The Waking of Orthlund Read online

  Urthryn nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘But what do we need their boat for?’

  ‘Have your fishermen learn how to use it,’ Yengar said. ‘Make more if you can. A good sea-borne signalling system might ease your fishermen’s minds and also give you several extra hours of warning.’

  Urthryn nodded again, his face more optimistic. ‘Hiron, will you see to that as soon as we’re finished here. And the extra coastal patrols. Oslang, can you talk to . . . question . . . all the Morlider, separately? Find out as much as you can about this new leader and his plans?’

  The two men bowed their heads in acknowledgment.

  Urthryn hitched himself up in the chair. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘that’s a start made towards dealing with the Morlider. But it was no easy task fighting them the last time, and it sounds as if it’s going to be even worse now, for all we’re forearmed.’ He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. ‘We’ll have to work out our strategy and tactics and so on, but it seems to me that we’re going to have precious little left to help you with your problem in Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘And as for Sumeral . . .’

  Sylvriss laid her hand over his, and looked at the two Goraidin. ‘Only the Fyordyn can solve their immediate problem, father,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be pain and horror enough with kin fighting kin without one side calling on Outlanders for help. I came here to have Rgoric’s child in safety and to tell you what’s happened before news from any other source reached you.’

  ‘But we can’t stand idly by,’ Urthryn said.

  Sylvriss’s voice became resolute. ‘When the weather permits, send messengers to Eldric. Tell him we’re safe, and what’s happening here; it will stiffen his own purpose. Tell him also that you’re sending one of your advisers to Orthlund, to Anderras Darion, to enlist the help of the Orthlundyn and to find out what’s happened to Hawklan.’

  ‘Hawklan,’ Urthryn said, as if testing the name. ‘He slips through this tale like a binding thread. And he’s made a considerable impression on you, considering you’ve only seen him unconscious.’ There was a gentle, fatherly taunt in his voice, but Sylvriss did not respond in kind.

  ‘He lies near the heart of this, father, I’m sure,’ she said, intensely. ‘It seems he started Oslang’s people towards their awakening. He faced Oklar’s wrath, and lived – or at least didn’t perish. And while he was amongst them, he won the loyalty and obedience of the Goraidin. He’s no ordinary man.’

  Urthryn looked at his daughter keenly.

  ‘Oslang, what’s your view on the worth of this man?’ he asked.

  ‘He is the heart, Ffyrst,’ Oslang said immediately. ‘The leader of our Order, Andawyr, is even now journeying to Anderras Darion to discover his whereabouts.’ He paused and looked reflective. When he spoke again, it was half to himself. ‘It seems Sumeral tests us with his lieutenants. The Fyordyn must face Oklar, and the Riddinvolk, Creost. If either fall, then both fall, and Orthlund will stand alone. If we prevail, then my heart tells me that it will be Hawklan and the Orthlundyn who lead us against the Dark Lord Himself.’

  Chapter 31

  Dan-Tor gazed down from the high platform that had been built on top of the temporary structure now serving as a gate to the Palace. On either side of him, resplendent in full dress uniform, stood Urssain and Aelang, while behind him stood Dilrap, together with several other senior palace officials and Mathidrin Commanders.

  In front of them, disappearing into the darkness, the two great avenues that the unleashed Oklar had cut through the City were lined with crowds, upturned faces mottled and seething in the harsh light of the globes that illuminated the immediate vicinity of the Palace.

  An excited clamour rose up around the high-placed watchers.

  Dan-Tor stepped forward and placed both hands on the guard rail at the front of the platform. For a moment he looked up and down the crowd, then he raised one arm high above his head.

  The noise from the crowd fell, and a rippling motion passed through it as though it were corn bowing before the wind as heads turned expectantly away from the Ffyrst to look into the darkness that shrouded the further reaches of the two avenues. The globes dimmed and the hush deepened in response, then, faintly, a distant sound percolated through the residual murmur: an insistent, pulsing rhythm.

  Slowly it drew nearer and grew in intensity until it seemed it was shaking the very ground. The noise of the crowd grew with it, and then, abruptly rolling out of the darkness, came the clamorous din of horns and trumpets, their sound harsh and brazen. At the same time, lights began to appear, eerily, like uncertain fireflies.

  One by one, raggedly but rapidly, they flickered into existence, spreading down the long, unseen perspectives of Oklar’s handiwork until they formed two vast wavering carpets of light.

  A great cheer went up from the crowd as the bearers of this light came into view: rank upon rank of Mathidrin troopers.

  Relentlessly, following the insistent beat of their pounding drummers, the two great streams of men moved forward until, reaching the large open area that now fronted the Palace, they began, amid much raucous shouting of orders, to spread out and merge together to form a single glowing mass surrounded by the cheering people.

  Behind them, in even greater numbers, followed men and women, wearing the dark brown livery of the new Citizen’s Militia; and finally came the various local troops of the equally new Youth Corps, stern, spruced and front-faced.

  A little behind Dan-Tor, Dilrap gazed down at the spectacle. Apart from those playing instruments, everyone was carrying a blazing torch or a standard or flag of some kind.

  The sight chilled him, as did the pounding, braying din that filled the night, not least because he himself found he was once again exhilarated by its massive, primitive splendour.

  And yet he could see the heart of the corruption in these great rallies flickering even in the torches that illuminated them. The revealing light of the traditional sun-fed Fyordyn torches could not have produced such a sight, nor could the garish hand-globes that emerged from Dan-Tor’s workshops; their light was inhumanly penetrating. Only naked flames could achieve what he was watching now. Flames guttering wantonly; tainting the air with their smoke and destroying what fed them to produce a light too unsteady to serve any fine purpose, and an uncontrolled heat to be scattered pointlessly into the night. It typified the new spirit of Dan-Tor’s Vakloss, and it was appalling.

  Surreptitiously, Dilrap turned his attention to Dan-Tor. Since his fateful encounter with Hawklan, the Ffyrst had become more stooped in his posture, his head leaning forward slightly, like a leashed animal trying to pull away from some restraint that Hawklan’s fearful arrow had imposed on him. The memory drew Dilrap’s eyes downwards. There, as ever, was a small but growing stain in the rough-hewn boards of the platform, as Dan-Tor’s blood dripped slowly but unceasingly from the barbed head of the Orthlundyn arrow.

  Dilrap winced inwardly at the sight and then at his own response. It troubled him that he should have even the slightest sympathy for this . . . creature, that had so painstakingly corrupted Fyorlund, poisoned and then brutally murdered its King, and destroyed hundreds of its people with a mere gesture. How could he conceivably have any pity for it?

  He had asked himself the same question many times but had found no answer. Perhaps Dan-Tor, stooping and more careful now in his movements, reminded him of Rgoric?

  It troubled him also that part of him responded to, perhaps even relished, these huge rallies. But how could he have any trait in common with this Uhriel, this abomination?

  Even as he stood there, it came to Dilrap that he and Dan-Tor – Oklar even – shared a common humanity, with all the rich and varied mixture of bonds and freedoms that that implied. Didn’t the pounding hysteria of the rallies only mirror his own urge to lash out and crush into nothingness everything that Dan-Tor stood for? Yet he was a poor torturer; he would willingly annihilate Dan-Tor, but he found it difficult to harden himself t
o the man’s continued suffering.

  Not tonight though, he thought. This was Dan-Tor at once at his least and most human. Least, in that his stoop had gone and he stood now straight and tall like some terrible parasite drawing sustenance from the barbarous energy of the scene before him. Most, in the subtle understanding and callous cynicism he would show when he spoke once again to the people.

  Cutting across Dilrap’s thoughts, Dan-Tor extended both arms, and the crowd fell silent.

  He paused.

  The only sound that could be heard was the guttering of the countless burning torches.

  ‘Soon,’ he began. ‘Soon, my people.’

  Your people? Dilrap thought witheringly.

  ‘Soon we will be ready to strike a blow against our enemies. Against the treacherous Lords and their minions, skulking in the eastern mountains.’

  A great cheer went up. Dilrap presumed that, as usual, the Mathidrin had been well tutored in their responses, and those among the crowd who did not believe knew well enough what to do and when to do it.

  ‘Soon you will be able to witness these traitors being brought before you in chains to hear your verdict on their perfidy and dishonour.’

  Dan-Tor spoke slowly but with great force, and he paused at the end of each sentence. His voice was rich and sonorous, and reverberated across the crowd, strangely magnified. Dilrap noticed that when Dan-Tor spoke in this manner he would hold his hand to his wounded side as if the very act of speaking caused him pain, though nothing showed either on his long brown face or in those terrible eyes.

  The Ffyrst raised his hand after a moment, to still the cheering. ‘Only for a little while now need I ask you to curb your righteous impatience,’ he continued. ‘We must not misjudge the cunning, the strength or the will of our enemies. We must wait until all our strength is full ripe before we strike. But the time will be soon.’

  The cheering rose again. Dan-Tor nodded understandingly. ‘Do not forget, my people. There is no depth to which our foes would not stoop to seize the crown and crush you under the heels of their High Guards again. Did they not bring an Orthlundyn assassin to draw me from my King’s side so that he would be alone; sick and defenceless against the ruthless ambition of Eldric and his son?’

  His voice began to rise. ‘But by the will of some greater protector than I, they failed. Their murderous lackey missed his mark . . .’

  He struck his chest with his hand.

  ‘. . . and seeing his failure, showed his true nature – not just that of a murderer, but that of a foul meddler in forbidden and long-forgotten arts.’

  Then, arms pounding forward with each word along the two great avenues that he himself had smashed through the city, his voice reached a terrible peak. ‘See what the Orthlundyn wrought across your fair city in his spite and fury.’

  The crowd roared.

  Dan-Tor allowed the clamour to continue for some time, then extended his arms to beat it down. ‘Yet even as his City – the heart of his kingdom – was being thus destroyed by a terrible and ancient power, your King was fighting. Fighting his last and greatest battle.’

  His voice fell abruptly. ‘I, above all, knew that even in the darkest moments of his illness, Rgoric’s thoughts were ever and only for his people. Tormented though his body was, his heart was yours, and his spirit was that of the line of kings that stretches back unbroken to the Ir . . .’ He faltered and lowered his head as if overcome.

  Say it, you black-hearted demon, Dilrap thought viciously.

  Say it, say the Iron Ring, and may the words themselves tighten around your evil throat and choke you.

  Dan-Tor recovered, but left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Alone,’ he said, still softly. ‘Faced with a terrible and unexpected peril and seemingly abandoned by his closest aides.’ He lowered his head again, affecting self-reproach. ‘Rgoric reached into his innermost depths and found that ancient spirit: unbowed, undiminished. Found it – and found the sword by his side could still fashion the will of that spirit.’

  His voice rose steadily. ‘And his hand, though long weakened by illness, took that sword and fought. Fought as it had not fought in twenty years. Fought against the youth and power of Jaldaric. Fought against the age-hardened treachery and cunning of Eldric. Fought to his bitter and tragic end, dying, cut down at the foot of his own throne.’

  The crowd’s roar became one of fury, the zealots among them now captured utterly by Dan-Tor’s words.

  He raised his voice above their clamour. ‘Assailed and wounded myself, I returned too late to save my king – our king – but I saved Fyorlund’s crown. And with his last strength, Rgoric held it out to me and implored me to accept the burden he had borne so long. “For my people,” he said. And with his dying breath he imposed on me a further duty. “Seek out and destroy those who have so cruelly destroyed me,” he said. “Save my people. Lead them to the truth.”’

  Dan-Tor paused, waiting for the moment that would catch the crest of the crowd’s frenzy. Then, into a momentary lull, he almost whispered, ‘I am Fyordyn. How could I not accept?’

  The roaring swept up around him again. ‘How could I not?’ he thundered over it. ‘And how can you not accept that same burden? Vengeance must be ours. Vengeance for Vakloss, smashed by an alien intruder at the whim of the Lords. Vengeance for your friends slain in that same terrible moment. And . . .’

  His voice disappeared under the great cry of ‘Vengeance for Rgoric. Vengeance for Rgoric. Vengeance for Rgoric.’ Over and over, it filled the night air.

  Dan-Tor’s arms stretched out again and suddenly, amid the tumult, the drums began to beat and the trumpets and horns to sound; louder and more raucous than before. The Mathidrin, the Militia, and the Youth Corps began to divide and execute a series of elaborate marching and counter-marching exercises, the rhythm of their iron shod feet underscoring the brutal rhythm of the music. Dan-Tor stepped back from the front of the platform.

  Different this time, Dilrap thought, as the party on the platform began to relax. A strike against the enemy soon, he had said. Soon!

  How soon?

  Dilrap let the thought pass; Dan-Tor would give no further clues that night. He glanced at Urssain and Aelang, heads close, smiling knowingly as if at some private jest. For all the sinister power these two exercised, he suspected that the Ffyrst’s announcement had been news to them. He would just have to watch and listen; watch events and listen for the meaning behind the words.

  His train of thought led him to Tel-Odrel and Lorac and the other agents of the Lords currently in Vakloss. His eyes flickered over the crowd. He knew that it would not be possible to see anyone clearly from such a height in that grotesque mixture of subdued globelight and flickering firelight, not to mention the haze of smoke that was accumulating in the still night air, but it offered him a small comfort to know that they would be there.

  For there they would be, beyond doubt, as they had been at all the other rallies. Indeed, Dilrap had hoped when these rallies began that the Goraidin would be able to stop Dan-Tor’s progress with another single arrow. He had stood on the platform, almost holding his breath, waiting for the Goraidin’s messenger to come singing out of the darkness to strike down Dan-Tor as he stood exposed to view. But, gently, the Goraidin had disabused him: good archers though they were, the nearest houses were too far away for a safe shot, especially at night; Dan-Tor might well be wearing body armour now; indeed, could an ordinary arrow even injure him? Who knew what strange protections such as a creature might have? And the price of a failed attempt? It would surely cost those Fyordyn under Dan-Tor’s sway what few liberties they still had left. No, the Goraidin must do as Dilrap did: watch and listen.

  And that is what they would be doing now: watching, listening. They too would have noted the change in emphasis from previous such speeches. Shorter than many, and no mention this time of the enemy within; no calls for the people to ‘Be vigilant. The Lords have many friends and sympathizers amongst us.’ No cor
rosive insinuations: ‘Look around you. How many of your friends and neighbours are not here tonight? How many of your work-mates? Have these people no wish to hear what we intend against our enemies in the east? No wish to support us in our work?’ Followed invariably, with voice lowered and bony finger jabbing the air, by, ‘If they are not here, where are they? What are they doing?’ and then, ‘Be vigilant. Listen for the words of doubt and treachery that will inevitably betray those who lapse from honour. Bring their names forward so that they can be reasoned with and given the opportunity to admit their error before it spreads and corrodes us all.’

  Perhaps more than anything, Dilrap was grieved by the harvest that these seeds yielded: the growth of secret informers whispering and denouncing, settling old scores, real and imagined; the growth of the Citizens’ Militia, a grotesque imitation of the High Guards, peevish and strutting at its best, savagely vicious at its worst – a haven for the self-righteous, the unrepentant ignorant and the petty. But worst of all was the Youth Corps – the ‘next generation of Mathidrin’ as Dan-Tor called them. Dilrap knew already of several people who had been denounced to the Mathidrin by their own children.

  The next generation!

  Fighting now, against today’s enemies, was grim enough for Dilrap, but the thought that Dan-Tor had his eyes on some distant future, that his vision was one of a rule that would last for generations, chilled Dilrap utterly.

  Yet at the same time it stiffened his resolve. Dan-Tor’s towering intent would be but the foundation for His plans, and if the one could be undermined at its inception, then so perhaps could be the other. And Dilrap was sure that Dan-Tor’s hold on the hearts of the Fyordyn was far less than the rapturous hysteria of the rallies seemed to indicate.

  Dilrap understood fear, and it was fear that held the Fyordyn silent and acquiescent; fear of the naked brutality of the Mathidrin holding the streets, and fear of the knocking at the door in the dark hours of the night that would leave houses greeting the morning empty and deserted.