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

Jaldaric did not reply but returned his father's embrace and for a long time the two sat leaning against the cold dungeon wall taking solace from each other until the tide of euphoria ebbed a little and left them alone and lost on a strange shore.

  Eldric found his memories of recent events returning sporadically, and he winced as a hesitant exploration of his skull discovered a large lump. He recalled being dragged with Lord Oremson from the house and through the City. He remembered the frightened faces of his followers, and did he remember bodies lying in Oremson's gardens, in the moon shadow?

  Jaldaric spoke. ‘What's happening, Father?’ he asked. ‘I remember being in Orthlund. And arguing with some ... thug. And a patrol of Mandrocs ... and a journey.’ He shuddered. ‘Then all of a sudden I'm here. The Lord Dan-Tor's asking me questions and telling me not to worry.’ He shrugged bitterly. ‘Now I don't know whether these are memories or whether I've gone mad. I feel as if I've been here all my life. Are you here, Father, or have I truly gone mad?'

  Eldric held his son tighter. ‘No, son, you're not mad, though the world seems to be. If you've a memory of two Orthlundyn called Hawklan and Isloman, then you're sane enough and so am I.'

  Jaldaric started up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Lord Dan-Tor asked me about him. Green-eyed and...’ He stopped. ‘My friends. What happened to my friends?'

  Eldric looked down and then back up at his son. He saw the knowledge in his son's face before he spoke, and his voice seemed to echo through the years, back to the many times he had spoken such words to such faces in the Morlider War. They were always inadequate, but there were no others. His stomach turned over. ‘I'm sorry, Jal, they're all dead. Hawklan said they took quite a toll of the Mandrocs, but...'

  Jaldaric clenched his teeth and standing up, turned away. But he did not weep. So long tormented by his isolation, the certainty gave him as much comfort as it did grief. When he turned round, his face was almost petulant. ‘What's happening, Father?’ he asked again. ‘Why am I here? What crime have I committed? Where's the Law? And where were you?’ His tone became reproachful. ‘Every time there was a footstep outside, I'd think, here he is, come to set me free and tell me it's all been some terrible mistake. But you didn't come. Day after day you didn't come.'

  Eldric struggled to his feet and faced his son. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn't know at first, and when I did know, I couldn't do anything. I'm sorry.'

  The two looked at one another in silence for some time, then Eldric laid his hand on his son's arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘That bunk looks none too sweet, but it'll be more comfortable than the floor. Let's sit down and I'll tell you what's been happening.'

  Jaldaric listened to his father intently and in silence. ‘I can't believe this, Father,’ he said when at last Eldric had finished. ‘All these dreadful things.'

  Eldric nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘My mind's done some scurrying over the past weeks, I can tell you. Waiting to wake up. But it's all true, believe me. It's all brutally true. It's as if some poison has leached into the people and corroded their spirits so that they just crumble helpless before Dan-Tor's will.'

  There was a long silence.

  'And you think this is the ... Second Coming?’ Jaldaric said awkwardly. ‘That ... Sumeral ... has risen in Narsindal and that this is His first step out into the world?'

  Eldric held his son's gaze, aware of his fearful uncertainty. ‘Yes,’ he said unequivocally. ‘Beyond all doubt now. But our immediate problem is Dan-Tor. He's foe enough for us, and whether he's master or servant is irrelevant. Suffice it that he has all the advantages.’ Looking at the doubt still written on Jaldaric's face, he smiled. ‘Don't worry,’ he said. ‘I don't mind you thinking your old father's gone peculiar, I'm sure I would have in similar circumstances, but you'll be able to form your own conclusion when we're out of here.'

  Despite himself Jaldaric smiled in response. Then he rubbed his face. ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘I haven't smiled in months. It's made my face ache.'

  Eldric put his arm around his son's shoulder. ‘You've passed your lowest point, son,’ he said. ‘From now on we go upwards and out of here. Dan-Tor's probably put us together because he thinks he has nothing to fear from us. Judging from the number of Mathidrin I saw when I was brought here I'd say he's taken the City by force. But he can't take the whole country by force, and I doubt he can hold even the City for long.'

  Jaldaric's face clouded as he moved away from Eldric. ‘I'm glad of your optimism, Father,’ he said. ‘But how can we get away from here? They open that door twice a day—at least I think it's twice a day—I haven't seen the sky since Orthlund. There's always two of them, and I don't even know where we are.'

  Eldric, however, refused to be downed. He had found his son again. The son he had believed cruelly dead at the hands of Mandrocs. He had good and powerful friends outside, and surely the people weren't all beyond redemption?

  'We're in the Westerclave,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I watched where I was going this time, for all I was groggy.’ Abruptly he clenched his fists. ‘We've been no more than a flight of stairs apart all this time.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Just out there are the stairs that I shouted down when we tricked our way out of our cell.’ His face creased in distress. ‘If only I'd known. The Goraidin could've...’ His voice tailed off. ‘Still. That's talk through the rafters now. No recalling it.’ He looked thoughtfully round the cell, and his eyes lit on the torch that he had seen when he recovered consciousness. He stood up and walked over to examine it. Running his fingers around its ornate, fluted body, he said, ‘This is old. Very old. I've never seen the like except in an old storybook.’ Then his hand moved to the wall by it. ‘And look at these.’ He gestured to Jaldaric and pointed out some faint scratches in the wall by the torch. Taking hold of the torch he shook it violently. It did not move. ‘You try,’ he said brusquely. ‘You're stronger than I am.’ Jaldaric frowned but took hold of the torch and strained at it until his pale face became red. Still it did not move. ‘It's well made,’ he said offhandedly.

  'It's more than well made,’ said Eldric, examining the faint scratches again. ‘This was made by craftsmen the like of which don't exist any more, nor have for generations.’ He became excited. ‘I'll wager they've tried to remove that to put in one of Dan-Tor's stinking globes to illuminate his treachery. But this wall's turned their best chisels. And this torch has withstood everything they've hit it with.’ He began walking up and down. ‘They say that the Westerclave was built during the Wars of the First Coming. Some kind of an outpost that changed hands repeatedly as the war swept to and fro.’ He came to a conclusion. ‘This room's held prisoners who could exert a power that's beyond us and it was built accordingly.'

  Jaldaric could not share his father's enthusiasm. He sat down again and leaned back against the wall. ‘I'm sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘I've seen nothing but these walls and that torch for months. Ancient it might be—magic even—but it holds little charm for me. I'll be glad when I don't have to see it again.'

  Eldric nodded understandingly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But just think what that torch means, Jal.’ He sat down beside his son. ‘Outside that door there's a passage, a long passage, torchlit like this, and lined with exactly similar doors. Who knows how many cells there are down there? And I had no idea it even existed. This place probably hasn't been used in centuries, but what happens when someone opens it up? That torch,’ he pointed to it emphatically, ‘that torch—like any good old reliable torch would—bursts into life. After all this time. An unimaginable span of years and darkness. It lit when it was needed. And they couldn't put it out or destroy it.'

  He paused thoughtfully. ‘There might be an ancient evil waking again in the world, Jal, but there'll be other ancient forces stirring as well. Bringing light into the darkness. Even if Fyorlund falls and Riddin, and then Orthlund. Each step will take its toll and the world will know Sumeral for what He is sooner this time. Eventually it'll be He who finds Himself
surrounded by an iron ring. One that will close on Him and seal Him away forever.'

  Jaldaric gently mocked his father's unexpected rhetoric. ‘Father, you sound like an old storyteller ... a Keeper of the Festivals.’ But his brief jauntiness vanished abruptly and he wrapped his arms around himself as if for protection. ‘And if you're right. You talk about the fall of countries as if it were nothing. Whole populations swept aside for the sake of some greater future.’ There was a question mark in the word greater. ‘What are people? Just so many dust motes?'

  Eldric reached out to his son. ‘I don't know, Jal,’ he said. ‘Maybe we are motes floating through this world at the behest of others, but we have our own wills.'

  'But we've no freedom to exercise them in action, Father,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘No freedom. What can we do here?'

  Eldric chuckled and, as if in response, the torch turned to the colour of spring sunshine. Eldric looked at it and threw it a salute. ‘Thank you, old craftsman, wherever you are. Your gift continues unalloyed.’ Then, turning to his son, ‘What we can do, Jaldaric, Eldric's son—as motes—is get in Dan-Tor's eyes.'

  * * *

  Chapter 50

  The Mathidrin trooper quailed under Sylvriss's baleful stare. ‘Brown eyes a man would drown in,’ he had once heard a lustful compatriot wax in a more lyrical moment, but the gaze that held him now took all the moisture from his mouth and throat.

  'Release my bridle,’ she said but, though the words were slow and soft, they held such menace that the hand did as it was bid without any conscious effort on its owner's part. Two fears met inside him like clashing waves, and from somewhere he found a voice. It was hoarse and nervous, but it would have to do.

  'Majesty,’ he said. ‘It's the Ffyrst's orders. You're not to be allowed out into the City without a full escort. It's too dangerous.'

  It was not in Sylvriss's nature to confront when she could walk around, nor did she often use the authority which her position allowed and the people bestowed. But she was a Muster woman, and to obstruct the way of a Muster rider was to invoke responses which transcended normal social restraints. She swung her riding crop round and placed it accurately under the trooper's chin. Then, bending forward, her gaze still relentlessly steady, she said, ‘I am not to be allowed?’ in a soft echo of the man's words. ‘Even the King would not order me thus. Now stand aside or this horse may kill you before I can stop it.'

  The man took a hesitant step to one side. ‘Majesty, please,’ he said piteously. ‘I'll be punished if I allow you through.'

  Exuding fear, and drained of the arrogance and disdain that was the hallmark of the Mathidrin, the man became more human, and Sylvriss relented slightly. ‘Find a senior officer immediately,’ she said. ‘I'll give you two minutes.'

  It did not help, however. The man swallowed. ‘I may not leave my post, Majesty,’ he said.

  Some materials, when stressed, yield and move, giving outward signs of their condition. Others hold the stress within themselves, allowing it to build unseen, until one last increment bursts the fabric suddenly and catastrophically. So it was now with Sylvriss.

  Fretful at the news of repression her contacts were bringing to her, and fearful for their safety as Dan-Tor swept aside the ancient Law and replaced it with the even more ancient law of superior force; fearful also for the safety of Dilrap, daily playing aide and would-be confidante to Dan-Tor; and above all, fearful for her husband, steadily improving in health away from the pernicious influence of his Chief Physician, and becoming increasingly anxious to take to himself some of the reins of government he had so long relinquished, Sylvriss needed her riding to be able to retain some inner peace and outward semblance of calm and composure.

  Thundering through the City's great parks, and sometimes beyond the City itself, the wind blowing in her face and at one with the powerful animal under her, she could find again the spirit of the Riddinvolk and renew her courage and the sense of purpose that would sustain her when she returned to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Palace.

  Now this was threatened and the many fears came together like sharp-pointed chisels to destroy her. Her mind knew that the guard was only doing as he had been bidden and that she was placing him in an intolerable position, but it was a small cry against the roar of her heart and spirit, and while it did not yield its right, it saw its defeat.

  The Mathidrin saw it also, so acute had his fears made him, and he stepped back hastily even before the Queen urged her great horse forward and galloped through the gate regardless of him.

  As the hoofbeats echoed into the distance, he recovered himself and, running over to an alarm bell hanging by the side of the gate, he rang out a clamorous carillon in celebration of the passing of his dilemma. He'd done everything he could, cried the bell, let the officers deal with her.

  But Sylvriss and her mount were out of earshot before the first resonating vibrations left the bell. At full gallop she cascaded through the streets of the City heedless of direction and destination. What was important was to ride, to ride, to ride. To set aside the endless complexities and ambiguities of her life, and just be, just exist for a little while. She could not be constrained by guards and escorts any more than could the horses of Riddin be penned; free spirits both, they would either die or kill if pinioned.

  How long she rode she could not have said, nor through what streets and by-ways, but gradually her passion ebbed and the mind's voice became louder. She had been hasty with that guard. There had been a great deal of trouble in the City following the arrest of Eldric and Oremson, and she knew huge contingents of Mathidrin had been brought in from somewhere to contend with it. Her action had not been wise from any point of view except insofar as it eased her own inner pains. However, she could make amends and at least ensure the trooper was not punished. No great hurt need come of it.

  Then, as her spirit quieted, she became aware of the sound of the horse's hooves on the stone street as, reading her mood, it slowed down to a gentle canter. They echoed.

  She reined to a halt and looked around. A deep silence pervaded everywhere and rang almost deafeningly in her ears. Only the familiar sound of creaking harness and the easy breathing of her horse told her she had not become suddenly deaf. The street was deserted. And from the silence it seemed as if the whole City was deserted.

  She looked up at the surrounding buildings and identified where she was. Not one of the busier parts of the City but, even so, it was late morning and a great many people should have been about. She walked the horse forward, curiosity pushing all other concerns from her mind. For several minutes she moved quietly from street to street. All deserted. Unease began to temper her curiosity.

  Glancing up, she saw a curtain flicker. She stared at it pensively for some time, then dismounted and went over to the small flight of stone steps which led up to the door of the house. The strangeness of her behaviour made her feel slightly disorientated but, following her impulse, she walked up the steps and took hold of the large heavy door knocker.

  She found its cold contact reassuring and she brought her face close to it as if to hide from the rest of the world. The striker was a traditional iron ring with a radiant star at its centre, while the striking plate was a simple boss known colloquially as Sumeral's pate. She brought the striker down purposefully.

  The sound ruptured the silence and echoed up and down the street before it escaped out over the rooftops. It seemed to breed a myriad tiny whispers all pointing accusingly at her. It also brought her a little more to herself. She struck again and the answering whispers became terrified.

  But no answer came from within. Her jaw stiffened and she beat a powerful tattoo on the door that seemed to raise dust whirls in the street. As the hissing echoes faded, she became aware of a presence behind the door.

  'Majesty,’ came a faint voice. ‘Majesty. What do you want?’ The voice was fearful, and the request peremptory.

  Its tone dispelled her brief anger. ‘Open the door,’ she said. ‘Tel
l me what's happening. Where is everyone? Why are the streets empty?'

  'Majesty, how can you not know?’ came the reply. ‘I beg of you, go away'.

  Again anger fluttered inside Sylvriss, but she contained it. She knew that no one would speak to her thus except under some dire provocation. ‘Are you going to leave your Queen standing at your threshold like some pedlar?’ she said gently.

  There was a long silence, then some scuffling and whispering from behind the door. Her horse whinnied softly, but she ignored it.

  Then a woman's voice. ‘Majesty, please, I beg you, leave now, for all our sakes.'

  Sylvriss began to protest, but the words died on her lips, such was the fear in the whispered voice. Baffled she turned and walked back to her horse.

  'You there, stop!'

  A raucous command shattered her reverie and brought her harshly back to the street. She turned to see a Mathidrin foot patrol approaching. Patting her horse's neck she whispered, ‘I'm sorry. I didn't listen to you properly.'

  Scanning the patrol she saw one or two familiar faces, but the Sirshiant at its head was unfamiliar. He was tall and well built, and carried himself with an attitude that set Sylvriss's teeth on edge.

  Leaving the patrol he strode towards her purposefully. Sylvriss drew herself up and met his gaze coldly, but his stride did not falter and knots of fear began to tangle in her stomach.

  'You're aware of the punishment for being on the streets, wench,’ he said coldly, starting to draw his sword. There was a visible tremor in the ranks of the patrol behind him, and a disbelieving hiss of voices filled the air from no apparent source.

  The Sirshiant faltered and then stopped. ‘Who was that?’ he said quietly and ominously. A trooper ran forward and spoke to him softly. Slowly he released his sword, tightening and untightening his grip on the hilt angrily. Then he slammed it back into its sheath and there was an undisguised snicker from someone in the patrol. His face became livid, but he turned again to the Queen.