Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

He took a deep breath and crushed the foolishness utterly. Walk forward, he forced himself to think. Better I hold this position than someone else.

Gradually he took control of his unease. It was not, after all, unfamiliar; he had never relished talking to Dan-Tor. Against the likes of Aelang and the other senior Mathidrin officers he would risk cunning for cunning, steel for steel. Dangerous and ruthless though such men were, they were no more so than he, and he had always had the wit to learn as he moved through life. But Dan-Tor! Words such as dangerous and ruthless dwindled into insignificance, so inadequate were they, and no knowledge could assail him. And since that Orthlundyn had attacked him! Since his… transformation… Urssain shuddered inwardly and raised his hand…

‘Come in, Commander,’ Dan-Tor’s voice spoke be-fore Urssain had struck the door. He started and almost lost the inner balance he was maintaining so precari-ously. Then he straightened up and pushed the door open.

A faint, familiar scent pervaded the room. Familiar now because it lingered wherever Dan-Tor had been. It was delicate perfume, underlain by the smell of blood.

The palace servants did sterling and silent work to eradicate all signs of the Ffyrst’s slight but relentless bleeding, but traces always remained. Urssain had long stopped asking himself why Dan-Tor would not allow the arrow to be drawn, or why the wound did not either heal or fester. One day, when Dan-Tor appeared, the shaft of the arrow had been mysteriously broken, but there was an aura about the Ffyrst that forbade all questions, and the barbed head still protruded from his back.

What kind of a creature are you? Urssain’s mind still screamed at times, when the inhuman reality of Dan-Tor and his affliction touched some still uncalloused part of his nature. How can you live impaled thus? And where in your fragile human flame hides the power to destroy a city? But the answer was always: he is your future, Urssain, your only future.

Dan-Tor was standing by the window, staring northwards out over the City. His posture was slightly stooped as usual and, as he turned to face Urssain, his eyes were still focussed in the far distance. Briefly, Urssain thought he felt a fleeting sense of homesickness, a longing for other places, other times, but it passed almost before he was aware of it as Dan-Tor turned his attention to him.

‘You come to quiz me about my speech, Com-mander?’ he said, almost good-humouredly.

Urssain hesitated. ‘I have come to ask if you could clarify it for me, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Last night was our most effective rally so far amp;mdashvery exhilarating. I was concerned that in the excitement I might have misun-derstood what you were saying.’

Dan-Tor’s eyes narrowed and Urssain felt a ripple pass through his already pervasive terror. That was wrong, he thought, bracing himself for the reproach that must inevitably come.

But no soul-searing glance came to mark his folly. A wave of relief passed over him. The Ffyrst was in a quiet, seemingly straightforward mood. The force of his presence dominated the room as ever, but there was little if any of the terrifying malevolence that the Orthlundyn’s arrow had seemingly released: the malevolence of Oklar. Occasionally, Urssain allowed himself to think of that name when he was in the Ffyrst’s presence, but not often, and not for long. The implications of the name were more than terrifying and he knew he must gradually school himself to them if they were not to overwhelm him. Rumours were all over the City about the true nature of Dan-Tor but, like the King in his death throes, Urssain knew the truth. He had been too close to the unleashing of Oklar for it to be otherwise.

‘Urssain,’ Dan-Tor said coldly. ‘Is palace life addling your wits that you think to flatter me? Don’t do that again if you wish to remain of service to me. I need your obedience, that is all. Ask your question.’

He turned away to recommence his vigil, and Urs-sain breathed out softly. He knew that to apologize now would be to compound his error, so he gave Dan-Tor what he required: obedience.

‘Is it your intention now to mount a campaign against the Lords in the east, Ffyrst?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Dan-Tor replied simply and without hesitation.

‘But… ’

‘The logic for a defensive stand against the Lords is sound, is it not, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked brusquely, still looking out of the window.

Urssain hesitated. Dan-Tor turned slowly and looked at him. ‘It is still valid, is it not?’ he pressed. ‘Better they weary themselves trekking across the countryside to face an entrenched defensive line than we, surely?’

‘For armies of men, Ffyrst, yes,’ Urssain said awk-wardly. ‘But… ’ He was aware that his eyes were widening in fear as his thoughts began to form into words, but he knew he could do no other than plunge on. It had been discussed by the Mathidrin but it was the first time it had been spoken of before Dan-Tor. ‘But you have… weapons far beyond the limits of sword and spear. You could destroy their enclaves with a gesture. I thought… ’

A glimmer of red shone faintly in Dan-Tor’s eyes and Urssain’s voice tailed off. He quailed.

But the distant storm came no nearer.

‘You would reduce your Ffyrst to a siege piece, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked flatly. Urssain’s mouth opened, but as Dan-Tor’s tone betrayed neither humour nor reproach, he could find no reply.

Dan-Tor released him. ‘Look to no such aid from me, Commander,’ he said, moving to a nearby chair. ‘The Orthlundyn was a darker force than you can know. What was done was necessary, but men must fight men. The new Fyordyn must prove themselves in battle if they are to be of any value to me. Those who survive will become the heart of the even mightier force that will be needed for our future conquests. Those who do not survive will serve a useful end simply by wearying the enemy.’ Involuntarily, he placed his hand over the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his side. ‘And we face more enemies than you know, Commander,’ he added enigmatically.

Urssain chose to ignore this last remark. ‘But you spoke of a blow against the Lords, Ffyrst,’ he said.

‘Indeed I did,’ Dan-Tor replied. ‘Indeed I did.’

He fell silent.

His euphoria following the death of the King had gradually faded. He was more whole now, his truer self, but the limitations imposed on his use of the Old Power by his Master and by Hawklan’s embedded arrow weighed on him appallingly.

It gave him little consolation that he knew the re-straint was the result of his own weakness, and that a far greater punishment could have been meted out to him. Everything since Rgoric’s madness in suspending the Geadrol and bringing the Mathidrin to Vakloss had betokened too much haste. That, and his own folly in disturbing Hawklan in his lair at Anderras Darion, had obliged him to move with, and manipulate, events, rather than dictate and control them. That was almost inexcusable in His schemes.

Now His icy grip had ensured His favourite Uhriel would not easily commit a similar folly again. Hawklan’s arrow would return upon him much of the conse-quences of using the Old Power and only He could remove it. Dan-Tor looked down at his hand. A great weal ran across it where he had seized the shaft of the newly fired arrow, but that wound at least had healed eventually, though it was still painful from time to time. Ironically, the arrow itself and its eternally bleeding wound, gave him no pain except when he used the Old Power; rather, it burdened and wearied him, as if it were constantly drawing him to some other purpose.

And he was blind still! One of the birds was bound and his precious, hard-crafted, Vrwystin A Goleg, with its all-seeing eyes, was impotent and useless. He should have torn it free when he had the power, he thought. Then he tightened his hand painfully on the livid scar in atonement for this persistent residue of his too human impatience and impetuosity.