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

  'Majesty,’ he said, as if the words were choking him. ‘Forgive me. I didn't know who you were. We've very strict orders about how to deal with people disobeying the Ffyrst's edicts.'

  Sylvriss could see a fury bubbling within the man, but it seemed to be disproportionate to the humiliation he had just brought on himself. She felt her horse tremble slightly, instinctively preparing itself for battle, and realized suddenly that the man was demented and barely in control. Then she noticed that his hands were bloodstained.

  Abruptly the man's anger meshed with and unleashed her own, and swinging up into her saddle she glared down at him. ‘Sirshiant,’ she said, ‘you need lessons in discretion I think. Have your Captain and his Commander report to me when you return to barracks.'

  The man's control slipped a little further, but he managed a restrained salute. Sylvriss swung the horse round, making him jump clear, then urged it forward at a slow walk.

  She had gone barely ten paces when she heard, ‘Break that door down and execute the occupants for violation of the Edict.’ She spun round in disbelief. Several of the patrol were running towards the door she had been knocking on, and the Sirshiant was drawing his sword again. It, too, was bloodstained.

  'No,’ she cried, and turning her horse she drove it at the advancing men. Those who knew her retreated immediately while the remainder hesitated only to be scattered as she swung the horse round and placed it firmly across the foot of the small stairway.

  The Sirshiant strode forward and took hold of the horse's bridle in a white-knuckled grip. The horse tore it free and sent the man staggering. He raised his sword furiously.

  'Sirshiant,’ thundered Sylvriss. ‘Are you insane? Bad enough you seize the bridle of a horse like this, but raising your sword to me. You're under arrest! Hand me that sword and return immediately to your barracks.'

  The man hesitated, then turned and walked away from her for a little way. When he stopped his shoulders were hunched as if he were pushing against a great weight.

  'Sirshiant,’ said the Queen, ‘lay down your sword. That's an order.’ But as he turned, she saw the last vestige of control slip away from him and knew that her words would be no more effective than falling autumn leaves in restraining him.

  Some of the patrol saw it too and, breaking ranks, dashed forward. He struck the first to reach him with a single back-handed blow that laid him out along the street, blood streaming down his face, then turning towards the others he held out his left hand, inviting them forward, while his right hand brandished the sword menacingly. The patrol spread out in a wide, uncertain circle.

  When he turned again, the Sirshiant's intent was hideously clear. Battle-fever. Bloodlust. The words burst into Sylvriss's mind. A lesser person would have faltered, disbelieving such a thing possible in this quiet City street. But, Muster-trained, Sylvriss saw it for what it was. Somehow, perhaps intentionally, she had released this demon. Now she must face it, with its dreadful hamstringing sword. There was no retreat. Her stomach was hard and hollow with a dreadful fear, but her only ally was her horse, and to allow fear to dominate would be to infect the animal and betray it. She leaned forward and whispered words of release to it; killing words. It was ready. Its eyes shone whitely and it pranced a little as with its rider it changed its fear to anger.

  Hooves clattering on the hard stone street, and forelegs dancing high, the horse moved around the Sirshiant. With trembling hands, Sylvriss seized the handle of the staff that was part of every Muster rider's tackle. It stuck in its loop and her father's angry voice rushed in on her. ‘Look after your equipment properly, girl. The dangerous attacks are those you're not expecting.'

  The horse skittered to one side and lashed out a foot as the Sirshiant aimed a wild whistling sword cut at its head. The man moved with surprising speed, however, and the hoof barely touched him.

  Then, at last, the staff came free, but with such suddenness that it slipped from Sylvriss's gasp. Instinctively, she flicked the elusive end and caught the staff boldly as it spun round. The movement looked calculated and confident and the Sirshiant stepped back into a low, crouching stance. Then, taking the sword in both hands, he lifted it above his head and charged forward with a great roar.

  Sylvriss watched the attack coming. Judgement in her too, was now the prisoner of battle-fever. She could still flee, it said faintly, but her rage was locked with the Sirshiant's madness in an ancient mutuality of purpose as intense as that of two passionate lovers. They would not part without catharsis.

  The horse stepped backwards and sideways abruptly and the blow missed by a hair's breadth. Unbalanced by the unexpected lack of impact, the Sirshiant staggered round in the direction of his swing, and the horse ran into him. At the same time Sylvriss brought her staff down on to his head. His iron helmet protected him from injury, but the loud and incongruous clang was ringing in his ears as he hit the ground.

  Curling up into a tight, protective knot, the Sirshiant rolled clear of the horse's hooves as it ran over him. To her horror, Sylvriss saw the man rise, a little unsteady, but with the sword still in his hand and his madness rampant. She charged straight at him before he could recover fully and swung the staff at his head again. He jumped to one side and swung his sword to parry the blow.

  The steel sliced effortlessly through the descending wood, and Sylvriss saw her staff shortened to half its length as the weighted end clattered across the echoing stones of the street.

  Something deep inside her told her the end was near and a peculiar calmness flowed through her. She felt the swinging momentum of her horse as it turned, and, without thinking, she leaned forward towards her staggering attacker and drove the severed end of the staff at his throat.

  The Sirshiant shied away from the blow but the weapon he had just forged drove into his cheek, and he felt its impact smashing teeth and tissue.

  The demon in the man burst out in a blood-spewing cry and he drew back the sword for a blow that would have felled both horse and rider. But it was too late. The horse lashed out its hoof and caught him squarely under the chin, breaking his neck and lifting him clear off the ground, to fall spread-eagled on the ringing stones. The broken staff bounced out of his damaged face like a final act of disdain.

  The horse reared, and let out a great scream of triumph, and Sylvriss heard her own voice, too, ringing with the Muster's battle cry. She felt her heart pounding and her breath gasping, and for a moment she almost lost consciousness under the conflicting torrents of elation and shame that flooded her.

  * * * *

  As she watched the troopers, wide-eyed and fearful, gather up their erstwhile leader, and turn to her for their next orders, Sylvriss realized that the whole incident had taken only seconds. But she knew her life had been irrevocably changed. All things were changed now.

  * * *

  Chapter 51

  Dan-Tor set little store by the Queen's escapade. With the Mathidrin tightening his grip on the bodies of the people, and with spies and rumours tightening his grip on their hearts and minds, such antics could not disturb his growing sense of satisfaction. In fact, he was quite pleased in some ways. He had seen the Queen returning, magnificent as ever on her great horse, but with fever-flushed cheeks and strange haunted eyes instead of the glowing vigour she normally returned with to pollute the whole Palace.

  I'll hedge you in, he thought, make you fret and fume until your passions consume you. For your ‘own good’ I'll curb you and watch you choke on the invisible leash. It would be a small piece of personal indulgence to heighten his pleasure at the change in circumstances.

  As for that dolt of a Sirshiant who'd got himself killed, even that had been useful, not to say amusing. It would teach the newcomers to the City that they weren't dealing with Mandrocs now and they'd have to curb their bloodthirsty ways. More subtly, it would teach them not to underestimate the opposition they might face.

  'Remind them that the penalty for that kind of stupidity is death,’ he told his Commanders. �
��In executing the sentence, the Queen merely saved me the trouble. Channel their resentment and loud talk into harder training.'

  The need for those words, however, highlighted the doubts that occasionally rippled the surface of his contentment. The people crumbled, torn by doubt and ignorance, just as he had planned over the years. His assumption of the title of Ffyrst had freed him from many of the petty restraints that had so long irritated him, and since the seizure of Vakloss after Eldric's Accounting, he had begun to feel his progress in measurable strides.

  But every now and then, when least expected, there would be a jolt of opposition, like a plough striking a hidden rock: the damage wrought to the Mandrocs by Jaldaric and his patrol; the rescue of the Lords; Eldric returning to demand an Accounting. This latter had worked for the best in the end in that it precipitated the seizure of Vakloss, but it had been perilously dangerous, and Hawklan's hand could be felt there, surely? Hawklan? Where are you, you demon? Was Eldric's return but a feint within a feint?

  But these were thoughts for darker moments. Already many of the Lords had fallen victim to his wide-strewn lies and some had even joined him in condemning Eldric and the others as traitors. Now he could concentrate on swaying the less gullible to his side. Then, as necessary, he could crush all other opposition by force of arms. But always he must remember that Hawklan too would be laying his traps.

  You lose each time we meet, Hawklan. And you'll not tempt me to my Old Power now. Not now. No slip on my part will awaken you. I'll bind you yet, for when the Lords are crushed, the game will have slipped from you forever. When they're exhausted with slaying their own turncoat kin, and their hearts are dead at what they've had to do, then I'll launch my real armies against them.

  The thought was comforting. It would be pleasant to see these creatures slaughtering one another again. A fitting atonement for the years their ancestors had made him spend in dark bondage.

  'Patience, patience, patience,’ he said to Dilrap. ‘While we control the knowledge given to the people, events must surely move our way. Ignorance is a vital flux. Melting down the resistance of the people and making them more amenable to our suggestions.'

  He stared at Dilrap thoughtfully. Why should I speak thus to this lackey? Why do I even keep him about me now? He's very useful, but no longer indispensable. Surely not gratitude? It had been Dilrap who engineered the details that gave a gloss of legality to his becoming Ffyrst. Dilrap had diligently rendered himself unnecessary and totally vulnerable. Dan-Tor narrowed his eyes, and Dilrap, catching the look, cringed visibly.

  It came to him suddenly that Dilrap understood him, insofar as any of these creatures could understand him. Dilrap appreciated the subtleties of what he, Dan-Tor, was doing, independent of whether he approved of them or not, independent of whether he realized the ultimate outcome. He understood and marvelled. And envied. Worshipped, even?

  That the pleasure he gained from this thought was simply the despised human trait of vanity, did not occur to Dan-Tor. It was an awe to which he was entitled. A faint, distant whisper asked ‘Is he a danger?’ but it could hardly be heard above the clamour of self-praise. No, no. Danger lies only in Hawklan and impatience. There's no danger in this scurrying bladder. He's just another human clutching gratefully at the knees of his executioner, in mortal fear for his mayfly life.

  And, in part, he was right. Dilrap was in fear of his life, and he did understand the Ffyrst's machinations. But he neither envied nor worshipped. Just as the years of Dan-Tor's influence and ‘improvement’ to the Fyordyn way of life had accumulated to lead them disastrously from their ancient roots and leave them bewildered and lost, so years of scorn and derision had accumulated and festered in Dilrap to make him a man very different from the plump youth who had trailed after his stern and haughty father, and subsequently gone on to be the butt of every Palace wag. His trembling nature was shored by two great props: his love of the Queen and his deep and growing hatred of Dan-Tor.

  But in understanding Dan-Tor, so he knew his own vulnerability, and, like Dan-Tor, he too wondered why he was still privy to the Ffyrst's musings. The uncertainty, and his sense of Dan-Tor's own uncertainty, did little to calm him. His nights became fretful and nightmare-haunted, where once they had been a solace and a retreat from the torments of his waking hours.

  'Majesty, I'm afraid,’ he blurted out inadvertently to the Queen one day.

  Sylvriss felt the weight of his burden added to her own; strangely heavier to bear since her confrontation with the Sirshiant. Having gained a deeper insight into the ancient ties between the Riddinvolk and their horses, part of her almost snarled, ‘We're all afraid, Dilrap. Do what you have to do. Don't come bleating to me'. But that same insight helped her set this savage shade aside and she laid her hand on his shoulder.

  'I understand, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘Has anything happened to make you especially alarmed?'

  Dilrap shook his head and then poured out his complex mixture of doubts and fears. Sylvriss let the words flow unhindered into the scented air of her chamber, until he fell silent. She stared at herself in a small mirror on her table, watching as a hand reached up and fingered a worried line etching itself permanently into her face.

  'I've no answers, Dilrap,’ she said eventually. ‘Who can say what motivates the man?'

  Of late she had been trying to pursue Dan-Tor's actions to their logical end, but had given up in despair. They seemed to lead to some form of Kingship. Not the cautious, thoughtful Kingship of Rgoric and his predecessors, but some appalling, unfettered authority over everyone and everything. But why?

  Why should anyone want such authority? And it could only be over a cowed and damaged people, for damaged they would be. The people of Vakloss were already too afraid to speak publicly in opposition to Dan-Tor, and sooner or later he would have to face the Lords in battle. Lords who would probably fight to a bitter end. The man's mind was beyond her.

  She turned away from the mirror, with its wretched intimations of her own mortality. She too was afraid. The fear and mistrust that soaked the City had seeped into the Palace. Her many contacts were dwindling and she had no way of knowing whether this was through increased caution or whether they had been arrested and had revealed their secrets to their interrogators.

  She clung to what she knew and what she could reasonably infer; conjecture was infinite. Certainly, none of the Lords still in the City could be safely trusted. Those with whom she had made discreet contact had quietly slipped away, and those who were left kept an uncertain neutrality or sided openly with Dan-Tor, for a variety of reasons.

  It came to her gradually that whether or not Dan-Tor discovered her covert opposition to him was irrelevant. She was effectively imprisoned in the Palace, guarded as she was on the increasingly rare occasions she was allowed into the City. Her ability to influence affairs or even to know of them was diminishing rapidly. He doesn't need to expose any of my deeds, she thought. Save one. His every action stifles opposition and isolates me.

  But her one massive act of defiance was gathering a momentum of its own, and slipping beyond her control. It was a blessing turned fearful bane. As Dan-Tor had moved forwards more openly to greater power, his need for the King had declined, and consequently so had the attention lavished on him. However, as an iron ring of warriors had once guarded Ethriss, so Sylvriss had encompassed her husband with a silken ring of trusted attendants, herself its jewelled clasp, affecting the role of demure nursewife. Slowly she had continued weaning him from Dan-Tor's potions and slowly, uncertainly, the King had gained strength and well-being.

  She glanced at her face in the mirror again and smoothed out the offending line. Her eyes shone wet for a moment as she knew that the concerns impressed on her face had not been primarily for herself, but for the King, and the constant worry about what he could and could not safely be told of outside events, and how he could be restrained from interfering without too much lying.

  It had always been difficult, but now he was impr
oving daily and all her decisions caused her torment. Was he or was he not strong enough to hear the full truth of what had happened? Would her very deceit destroy him and his love for her? Would he be pitched back into his black dependence on Dan-Tor? Or would he be prompted to some dire action against the man, here, with his own Palace infested with alien guards, and with his loyal Lords so far away?

  Abruptly, she said, ‘We must escape.'

  Dilrap looked up, eyes wide. ‘Escape, Majesty?’ he echoed.

  'Yes,’ she said slowly. The words had slipped out almost unnoticed while she was preoccupied, but hanging in the air they crystallized her thoughts. ‘Dan-Tor may tire of you soon, Dilrap. He may discover our schemes to hinder him. He'll surely find out about the King's health soon, and when that happens, where are we?’ She swept her arm around the room, soft and comforting, a haven amidst the turmoil. ‘We're already imprisoned. Trussed like market chickens. Helpless and impotent.'

  Dilrap fluttered. Sylvriss's remarks had brutally summarized their predicament. He clutched at a straw. ‘If the King is stronger, Majesty, cannot he help us?'

  Sylvriss shook her head, but offered no other comment.

  Dilrap fell silent. This was a domain that he knew the Queen kept even from him, for his own sake. ‘But where could we go, Majesty?’ he said eventually. ‘And what of the King? And all the people who've helped us?’ There was a hint of reproach in his voice.

  The Queen replied without hesitation. ‘We go to the Lords in the east,’ she said. ‘And the King goes with us. As for our helpers, we do them no great service in receiving their loyalty in this way. Not now. From now on they must watch and wait. Keep the old ways alive quietly, against the coming of happier times.'

  Dilrap's eye flickered restlessly around the room as he tried to free Sylvriss's sudden determination from images of shining blades and hard, indifferent faces approaching him purposefully at the behest of some trivial signal from Dan-Tor. ‘But how, Majesty? And when?’ he asked plaintively.