Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

He remained silent as they gathered round, with varying degrees of patience and curiosity, and waited to hear the reason for this unexpected conduct.

But no explanation came. Instead, the patrol leader casually drew his sword and without warning swung it down on the head of the nearest watcher. It cut though the man’s woven cap and wedged in his skull so that the rider was obliged to kick the man about the head and chest to wrench it free. The effort made his horse rear and the dying man jigged ludicrously until the blade released him. He stood for a moment, his mouth moving but making no sound, then he fell to his knees and rolled over, childlike, in the damp grass, his limbs moving in a vague and disjointed manner and disturb-ing the brown and gold leaves that littered the little green.

Although unhurried, the incident happened so quickly that the other bystanders stood frozen in disbelief at what they had just seen. Before they could recover, the patrol closed around them and in a brief flurry of thudding blows, muffled curses, and gasps of effort, they too were cut down. Scarcely a cry was uttered.

Abruptly, the patrol began to spread out from the carnage, as if suddenly repelled by it. Only the clattering of their tackle now broke the morning silence.

Then a scream rent a jagged tear through it.

The patrol leader started and looked up to see a woman rushing from one of the cottages. She was moving towards one of the stricken men, her hair and loose gown flying. He frowned irritably, then, without a pause, spurred his horse forward into a sudden gallop.

Riding between the woman and her goal, he filled her vision, but her eyes were in another world and she did not see him even as he crashed straight into her. Her dreadful scream stopped as sharply as it had begun as the fearful impact knocked her to the ground.

Tangled briefly in the horse’s flailing hooves she rolled over several times until, her body twisted and broken. Her eyes and mouth still open and silently screaming, she finally came to rest, sprawled across a neat and orderly flower bed.

For a moment, silence rolled back over the village, then from every direction came noises and movement as the villagers, roused by the woman’s terrible clarion, came out, puzzled, smiling, concerned, to greet the soft autumn morning.

The patrol leader shouted an order.

On a nearby hill overlooking the village, three riders stood, unnaturally motionless. They were dressed like ordinary villagers and even the Goraidin who had supervised them would have been hard pressed to identify them as otherwise. Their leader was Jaldaric, son of Lord Eldric, and a Captain in his High Guard. With him were a trooper and a young cadet.

The High Guards, like the Mathidrin, routinely pa-trolled the fringes of their masters’ influence, though more discreetly. This trio had happened on the Militia patrol and were observing it when it entered the village. Now they stood white-faced and helpless as the spectacle below them unfolded.

‘We must do something, Captain,’ the trooper said, wide-eyed and hoarse. ‘We can’t just stand here… ’ Distant screams and cries rose up and mingled with his words.

Jaldaric’s face twisted as he fought for control of the emotions that were swirling inside him. ‘All we can do is watch, trooper,’ he said slowly, as though the words were choking him. ‘Watch, so that we can tell what’s happened.’

The trooper looked at him, his face a mixture of disbelief and horror. ‘We can’t just watch,’ he said. ‘They’re killing unarmed men and women down there.’

Jaldaric clenched his teeth, feeling the weight of the Goraidin’s burden. ‘We’ve no alternative,’ he said grimly.

The trooper’s mouth curled up into a snarl. ‘You spent too long near Dan-Tor, you cold-hearted… ’

Jaldaric did not allow him to finish. ‘Do you want to die this day, trooper?’ he said, turning to him, his face savage and his voice taut with restraint. The words were ambivalent and the trooper flinched, but Jaldaric levelled his hand towards the village. ‘Is our dying going to save those people?’ he said. ‘Use your eyes. If we killed ten each, that patrol would still out-number us.’ His manner softened as despair replaced anger in the trooper’s face. ‘Just remember this… for the future,’ he managed. ‘Perhaps one day we’ll get the opportunity to… ’ His voice tailed off.

As if jolted by this sudden additional violence be-tween his normally companionable superiors, the cadet slithered awkwardly from his horse and slumped on to all fours, his legs refusing to support him.

‘But… ’ the trooper began.

‘But nothing,’ Jaldaric said quietly. ‘Look to your cadet, trooper. He’s about to be sick.’

The cadet was retching violently. Then he vomited. The trooper dismounted and, crouching down by him, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

For a long moment neither moved, then the cadet looked up, his eyes damp and his face almost grey. ‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said, to Jaldaric. ‘I’m all right now, I think.’

Jaldaric looked at the youth intently. ‘No you’re not, but there’s no need to apologize,’ he said.

‘I’m all right, Sir,’ the cadet repeated, unhearing, as the trooper helped him to his feet. ‘But is there nothing we can do?’

Jaldaric looked down at the village again. The patrol was forming up to leave. The road winding through the village was littered with bodies and some of the houses were now on fire, adding their dense smoke to the autumn haze. I wish I had a bow, he thought, and in his mind he sent a hail of lethal arrows through the misty morning, into the gathering group below.

Then he set the indulgence aside.

‘You know the valley to the north-east of here?’ he asked the cadet.

The youth nodded. ‘Yes sir,’ he replied.

‘Captain Hrostir should be there now with a larger group. Go and find him. Tell him what’s happened and bring him back to help here.’ The cadet nodded again and, scrambling back on to his horse, pulled it round to leave. Jaldaric reached out and took hold of his reins. ‘Tell me the way you’re going to go,’ he said, fixing the youth with a stern look.

The cadet stammered out the route he would take and, satisfied, Jaldaric handed the reins back to him. ‘Ride carefully,’ he said. ‘Some of those people down there might live if Hrostir can get here quickly, and he won’t get here at all if you break your neck riding recklessly.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ the cadet said, anxious to be away. ‘I understand. Are you going down into the village now?’

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No, I’m going back to my… to Lord Eldric’s to report,’ he said. He turned to the trooper. ‘You go on down there now and help where you can until Hrostir arrives. Be careful,’ he added. ‘We’ve no guarantee that patrol won’t come back.’ His discreet hand signal told the trooper to go and search for Hrostir himself if he did not arrive within two hours.

Then, without further farewells, the trio divided.

Once well clear of his two companions, Jaldaric gave his horse its head, and as it carried him rapidly homewards, he cursed and swore and wept amp;mdashat the savagery he had seen, at the savagery he had felt, and at his own impotence to control or assuage either.

In the village, the only sound was the gossiping crackle of the burning cottages. A light breeze tumbled an occasional fallen leaf along the road, and the birds, gathering for their morning crumbs, began to land amid the carnage and wander about curiously.

Eldric put his hands to his head. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘It can’t be true.’

Jaldaric, travel-stained and weary, looked down at him, but did not speak.