Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Slowly it drew nearer and grew in intensity until it seemed it was shaking the very ground. The noise of the crowd grew with it, and then, abruptly rolling out of the darkness, came the clamorous din of horns and trumpets, their sound harsh and brazen. At the same time, lights began to appear, eerily, like uncertain fireflies.

One by one, raggedly but rapidly, they flickered into existence, spreading down the long, unseen perspectives of Oklar’s handiwork until they formed two vast wavering carpets of light.

A great cheer went up from the crowd as the bearers of this light came into view: rank upon rank of Mathidrin troopers.

Relentlessly, following the insistent beat of their pounding drummers, the two great streams of men moved forward until, reaching the large open area that now fronted the Palace, they began, amid much raucous shouting of orders, to spread out and merge together to form a single glowing mass surrounded by the cheering people.

Behind them, in even greater numbers, followed men and women, wearing the dark brown livery of the new Citizen’s Militia; and finally came the various local troops of the equally new Youth Corps, stern, spruced and front-faced.

A little behind Dan-Tor, Dilrap gazed down at the spectacle. Apart from those playing instruments, everyone was carrying a blazing torch or a standard or flag of some kind.

The sight chilled him, as did the pounding, braying din that filled the night, not least because he himself found he was once again exhilarated by its massive, primitive splendour.

And yet he could see the heart of the corruption in these great rallies flickering even in the torches that illuminated them. The revealing light of the traditional sun-fed Fyordyn torches could not have produced such a sight, nor could the garish hand-globes that emerged from Dan-Tor’s workshops; their light was inhumanly penetrating. Only naked flames could achieve what he was watching now. Flames guttering wantonly; tainting the air with their smoke and destroying what fed them to produce a light too unsteady to serve any fine purpose, and an uncontrolled heat to be scattered pointlessly into the night. It typified the new spirit of Dan-Tor’s Vakloss, and it was appalling.

Surreptitiously, Dilrap turned his attention to Dan-Tor. Since his fateful encounter with Hawklan, the Ffyrst had become more stooped in his posture, his head leaning forward slightly, like a leashed animal trying to pull away from some restraint that Hawklan’s fearful arrow had imposed on him. The memory drew Dilrap’s eyes downwards. There, as ever, was a small but growing stain in the rough-hewn boards of the platform, as Dan-Tor’s blood dripped slowly but unceasingly from the barbed head of the Orthlundyn arrow.

Dilrap winced inwardly at the sight and then at his own response. It troubled him that he should have even the slightest sympathy for this… creature, that had so painstakingly corrupted Fyorlund, poisoned and then brutally murdered its King, and destroyed hundreds of its people with a mere gesture. How could he conceiva-bly have any pity for it?

He had asked himself the same question many times but had found no answer. Perhaps Dan-Tor, stooping and more careful now in his movements, reminded him of Rgoric?

It troubled him also that part of him responded to, perhaps even relished, these huge rallies. But how could he have any trait in common with this Uhriel, this abomination?

Even as he stood there, it came to Dilrap that he and Dan-Tor amp;mdashOklar even amp;mdashshared a common humanity, with all the rich and varied mixture of bonds and freedoms that that implied. Didn’t the pounding hysteria of the rallies only mirror his own urge to lash out and crush into nothingness everything that Dan-Tor stood for? Yet he was a poor torturer; he would willingly annihilate Dan-Tor, but he found it difficult to harden himself to the man’s continued suffering.

Not tonight though, he thought. This was Dan-Tor at once at his least and most human. Least, in that his stoop had gone and he stood now straight and tall like some terrible parasite drawing sustenance from the barbarous energy of the scene before him. Most, in the subtle understanding and callous cynicism he would show when he spoke once again to the people.

Cutting across Dilrap’s thoughts, Dan-Tor extended both arms, and the crowd fell silent.

He paused.

The only sound that could be heard was the gutter-ing of the countless burning torches.

‘Soon,’ he began. ‘Soon, my people.’

Your people? Dilrap thought witheringly.

‘Soon we will be ready to strike a blow against our enemies. Against the treacherous Lords and their minions, skulking in the eastern mountains.’

A great cheer went up. Dilrap presumed that, as usual, the Mathidrin had been well tutored in their responses, and those among the crowd who did not believe knew well enough what to do and when to do it.

‘Soon you will be able to witness these traitors being brought before you in chains to hear your verdict on their perfidy and dishonour.’

Dan-Tor spoke slowly but with great force, and he paused at the end of each sentence. His voice was rich and sonorous, and reverberated across the crowd, strangely magnified. Dilrap noticed that when Dan-Tor spoke in this manner he would hold his hand to his wounded side as if the very act of speaking caused him pain, though nothing showed either on his long brown face or in those terrible eyes.

The Ffyrst raised his hand after a moment, to still the cheering. ‘Only for a little while now need I ask you to curb your righteous impatience,’ he continued. ‘We must not misjudge the cunning, the strength or the will of our enemies. We must wait until all our strength is full ripe before we strike. But the time will be soon.’

The cheering rose again. Dan-Tor nodded under-standingly. ‘Do not forget, my people. There is no depth to which our foes would not stoop to seize the crown and crush you under the heels of their High Guards again. Did they not bring an Orthlundyn assassin to draw me from my King’s side so that he would be alone; sick and defenceless against the ruthless ambition of Eldric and his son?’

His voice began to rise. ‘But by the will of some greater protector than I, they failed. Their murderous lackey missed his mark… ’

He struck his chest with his hand.

‘… and seeing his failure, showed his true nature amp;mdashnot just that of a murderer, but that of a foul meddler in forbidden and long-forgotten arts.’

Then, arms pounding forward with each word along the two great avenues that he himself had smashed through the city, his voice reached a terrible peak. ‘See what the Orthlundyn wrought across your fair city in his spite and fury.’

The crowd roared.

Dan-Tor allowed the clamour to continue for some time, then extended his arms to beat it down. ‘Yet even as his City amp;mdashthe heart of his kingdom amp;mdashwas being thus destroyed by a terrible and ancient power, your King was fighting. Fighting his last and greatest battle.’

His voice fell abruptly. ‘I, above all, knew that even in the darkest moments of his illness, Rgoric’s thoughts were ever and only for his people. Tormented though his body was, his heart was yours, and his spirit was that of the line of kings that stretches back unbroken to the Ir… ’ He faltered and lowered his head as if overcome.

Say it, you black-hearted demon, Dilrap thought viciously.

Say it, say the Iron Ring, and may the words them-selves tighten around your evil throat and choke you.

Dan-Tor recovered, but left the sentence unfinished.

‘Alone,’ he said, still softly. ‘Faced with a terrible and unexpected peril and seemingly abandoned by his closest aides.’ He lowered his head again, affecting self-reproach. ‘Rgoric reached into his innermost depths and found that ancient spirit: unbowed, undiminished. Found it amp;mdashand found the sword by his side could still fashion the will of that spirit.’