Roger Taylor: Into Narsindal

The Rede met his gaze and idly rubbed a scar on his forehead. Since Hawklan and Isloman had left his village with their Mathidrin escort he had heard only rumours and gossip about what was happening in Vakloss and the rest of the country. Such instructions as he had received told him nothing, and such inquiries as he made were ignored. The local Mathidrin company was suddenly greatly strengthened and the patrolling of the Orthlund border increased dramatically. Then a ban they imposed-and enforced-on virtually all travelling ended any hope he had of obtaining accurate informa-tion from such friends as he had in the capital.

Throughout these happenings Berryn had followed the ancient survival technique of the trained soldier and kept himself inconspicuous while clinging to what he knew to be right and true. In his darker moments, he tried to console himself with the thought that this madness must pass; the spirit of the Fyordyn surely could not be so easily crushed.

And the memory of his brief encounter with Hawk-lan and Isloman persisted in returning like some kind of reproach. Hawklan, the strange healer from wherever it was down there, looking every inch the warrior, yet playing the coward before the crowd until his horse laid Uskal out. And Isloman, revealed suddenly as one of the Orthlundyn Goraidin. The two of them, alone, seeking out Dan-Tor to demand an accounting for an incident that could not possibly have happened. Armed Man-drocs marching through Fyorlund to commit atrocities in Orthlund?

Yet the two men had patently been telling the truth.

The paradox had cost him sleepless nights. He, who could sleep in his saddle in the middle of a forced march.

Then it was over. First, a flurry of increasingly im-probable rumours: Dan-Tor attacked? The King slain? Rebellion? Then, a dreadful silent lull and, as abruptly as they had come, the Mathidrin had left; the whole complement riding off secretly one night without a word of explanation. The villagers had scarcely had time to assimilate this change when Jaldaric and Arinndier had ridden in with a good old-fashioned High Guard escort, and announced the defeat and flight of Dan-Tor and the Mathidrin.

But they had brought worse news. Ludicrous news. Dan-Tor was Oklar, the Uhriel. Sumeral had come again and raised Derras Ustramel in Narsindal. No, Berryn had thought, rebelliously. Lord or no, Arinndier, you’re wrong. Dan-Tor was a bad old devil, but I can’t accept that kind of nonsense.

And he had resolved to bring himself nearer the heart of this turmoil. Someone had to start talking sense.

Thus when Arinndier had dismissed his escort, fearing that such a patrol might be none too popular in Orthlund, Rede Berryn had offered the services of himself and Tel-Mindor as guides.

‘We know the border area well, Lord,’ he had said. ‘Tel-Mindor doesn’t look like much, but he’s worth the three of us put together. And no one’s going to be upset by a limping old duffer like me.’

On the journey, however, Arinndier had talked quite freely of all the events that had happened since the Geadrol had been suspended, and Berryn had found the threads binding him to his old commonsense reality were stretched to breaking point. Now, in his simple statement, the young Orthlundyn had severed them utterly.

Oddly, the Rede felt more at ease, as many past events took on a new perspective.

Battle nerves, he thought suddenly. Just battle nerves. All that furious turmoil before you finally turn round and face the truth. The realization made him smile.

‘You find the idea amusing,’ Fyndal said, misinter-preting the smile and uncertain whether to be indignant or reproachful.

The Rede looked at him intently. Young men pre-paring for war again, and doubtless old men encouraging them. Well he’d be damned if he’d play that game!

‘No,’ he said, his voice stern but sad. ‘I’ve ridden the Watch and done my time in Narsindal.’ He tapped the scar on his head. ‘I’m only sorry I stopped watching too soon. Sorry for my sake, sorry for your sake.’

Something in the man’s voice made Arinndier look at him. ‘Don’t reproach yourself, Rede,’ he said. ‘You weren’t alone. And at least we can see more clearly now. We’ve no time for self-indulgence. You ensured that Hawklan reached Vakloss. Without that, all could well have been lost.’ He turned back to Fyndal. ‘We need to bring our news to Loman and the Memsa as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Have you made your judgement about us yet, soldier?’

‘Yes,’ Fyndal replied, taken unawares by his kindly bluntness. ‘Some time ago.’ Then his youth showed on his face. ‘Can you tell us nothing about Hawklan?’ he asked, almost plaintively.

Arinndier shook his head regretfully and repeated his previous reply. ‘At Anderras Darion, soldier,’ he replied. ‘And only then as determined by Loman and Memsa Gulda.’

For a moment, Fyndal seemed inclined to pursue the matter, but then with a resigned nod of his head, he let it go. ‘I’ll ensure that you’re not delayed then,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the post riders send news of your arrival ahead. That will save you a great deal of time, though I fear you may find Loman and Memsa away with the army in the mountains still.’

‘You have an army mobilized?’ Arinndier asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Fyndal nodded.

Arinndier pulled his cloak around himself as a sudden gust of the cold raw wind that had been blowing in their faces all day buffeted them.

‘There’s winter in the wind,’ he said. ‘I don’t envy anyone doing a mountain exercise in this.’

‘It’s no exercise, Lord,’ Fyndal said, his face sud-denly grim. ‘They’re out trying to deal with an unexpected foe.’

Arinndier raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but a brief knowing smile from Fyndal stopped him.

‘I’ll find out at Anderras Darion?’ he suggested.

Fyndal’s smile broadened, though it did not out-shine the concern in his face. ‘Indeed, Lord,’ he said.

Arinndier accepted the gentle rebuke at his own secrecy with good grace. ‘You won’t be accompanying us yourselves?’

Fyndal shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We have to finish our tour of duty here first.’

‘I doubt you’ll see any more travellers from Fyor-lund,’ Arinndier said. ‘If you feel you’ll be needed with your army.’

Fyndal bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said. ‘But had we been needed, we’d have been sent for. Our orders were to watch, and watch we must.’

Berryn nodded in approval.

Then Fyndal glanced at his brother and the three others, and they were gone, disappearing silently back into the noisy trees.

‘Just stay on this road,’ he said, turning back to the Fyordyn. ‘It’ll carry you straight to Anderras Darion. And don’t hesitate to ask for food or shelter at any of the villages. They’ll be expecting you by the time you arrive.’ And, with a brief farewell, he too was gone.

As the sound of hoof-beats dwindled, Tel-Mindor rode alongside Arinndier. ‘I didn’t see them following us, Lord,’ he admitted. ‘Whoever they were, they weren’t ordinary soldiers. And it almost defies belief to think that anyone could have been trained so well in just a few months.’

Arinndier nodded. ‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think that whatever problems the Orthlundyn are having in the mountains, they’re still keeping a very strict watch on their border with us, and, frankly, I don’t blame them. As for the training… ’ He shrugged. ‘The past months have reminded me of the service they gave against the Morlider, and it was considerable. The Orthlundyn are a strange people. I’ve heard them referred to as a remnant people at times. Not a phrase I’d care to use myself, but there aren’t many of them, for sure, and it does prompt the question: remnant of what?’