Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Looking around she tried to find her bearings. She was unfamiliar with this part of the country, but she had spent some time discussing the route with Dilrap and studying the map that he had found for her.

From what she could recall it seemed that they might indeed have made remarkable progress. Then they were clattering over a wide wooden bridge, its colourful carvings dulled by the grey sky. She recog-nized it from Dilrap’s description. They had made good progress.

‘Slow down,’ she said. ‘I think there should be a village ahead where we can get supplies. We mustn’t go charging in at this speed.’

Isloman objected. ‘We can live off the land,’ he said. ‘It’s not pleasant, but it’ll only be for a few days. Let’s ride on through.’

Sylvriss shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The supplies should be ready for us. It’ll only take a moment to collect them. Living off the land takes time, and we don’t have any.’ Her tone brooked no argument.

Serian too, however, seemed to agree with Isloman, and ignored his half-hearted tug on his reins. Sylvriss’s jaw tightened, and leaning across she took the rein from Isloman unceremoniously, and shouted a sharp command to the stallion. With an irritable shake of its head, the horse slowed to a walk. Gavor emerged from underneath Isloman’s cloak and looked around unhappily at the damp morning. ‘I’ll fly ahead,’ he said reluctantly after a moment. Hopping off Serian’s head he dipped low over the road and then, wings beating purposefully, he rose up and flew off into the rainy greyness.

Minutes later, Sylvriss and Isloman found them-selves in the main street of a quiet Fyordyn village. Most of the cottages were single-storey with high pitched roofs and, to Isloman, used to the taller, stone buildings of Orthlund, with their low pitched roofs and jutting eaves, they seemed small and constricting, though they did not have the squat solidity of those he had seen clinging to the mountains when he and Hawklan had first entered Fyorlund.

Nevertheless, with its colourful wooden carvings and its flower-filled gardens that seemed to be spilling out from inside the houses through copious and prolific window-boxes, the place had considerable charm, even in the wind and rain, and Isloman sensed a small hint of the harmony that he had almost forgotten in the turmoil of recent events. The dawn scent of a flower reached him and, unexpectedly, a wave of homesickness for Pedhavin and his friends and his old life passed over him. It showed on his face.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sylvriss whispered as if fearful of disturbing the quiet calm of the street.

‘Nothing,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘Just tired.’

Sylvriss nodded and reined to a halt. She looked up and down the street thoughtfully. Apart from a solitary and bedraggled dog, and a bleary, incurious face glancing briefly through a rain spattered window, there was no movement.

‘We’ve hardly roused them to battle stations,’ Islo-man said with gently irony, shaking off the last remnants of his brief longing.

Sylvriss did not reply, but dismounted and began walking along the street looking carefully at the threshold carvings. Isloman made to join her, but silently she signalled to him to stay mounted. They might yet have to leave quickly. The cold memory of her neglect in forgetting about the Mathidrin patrols was still with her and she would not be so careless again. This village was the old Fyorlund and it could protect neither them nor itself from the new.

At last she found the cottage she had been seeking and handing her reins to Isloman she walked up the short paved path and knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. She knocked more loudly.

Isloman glanced up and down the street, feeling peculiarly exposed. Overhead he heard the thrumming beat of Gavor’s wings.

Still no reply.

Frowning anxiously, Sylvriss walked round to the side of the cottage and, hands around her eyes, peered in through a window. Isloman saw her tapping vigor-ously and then signalling to someone inside.

Then she ran quickly back to the door which opened to reveal a small, elderly lady clutching a nightgown about herself. She curtseyed slightly to the Queen and smiled affectionately, though Isloman could see that she too was anxious and concerned. He threw back his hood to improve his visibility.

There was a whispered conversation, then Sylvriss disappeared into the cottage to reappear almost immediately carrying two large panniers. After a further, brief conversation, the old lady reached out and embraced the Queen tightly, patting her back gently, reluctant to have her leave, reluctant to have her stay.

Without speaking, Sylvriss slung the panniers ex-pertly on the horses and with a wave to the watching woman, now clutching her nightgown about her again, she remounted and clicked her horse forward.

‘Who was that?’ Isloman asked as he came along-side.

Sylvriss seemed preoccupied. Isloman repeated the question and she started. ‘I’m sorry, Isloman. That was Virna. She used to nurse Rgoric when he was a boy,’ she said. ‘Then she was my maid for a long time… ’ She hesitated.

‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman said.

Sylvriss frowned. ‘Involving innocent people is the matter, Isloman,’ she said. ‘I hate it.’ Then she shook her head as if to clear her mind of thoughts that could now only hinder. ‘It’s as well we stopped,’ she said. ‘Virna said that a Mathidrin patrol passed through here only yesterday. Travelling our way.’

Isloman frowned. ‘How many were there?’ he said.

‘Six,’ Sylvriss replied.

‘Did they cause any trouble?’ Isloman asked, re-membering the accounts he had heard from Yatsu, and the uneasy greeting they had had from villagers as he and Hawklan had been escorted to Vakloss from the mountains.

‘No,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘They just rode through.’

Isloman looked down at Hawklan and his frown deepened. He signalled to Gavor who glided down and landed on his outstretched hand. ‘There’s a Mathidrin patrol ahead somewhere, Gavor.’ he said. ‘We can’t risk either fighting our way through them, or losing time moving too cautiously. Try and find them so that we can move around them.’

Gavor hesitated. ‘I’ll find them if they’re there,’ he said. ‘But there are woods ahead. It won’t be easy. Go slowly until I come back to you.’

For all Gavor’s assurance that the village was safe, Isloman was glad to leave it behind. Away from the houses there would at least be space to flee, and he was also haunted by the images of the innocents he had seen caught in the rioting in Vakloss.

However, as Gavor had suggested, they maintained a walking pace, though neither found it either easy or restful. The reason for his advice soon became apparent. Ahead of them lay a rocky outcrop covered with dense woodland, grey and misty in the blowing rain. There was no sign of Gavor.

Isloman reined to a halt and looked at Sylvriss. ‘Can we go round this?’ he asked. Sylvriss tried to see again Dilrap’s map.

It had been a mistake not to bring it but their plan had been implemented unexpectedly and many things were not as they should have been.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘There’s only this road on the map.’ She pointed up to the left. ‘It’s obviously too steep up there.’ Then, down to the right. ‘And I think there’s a river down there. We’d have to go back through the village to cross that, then we’d have to travel south across country for a long way before we could cross it again.’

Isloman scowled and then let out a deep breath. ‘We’ll have to wait, then.’

He was looking about for somewhere to make a temporary shelter when Gavor returned.

‘I’ve found them,’ he said, shaking his feathers vio-lently and sending up a great spray of water. ‘They’re camped about halfway through, just off the road.’ His voice fell. ‘And they’re still asleep. If we’re careful I can lead you through the trees, well clear of them.’