you're misjudging the others, they're not what they seem.'

  The man, still breathing heavily, glowered at Hawklan, but Hawklan returned the look with another smile. ‘You're alive, aren't you?’ he said. Then, flicking his thumb towards the watching Goraidin, ‘These men would've killed you in another pace if I hadn't stopped you. They had quite specific, if hasty, orders about it, and every personal inclination, the way you were swinging that axe.'