Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

It would have to be sufficient recompense for the loss of his spies that he had learnt that the Cadwanol still watched, for surely no others could have the knowledge and the power to do such a deed? And if the Cadwanol had survived the millennia, how great now was their knowledge and power? Not great enough to prevent the corruption of Fyorlund and the re-awakening of Narsindal, it seemed, but it would have been folly to pit himself against them with Hawklan roaming free to be an accidental beneficiary of the Old Power that would have been levied to such a battle.

And, inexorably, the thought of Hawklan took Dan-Tor along a well-trodden pathway. Who was the man, and what had happened to him? True, Ethriss had not risen, grim and terrible out of the maelstrom to thank his wakener by dashing him into oblivion, but neither Hawklan’s body nor that of his oafish companion had been found in the debris, and still Dan-Tor sensed him watching, waiting.

But if he was not Ethriss, who was he? The question was strangely terrifying. Key-bearer to Anderras Darion, holder of Ethriss’s sword, and seemingly protected, at least in part, by the Cadwanol…?

Yet, Dan-Tor consoled himself ironically, he might still be Ethriss. Perhaps the Guardian’s host had thwarted his master’s design by defending himself too well with that sword? Perhaps he had deflected the very power that was to waken the greatest of the Guardians?

The questions would not rest. Dan-Tor squeezed his hand tighter, and forced his mind back to the bewil-dered Urssain and present realities.

To use the Old Power against Eldric’s castle would not only wrack his body beyond belief, but with Hawklan’s whereabouts unknown, it would still risk awakening the sleeping Ethriss and bringing down His wrath as never before.

‘You can be expunged at my whim, and others made in your image.’ His Master’s words hung cold in his mind.

Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Mas-ter, he thought.

He must return as soon as possible to the steady patient progress that had ensured Fyorlund would fall so easily when the great tree of state was shaken. Haste could destroy His schemes more effectively than the strength of His enemies.

Yet, some modest haste was perhaps now appropri-ate. His power, underwritten predominantly by the Mathidrin, held the heartland of Fyorlund: the routes to Narsindalvak, and Vakloss and its environs. But the further-flung estates were maintaining an uncertain neutrality; their Lords avoiding contact with Vakloss as far as was diplomatically possible and, when it wasn’t, giving pledges of loyalty that had a distinctly hollow ring.

To aid such unsteady allies in their reflections, Dan-Tor had co-opted various of their relatives into palace service, thus holding them as discreet hostages. It was a hazardous device to use with the Fyordyn, however, and he knew its limitations well enough.

And even the securely held territory was uncertain. For all the ranting success of the rallies, and the support given to the Mathidrin by the rapidly swelling ranks of the Militia and the Youth Corps, Dan-Tor knew that there was an underlying stratum of opposition to him which was impervious to rumour and gossip and which only the destruction of the hope offered by the continu-ing resistance of the eastern Lords would crush.

His power had always been at risk while these Lords remained to defy it. But was it now increasingly so?

The summer had been good and the Lords’ grana-ries would be well-stocked. Almost certainly, he reasoned, they could survive the winter without difficulty and still have adequate food to carry them across country in the spring without burdening the communities they passed through. In any event, many of these would welcome and aid the Lords’ army.

It would be pointless, even dangerous, to risk wait-ing another year, before facing the inevitable armed conflict. The Lords would be husbanding their resources already and, beyond doubt, the High Guards, with their greater self-discipline, would withstand the debilitating effects of delay better than the ruthlessly controlled and ambitious Mathidrin, whose main motivation was the promise of the lands and wealth they would come to when the Lords fell.

He faltered. The High Guards of Eldric and Arinndier would be a formidable force…

But those fops and dandies of Hreldar and Darek…?

He had superior numbers by far. The High Guards would be weary and sick at heart, by the time they had cut their way through rank upon rank of the hapless Militia to reach their real opponents, the Mathidrin. And while they might have superior fighting skills, he doubted they could match his black liveried troops in sheer brutal ferocity.

Dan-Tor frowned. It was not satisfactory. But it would never be so. Too much rode on chance in such encounters. Yet, boldly done, it could be a fitting end to this difficult, turbulent period, and would leave him with his foot on the neck of a quiescent Fyorlund, free to continue silently preparing the way for his return.

On balance, he decided, conclusions could and should be made soon, before the Fyordyn winter arrived to preclude the matter.

It was simply a matter of luring the Lords forth.

He looked up at the now anxious Urssain. ‘Listen to me carefully, Commander,’ he said.

Ledvrin was a small village lying about half a day’s march to the west of Lord Eldric’s estate. There was nothing about it to make it materially different from many other Fyordyn villages in that region. A small stone bridge carried the road, hump-backed, over a narrow river to mark its western end, and a modest trotting would soon bring a rider to the woods that lay along its eastern edge. Traditional steep-pitched roofs topped its cottages, colourful carvings abounded on doors and gates and any other visible woodwork, and gardens and elaborate window-boxes echoed these through the seasons with their own rich displays of flowers and shrubs.

The village was part of the estate of Lord Garieth, an able but young and inexperienced man who had recently, and quite unexpectedly, inherited the title from a cousin. He had arrived to find the estate in a run-down condition and had set about its improvement with considerable enthusiasm, soon earning the respect of his older neighbour, Eldric, to whom he had turned quite openly for all manner of advice.

Though from the west of Fyorlund, on the matter of loyalty Garieth was a traditionalist and strongly favoured the eastern Lords in their opposition to Dan-Tor. However, Eldric’s advice here was discreet but unequivocal. ‘We can’t protect you this far out,’ he said. ‘And you can’t begin to protect yourself with what’s left of your cousin’s old High Guard. Keep your heart with us but, in so far as you can, do Dan-Tor’s bidding; there’s a lot you can do for us silently. Disband the few High Guards you still have, as he’s decreed, but tell them they can join us if they wish. And tell those who don’t wish to that they’ll serve us just as well if they return to their ordinary lives and prepare themselves quietly for when the times change in our favour.’

This same advice had percolated down to the village Redes and thence to the villagers. ‘Be patient. Stay quiet and polite. Our time will come.’

The advice had been sound. All manner of Mathidrin patrols began to pass regularly through Ledvrin and other villages, on their way to test the vague but currently static boundaries that separated the old and the new orders in Fyorlund. Thus the appearance of a large patrol out of the early morning autumn mist brought only a passing glance from the few villagers who were about at that time.

Unusually, however, though led by a group of Mathidrin, the patrol consisted mainly of brown-liveried Militia and, equally unusually, instead of passing through the village, it halted at the small green in the middle of the village. The morning greyness filled with the misting breaths of the gathering. After a moment conferring with his companions, the leader of the patrol, an ill-favoured, sallow-faced man, stood in his stirrups, looked around, and then beckoned silently to the passers-by.