Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

The poignancy was almost unbearable, and, feeling intrusive, Loman turned to walk away. As he did so, however, other sounds began to impinge on him. A frantic whistling from all sides.

Loman felt again the weight of the mantle of respon-sibility settling on his shoulders. He looked down into the valley.

Sound signals! What are they playing at? he thought.

Then the content of their messages impinged.

‘Hawklan is coming,’ they said. ‘Hawklan and Islo-man, from the north, with two riders.’

Loman looked north, fumbling in his pouch for his seeing stone. As he did so a familiar voice spoke behind him.

‘Well, well, dear boy,’ it said. ‘You do look trim. Been exercising?’

Sylvriss rode forward and led her mount delicately out to the edge of a rocky outcrop. Her cloak was wrapped tight about her but her hood was thrown back and her face was flushed, as much with exhilaration at the progress they had made over the last few days as with the chilly air.

She looked out over the northern plains of Riddin. Home, at last, after all these years and so much turmoil. Admittedly, Dremark was far to the south, and the north of Riddin was sparsely populated, but soon she would be down there with her escort, and it would be only a matter of time before they encountered a patrol from one of the Muster lines.

Yengar joined her. ‘Your country, Majesty,’ he said, part question, part statement, his breath steaming.

Sylvriss nodded. ‘Ties of birth and family bind tightly, Yengar,’ she said. ‘But so do those of marriage and the loyalty of the Fyordyn, my people.’ She turned to him as she emphasized the word ‘my’.

‘I belong to both Fyorlund and Riddin now,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor brought me and Rgoric together for his own unseeable ends amp;mdashprobably to corrupt Riddin as he has corrupted Fyorlund amp;mdashbut it was an error, and we’ll give him full measure of it before we’re through.’

The mention of Fyorlund drew her eyes to the dis-tant snow-covered peaks behind which that country now lay. The snow had caught them unawares, slowing their progress and making the journey difficult and laborious, but, being past the highest peaks when it arrived, they had encountered no special dangers.

Yengar followed her gaze and spoke her thoughts. ‘The snow’s early, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I fear that it’s the beginning of a long winter. I doubt there’ll be any way back to Fyorlund before the spring, except for hardy souls.’

Sylvriss looked at him, her mind full of thoughts of Eldric and the other Lords, facing the unknown power of Dan-Tor and ignorant of the fate of her and of Hawklan and Isloman.

‘Messages could be sent?’ she asked tentatively.

The Goraidin looked at the mountains again. ‘Oh yes,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘But not easily and not without considerable risk. But troops?’ He shook his head. ‘Not in any worthwhile number.’

Sylvriss nodded. The harsh reality of the Goraidin’s simple comment briefly dimmed the joy of seeing her home at last.

Still, she thought, there would be plenty of time for debating tactics and strategy when they got to Dremark. And at least Eldric and the others were preparing for war. They were not sitting in their castles in guileless innocence anymore.

She looked again at the land spread out below her. ‘Come on,’ she said, easing her horse back from the edge. ‘Let’s go and find the Muster.’

They had to spend one more night camped in the mountains, but the following day saw them leaving the last of the great crags, and venturing out over the empty, rolling countryside.

During the whole of the day the group moved stead-ily southwards. Although the weather was cold and overcast, they were all happy to have left the difficult mountain terrain behind and, for the most part, their progress was at the trot.

Towards evening the sinking sun broke through a gap in the distant clouds, and for a while the landscape was flooded with a brilliant yellow light, peculiarly at odds with the greyness of the low clouds overhead. The riders’ shadows stretched and wavered, long across the short harsh grass.

‘We’ve seen no one all day, Majesty,’ Yengar said. ‘It’s really quite eerie. I seem to recall that Riddin was quite a bustling place.’

Sylvriss smiled. ‘The last time you were here, you were fighting a war,’ she said. ‘There were all manner of temporary camps here then. But this isn’t a very fertile region. It’s scarcely worth settling. And, as I remember, the war blighted what little settlement there was. Such villages as were here had to be abandoned or were simply destroyed. I’m happy to be here now, but it’s not a happy place for the Riddinvolk generally. Too barren, and too many bad memories.’

Yengar nodded. Bad memories he could understand. That was why the place seemed eerie, he realized.

But Sylvriss had been a young messenger in those days and knew of the region’s condition only from the words of her father and his advisers. The countryside itself touched no old wounds in her. If anything, it reminded her of times of bright and youthful excitement when she had thundered, invulnerable, hither and thither from camp to camp at the behest of the line leaders.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, turning to Yengar and laugh-ing a little. ‘There’ll be people enough as we get nearer the River Endamar. And once we’ve been seen, the news will be known all the way to Dremark almost within the day. I hope you weren’t intending to reach there quietly.’

Yengar shook his head. ‘No, Majesty,’ he said. ‘The bigger the escort the better, as far as I’m concerned. I doubt we need to protect you here.’

A fine drizzle was falling when they finally halted and made camp for the night. As she had done through-out the journey, Sylvriss tended the horses while the men erected the shelters, then she joined them for their meal.

Relieved to be away from the constant concern that had necessarily pervaded their journey through the mountains, the group were soon in high spirits, their laughter ringing out into the damp darkness like a celebratory carillon.

Abruptly, the entrance to the shelter was torn open.

The group’s good spirits tempered their immediate surprise.

‘It’s the Muster!’ Sylvriss exclaimed delightedly, struggling to get to her feet in the confined space. But Yengar laid a restraining hand on her arm. He was watching Olvric’s hand.

Nearest to the entrance, Olvric was peering out at the unexpected visitor. He was smiling, but his hand, behind his back, was signalling.

‘It’s armed men, but it’s not the Muster,’ Yengar whispered urgently to Sylvriss. ‘Follow Olvric’s lead until we find out who they are and what’s happening.’

Sylvriss’s face went white but she controlled her expression and nodded. Her thoughts were suddenly in a turmoil. Armed men, but not the Muster? It was unlikely that Olvric would be wrong. But who could they be? Surely Dan-Tor’s treacherous arm couldn’t have reached this far?

Olvric stepped out of the shelter and looked at the newcomers. As one of them made to speak, Olvric raised a hand in apology and looking up into the rain, bent down to the entrance again.

‘Pass my cloak, please,’ he said waving his hand towards it. Marek handed it to him.

Sylvriss heard Yengar catch his breath. ‘Morlider!’ he hissed, almost in disbelief. ‘At least twelve of them.’

Sylvriss felt her stomach turn over, and for an in-terminable, dreadful, moment, she thought she was going to faint. But sterner resolves buoyed her up as her mind cut through the questions about how and why the Morlider should be there, to the certainty that she had not battled alone against Dan-Tor for so long, to become a squealing victim to any fish-stinking brigands.