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The Waking of Orthlund

Book Three of The Chronicles of Hawklan

a Mushroom eBooks sampler

Copyright © 1989, Roger Taylor

Roger Taylor has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.

First published in United Kingdom in 1989 by Headline Book Publishing.

This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks,
an imprint of Mushroom Publishing,
Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a sampler of The Waking of Orthlund by Roger Taylor. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.

Contents

Map of Hawklan’s Land
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor

Map of Hawklan’s Land

“The time of Hawklan is so far in the past that it could be the distant future”

Prologue

When the Guardians, Sphaeera, Enartion, and Theowart, had formed the world as a celebration of their being, they found such joy in it that they bade the First Comer Ethriss to create others so that they in their turn might celebrate the miracle of being.

And with his three soul-friends, Ethriss created many others and taught them the Guardians’ ways and gave them of their power so that they too could create and take joy in being.

And amongst these was man.

But Sumeral, the Great Corrupter, saw the flaw that must be in all things, and hated it and all the creations of the Guardians, especially those of Ethriss. And He saw that man was possessed of greater power of creation than any other. So as the Guardians slept, He came to him and with soft words said, ‘Blessed are the gifts of Ethriss that bring such joy unto yourself and your neighbour.’ And He passed on.

But in the word ‘neighbour’ He laid a subtle snare, and discontent was born, and men began to seek him out, saying, ‘You are wise. Tell us, are we as blessed as our neighbours?’

And Sumeral did not answer, but showed them the gift of the power of creation that Ethriss had given them, and said, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.’ Which was both true and false, for though joy may lie in creating, it is in the totality of the creating and that which is created that the true joy of being lies.

And men found indeed that joy was to be found in the power of creating, but under His guidance their creations were without harmony, and knowing there was no true joy in them, men’s discontent grew, and they sought Him out further.

But He dismissed them, saying again, ‘I have told you. In the use of this power will your joy be increased. Trouble me not. Create yet more.’ Though privily He would say to some, dropping His soft, sweet words into the gaping maw of their desire, ‘If your neighbour’s creations are more joyous, perhaps it is a flaw in the way of things that should be mended.’

And when they asked how this might be done, He said yet again, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.’

And looking on the perfection of His beauty, many men believed Him, and began to gather power to themselves not only to create yet more of His flawed designs but to mar the creations of their neighbours. And their discontent grew beyond measure, until the time came when many were utterly lost in bewilderment and followed His words blindly.

Thus His stain spread across the world, and the air and the sea and the earth became fouled with the poisons of His works, and many humbler creatures were slaughtered utterly. And He led His followers to create war, and wage it upon those who remembered the Guardians and the ways of true joy, for His own discontent grew also.

Chapter 1

Sylvriss struggled desperately to control the frenzied horse beneath her. Riddin born and Muster bred, dealing with difficult mounts would not normally present her with any serious problem, but this was different. The horse was almost demented with terror, and its screaming seemed to fill her very soul. It was as though the animal were trying to obliterate the terrible rumbling clamour that had reached out from the City towards them, shaking and buffeting the countryside as if it were not solid Fyorlund earth, but the surface of a wind-whipped lake.

Almost unseated when the horse had stumbled on the heaving ground, Sylvriss too had felt a terror the like of which she had never known before, and for a moment it was only the deep knowledge that her body possessed that kept the reins in her hand and any semblance of control over the terrified mount.

Slowly her mind entered the whirling turmoil of emotions, and wilful skills began to replace the reflexes that had saved her so far. She knew that the horse could be quieted by being made more afraid of her than the terror that had just thundered over the countryside and, deep inside, part of her relished that. It rose temptingly before her: primitive anger formed from primitive fear. But that was a demon the Riddinvolk had tamed generations ago, and she spurned it. Rider and horse should be one, and Sylvriss knew that the horse’s terror was in part a response to her own; the horse could not be properly stilled until she herself was still.

And stilled it must be. Despite the questions that pounded for her attention, this was no time for debating causes. Suffice it that if she lost her mount, she could not do her husband’s bidding.

‘Go to the Lord Eldric’s stronghold as you planned, my love,’ he had said. ‘As fast as only you can. Raise his High Guard and ride back to meet us. I’ll follow as soon as I’ve had him released – and his son.’

Then he had embraced her, almost painfully, and with a simple command had effectively dismissed her. ‘As you love me, Sylvriss. And our child. Go. Go quickly. Prepare the way, First Hearer.’

And she had left, all questions momentarily silenced by the driving urgency of his manner. When they gradually returned they could not then overwhelm the momentum of her own galloping spirit. But they lingered. What was he going to do? How could he get the Lord Eldric and Jaldaric released? How was he going to face Dan-Tor? And now, what was that terrible noise – no, more than a noise – that force, that had shaken the countryside?

But Rgoric’s plea impelled her more than any command could have, and she must regain control of her horse if she was to answer it. To falter here might be to jeopardize all. There would be time enough later to find out what had happened in the City, and time enough when they met again to learn of his plans and schemes.

The thought of Rgoric, renewed and whole again, burst into her mind like the sun through thunder-clouds, and briefly she had a vision of riding by his side at the head of the Lords’ High Guards, sweeping Dan-Tor and his Mathidrin out of Vakloss and into perdition, to restore again the Fyorlund that had been and the life they should have had.

Despite her struggle with the horse, she smiled ruefully at the thought, so childlike in its simplicity. However, its effect was oddly cathartic, and sensing the renewed control of its rider, the horse gradually slowed in its frenzied thrashing until at last Sylvriss was able to lean forward and embrace its neck, saying softly, ‘We’re whole again. Whatever that was, we’re here together, and unhurt.’

The horse was still fretful and its eyes rolled white, but gently Sylvriss released the reins and let it have its head until its circling and pawing gradually stopped.

Sitting back in her saddle she instinctively reached up to pull back her black hair that had flown free and wild in her struggle with the horse. As she did so she felt the wind cold on her forehead and wiping her hand across it she found it was wet with perspiration.

Looking up from her glistening fingers she stared for a moment at the ragged clouds flying overhead, carried on the gusting wind that had shaken the City all day, like an uncertain harbinger carrying messages of change. Now it seemed that even the clouds were fleeing.

Turning, she gazed back to look at the City, but it was out of sight, hidden by the brow of the tree-covered hill she had been descending when the noise and shaking had so nearly ended her journey. What could it have been? came the thought again. Now in control of her mount she felt she could allow some concession to this question, and gently she urged the horse back up the hill until the City came partly into sight.

All seemed normal. The palace towers rose up majestically, dominating but not overwhelming their surroundings, and through the trees she could see the tops of many familiar buildings. Yet on the wind there were strange noises. A crowd? She thought she had heard a crowd nearby as she had left the palace to clatter through the quiet by-ways of the City, but she had dismissed the notion; the Mathidrin held the streets too well for that. Now, as the distant sounds vied for her attention with the rustling trees she thought she heard again many voices raised in . . . anger . . . fear?

She leaned forward, face intent, but nothing would take shape for her. Even the wind felt disturbed, unnatural, now quiet, now tearing at her hysterically, and steadfastly refusing to deliver any clear answer to her query. For a moment she thought of moving further forward, to leave behind the shaking trees and come nearer to the City, but the urgency of her mission reasserted itself. Whatever had happened, it was unlikely she could do anything except be taken by the Mathidrin and held as who knew what kind of a hostage against Rgoric’s plans.

Turning round, she rode back down the hill, trotting the horse carefully but surely through the widely-spaced trees that covered the slope. Soon she would be well clear of the City and able to ride, ride, ride, over the Fyorlund countryside, each stride taking her further from that accursed brown streak Dan-Tor and nearer to her true friends and a new future with her husband.

It would be a long hard journey, but she had done worse in her Muster training, albeit many years ago, and just to be free from the cloying deception of the past months would sustain her far more than any physical prowess could. Ruthlessly she trampled down the ever-present fears for her husband, lest they infect her mount and, in slowing her progress, bring about their own tremulous prophecy.

At last she broke out of the trees to find herself at a high vantage-point. Reining to a halt, she paused to examine the countryside for signs of movement, but apart from the ruffling of the blustering wind, all was quiet. And there below was the old road which she should be able to follow for many miles, avoiding villages, and thus Mathidrin patrols.

She clicked to her horse, but it hesitated and whinnied softly. Frowning slightly, Sylvriss cast around again for some sign of danger that had escaped her first inspection.

Then a distant, rapid movement caught her eye. Before she could identify it, her horse began trembling as if remembering again its recent fear. She whispered to it soothingly and slowly backed it into the shade of the trees where she could watch without being seen.

The movement became clearer. It was a rider, travelling away from the City. Suddenly Sylvriss caught her breath, and her horse shifted uneasily beneath her. Even at this distance she could feel waves of terror moving before the approaching figure. What had happened in the City? came the question yet again, but it was lost almost immediately as she saw that the rider was not simply travelling quickly, he was plunging along the road at a speed that must surely bring both him and his horse to destruction very soon.

The realization cleared Sylvriss’s vision abruptly and the totality of the scene below swept over her. The horse was not carrying one person, but two. Its rider was a large, solid-looking man, but across its neck dangled a second, black clad figure, seemingly unconscious. And it was no ordinary horse. It was a great black stallion – a Muster horse! And a magnificent one at that. There were few Muster horses in Fyorlund, and none the like of that she was sure. Further, it was not being ridden, it was carrying its charges!

Questions overwhelmed her, but she dashed them aside. It was a rare man that such a horse would carry in that fashion.

And no such horse could be allowed to break its heart thus.

Birds flew up in screaming alarm from the jostling trees as Rgoric’s queen burst out of her leafy shelter and with a great cry, urged her horse at full gallop down the steep hill.

And none too soon, she realized as she looked again at the charging black horse below. She must be on the road ahead of it, and travelling fast if she was to intercept it. Fine though her own horse was, she knew it could not hope to catch such a powerful, fear-driven animal if once it got ahead of her. Not catch it that is, until it fell suddenly dead, in all probability injuring or even killing both its riders.

Bending low over her horse’s neck she willed it forward. A fierce gust of wind caught them sideways and, briefly, her horse staggered, but the two of them together caught their balance and the wind only hastened their descent.

As they neared the road, the field dipped below it a little and Sylvriss became aware of the black horse at the edge of her vision, though she did not dare to look lest the hesitation cause her horse to pause even slightly. Then she was surging up a small embankment and on to the road, scarcely a length ahead of the careering stallion.

The black horse faltered slightly as Sylvriss rose up abruptly in front of it, and its rider swayed uncertainly. What a creature, thought Sylvriss fleetingly, as she saw the horse shift its weight to prevent the man from slipping from the saddle. The action, however, barely slowed the animal and then it was at her side, and moving past.

Gripping her horse with her legs she leaned out and took the bridle of the black horse. Pulling on it powerfully she cried out to it to stop. But even as she did so she knew that the horse was past hearing any normal commands. She tightened her grip and leaned further over. At least now it would feel the weight of both her and her horse in addition to its own double burden, and that must surely take its toll soon. For an interminable moment she clung on silently in a world filled only with the thunder of hooves, the creaking and clattering of tackle, and the agonized breathing of bursting lungs. Pain began to fill her whole body as she struggled to keep her grip on the powerful animal’s bridle.

Even in this extremity however, she marvelled at the great horse’s fortitude. Its eyes were white with terror, but somewhere, deep inside, was a will that refused to abandon all control to whatever had so frightened it. A will that made it carry and care for its charges even though it should die in the attempt. A will that enabled it to carry its now increased burden without slowing.

Without slowing! She knew what would be her fate if her own horse stumbled at this terrifying pace.

And it was beginning to falter. She was going to die here! Die, in this whirling maelstrom of flying hooves and Fyordyn dust which seemed now to be the very heart of all the confusion and upheaval that had rent her life apart in just a few hours. Die, betraying her husband, herself, the people, everything.

Then, through all the turmoil she felt the tiny flutterings of her unborn child, helpless and needing, its life not yet begun, the very antithesis of this powerful battle-horse charging purposefully towards the end of its own life and sweeping all before it.

‘No,’ she cried out involuntarily in horror and reproach. That above all must not be. A fearful light came to her as she saw the deep wisdom of her child’s lesson. This horse’s will could not be dominated, it would turn from its course only for the greater need of another. Then, almost without realizing what she was doing, she released her horse and slipping from it, swung her whole weight on to the creaking bridle.

Briefly her feet struck the ground with a juddering impact and she curled up her knees desperately. A whitened eye looked into hers as the horse bent its head under this sudden and unexpected weight. ‘Rider down, horse, help me,’ she cried out, her own eyes wide with terror. ‘Rider down.’

And then she was gone, floating free for an instant, old reflexes curling her into a tight ball, before she crashed on to the dusty road. Over and over she rolled, unaware of anything except her terrible momentum until at last it was spent and, unfolding limply, she lay still, face upward on the hard Fyordyn ground.

Gradually, the high scudding clouds came into focus, and with them her awareness, though for some time she could not remember how she came to be here. Then a gust of wind blew her hair across her face and her hand came up to move it. She winced with pain, and her memory cleared.

‘You’re hurt?’ said a voice, deep but unsteady, and a large square head came briefly into her vision, concern and confusion in its brown eyes. It disappeared, and she felt strong hands gently testing her limbs.

‘I’m no healer, lady,’ came the voice again after a while, ‘but I don’t think you’ve broken anything. Sit up, slowly. Let me help you.’ And again she found herself looking into anxious brown eyes as a powerful arm scooped round her shoulders and eased her up into a sitting position.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice sounding odd in her own ears. She took hold of her helper and, leaning heavily on him, dragged herself slowly to her feet. It was a painful exercise, but some cautious probing of her own confirmed the man’s diagnosis. She was bruised – badly bruised from the feel of it – but seemingly not otherwise injured. She uttered a silent prayer to her oft-maligned instructors of the past. Closing her eyes she felt her stomach tentatively. Yes, all was well.

Turning, she looked at her helper. He was tall, and powerfully built – rock-like almost – perhaps the same age as Rgoric, though it was difficult to judge from his craggy, dust-covered face. And despite his gentle aid to her, he was fretful and restless.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

The man started slightly as if his mind had flitted on to some other matter. ‘My name’s Isloman,’ he said almost irritably. ‘I’m sorry. Come on, we must get away. We must keep moving.’ He took hold of Sylvriss’s arm, but she shook it free. The man’s manner had no menace in it but it exuded fear and it alarmed her. His great hands had been shaking. A host of questions surged into her mind.

‘You’re an outlander aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Orthlundyn from your speech.’ Isloman did not reply, but turned to his horse which was standing nearby, sweating and steaming in the blustering wind. It too was fretful and anxious, pawing the ground, but otherwise remaining still to avoid disturbing the figure draped over its neck.

Sylvriss pursued her questions. ‘What are you running from?’ she asked. ‘Where did you get that horse? What’s the matter with your companion? What . . .’

Her voice tailed off at the look on Isloman’s face as he turned to her. ‘My friend’s alive, we can look to him later,’ he said, looking fearfully towards the City, still hidden behind the hill. ‘Please mount up and ride. We mustn’t delay here, please hurry.’ He nodded in the direction of Sylvriss’s horse which was also standing patiently nearby.

Mindful of her own journey and seeing that nothing was to be gained by further questions, Sylvriss painfully clambered on to her horse. As she eased into her saddle, a terrible pain, far beyond her immediate bodily discomfort, ran through her and she gasped out loud.

‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s voice was distant. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone, leaving in its wake a cold and fearful emptiness as though something precious had been torn from her forever. The tremulous life inside her fluttered agitatedly, but somehow she soothed it.

‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s question came again.

She ignored it. She had no words to describe what had just happened. ‘As you’re travelling this road, it seems we’re both going the same way, Orthlundyn,’ she said grimly. ‘So trot your horse gently if you’re anxious to cover a great distance quickly. Match my speed. Talk when you’re ready.’

For a while they rode on in an uneasy silence, though Sylvriss noted that the black horse was still carrying its rider rather than being ridden. Every now and then, it would increase its speed and ease forward, but Sylvriss reached over and took its reins.

‘You’re not whole yet, horse,’ she said. ‘Your duty’s done for now. Take my guidance.’ Isloman did not interfere.

Gradually the horse became quieter, and Isloman too seemed to lose a little of his fearful preoccupation, though he kept turning round.

‘I’m sorry, Muster woman,’ he said, eventually. Sylvriss looked at him sharply, but did not speak.

He continued. ‘I saw you come out of the trees like a saviour out of an old legend. I thought you’d kill yourself for certain, riding down that hillside the way you did. It was unbelievable.’ He looked down. ‘I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry.’

‘You were hanging on to the horse,’ Sylvriss said, understandingly.

Isloman nodded his head a little and then looked at her sadly. ‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help you because I was petrified. I was so frightened I scarcely remember leaving Vakloss.’

Sylvriss looked at him intently, questions again bubbling up inside her. ‘Shouldn’t we look to your friend now?’ she said.

Isloman hesitated. ‘He’s alive,’ he repeated. Then, almost childishly, ‘I don’t want to stop. Not yet.’

Sylvriss’s eyes opened in a mixture of horror and anger at the man’s tone. Even in this fearful state, Isloman did not radiate cowardice. Further, a black sword and a black bow hung from the horse, indicating that he or his inert companion was a warrior of some kind. And the horse was a splendid line leader. What could have happened to reduce such a trio to such bewildered and terrified flight? And again, why would such a beast willingly carry them?

Reaching across, she reined the black horse to a halt. ‘Dismount, Orthlundyn,’ she said firmly. ‘Like your horse, you’re not yourself. We must look to your friend, and you must tell me your tale before we go any further.’

There was a glimmer of resistance in Isloman’s eyes, but Sylvriss outfaced him. ‘The horses will warn us if anyone comes near,’ she said. ‘And we can outrun anything the Mathidrin could send after us.’

Reluctantly, Isloman climbed down from his horse and gently lifting his companion, carried him to the grassy roadside. Sylvriss followed and, as Isloman laid his friend down, she found herself looking at a narrow and high cheek-boned face that seemed to radiate a powerful presence even in unconsciousness. But was the man simply unconscious, for the face was also as pale as a death mask? Hesitantly, she reached forward and placed her hand against his throat.

‘I can feel no pulse,’ she said anxiously. There was no reply. Turning, she saw Isloman lifting the sword down from his horse, and in the corner of her vision a black shadow came from nowhere.

Chapter 2

Crouching in a shaded alcove, Dilrap shook and shook as if the only way his body knew to quell his whirling mind was to destroy itself. Dismissed from the Throne Room by the King with a soft blessing and a loudly proclaimed curse to give him some little protection, Dilrap had watched the ensuing scene through the intricate carved tracery that formed a panel in one of the side doors. Watched the entrance of the strangely transformed Dan-Tor impaled on a black arrow. Watched Rgoric move to slay him, only to fall victim himself to Dan-Tor’s Mathidrin, perishing as he cut a hideous path through them towards their evil Lord.

Rigid with horror, his hands pressed against the sharp edges of the carved wood, Dilrap had watched the Kingship of Fyorlund rise grim and determined from its years of sullen decay only to fall in a welter of primitive blood-lust. With it fell his own hopes and dreams. Now he was alone. Appallingly alone.

Fear and self-pity took alternate command of his mind, though rage seemed to dominate both. Rage at his father for bearing such a poor scion to carry the Secretary’s burden, rage at Dan-Tor and his years of silent, evil scheming, rage at the King for his futile death, at the Lords for their neglect, at the Queen for deserting him, and at this last, rage at himself for the injustice of such base thoughts.

Cowering small in the alcove, it seemed to Dilrap that he was entering a darkness that could only deepen, and that it would be beyond his soul to bear. And yet, even in this terrible extremity, bright threads flickered and he reached out for them in the hope that they might grow and bind together to form a desperate lifeline.

For he had heard too the King’s strange last words. That Dan-Tor would die at the very height of his power; die at the hands of an ancient and insignificant assassin. And that the ancient line of Kings was still unbroken, for the Queen now carried his heir.

Heartening words. But what of the King’s final eerie utterance into the dreadful waiting silence that filled the hall as he had crawled agonizingly towards the fountainhead of all his ills? ‘Nothing shall end the reign of your Master.’ A desperate, doom-laden avowal. And yet it was not uttered as such – ‘It is not what it seems’ – and the King had laughed softly with his last breath, as at some private jest.

What could it mean? And who could be Dan-Tor’s master? Then the name that the King had uttered returned to him.

Oklar.

A name from myth and legend. Oklar, the earth corrupter, greatest of the Uhriel, the servants of Sumeral, the Great Corrupter.

A chill possessed Dilrap that set his previous terrors at naught. It couldn’t be. Such creatures could not exist. It was contrary to reason. They were ogres for children, old tales embellished through the ages. But the chill persisted. Hadn’t he seen Fyorlund deteriorate in his own lifetime? Hadn’t he seen the great tower fortress of Narsindalvak and its Watch abandoned, and the ranks of the Lords’ High Guards softened into foppery. And now its King was slain, its Queen was fled, and its Lords were arming for a conflict that could only set brother against brother. And who could account for the force that had just shaken the palace, perhaps even the City, to its very roots? But, rising above all this, came the vision of Dan-Tor being carried into the Throne Room; changed, but unchanged. Dilrap knew it was no human creature that now occupied that familiar lank form.

Resting his flushed and tear-stained face on the cold stone of the alcove, Dilrap struggled with his grief, and the enormity of his revelation. Powers were awakening that were beyond human understanding. His sense of loneliness and isolation deepened but, strangely, he felt comforted. He remembered the Queen’s words: ‘Even your father couldn’t have stood against the wiles of Dan-Tor.’ The memory made him smile bitterly. How could she have known the measure of the creature that they were opposing?

And yet they had opposed him, and done so successfully. Dilrap had fouled and encumbered his path with his seeming helpfulness. The Queen had restored her long-sick King. They were achievements in which to take no small pride, even if now they would doom him.

Scarcely had the thought occurred to him than the curtain of the alcove was pushed roughly aside and two white-faced Mathidrin troopers confronted him.

* * * *

Sylvriss spun round, and rising rapidly to her feet, drew a large hunting knife from her belt. ‘I must have been too long in the Palace,’ she said menacingly. ‘If a Lord can usurp the King, and thugs the High Guard, then I suppose bandits could return to the highways. Well, you’ve no soft maiden here, outlander.’ And she called out to her horse which reared up and flayed out wildly with its forelegs, narrowly missing Isloman’s head.

Gavor squawked and hopped a considerable distance away, while Isloman’s mouth fell open at the sight of this suddenly wild woman with her glittering knife and an indisputable will shining in her eyes. The horse jostled him violently.

‘Lady,’ he said, staggering under the impact, ‘what are you doing?’

‘What are you doing?’ Sylvriss retorted. ‘Lay down your sword before one of us kills you.’

Isloman hesitated, bewildered. Sylvriss’s horse moved towards him, forelegs dancing, but Isloman watched it uncomprehendingly. Abruptly, Serian neighed, and Sylvriss’s horse stopped. The Queen shouted to it again, but it did not move.

Sylvriss faltered at this unexpected intervention by the great horse. Who were these people? At her hesitation, Isloman seemed to come to himself and, bending down, he laid the sword gently on the ground.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Sylvriss bridled. ‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied. ‘That damned bird startled me, landing so close.’

Gavor put his head on one side but did not speak. Then he walked over to Hawklan and peered at him intently. Sylvriss caught the movement in the corner of her eye and, without taking her gaze from Isloman, swung a foot in Gavor’s direction.

‘Shoo!’ she shouted.

Isloman stretched out a hand and stepped forward. ‘It’s all right . . .’ he began, but the Queen levelled her knife at his groin.

‘Really,’ came a fruity voice from behind her. Startled she turned. But there was no one there, just the lifeless black figure – and that damned bird again, standing by the body and staring at her.

Without thinking, she moved towards it angrily. Gavor spread his wings and flapped away. ‘Really,’ he repeated. ‘Do something, Isloman. These Fyordyn women seem to do nothing but kill people when they get hold of a knife.’

Sylvriss stopped, eyes wide. Then, turning, she found Isloman standing next to her, but with his hands raised in surrender.

‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry I startled you with the sword, but I think it might help Hawklan.’

Sylvriss glanced from Isloman to the motionless figure and then at Gavor.

‘The bird spoke,’ she said, ignoring Isloman’s explanation.

Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, that’s Gavor,’ he said, then, ‘Please call your horse off, so that I can pick up the sword.’ Sylvriss looked at him. He looked powerful enough to have wrestled the horse to the ground had need arisen, but his power was lost in his anxiety and concern. She sheathed her knife.

‘Your horse has called mine off already, Orthlundyn,’ she said. Then, sadly, ‘Attend to your friend if you wish, but I fear he’s dead.’

As Isloman recovered the sword and moved to Hawklan’s side, Sylvriss walked slowly to her horse. Patting its cheek, she said. ‘Why did you disobey me, old friend?’ The horse lowered its head, and Serian bent forward and nudged her gently. Turning to him, Sylvriss saw that fear still flickered in his eyes, but it was being well mastered. So many questions. She stroked his neck. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘but thank you, line leader.’

She looked at Isloman, now kneeling by Hawklan and trying to place his hand around the handle of the sword. He kept wincing, as though the sword were burning him.

She patted the horse again and walked back over to Isloman. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, kneeling beside him.

There were tears in Isloman’s eyes, and his hands were shaking. ‘I can’t hold the sword,’ he said. ‘I can’t touch the handle. It’s too . . . charged . . . too . . .’ His voice faded. Then, thrusting the sword towards her, he said, ‘Will you try? Please.’

Sylvriss looked helplessly down at the plain black scabbard that held the sword, and then back at Isloman’s pleading gaze. She did not take it. ‘Your friend’s dead, Isloman,’ she said. ‘I could find no pulse.’

Isloman shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He can’t be. Try again.’

Sylvriss laid her hand on Hawklan’s throat and closed her eyes to shut out all distractions. Very faintly, like the distant stirring within herself, she felt the flutter of Hawklan’s heart.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, as if the sound of her too-loud voice might extinguish the tiny flame. ‘You’re right. But what can I do? I’m no healer. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with him.’

‘I don’t know,’ Isloman replied. ‘But give him the sword. It’s. . . important . . . it’s saved me in the past, and it’s saved us all today. Give it to him.’

Reluctantly, Sylvriss held out her hands to receive the weapon. Isloman placed it gently on to the outstretched palms. As the hilt of the sword touched her, Sylvriss felt the wind-blown Fyorlund countryside disappear in a great soaring song. A myriad voices singing a myriad tales of triumph and despair. There she was, riding by her father’s side across the open Riddin countryside, flirting and teasing the besotted Rgoric in summer orchards, withdrawing into herself over the long bitter years as Dan-Tor poisoned her husband, prowling the Westerclave, slaying the Mathidrin Sirshiant in the streets of Vakloss, at once exhilarated and degraded by the deed. And other tales were there. Everything was there. Everything. Even the life song of her unborn child.

With a cry she let the sword fall. ‘What is this?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘Who are you? And who is this to own such a thing?’ She looked down at the motionless Hawklan.

‘Help him, please,’ said Isloman again, taking her arms in his powerful hands. ‘I’m sure the sword will help him.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s . . . too near the end to hear . . . that.’ She clasped her hands together to stop them trembling as she looked at the sword.

Then she leaned forward and took hold of Hawklan’s hand. It was cold and lifeless; a terrible contrast to the great celebration that had just possessed her. Almost without realizing what she was doing, she pressed it gently against her stomach. ‘He needs a softer song to draw him back from wherever he is,’ she heard herself saying.

The wind buffeted the motionless group, ruffling Gavor’s feathers, and blowing Sylvriss’s hair across her face, but it could not disturb the deep stillness that descended on them all as they watched and waited.

Then Sylvriss laid down Hawklan’s hand and placed her fingers on his throat. ‘His heartbeat’s a little stronger,’ she said after a moment, almost disbelievingly. ‘Still faint, but definitely stronger.’

Isloman checked for himself. ‘It is, it is,’ he whispered. ‘And his face is less pale.’ However, despite his obvious relief at this improvement in his friend’s frail condition, the momentum of his journey seemed to return to him and without further comment he lifted Hawklan up quickly and began carrying him to his horse.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Sylvriss in alarm. ‘He’s very weak. I don’t think he should ride any more.’

‘He’s ridden this far and lived,’ Isloman said, almost callously, although his tone contrasted markedly with the gentleness with which he laid Hawklan across Serian’s neck. ‘We have to get away quickly.’

Sylvriss seized his arm and dragged him round to face her.

‘He might die yet, Isloman,’ she said angrily. ‘What are you running from that’s worth such a risk?’

Isloman looked down at her, his eyes full of concern and gratitude, but still impatient and fearful. He cast around for an explanation. It was there, in the west.

‘We’re running from that, Muster lady,’ he said, gently taking her hand from his arm, and turning her round to look at the place they had just so desperately ridden from. ‘We’re running from that. And the man . . . the creature that caused it.’

There, dominating the distance, was Vakloss, chief city of Fyorlund, standing high on its isolated hill, and crowned by the towers of the King’s palace. Its familiar skyline was unchanged, but Sylvriss was aware of some ominous difference, though for a moment she could not make out what it was. Two scars, seemingly rooted at the palace diverged across the city, as though a powerful flood had struck a massive rock and split irrecoverably into two lesser streams. At isolated points, smoke was being swept up and dissipated by the wind.

‘What . . .’

‘Mount up.’ Isloman’s command cut across Sylvriss’s question, and forestalling any further discussion, he swung up on to Serian. Immediately, the horse began walking along the road.

Scowling, at first with annoyance and then with pain, Sylvriss mounted her own horse and rode after the retreating stallion, which had now broken into a trot. Catching a gust in the wind, Gavor opened his wings and rose straight into the air to follow them both.

‘What’s happened in the City?’ Sylvriss finished her question as she reached Isloman.

Isloman shook his great head, trying to order his thoughts. ‘I can scarcely remember,’ he replied. ‘I remember getting involved with a crowd and arriving at the palace somehow, then Hawklan was talking to this Dan-Tor, and . . .’ He screwed up his face in concentration, then laid his hand uncertainly on the bow hanging from Serian’s saddle. ‘Then Hawklan shot him . . . for some reason . . .’

Sylvriss’s eyes widened. ‘Shot him,’ she gasped. ‘Shot Dan-Tor!’

Isloman nodded uncertainly.

Hopes began to form in Sylvriss’s mind. Was she fleeing now from something that no longer existed? Were these two men simply fleeing an anticipated retribution?

‘Is he dead?’ she asked anxiously.

Isloman turned to her, his face fearful again. ‘How can a thing like that die?’ he asked. Then, almost to himself, ‘It’s so confused. Hawklan’s never used a bow in his life. And he’d never strike anyone . . .’ Memories returned to give him the lie. Memories of Hawklan wielding the sword like a great warrior to hack down Mandrocs as the two of them had fled from Aelang’s patrol in Orthlund, Hawklan defeating Mathidrin in the smoke-strangled streets of Vakloss. ‘Well, not without provocation,’ he added hesitantly.

Sylvriss leaned across to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘What did you mean – a thing like that?’ she said.

Isloman started slightly. ‘Hawklan’s arrow struck him, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘He twisted away, but it hit him. Sent him staggering. I’m certain it did, and yet . . .’ His voice faded away as he struggled again with the confused images that were vying for his attention.

Sylvriss waited.

‘I remember Dan-Tor standing there, changed somehow, standing there radiating a terrible power, malevolent, like . . .’

He shuddered. The words did not exist. ‘He . . . it . . . lifted its hand and pointed at us, then everything around us was heaving and rumbling . . . even the ground.’

Imperceptibly, Serian’s trot became a loping gallop.

Unthinkingly, Isloman’s hands clutched nervously at Hawklan’s limp body draped in front of him, like a child trying to wake a parent for reassurance that his recent vivid torment had been just an evil dream. But there was no response.

Sylvriss took his arm again. ‘What happened?’ she said softly.

Isloman shook his head. ‘It’s gone, it’s gone,’ he said. ‘I remember Hawklan holding out the sword, keeping back some awful . . . I remember cowering behind him as he sank to his knees. Then everything’s confusion, screaming and pain. Everyone’s screaming. Every thing’s screaming. Even the stones. Pity help me, even the stones.’

Isloman’s head went back in a spasm of despair. Sylvriss flinched away from his pain.

‘Then I was on Serian. Galloping through panicking crowds. Galloping through heaving streets . . .’ Isloman’s eyes widened, and Serian’s gallop increased. ‘They were cracking open in front of us. Like great yawning mouths. And buildings were falling. Debris clattering around us everywhere, and great clouds of dust blowing.’ He drew a hand across his mouth. ‘And all the time, it was behind us, pursuing us. A great howl like a monstrous, demented animal . . . So much hatred . . . So much evil.’

Abruptly Sylvriss realized that they were riding almost at full gallop. Isloman’s relived terror had wakened Serian’s own. Her Muster instincts set aside the confusion that Isloman’s telling had produced in her and leaning over, she spoke softly to the black horse; gentle words of reward for tasks well done and rest well earned. Gradually, Serian slowed until he was trotting steadily again.

Isloman seemed unaware of the incident and sat motionless in his saddle, staring blankly ahead, apparently with nothing further to say. Sylvriss was content to ride in silence for some time, while she tested the reality of his bizarre tale. Dan-Tor attacked! And by Orthlundyn. Orthlundyn riding a Muster horse. The City raked by some terrible force released seemingly by Dan-Tor. A Dan-Tor transformed into . . . What?

She had felt the fringes of whatever had happened in the City and had been terrified. There was no doubting that reality. To be near its heart could indeed have overwhelmed even as fine a horse as Serian and such a man as Isloman seemed to be. As for his stricken friend, Hawklan – a man whose presence could be felt even though he was at the very edge of death – who was he and what had he borne as carrier of that awesome sword, at the very centre of the horror?

For a moment, she felt as though her mind was going to break free from all restraint and plummet shrieking into an abyss. She had grown used to living in a world of treachery and deceit, a world of political manipulation and intrigue, of power-seeking ambition. It was repellent and oppressive, but it was human. Now what was she fleeing from? A man – a thing, as Isloman called him – who could shake and destroy the very roots of a city?

A chilling thought crystallized abruptly. She seized Isloman’s arm. ‘Isloman. My husband. What’s happened to my husband?’

Isloman turned and looked at her, his eyes focussing slowly as Sylvriss repeated the question.

‘I don’t know,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t know your husband, Muster lady. I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name, for all I’m in your debt.’

Sylvriss closed her eyes irritably at the tiny worm of vanity that intruded into her concern. Of course, this man was an outlander, how could he be expected to recognize her?

‘I’m sorry Isloman,’ she said. ‘I’m Sylvriss, daughter of Urthryn, Ffyrst of Riddin, and Queen to King Rgoric.’

Isloman stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Your voice marks you out as Riddinvolk and your riding and your horse would mark you out as Muster trained even if you weren’t wearing their field uniform. But why would Rgoric’s Queen be fleeing the City? he asked.

Sylvriss’s eyes blazed. ‘How do Orthlundyn come to be riding a Muster horse?’ she shouted, suddenly angry. ‘And take pride that they’ve tried to kill a Fyordyn Lord?’ But before Isloman could speak, her tone changed. ‘For pity’s sake Isloman. What of Rgoric? He must have been with Dan-Tor when you arrived.’

‘I don’t know,’ Isloman replied. ‘The only other people with Dan-Tor were Mathidrin – it’s difficult, but I don’t remember anyone else.’ He searched for more comforting words. ‘The palace seemed undamaged when we looked back, didn’t it? Dan-Tor’s harm flowed out away from it. Your husband will probably be all right.’

Sylvriss recalled the terrible chill that had possessed her soon after she had brought Serian to a halt. She shuddered. No, she thought, she must not give way to doubts. Isloman’s words were all he could possibly offer. And he was probably right. Perhaps even now Rgoric was on this same road with Eldric and Jaldaric at his side. She could serve him best by doing his bidding; by riding to Eldric’s mountain stronghold and raising his High Guards.

‘Where are you going, Isloman?’ she asked.

‘The horse chose the road,’ he replied. ‘As it’s eastward I’ll go to Lord Eldric’s stronghold. There’s nowhere else in this land I can go. And there are people there who need to know what’s happened.’

‘Good,’ Sylvriss said simply. ‘That’s where I go.’ High above, Gavor rode the boisterous air with a relentless purpose, his eyes fixed on the tiny figures below and their precious burden.

Chapter 3

Dilrap made no pretence at dignity as the two Mathidrin manhandled him along the palace corridors back towards the Throne Room. In fact, he felt oddly grateful to the two men for supporting him on this inevitable journey, as his own legs seemed incapable of the task. Strangely however, though the strong hands that gripped him and propelled him along were none too gentle, he sensed little malice in them. Their contact was human and felt comforting for all its harshness.

Glancing at his two escorts he saw that both were struggling to maintain the blank stony features typical of their kind when on palace duty. Catching the intermittent eye signals that were passing between them, he realized that they too were afraid and that, in their fear, there were even elements of compassion and regret for what they were now doing. What was to happen to him could happen to them also.

Their reservations however, were not sufficient to prevent them doing what they were doing and, all too soon, Dilrap found himself before the open doors of the Throne Room. Around him, the Palace echoed with the sounds of people running and shouting, though as he looked to the left and then the right, the corridor he was standing in was deserted except for a few restless Mathidrin.

A push propelled him forward uncertainly into the Throne Room. He gasped. Not at what he saw, for he seemed to be having difficulty in focussing, but at the aura that filled the hall. It was like coming out of the hot summer sun into an inner room expecting to find a shaded coolness but finding instead that a large fire had been left burning. Here however, was not an unexpected and unpleasant heat, but a crawling malevolence that seemed to pass right through him. He felt his legs beginning to shake uncontrollably.

‘Ah, Honoured Secretary.’

The voice was familiar, though it seemed distant and coldly inhuman, and as it spoke, the air around him seemed to vibrate and press in upon him with each syllable.

‘Come forward.’

Dilrap did not move; for a moment he had forgotten how to walk. The air around him vibrated again, appallingly impatient, but before any voice could speak, Dilrap’s legs found their wits and he stepped forward uncertainly.

The scene before him was little changed from what it had been when he had finally fled from his vantage-point at the latticed panel. The King’s body had been removed, but the slaughtered Mathidrin were only just being dragged away by their fellow assassins, unceremoniously trailing blood and viscera across the ancient floor.

A sweet and unmistakable smell rose to Dilrap’s nostrils and he felt the room swirling around him as his stomach heaved with revulsion. Some residue of regard for the erstwhile dignity of the hall managed to prevent him from vomiting but a great roaring rose up and filled his head. He did not remember falling, but suddenly he was surprised to find himself in the grip of powerful hands again, lifting him up from his knees.

With an incongruous gentleness they held him upright until he was sufficiently recovered to stand alone. He needed to breathe deeply, but that smell.

‘Come forward, Honoured Secretary,’ came the voice again, pressing in on him. Still it was cold and distant, but there was a note of scorn in it which lessened its chilling inhumanity, and deep inside Dilrap the spirit of his long silent defiance stirred again tentatively.

Blinking to clear his vision, Dilrap brought into focus the image of his lifelong tormentor. Dan-Tor was sitting in the chair that had been used to carry him away from his fateful confrontation with Hawklan. He had sat in it when he ordered the murder of the King and had been trapped in it by the dying monarch to hear his enigmatic last words. He was both changed and unchanged. His posture radiated an all too human pain, and from time to time his teeth grimaced white in his creased brown face as some spasm passed through him. Yet though his body and pain were human, he was beyond doubt the source of the malevolence that was filling the Throne Room.

Beside him stood a white faced and very still Urssain. Dilrap walked forward awkwardly. Here is my death, he thought.

Please let it be quick, please let me not whimper. Father, I loved you. Sylvriss, I love you still . . .

‘Ffyrst,’ he said, interrupting his own silent last declamations.

Dan-Tor looked up at him. As their eyes met, Dilrap flinched away. The Lord Dan-Tor had terrified him, but this was not Dan-Tor, this was just an image of Dan-Tor floating on the surface of something . . . unspeakable. The King had spoken truly. Dilrap knew he was indeed standing in the presence of a being whose very existence he would have laughed to scorn but hours ago.

His earlier promise to the King floated before him, mocking his impotence and insignificance. ‘I’ll corrode his new Order as he corroded the old one.’ Then, terrifyingly, from somewhere inside him came the realization that he had no choice. He could not allow this abomination to be. He must oppose because its loathsome machinations would spread beyond all control; spread across all Fyorlund and out into the world. Faced with the reality of the Uhriel, Dilrap faced also its implications. If the Uhriel were among people, then somewhere He too must exist. This . . . creature was but a herald.

The awful clarity and certainty of this revelation froze Dilrap’s heart, so loud was it. It was as if he had just cried it out at the top of his voice for all to hear. His rational mind struggled to tell him that there was nothing he could do against such a power, but the inner certainty persisted. He fixed his eyes on the floor. While he was as nothing, he might yet survive.

‘Why did you not tell me that the King was restored to health, Honoured Secretary?’ Again, the scorn in Dan-Tor’s voice heartened Dilrap rather than dismayed him. This was familiar. This was human.

Tell as few lies as you must, he thought. This . . . creature . . . will smell them out.

‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ Dilrap replied, his voice shaking.

There was a long tingling silence, then, ‘Look at me, Dilrap.’ The voice was heavy with malice, but its icy inhumanity was fading, as if the wakened Uhriel were retreating, withdrawing its attention from trivial considerations.

Dilrap felt his reluctant head rising as if under the influence of some will other than his own. His gaze met Dan-Tor’s. He could not move. Dan-Tor’s eyes seemed to fill his very soul.

‘Tell me again, Dilrap.’

Dilrap’s heart sang out to Sylvriss in thanks that she had had the foresight to keep all knowledge of the King’s well-being from him.

‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ he repeated.

The eyes probed further. ‘You were that horse witch’s confidant, were you not? She would have told you of such a joyful change, wouldn’t she?’

Speak against us if you must. Sylvriss’s words returned to Dilrap.

‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ Dilrap said again, his mind frantically clutching the flimsy straw of truth that was keeping him afloat. ‘I didn’t know.’

Abruptly, though Dilrap felt that more and deeper questions were intended, the gaze was gone, and he was released. He breathed deeply to recover himself, despite the reek pervading the hall. He could not have withstood that scrutiny had the questions turned to his quiet conspiracy with the Queen, or the help he had given to Eldric and Jaldaric but minutes ago.

In front of him, Dan-Tor was staring upwards, grimacing in pain, his long hands clutching at his side around the protruding black arrow, but shying away from touching it.

To his surprise, Dilrap felt a flutter of sympathy for the man in his agony. Again the air around him seemed to stir, like a hunter scenting a distant and hated prey. Dilrap crushed the sentiment and substituted self-interest.

‘Ffyrst, I didn’t see you were wounded,’ he said, his voice – his whole manner – full of concern. ‘You must not exert yourself. Let the healers remove that . . .’ He pointed a trembling hand towards the arrow. ‘Such a wound could become infected.’

Dan-Tor’s gaze left the scenes of ancient history that decorated the ornate ceiling, and returned to the King’s Secretary. Dilrap felt the impact of its scorn, but it was still the gaze of his old enemy. Terrifying, but again human. The demon was gone . . . for now.

Nonetheless the gaze was grim and penetrating, and Dilrap let out a long soft breath as Dan-Tor turned to Urssain. ‘Help me stand,’ he said, his hands releasing his side and gripping the arms of the chair. Urssain bent down and placed the injured man’s arm around his shoulder, at the same time signalling to one of his men to assist. Slowly and painfully, Dan-Tor rose.

Dilrap watched but kept his eyes from Dan-Tor’s face, fearing the retribution that might fall on him at being seen to watch his master’s weakness. But the image before him was not one of human frailty, commanding sympathy; it was repellent. The lank brown figure not so much being supported by, as wilfully burdening the two Mathidrin in their black, bloodstained liveries, his arms spread wide and his hands clawing their shoulders as if he drew sustenance from their oppression.

Is this what you and your Master will do to the world, you monstrous blight? Dilrap found himself thinking unexpectedly. He lowered his gaze in case the thought showed in his eyes.

‘This wound is infected beyond your imaginings, Dilrap,’ Dan-Tor said, his neck stretching forward to make him look even more like a grotesque carrion bird. ‘It will trouble me for some long time but, have no fear, it’ll neither kill me nor blunt my purpose.’ A spasm of pain shook him. ‘However, you’re right in one matter. I must rest. Take heart, Secretary, that your final piece of advice to me was accepted.’

Dilrap’s stomach, tight and pained by the restraint of his reaction to the gore around his feet, became icy and leaden.

‘Final piece of advice, Ffyrst?’ he said faintly. ‘Am I dismissed my office? The King . . .’

‘The King is dead,’ Dan-Tor said coldly before Dilrap could finish. ‘Killed by . . .’ He paused and looked at Dilrap thoughtfully. ‘By my guards.’

Dilrap had little difficulty feigning horror and disbelief; that Dan-Tor had told the truth had genuinely shaken him. He tried to speak, but could not.

Then Dan-Tor’s predatory smile slashed white across his brown face. It was not the cold spirit of Oklar that shone through it, but the malice there showed Dilrap that humankind could be as foul as any of the creatures they self-righteously label monster.

‘A new order is with us, Honoured Secretary,’ said Dan-Tor. ‘Your office is no longer needed. Nor are you.’ He paused as though savouring the moment. ‘Kill him, Commander.’

Before Urssain could relinquish his burden to implement this command, Dilrap fell to his knees, his mouth working noiselessly. At last he found his voice. ‘Ffyrst. I beg of you. What have I done?’

Dan-Tor looked at him. ‘Done, Dilrap?’ he said. ‘You’ve done well. You were serving my ends admirably, but circumstances have cut across my plans and brought about their conclusion sooner than I had hoped . . .’

Dilrap interrupted desperately. ‘Why kill me then, Master?’

Dan-Tor turned away his face suddenly as if he had been struck. ‘Don’t presume to question me, Dilrap,’ he said angrily, turning back. ‘Your eternal terror clouds my vision, and your eternal fretting over the minutiae of the Law rings in my ears like the buzzing of a trapped insect. Now all can be swept aside. The New Order will be one of simplicity. One requiring only the swords of my Mathidrin and my will. I would be free of you, Dilrap. Urssain, attend to it now. I grow weary.’

Dilrap stared at him, unable to either speak or move, finding no resource within himself that could hope to deflect such malice. All courses of action were closed to him now. Let me not whimper, he thought again. Had he not just seen men dispatched by a single swift stroke from the King’s sword? There would be a moment’s pain and then his journey through his worrisome life would be over. Surely he could receive that with dignity and calm. But immediately behind this calmness came an unexpected and raging anger. No, he would not go so lightly. He would give this . . . obscenity a measure of what it could expect should it hope to hold sway over humanity. Before anyone could seize him he would tear that black arrow from its side and plunge it into its heart.

As the thought came to him, he caught Urssain’s eye. Will you be next, Commander? was the message he sent. Will you serve him as I have and end thus? At his whim? No longer needed?

Urssain hesitated. ‘Ffyrst, may I speak?’ he said softly to his burden.

Irritably, Dan-Tor inclined his head. Urssain nodded to the other trooper to dismiss, and taking Dan-Tor’s full weight turned him gently away from the kneeling figure.

‘Ffyrst,’ he said, his voice low so that only Dan-Tor could hear him. ‘After today the men will be stretched to the limit just to keep public order. Large tracts of the City have been razed. The disruption to the normal life of the City will be enormous and will provide all manner of opportunities for malcontents to foment trouble. We had to bring men in for the arrest of Eldric and now they’ll have to stay until some semblance of normality is restored.’ Dan-Tor frowned, though whether it was at his remarks or at some pain, Urssain could not judge. He pressed on. ‘Dilrap understands the people and their ways. He also understands the detailed administration of the Palace and the City. For all his faults, it will be virtually impossible to find a replacement who’s remotely as able. We have none, save yourself, and your efforts should be bent to dealing with the rebels in the east. . .’ Then, almost whispering, ‘and your greater design.’

Dan-Tor was silent for a moment. ‘Will you not obey my order, Commander?’ he said eventually.

Urssain quailed at the soft menace in the voice. ‘Ffyrst. I’m nothing without your favour. All I have is yours. I try to serve you and I’ll do anything you tell me to. But we have difficult problems ahead in the immediate future: why not let Dilrap carry some of the odium that solving them will produce?’

Dan-Tor nodded slowly. Urssain’s crawling fear for his own ultimate fate was apparent in his every movement, but his comments were logical. This had been a day of great progress, though at what risk and at what cost? He was burdened with a twofold anger: that his plans had been so jeopardized, and that it was this selfsame anger that had so marred his judgement. What had prompted him to respond to that cursed bird’s ancient taunt? If he had not tried to strike it, Hawklan would not have attacked him, and . . .

Angrily, he dismissed the circling and fruitless reproaches, though he knew they would return to haunt him repeatedly. They would burden him as surely as this arrow in his side, as did those for the folly he had committed on the sunlit green at Pedhavin when he had succumbed to the vanity that he might bind the dormant Ethriss.

His only solace was that whatever that green-eyed abomination was, he had come from Anderras Darion, and where the shadow of that sink-hole fell, so His writ ran false, and His servants were deceived. The place was an aberration. Suffice it that the deed was done now. The Old Power had been both used and defied, and Ethriss had not arisen to strike him down effortlessly before turning to his real foe. As his reward for his wanton impetuosity however, he was impaled now on this accursed arrow until He chose to remove it.

Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Master, Dan-Tor intoned inwardly, lifting his hand to his side again. The words showed him another truth; the pain of the arrow would after all be a second solace to him. It was a measure of his worth that He had not destroyed him utterly in His cold fury.

Or could it be that He too had been afraid of what Hawklan might be? Afraid to use the Power that was His? Dan-Tor stretched up suddenly so that his pain would at once obliterate and atone for such a blasphemy.

Urssain started at the sudden movement. ‘Ffyrst?’ he gasped, his eyes wide and fearful.

Dan-Tor turned to him. He too must remember the value of his servants. They were the carefully honed cutting edge of his will. They could be punished when they did not cut true but they should not be needlessly squandered. His desire to slaughter Dilrap for the petty irritations that his help had entailed was yet another reminder of the spiteful residue of his humanity. Who could foretell what consequences might ensue from pandering again to a whim arising from so flawed a source?

Urssain too should be encouraged to follow willingly the paths of power and ambition that he could see opening before him in today’s events. One day, Urssain, you will be to me as I am to Him, Dan-Tor mused, and each step will make your ultimate binding easier. An act of petty spleen now, however, could make him reluctant to venture forward; could divert his talents into caution and self-protective conspiracy and that would serve no useful purpose.

A whisper of doubt, however, still lingered around the fate of Dilrap. The man’s true self was permanently hidden in a miasma of terror; part of him was inaccessible and therefore dangerous. Dan-Tor rejected the thought. There could be little at the heart of such a creature, and should he prove worthless or treacherous, he was neither warrior nor leader; none would flock to his banner and he could easily be dealt with at any time.

‘Thank you for your guidance, Commander,’ he said. ‘I spoke in my pain. You’re right. A good servant should not be used thus. Take Dilrap and use him. I must retire to my quarters and attend to my wound.’

Urssain bowed and then signalled to two of his men. As they moved forward to support the injured Ffyrst, he waved them away.

‘Shall I send the healers to you, Ffyrst?’ Urssain asked, seemingly concerned.

‘No,’ replied Dan-Tor. For a moment Urssain saw the Ffyrst’s eyes flicker red like an ominous sunrise, and he seemed to feel a rumble of distant thunder. But the instant passed almost before he could register it, and Dan-Tor was continuing. ‘I know the nature of my injury only too well, Commander, and only I can tend it. You tend the injury to the City that that . . . Orthlundyn has wrought. We must have order again. We have new plans to make.’

Turning, he moved slowly towards one of the side doors to the Throne Room. Urssain snapped to attention as did all the other Mathidrin. Dilrap rose unsteadily and a deep silence descended on the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the Ffyrst’s robes as he made his laboured progress across the hall.

Through the open doorway of the main entrance came a soft and unexpected stirring as an eddy from the wind outside found itself wandering the palace corridors in search of escape. Dilrap felt it cool and fresh on his cheek, though his robes were pressed cold against his back. Then the noise of a distant door slamming shut reverberated through the hall, and the breeze was gone.

No one moved.

Briefly a shaft of sunlight shone brightly through the large window at the end of the hall. It fell on Dan-Tor’s retreating figure like a warning finger. He stopped and turned again to Urssain. ‘Before all other things, Commander, find me that man’s body.’ Then the sunlight was gone and Dan-Tor finished his journey to the door in dusty shade. As he slipped from view it seemed as though the whole room breathed out in release.

Relaxing, Urssain looked around, his face wrinkled with distaste. ‘Get this mess cleaned up, and quickly,’ he shouted to a Sirshiant. ‘Then seal the room and put a guard on the Ffyrst’s room. There could be all manner of people wandering the Palace.’ Then, more softly, looking significantly at the man:

‘And remind these . . .’ His glance took in the waiting Mathidrin, ‘of the life enhancing value of silence, until I have the chance to talk to them properly.’ The Sirshiant saluted and Urssain turned towards Dilrap.

As he approached the Secretary, he noted his strange expression and oddly still posture. He paused. Dilrap did not know what had passed between him and Dan-Tor and would still be expecting summary execution. Urssain had seen what cornered men could do before now and he lifted a hand in reassurance before he came too close. He had no desire to cut down the Secretary in self-defence after having taken such risks to keep him alive.

‘It’s all right, Dilrap,’ he said discreetly when he reached him. ‘You’re safe for the time being. As am I.’ His manner was casual, for the benefit of onlookers, but his eyes bore a different, more urgent, message – intimate almost. ‘We’ve a great deal to organize,’ he continued. ‘Come with me.’

As they walked along the palace corridors towards the main entrance, the activity and noise grew, and Dilrap noted dust and grime layering the floor and darkening statues and ornaments. Equally soiled Mathidrin troopers and palace servants were running to and fro, brought together in common humanity to tend the needs of those damaged by the blow that Oklar had launched at Hawklan.

‘Commander, we couldn’t find you.’ It was a Mathidrin Captain, his face flushed and sweat-stained.

Urssain waved the remark aside. ‘I’ve been tending the Ffyrst,’ he said coldly. ‘Report.’

The report was brief. Impromptu groups were digging in the rubble to find survivors and clear the streets. The dead and the wounded were being taken to various large halls about the City. ‘The Guilds and the Rede’s people are doing most of the organizing,’ the Captain concluded rather awkwardly.

Urssain nodded. This last remark reminded him why he needed Dilrap. The Mathidrin had neither the administrators nor the resources to run a city. ‘Is there any sign of rioting?’ he said.

‘Not so far,’ replied the Captain. ‘But it could happen. There’s a lot of angry talk about, and when the shock and panic die down, it could boil over.’

Urssain nodded again. Nor did they have the forces to contend with any serious rioting. ‘We must be circumspect, Captain. We mustn’t play into the hands of our enemies by inflaming matters. Check the Palace for intruders. Gently – many of them will just be shocked or seeking shelter – then discreetly seal the Palace. When that’s done, find such Commanders and senior Captains as you can, and report to me in the Westerclave.’ Then mindful of his Lord’s last order. ‘And get a party to clear the gateway immediately. The Ffyrst needs to know that his would-be assassin is dead. Immediately, Captain.’

‘It’s almost finished, Commander,’ the Captain replied. ‘We’ve found some bodies, but not the . . . archer’s.’

‘Keep looking, then. And hurry,’ Urssain said, dismissing the man with a curt gesture.

Scowling at this distraction, Urssain looked around. ‘In here,’ he said, pushing open the door of a small ante-room. As Dilrap entered, Urssain closed the door and bolted it.

‘We have to talk, Dilrap,’ he said without preliminaries.

Dilrap did not reply. His legs failing him, he dropped into a chair. He looked at his unexpected saviour.

In contrast to Dilrap’s stillness, Urssain paced fretfully up and down the small room as he spoke. ‘The Ffyrst is changed, Dilrap,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what or who he is, but he’s changed, and changed unbelievably, and you and I must change also if we’re to survive.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Dilrap lied. ‘What do you mean, changed? And who shot him? And why was the King kill—’

Urssain waved him silent irritably, and Dilrap saw for the first time the fear and deep shock that the man was barely keeping under control. Another reassuring sign of humanity in his enemies.

Urssain stopped pacing and stood looking down at him. ‘Some Orthlundyn assassin shot him, Dilrap. I don’t know why, but the Ffyrst has been fretting about him ever since he got back from Orthlund. It’s not a matter I’d inquire into if I were you, especially now.’

For an instant his composure slipped, his mouth trembled and his terror showed naked on his face. He turned away. In the Mathidrin it was potentially a fatal mistake to show fear. It was almost as bad just to admit to it. For a moment however, Urssain felt drawn to tell Dilrap of the maelstrom of emotions that had torn and twisted him as he had stood by Dan-Tor to face that strange Orthlundyn. Dilrap would understand. He was permanently terrified. He could offer no threat.

But apart from his years of restraint, where could he find the words for such a tale? He could tell of his fear at being faced unexpectedly by a massive and seemingly organized mob. Fear that the ancient will of the Fyordyn had suddenly awakened to call him to account for his deeds. Perhaps he could tell of the eerie tension between his Lord and Hawklan, the one charming yet malevolent, the other grim-faced yet open and honest. Perhaps also he could tell of his horror as Dan-Tor fell to the ground, struck by Hawklan’s arrow. Was this to be the end? His leader slain and the mob free to surge forward to overwhelm the guards and destroy him?

But how could he tell of his emotions as Dan-Tor rose again and revealed his true self? How could he tell of his impotence, his inadequacy, at being less than the merest mote swept up in the howling wake of Oklar’s fury? Or of his joy at finding himself returned unhurt and whole to this world when it had passed? It was beyond all description.

And yet still less could he tell of the dark and vile exhilaration that he had felt at being part of such power, or of his unholy communion with the being that wielded it. That above all was for his own inner contemplation.

Dilrap watched Urssain’s back and read his indecision and torment.

Confess to me, Commander, he willed. Show me your weaknesses for my future use. The harshness of the thought surprised him.

‘Why was the King killed, then?’ he asked bluntly. Urssain started and for a moment looked at him blankly. Dilrap pressed on. ‘I was trying to stop the King releasing Eldric and his son. He was so angry I thought he was going to have me killed on the spot. Then the whole Palace shook and I just ran away. Now he’s dead – killed by your men. What’s happening, Urssain?’

Urssain scowled and crushed his own turmoil under the needs of the present. He leaned forward and brought his face close to Dilrap’s. ‘Too many questions, Honoured Secretary. I didn’t save your blubbering neck just to be interrogated by you. Obedience is the law now. Obedience without question. I’ve saved your life today. Listen to what I say, and learn, and you may stay alive.’ He brought his face even closer until it was almost touching Dilrap’s. His voice was soft and menacing.

‘The Lord Dan-Tor has powers beyond our imaginations, Dilrap. I’ve seen them. I stood by him when he razed half the City with a wave of his hand. For those who follow and serve him, there’ll be rewards beyond imagination, and for those who do not, there’ll be extinction. Nothing can oppose him, have no doubts about that. I have his favour and now you have mine. Obey me as I obey him and those rewards will be yours also. But remember, Dilrap. You are useful to me. Valuable, even. But I am indispensable to you. Do you understand?’

Dilrap nodded. Out of habit, his body shook and twitched, but his mind was calmer than he had ever known. I understand you perfectly, Commander, he thought. You’re Oklar’s creature, bound utterly by the folly of your greed and lust. There could be no safer place for me than to shelter behind you. I’ll gladly defend your back.

Urssain nodded, then, without a word, unbolted the door and left, leaving it swinging open.

Dilrap watched the hubbub in the corridor, but did not move. Nothing can oppose him, he thought, reiterating Urssain’s remark. But a black arrow from a mysterious Orthlundyn has done you no small ill, hasn’t it, Uhriel? Orthlund. The blessed land of Orthlund as it was called in the Law. Unexpectedly, the thought slipped into Dilrap’s mind that if He were abroad again, a force from an ancient, long-forgotten time, what other forces might not be waking?

A voice reached him from the corridor. It was Urssain’s, raised in anger. ‘Keep searching. The body must be there. Nothing could have withstood the Lord’s power.’

Chapter 4

Isloman reached forward and pressed his fingers against Hawklan’s throat again. Closing his eyes to shut out the relentless drumming of the horses’ hooves and the throbbing fatigue of his body, he waited. The pulse was still there. Not strong, but steady and unchanged.

It was a reassurance, but Isloman barely knew now why he sought it, so tired was he. It seemed as though he had never known anything but this bumping, pounding twilight world.

He became aware that Sylvriss was laughing at him. With an effort he looked across at her. She too looked tired, but she was still alert, and riding easily.

‘Let go, Isloman,’ she was saying. ‘Let go. Serian won’t let either you or Hawklan fall off. Just go to sleep.’

Isloman scowled and Sylvriss laughed again. It was strange, Isloman thought, how the riding calmed her, kept at bay the terrors of the day and the fears for her husband. On the rare occasions that they stopped she soon became fretful and anxious, her brow furrowing and her eyes becoming haunted, being drawn ever back towards Vakloss.

Not that they had stopped very often. By some instinct Isloman could not fathom, Sylvriss, like Hawklan before, had let Serian judge the pace, and the horse had shown little regard for either his or Sylvriss’s needs – although Isloman felt that such stops as they did make were in some way for Hawklan’s benefit.

The road they were travelling had been selected by Dilrap when, at the Queen’s request, he had planned a route by which, together with the King, they might all escape Vakloss to seek help from the Lords in the east. It was a remnant of times long gone, passing now through only a few quiet villages, and its original purpose was long forgotten. For much of its length it was little more than a wide earth track, but it still bore some indications of having been a substantial highway as there were long stretches, particularly in the vicinity of the few villages it served, where its ancient paving was still intact. Isloman noticed that the construction of the paving was similar to that of the roads that criss-crossed Orthlund, though the workmanship was coarser. It had a worn and aged look but it was obvious that efforts were made to maintain it.

He found the sight and the tired song of the rock rather sad, particularly as the road was patently younger than those in Orthlund, and in his fatigue he found himself, head bent low, lovingly repairing and restoring the uneven and worn blocks, his chisel ringing clear and sweet with a pulsating, steady rhythm trimming and refitting rounded edges, lifting out cracked and broken blocks and replacing them with new ones, fitted true to add support to their neighbours.

Suddenly the chisel slipped from his hand, and he started violently. As the chisel struck the stones, its ringing rose up all around him and transformed itself into Sylvriss’s laughter as he found himself abruptly awake.

Serian had stopped.

Smiling, Sylvriss dismounted and walked over to him. She held out her hand to support him as he dismounted and unthinkingly he took it.

‘I’m sorry I laughed,’ she said, laughing again as he staggered stiffly, ‘but you looked so comical, trying so hard not to fall asleep.’

Isloman gave her a reproachful look.

‘Go and lie down and sleep properly,’ she said, still smiling, and nodding towards a nearby copse. ‘I’ll tend to the horses and I don’t suppose Serian will let us rest for long.’

‘What’s he stopped for?’ Isloman said.

Sylvriss shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s not tired. Neither’s my horse. Perhaps he’s concerned about us.’

Isloman doubted it. Looking round he realized that the wind had dropped and that the sky had cleared. In the west the sun was spreading large and red on the dusty horizon and overhead the sky was turning purple.

He nodded. ‘He wants my shadow sight to get us through the night,’ he said, carefully lifting Hawklan down. ‘Don’t you, Serian?’

Sylvriss did not understand the remark, but noted the horse’s response. Isloman laid his hand gently on its cheek. ‘Give me what time you can,’ he said. ‘I’m too tired to tell dream from reality at the moment, let alone shade from shade.’ The horse shook its head, and Isloman patted it. ‘You saved all our lives,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

Sylvriss watched the exchange. ‘You’re learning, Orthlundyn,’ she said. ‘You’re learning. Now go and rest.’

Isloman carried Hawklan over to the copse and, after a little searching, laid him down gently in the shade of an old, wide-canopied tree. Maternally he wrapped Hawklan’s cloak about his inert form, and pulled the hood forward to protect his face. Then he sat back, arms hugging his knees, and stared at his friend. As Serian’s driving pace had carried them relentlessly through the day, the feeling of pursuit by the power that the appallingly transformed Dan-Tor had released, had passed. But in its place had come equally dark emotions; regret, confusion and doubt coloured all his thoughts, and he became aware of a deeper, more abiding fear as visions of a grim, embattled future began to form. A future without Hawklan to guide and sustain him.

And questions came also. So many questions.

But they would all have to wait until he reached Eldric’s stronghold where Hawklan could perhaps be wakened. Now above all he must not allow the possible future to cloud the actual present. Now only the immediate concerns of the moment were important. He must take Sylvriss’s advice, and sleep until the horse decided they should move on.

Wrapping his own cloak about him, he lay down by his friend and closed his eyes.

‘Isloman, where are you?’

Looking up, he saw Sylvriss standing at the edge of the copse, silhouetted vividly against the darkening evening sky. Her head was bent forward and with her hands to her eyes she was peering intently into the gloom. Isloman smiled. ‘Come to my voice,’ he said, chuckling softly.

Tentatively Sylvriss moved forward into the shade, very discreetly checking the knife in her belt. Isloman chuckled again. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘Accept my knowledge of the shadows as I accept your knowledge of the horses, Muster lady.’

She faltered slightly, and Isloman could sense her blushing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just so dark in here . . . ooh!’ The cry was caused by Gavor, swooping purposefully through the trees and narrowly missing her. He landed by Isloman.

‘So sorry, dear girl,’ he said offhandedly, then to Isloman, ‘How is he?’

‘Still alive, Gavor,’ Isloman replied, ‘but no different.’

Gavor flapped his wings uneasily. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Isloman. ‘Nothing except travel as quickly as we can and hope for better guidance at Eldric’s.’

Gavor made a clucking noise and moved to take up sentry duty by Hawklan’s head. Isloman closed his eyes again.

Sylvriss reached them and, sitting down with her back to a tree, pulled her knees up to her chest. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, but even so she found it difficult to see the three figures beside her.

She too was burdened with questions; not least about her strange travelling companions. But overriding them all was concern for the fate of Rgoric. Away from the solace of her riding, her mind too was prey to darker thoughts. The memory of the frenzied activity that had started the day returned, together with all the aches and pains of her fall. She wriggled restlessly, unable to sit comfortably on the hard ground.

As she listened to the soft rise and fall of the sleeping Isloman’s breathing, she found her eyes being drawn towards the edge of the copse, looking for the shadow that would be the pursuing Rgoric seeking her out. That he could not possibly have ridden as fast or as far as they had that day, she knew, but still she looked. He would be out there somewhere, striving to come near to her as desperately as she was moving away from him.

Then she found her mind living sunlit future days with him, hopeful and tender. She pushed the thoughts away fearfully, glancing round as if to see whether some malevolent sprite of providence might have caught them. Overhead the trees fluttered against the darkening sky reminding her of the great tree in the Crystal Room where she had taken Dilrap as her ally in her new intent against Dan-Tor. Abruptly her throat tightened and she felt tears forming in her eyes. ‘No,’ she whispered softly to herself as she tried to hold them back.

‘Don’t be afraid of your fear, dear lady,’ said a voice, soft and gentle in the shadows. It was Gavor.

There was such compassion in his voice that it overwhelmed Sylvriss’s restraint utterly and with a little sob, she dropped her head on to her knees and let the tears of months flow silently down her face.

As her low sobbing gradually faded, she leaned back and, resting her head on the tree trunk stared up at the stars beginning to litter the sky. They were streaked and unfocussed and she lifted her hand to wipe her eyes.

‘Here, dear girl,’ Gavor said. He had left his sentry post and was standing by her side holding a kerchief in his beak. ‘It’s Hawklan’s,’ he said. ‘He won’t mind you borrowing it.’

The incongruity of Gavor’s words made Sylvriss smile unsteadily, and taking the kerchief she wiped her eyes until the stars above were sharp and clear.

‘Who are you, bird?’ she asked, after a while, her voice uncertain through her aching throat.

‘Hawklan’s friend,’ replied Gavor, turning away and returning to his vigil.

‘But . . .’

‘Rest, Sylvriss,’ Gavor said before she could continue her question. ‘Serian won’t allow you much time.’

‘I can sleep while I ride,’ Sylvriss objected.

‘Rest anyway,’ Gavor replied. ‘We’ve some way to go, and plenty of time for talking.’

Sylvriss, however, could sleep only fitfully. Fear for her husband weighed too heavily, as if when she slept Rgoric was in some way unguarded.

When Isloman awoke, he was alert and aware almost immediately. The first thing he saw was Serian standing at the edge of the copse, black and solid through the darkness. Gently he touched Sylvriss’s arm and she wakened with a slight start.

‘We must go now,’ he said, standing up and stretching. Sylvriss struggled to her feet slowly and ungracefully as her sleepiness and the stiffness caused by her unusual sleeping position multiplied her aches and pains mercilessly. She shivered.

‘It’s too dark for safe riding,’ she said.

Isloman was bending down to pick up Hawklan. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll not travel as quickly, but we’ll make good progress.’ Reaching the waiting horse, Isloman breathed deeply and savoured the cool night scents. His brief sleep had refreshed him considerably and despite the worries that still fretted him, he felt less lost, more hopeful.

He became aware of Sylvriss moving uneasily to her horse. ‘I needed that rest,’ he said casually. ‘How are you?’

‘Dreadful,’ she replied crossly, ignoring his offered hand. ‘Mount up.’

A bright but narrow moon illuminated the night, though not greatly, and as they rode steadily through the darkness Sylvriss found that she had to trust Serian as blindly as she had previously advocated to Isloman. It was not easy, and it took her some time to refrain from snatching nervously at her horse’s reins when occasionally the tree-shaded darkness seemed to close about her like blindness. As before, Serian was setting the pace but now, Sylvriss noticed, Isloman was holding his reins lightly and sitting very easily as he gazed at the road ahead.

Gavor was perched on Isloman’s shoulder, and in an attempt to draw her mind away from the strangeness of the journey, Sylvriss spoke to him. ‘Did you see any riders pursuing us, Gavor?’ she asked self-consciously.

Gavor turned to look at her, and his black eye shone bright in the faint moonlight. ‘No, dear girl,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t looking that way. I was looking for patrols ahead. Nothing behind was going to catch us.’

Dilrap had chosen this road because it was seldom used and was thus presumably infrequently patrolled. However, it was a presumption, as he was not privy to the operational schemes of the Mathidrin, and Sylvriss was a little shocked to find that she had let the Mathidrin and their patrols become so slight in her considerations after leaving the City. True, it was understandable. More pressing problems had dominated the journey from the outset, with the earth-shaking roar that had nearly lost her mount, then her frantic and painful encounter with her new companions, and the strange and terrible things that they had told her of. Nevertheless, understandable though it might be, it was not excusable. She had been careless, and carelessness in these new times might prove disastrous.

Then another thought came to her in the wake of her self-reproach. As Gavor had said, nothing behind could catch them, but what of Rgoric and Eldric? They could be caught. She drew in her breath sharply as the thought struck cold to her heart.

‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman said, without taking his eyes from the road ahead.

‘I’d forgotten about the patrols,’ she confessed. ‘I hope Rgoric and Eldric don’t run into any. They’ll be less able to outrun them than we are.’

Isloman nodded. He could offer little reassurance. Travelling with the two Goraidin, he and Hawklan had seen no Mathidrin on their journey to Vakloss, but then they were travelling over the countryside, well away from any roads. And he recalled Yengar’s surprise at the number of Mathidrin that had apparently been used to occupy the city on the night of Eldric’s arrest at Lord Oremson’s. Perhaps Dan-Tor had called in all his resources to ensure that he could contain any difficulties that would arise from this treachery?

He was about to mention this possibility when he recalled also that a small patrol had seen Yengar and Olvric leaving the City and had pursued them relentlessly across the country until they themselves were killed or captured. He realized the Queen had not been alone in her complacency.

‘They’ll have to fend for themselves,’ he said regretfully, after a pause. ‘But you know your husband, lady, and from what I know of Lord Eldric, he’s a resourceful man, not given to foolishness. The best we can do for them is reach Lord Eldric’s and let them know what’s happening.’

Sylvriss did not reply. Isloman’s summary had been gentle, but brutally accurate.

They rode for the remainder of the night in silence. Isloman peering into the moonlit shadows ahead, gently touching Serian’s reins from time to time, and Sylvriss wilfully turning away from thoughts of events that she could not influence so that she would not burden her horse with her doubts. It was trusting Serian, she must trust it. Gavor slept.

Gradually the clear depths of the night sky faded into an untidy grey dawn, and with the light came a breeze that brought in low leaden clouds and squalling showery rain.

The two riders pulled up their hoods and the note of the steady drumming hooves changed as the horses began to splash through puddles forming in the uneven road surface. Free of his responsibilities as guide, Isloman became once again a little more ill at ease on his mount, though Sylvriss noted he was far more relaxed than he had been the previous day. To her surprise, she found herself admitting that he rode remarkably well – for an outlander.

Looking around she tried to find her bearings. She was unfamiliar with this part of the country, but she had spent some time discussing the route with Dilrap and studying the map that he had found for her.

From what she could recall it seemed that they might indeed have made remarkable progress. Then they were clattering over a wide wooden bridge, its colourful carvings dulled by the grey sky. She recognized it from Dilrap’s description. They had made good progress.

‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘I think there should be a village ahead where we can get supplies. We mustn’t go charging in at this speed.’

Isloman objected. ‘We can live off the land,’ he said. ‘It’s not pleasant, but it’ll only be for a few days. Let’s ride on through.’

Sylvriss shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The supplies should be ready for us. It’ll only take a moment to collect them. Living off the land takes time, and we don’t have any.’ Her tone brooked no argument.

Serian too, however, seemed to agree with Isloman, and ignored his half-hearted tug on his reins. Sylvriss’s jaw tightened, and leaning across she took the rein from Isloman unceremoniously, and shouted a sharp command to the stallion. With an irritable shake of its head, the horse slowed to a walk. Gavor emerged from underneath Isloman’s cloak and looked around unhappily at the damp morning. ‘I’ll fly ahead,’ he said reluctantly after a moment. Hopping off Serian’s head he dipped low over the road and then, wings beating purposefully, he rose up and flew off into the rainy greyness.

Minutes later, Sylvriss and Isloman found themselves in the main street of a quiet Fyordyn village. Most of the cottages were single-storey with high pitched roofs and, to Isloman, used to the taller, stone buildings of Orthlund, with their low pitched roofs and jutting eaves, they seemed small and constricting, though they did not have the squat solidity of those he had seen clinging to the mountains when he and Hawklan had first entered Fyorlund.

Nevertheless, with its colourful wooden carvings and its flower-filled gardens that seemed to be spilling out from inside the houses through copious and prolific window-boxes, the place had considerable charm, even in the wind and rain, and Isloman sensed a small hint of the harmony that he had almost forgotten in the turmoil of recent events. The dawn scent of a flower reached him and, unexpectedly, a wave of homesickness for Pedhavin and his friends and his old life passed over him. It showed on his face.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sylvriss whispered as if fearful of disturbing the quiet calm of the street.

‘Nothing,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘Just tired.’

Sylvriss nodded and reined to a halt. She looked up and down the street thoughtfully. Apart from a solitary and bedraggled dog, and a bleary, incurious face glancing briefly through a rain spattered window, there was no movement.

‘We’ve hardly roused them to battle stations,’ Isloman said with gently irony, shaking off the last remnants of his brief longing.

Sylvriss did not reply, but dismounted and began walking along the street looking carefully at the threshold carvings. Isloman made to join her, but silently she signalled to him to stay mounted. They might yet have to leave quickly. The cold memory of her neglect in forgetting about the Mathidrin patrols was still with her and she would not be so careless again. This village was the old Fyorlund and it could protect neither them nor itself from the new.

At last she found the cottage she had been seeking and handing her reins to Isloman she walked up the short paved path and knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. She knocked more loudly.

Isloman glanced up and down the street, feeling peculiarly exposed. Overhead he heard the thrumming beat of Gavor’s wings.

Still no reply.

Frowning anxiously, Sylvriss walked round to the side of the cottage and, hands around her eyes, peered in through a window. Isloman saw her tapping vigorously and then signalling to someone inside.

Then she ran quickly back to the door which opened to reveal a small, elderly lady clutching a nightgown about herself. She curtseyed slightly to the Queen and smiled affectionately, though Isloman could see that she too was anxious and concerned. He threw back his hood to improve his visibility.

There was a whispered conversation, then Sylvriss disappeared into the cottage to reappear almost immediately carrying two large panniers. After a further, brief conversation, the old lady reached out and embraced the Queen tightly, patting her back gently, reluctant to have her leave, reluctant to have her stay.

Without speaking, Sylvriss slung the panniers expertly on the horses and with a wave to the watching woman, now clutching her nightgown about her again, she remounted and clicked her horse forward.

‘Who was that?’ Isloman asked as he came alongside.

Sylvriss seemed preoccupied. Isloman repeated the question and she started. ‘I’m sorry, Isloman. That was Virna. She used to nurse Rgoric when he was a boy,’ she said. ‘Then she was my maid for a long time . . .’ She hesitated.

‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman said.

Sylvriss frowned. ‘Involving innocent people is the matter, Isloman,’ she said. ‘I hate it.’ Then she shook her head as if to clear her mind of thoughts that could now only hinder. ‘It’s as well we stopped,’ she said. ‘Virna said that a Mathidrin patrol passed through here only yesterday. Travelling our way.’

Isloman frowned. ‘How many were there?’ he said.

‘Six,’ Sylvriss replied.

‘Did they cause any trouble?’ Isloman asked, remembering the accounts he had heard from Yatsu, and the uneasy greeting they had had from villagers as he and Hawklan had been escorted to Vakloss from the mountains.

‘No,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘They just rode through.’

Isloman looked down at Hawklan and his frown deepened. He signalled to Gavor who glided down and landed on his outstretched hand. ‘There’s a Mathidrin patrol ahead somewhere, Gavor.’ he said. ‘We can’t risk either fighting our way through them, or losing time moving too cautiously. Try and find them so that we can move around them.’

Gavor hesitated. ‘I’ll find them if they’re there,’ he said. ‘But there are woods ahead. It won’t be easy. Go slowly until I come back to you.’

For all Gavor’s assurance that the village was safe, Isloman was glad to leave it behind. Away from the houses there would at least be space to flee, and he was also haunted by the images of the innocents he had seen caught in the rioting in Vakloss.

However, as Gavor had suggested, they maintained a walking pace, though neither found it either easy or restful. The reason for his advice soon became apparent. Ahead of them lay a rocky outcrop covered with dense woodland, grey and misty in the blowing rain. There was no sign of Gavor.

Isloman reined to a halt and looked at Sylvriss. ‘Can we go round this?’ he asked. Sylvriss tried to see again Dilrap’s map.

It had been a mistake not to bring it but their plan had been implemented unexpectedly and many things were not as they should have been.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘There’s only this road on the map.’ She pointed up to the left. ‘It’s obviously too steep up there.’ Then, down to the right. ‘And I think there’s a river down there. We’d have to go back through the village to cross that, then we’d have to travel south across country for a long way before we could cross it again.’

Isloman scowled and then let out a deep breath. ‘We’ll have to wait, then.’

He was looking about for somewhere to make a temporary shelter when Gavor returned.

‘I’ve found them,’ he said, shaking his feathers violently and sending up a great spray of water. ‘They’re camped about halfway through, just off the road.’ His voice fell. ‘And they’re still asleep. If we’re careful I can lead you through the trees, well clear of them.’

‘Have they posted any sentries?’ Isloman asked.

‘No,’ said Gavor.

Isloman looked at Sylvriss and then along the length of the outcrop that barred their way. She nodded.

As they entered the woods, the sounds about them changed. The wind trapped in the trees could reach them only fitfully, and the steady fall of the rain was replaced by intermittent cascades of large drops splattering noisily on to the forest floor. The rich, damp scents of the woodland rose up to greet them, but its quiet peacefulness was lost in the heightened tension that the two riders felt as the trees and undergrowth constricted their paths for escape.

‘Their camp’s a little way ahead,’ whispered Gavor after they had gone for some distance. ‘Dismount, and follow me.’

Carefully the little group wended its way after Gavor through the pathless trees. He would walk, then glide up on to a branch to look around, then sit on Isloman’s shoulder. They trod as gently as the damp undergrowth would allow; soft shadows in the forest’s dawn twilight.

‘How much further?’ Isloman whispered as their slow progress began to irk him.

Gavor shushed him. ‘I can’t see them from here, but we’re about level with them now,’ he whispered. ‘Be quiet.’

Isloman nodded apologetically, but even as he did so, the random sounds of the forest were broken by a sudden swift rushing, and an arrow passed in front of him to thud into a tree just to his right.

Involuntarily he crouched low and drew his club, but another arrow passed over his head to join the first, and a voice said. ‘No. The next one will kill you.’

That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com.

For more information about Mushroom Publishing, please visit us at www.mushroompublishing.com.

Fantasy Books by Roger Taylor

The Call of the Sword
The Fall of Fyorlund
The Waking of Orthlund
Into Narsindal
Dream Finder
Farnor
Valderen
Whistler
Ibryen
Arash-Felloren
Caddoran
The Return of the Sword

Further information on these titles is available from www.mushroom-ebooks.com

More info about "The Waking of Orthlund".