Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Yengar caught the light in her eye, and motioned her to silence.

‘Be discreet, but keep your hands by your weapons,’ he whispered to the others as, with wilful awkwardness, he struggled to his feet. ‘Look pleasant and watch for commands.’ Then, crouching, he stepped through the entrance to join Olvric.

‘It’s the Muster,’ Olvric said to him brightly, then turning to the semi-circle of watching men, ‘You gave us quite a fright,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen anyone all day. We were beginning to think that the Muster didn’t patrol this far north.’

A large, bearded individual holding an axe stepped forward. He was a little taller than Olvric but considera-bly heavier and his whole demeanour was menacing. He seemed, however, a little taken aback by Olvric’s affability.

‘The Muster patrol here, have no fear,’ he said. ‘But who are you, and what are you doing here?’ His voice was as rough as his weather-beaten face and his accent confirmed his origins.

‘We’re travellers from Fyorlund,’ Olvric said, affect-ing to ignore the drawn weapons. ‘To be honest, I’m afraid we’re a little bit lost. We were hoping we’d run into you,’ he added confidentially, wiping the rain from his face, and pulling his hood forward.

The man scowled and knocked back Olvric’s hood roughly. ‘No need to be afraid of the water,’ he said. ‘Let’s see your face.’ Olvric stepped back a little and contrived to look bewildered, but otherwise made no response. Then the man pushed him to one side and, bending forward, peered into the shelter.

Following Yengar’s order, the four High Guards managed to return his gaze with interested courtesy, but Sylvriss, her face flushed, kept her head bowed.

A second, younger man stepped forward. There was a curl to his mouth which, combined with his blond hair matted wet across his forehead, conspired to give him a vicious, unstable presence.

‘Anything worthwhile, Drago?’ he asked.

The bearded man did not answer, but pointed to Sylvriss. ‘You,’ he said roughly. ‘Woman. Here. The rest of you stay where you are!’

Despite her best endeavours, Sylvriss’s feelings showed briefly in her expression as she stood up.

‘Don’t look at me like that, woman, unless you want your face reshaping,’ Drago said, raising a ham of a fist towards her. ‘Come here.’

Olvric stepped forward. ‘Now look… ’ he began, but the blonde man turned suddenly and, with a spectacular flourish, produced a large knife. He placed the point under Olvric’s chin. ‘We are looking,’ he said, his face expectant.

Olvric, looking alarmed, turned as if in appeal to the others standing around. Yengar watched the manoeu-vre: his comrade was assessing the extent and strength of the force ranged against them. While Sylvriss and Olvric had been attracting attention he had surrepti-tiously done the same, forcing discipline and experience to master the familiar fear and self-reproach that were even now tearing his stomach with griping pains and making his whole body shake. He was glad Olvric was there. Both deliberately and instinctively he began to relax his body, to free it for movement.

As Olvric had signalled originally, there were at least twelve of them, all with weapons drawn; too many to be tackled at the moment, without putting the Queen at risk. In addition, there was no telling how many more might be out in the darkness awaiting events. They were a mixture of young and middle-aged men and unmis-takably Morlider both in their features and their random array of clothing and arms. Yengar noted, however, that those who were not hooded had a driven, harassed look about them.

They’re running and hiding, he thought. But this revelation told him little else. What was such a small group doing so far from the coast? In the war, the Morlider had sent deep penetration groups inland to gather information, but this couldn’t be the case here. These were making no attempt to disguise themselves, and had refused to accept the pretence of being Muster riders that Olvric had offered them.

A more chilling thought occurred to him. Had they been separated from an army in some battle? It seemed ridiculous. If the Morlider had returned in force again, some message would surely have reached Fyorlund? But it could have, he realized. The normal route for messengers from Riddin to Fyorlund was further south and led into the estates of the southern Lords amp;mdashwhose loyalty was unknown! The fear in his stomach twisted again amp;mdashthey could have led their Queen into the middle of a war!

These conjectures flooded through Yengar’s mind in the brief moments it took Sylvriss to step out of the shelter and face the man Drago. Other thoughts came even more quickly. What was to be their fate? Prisoners? Hostages? No. Twelve men would not burden themselves with six and a woman. Victims? Possibly. Some Morlider had a reputation for a rudimentary chivalry and a sense of honour; others hadn’t. Yet these were talking; had their intent been purely murder, they would have waited until the camp was asleep. He looked at them again. Bedraggled and dispirited, they were beyond doubt hunted, but they were far from defeated. They probably just wanted supplies, he decided cautiously. Here was a bargaining space. The only serious problem would be Sylvriss. What danger was she in? Still…

Yengar noted that his fear had changed. The trem-bling that had been his initial response had diffused itself through his entire body, and he knew that he was now free to respond immediately to whatever threat presented itself. Two stray thoughts fluttered momen-tarily across his mind: one, that he was too old for this kind of thing; the other, that he was now wholly himself and had never been better equipped. He ignored both, and stepped forward.

‘Commander Drago,’ he said. ‘Is this the way the Muster treat strangers? Weapons and threats?’

Drago ignored him. He looked Sylvriss up and down appraisingly.

‘Fyordyn, eh?’ he said to Olvric, without taking his gaze from Sylvriss.

‘Yes,’ Olvric said nervously. ‘We’re only servants, sir. On our way to join our Lord down here, but the snows caught us in the mountains and… ’

‘Servants?’ said Drago, showing his teeth and reach-ing out to grip Sylvriss’s cloak. ‘In clothes like these?’

Olvric looked surprised. ‘We have a kind and gener-ous Lord. He looks after us well,’ he said.

Drago turned to him scornfully, then threw open Sylvriss’s cloak. ‘A very kind Lord indeed,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Who expects a pregnant "maid" to drag herself over the mountains to tend to him.’

Eyes blazing, Sylvriss wrenched herself free and pulled her cloak about her.

Olvric retreated from his story hastily before the Queen could speak. ‘It’s his child,’ he said confidentially, man to man, but looking suitably contrite at the exposure of his deception. ‘We’re taking her to friends in Riddin to get her away from his wife.’

This version provoked some obscene laughter from the watching men, and even Drago chuckled. ‘Well, she’s ours now. And the kid,’ he added, almost reluctantly, Yengar thought. ‘Still, we’ve no time to play the fool with you, whoever you are,’ Drago went on. ‘We need horses and food.’ He swung his finger between Yengar and Olvric, at the same time pointing his axe into the shelter. ‘Don’t give us any trouble and you’ll not get hurt.’

The blond man turned sharply. ‘Are you crazy, Drago?’ he burst out. ‘We can’t leave them alive. They’ll tell the Muster we’ve been here.’

Drago shook his head. ‘The Muster probably know near enough where we are,’ he rasped. ‘If they find corpses, they’ll be out in real force and we’ll have no chance. Do as you’re told. Get the horses.’