Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

‘Not until I’ve settled my debts,’ Drago replied, heft-ing his axe. ‘Old and new.’

‘That woman you manhandled was no Fyordyn Lord’s plaything,’ Yengar said. ‘She’s a Muster officer and the daughter of one of Riddin’s most respected homes. She also knows the country round here amp;mdashshe’ll have the Muster down on you within hours. Run while you can.’

Most of the Morlider seemed inclined to agree, but Yengar knew that having been humiliated by a woman, Drago would have to make some mark on his adversar-ies, no matter what the consequences. The questions was, what?

The answer became immediately apparent as the big man drew his axe and pushed aside the man to his right to leave a space in which he could swing it. Yengar knew that when he threw it, he couldn’t fail to bring someone down.

‘You should’ve brought your shields, High Guard,’ Drago said.

Olvric spoke in the battle language. ‘Yengar, feint straight at him, then take the man on his right. I’ll feint left and then deal with him when you move across. When we go, the rest of you keep together, charge the opposite side of the circle. Get out into the darkness and hide until they’ve gone. No stupid heroics. Your duty’s to the Queen. Find her and get her to Dremark.’

The four Guards acknowledged the order.

Drago grimaced at the meaningless chatter, but said nothing. His arm started its upward journey, the honed edge of his axe damp and glinting in the rain-streaked torchlight. Yengar felt the movement, as well as saw it, and he knew that Olvric would be responding the same way. Just before the axe reached its zenith, the two of them would surge forward across the treacherous wet ground, to strike at both Drago and the man to his right who was preparing to follow his leader’s example. There would not be even the briefest hesitation, nor any pity; that could mean their deaths. The man had committed himself to this path and had thus placed his own life as forfeit in the game.

The arm and its lethal burden seemed to continue upward for an eternity. Though Yengar knew he would be giving no outward sign, he felt both his body and his mind tilting towards the balance point.

Then it was there!

‘Stop!’ A powerful voice cut through the intensity.

Drago faltered, and the moment was gone.

Yengar almost lurched forward, then he turned in dismay. The voice was Sylvriss’s. What’s she doing? he thought desperately. She’ll get us all killed and herself taken for sure.

Slowly Sylvriss emerged out of the darkness and stood at the edge of the torchlight, horse and rider a strange shadowed vision.

‘Drago,’ she said. ‘I’m Sylvriss, Queen of Fyorlund, and daughter of Urthryn, Ffyrst of Riddin. I will excuse your offence against my person because you know little better, but your presence here offends against our laws, and I cannot excuse that. I command you and your men to lay down your weapons.’

For a moment, Drago stared at her, seemingly awed. But that moment, too, passed.

‘Woman,’ he said, ‘all I can see is a fool on a horse. You should’ve kept on riding. When we’ve dealt with your "servants" here, we’ll deal with you, Muster wench or no.’

Sylvriss rode forward, more fully into the light. She raised her hand.

The Goraidin and the High Guards saw it first; torches flickering into life out in the surrounding darkness. Yengar looked round quickly. The lights were all around them, each swaying from side to side gently.

Drago followed his gaze, then spun round, his face both fearful and livid. His massive hands twitched around the shaft of his axe.

‘Lay down your weapon, Morlider,’ the Queen said again. ‘Unless you want a dozen arrows in you.’

The lights moved nearer to each other. The circle was closing.

Yengar had seen the Muster in action, both as mass cavalry and individual skirmishers. Their speed, manoeuvrability and discipline were awe-inspiring, and in his mind they were always associated with pounding irresistible power. But subsequently his memory of them would come to be dominated by their silent approach out of the Riddin darkness that night; strange, towering shapes shifting and changing in the swaying torchlight. Yengar felt primitive childlike fears stirring inside him faintly at the sight of these eerie, menacing night creatures advancing unhurriedly but relentlessly towards him.

Whether Drago felt the same is a matter of conjec-ture, but with an oath he threw down his axe. Following his example, his companions threw down their weapons also.

As they did so, the circle closed and the Morlider found themselves torchlit and exposed, between the words of the High Guards and an impassable wall of silent riders.

Drago looked at Sylvriss. ‘I knew you were trouble as soon as I looked at you, woman,’ he said.

‘Watch your tongue, sea thief,’ came a voice from just behind Sylvriss. The speaker edged his horse forward. His cloak glistened with rain, and the torch-light threw grim shadows on an already gaunt face.

Drago stared at him, unrelenting. ‘For now, horse rider,’ he said unrepentantly. ‘But our time’s coming soon.’

Sylvriss raised her hand and spoke to Drago again.

‘The line leader tells me you have indeed hurt no one during your… visit,’ she said. ‘We will therefore escort you to your ship and allow you to leave.’ She looked at the still motionless figure of Symm, and at the man Yengar had struck, now gingerly checking his nose and teeth and wiping away the blood that still flowed from his nose periodically. ‘We’ll tend to your injured for you, as well,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Olvric sharply. ‘They mustn’t be allowed to leave. They must be kept here.’

Yengar nodded in agreement.

The man by Sylvriss leaned forward. His face showed his fatigue. ‘You’re free with your orders, Fyordyn,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s not our way to feed and house these scoundrels. And it seems you’re as disre-gardful of your Queen’s will as you are of her safety.’

Olvric’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Yengar laid a hand on his arm gently. ‘That’s a fair reproach, line leader,’ Olvric said after a moment. ‘We were remiss in our guard and will account for it to our superiors in due course. But we’d not expected to find Morlider wander-ing loose, least of all so far inland when the Muster patrol the coast so thoroughly.’

His tone was acid and the line leader’s jaw twitched angrily.

His horse took half a pace forward.

‘Enough,’ Sylvriss said severely. ‘I don’t intend to hold a debate in the pouring rain, and in the middle of the night. We’re all tired and cold. With your permis-sion, line leader, I suggest we make camp unless there’s any pressing reason why we should be elsewhere. We’ll have time enough to talk tomorrow.’

Still glowering at Olvric, the line leader reined his horse back. ‘As you wish, ma’am,’ he said.

The following day dawned to a clearer sky but a chill wind blew down out of the snow-covered mountains and rattled the tents and shelters of the hastily rigged camp.

Their immediate task completed with the capture of the Morlider, the Muster was effectively stood down and the line leader made no effort to rouse his riders early following their recent prolonged riding.

Pulling his cloak about him he left the tent which housed the captives and walked towards the Fyordyn’s small shelter.

Discreetly he eased back the entrance flap and, crouching down, peered inside. As he did so, a hand moved quickly in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a knife but, before he could react, the blade was resting against the side of his neck, and the edge of the hand pressing against his throat. The contact of the hand had a purposeful reality in it more awful than the cold blade, and while he sensed no real danger, he knew that an unpleasant death could be less than a breath away.