Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

His voice rose steadily. ‘And his hand, though long weakened by illness, took that sword and fought. Fought as it had not fought in twenty years. Fought against the youth and power of Jaldaric. Fought against the age-hardened treachery and cunning of Eldric. Fought to his bitter and tragic end, dying, cut down at the foot of his own throne.’

The crowd’s roar became one of fury, the zealots among them now captured utterly by Dan-Tor’s words.

He raised his voice above their clamour. ‘Assailed and wounded myself, I returned too late to save my king amp;mdashour king amp;mdashbut I saved Fyorlund’s crown. And with his last strength, Rgoric held it out to me and implored me to accept the burden he had borne so long. "For my people," he said. And with his dying breath he imposed on me a further duty. "Seek out and destroy those who have so cruelly destroyed me," he said. "Save my people. Lead them to the truth."’

Dan-Tor paused, waiting for the moment that would catch the crest of the crowd’s frenzy. Then, into a momentary lull, he almost whispered, ‘I am Fyordyn. How could I not accept?’

The roaring swept up around him again. ‘How could I not?’ he thundered over it. ‘And how can you not accept that same burden? Vengeance must be ours. Vengeance for Vakloss, smashed by an alien intruder at the whim of the Lords. Vengeance for your friends slain in that same terrible moment. And… ’

His voice disappeared under the great cry of ‘Vengeance for Rgoric. Vengeance for Rgoric. Venge-ance for Rgoric.’ Over and over, it filled the night air.

Dan-Tor’s arms stretched out again and suddenly, amid the tumult, the drums began to beat and the trumpets and horns to sound; louder and more raucous than before. The Mathidrin, the Militia, and the Youth Corps began to divide and execute a series of elaborate marching and counter-marching exercises, the rhythm of their iron shod feet underscoring the brutal rhythm of the music. Dan-Tor stepped back from the front of the platform.

Different this time, Dilrap thought, as the party on the platform began to relax. A strike against the enemy soon, he had said. Soon!

How soon?

Dilrap let the thought pass; Dan-Tor would give no further clues that night. He glanced at Urssain and Aelang, heads close, smiling knowingly as if at some private jest. For all the sinister power these two exercised, he suspected that the Ffyrst’s announcement had been news to them. He would just have to watch and listen; watch events and listen for the meaning behind the words.

His train of thought led him to Tel-Odrel and Lorac and the other agents of the Lords currently in Vakloss. His eyes flickered over the crowd. He knew that it would not be possible to see anyone clearly from such a height in that grotesque mixture of subdued globelight and flickering firelight, not to mention the haze of smoke that was accumulating in the still night air, but it offered him a small comfort to know that they would be there.

For there they would be, beyond doubt, as they had been at all the other rallies. Indeed, Dilrap had hoped when these rallies began that the Goraidin would be able to stop Dan-Tor’s progress with another single arrow. He had stood on the platform, almost holding his breath, waiting for the Goraidin’s messenger to come singing out of the darkness to strike down Dan-Tor as he stood exposed to view. But, gently, the Goraidin had disabused him: good archers though they were, the nearest houses were too far away for a safe shot, especially at night; Dan-Tor might well be wearing body armour now; indeed, could an ordinary arrow even injure him? Who knew what strange protections such as a creature might have? And the price of a failed attempt? It would surely cost those Fyordyn under Dan-Tor’s sway what few liberties they still had left. No, the Goraidin must do as Dilrap did: watch and listen.

And that is what they would be doing now: watch-ing, listening. They too would have noted the change in emphasis from previous such speeches. Shorter than many, and no mention this time of the enemy within; no calls for the people to ‘Be vigilant. The Lords have many friends and sympathizers amongst us.’ No corrosive insinuations: ‘Look around you. How many of your friends and neighbours are not here tonight? How many of your work-mates? Have these people no wish to hear what we intend against our enemies in the east? No wish to support us in our work?’ Followed invariably, with voice lowered and bony finger jabbing the air, by, ‘If they are not here, where are they? What are they doing?’ and then, ‘Be vigilant. Listen for the words of doubt and treachery that will inevitably betray those who lapse from honour. Bring their names forward so that they can be reasoned with and given the opportunity to admit their error before it spreads and corrodes us all.’

Perhaps more than anything, Dilrap was grieved by the harvest that these seeds yielded: the growth of secret informers whispering and denouncing, settling old scores, real and imagined; the growth of the Citizens’ Militia, a grotesque imitation of the High Guards, peevish and strutting at its best, savagely vicious at its worst amp;mdasha haven for the self-righteous, the unrepentant ignorant and the petty. But worst of all was the Youth Corps amp;mdashthe ‘next generation of Mathidrin’ as Dan-Tor called them. Dilrap knew already of several people who had been denounced to the Mathidrin by their own children.

The next generation!

Fighting now , against today’s enemies, was grim enough for Dilrap, but the thought that Dan-Tor had his eyes on some distant future, that his vision was one of a rule that would last for generations, chilled Dilrap utterly.

Yet at the same time it stiffened his resolve. Dan-Tor’s towering intent would be but the foundation for His plans, and if the one could be undermined at its inception, then so perhaps could be the other. And Dilrap was sure that Dan-Tor’s hold on the hearts of the Fyordyn was far less than the rapturous hysteria of the rallies seemed to indicate.

Dilrap understood fear, and it was fear that held the Fyordyn silent and acquiescent; fear of the naked brutality of the Mathidrin holding the streets, and fear of the knocking at the door in the dark hours of the night that would leave houses greeting the morning empty and deserted.

And tightening the bonds of fear was ignorance: ignorance of the truth of the fate of their King and Queen, and ignorance of the deeds and intentions of the Lords. It was ignorance which fed the whispering web of lies and mistrust that grew daily, bringing rumours of unseen violence and horror from the dark heart of the Mathidrin’s power, the Westerclave; bringing rumours of massacres of innocents by High Guards in distant estates, and rumours of Orthlundyn armies massing on the borders, led by a terrible warlock Lord. It was ignorance that brought the darkness and confusion through which only Dan-Tor seemed to offer a way.

Yet other threads mingled with the choking gossa-mer of this web amp;mdashthreads based no less in ignorance but with a truer, sounder, feel: Dan-Tor had poisoned the King for years and had murdered him when he at-tempted to regain his power and released Eldric and Jaldaric; the Queen had fled to the Lords for safety, carrying Rgoric’s child inside her; and, sibilant under these, were whispered words such as ‘Mandrocs’, ‘Narsindal’ and, softest of all… ‘Sumeral, risen again’… and was not Dan-Tor, Oklar, His erstwhile lieuten-ant, come to prepare a way for Him? And was it not Dan-Tor who had destroyed the city to silence the accusation of the strange Orthlundyn?

But the darkness dominated. Fear of unknown in-formants, unheard denunciations and silent arrests seeped into every aspect of the people’s lives, cracking apart old friendships, straining and even destroying families. Yet the very darkness itself hid the opposition to their new ruler that bubbled within many of the Fyordyn, so that it waited, silent and watchful, until eventually his step would falter.