Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

Now were all his years of silent toil bearing fruit. Not in the manner he had envisaged, admittedly, but far sooner. Briefly the image came to him of a spring flower bursting suddenly into bloom after a long dark winter, but it was distasteful and his head twitched involuntar-ily to free him of it.

And yet the past months had been a strange, turbu-lent period, full of change and struggle and mystery: he himself deceived by the aura of that sinkhole Anderras Darion into imagining he had found, and could bind, Ethriss; Rgoric slipping his leash and running amok after almost twenty years of carefully sustained decline; and that horse witch weaning him back to normality and strength. Even getting herself pregnant, if rumour was to be believed. At the thought of Sylvriss, Dan-Tor’s lip curled back to reveal his clenched teeth, white and predatory.

But it had all been salutary: a timely reminder that these creatures were, after all, Ethriss’s creation, flawed and dangerous. And, too, the Cadwanol had appeared on the fringes of events. That was of major importance. Perhaps in reality they lay nearer the centre than appearances indicated. They were not a force to be lightly ignored. When this was over, He would doubtless look to have them sought out and crushed before their infection spread.

The cold wind tugged at Dan-Tor’s robe. He laid his conjectures aside. Soon, very soon, there would be time for a retrenchment, a quietening of the turmoil and a new beginning. When his army had crushed the Lords he could divide an acquiescent Fyorlund amongst his senior Commanders and turn his mind to the gradual destruction of Orthlund and Riddin; back, if possible, to slow corruption by stealth and smiling deception.

And of course, to lighten these tasks, there would be the hunting of Hawklan.

It was an agreeable prospect, Dan-Tor mused. Vio-lence and war had their uses, but they were too hazardous; too uncontrollable and unpredictable. They represented the very pinnacle of humanity’s flawed and inconsistent nature. They were not his favourite tools, though admittedly he wielded them with some relish when need arose.

Even now, there was risk. Small forces had routed larger before now. The thought was haunting and persistent, but he set it aside. Aelang had done his work well; the Lords were moving in anger; an emotion that would have wasted their energies utterly by the time they reached Vakloss to face the vastly superior numbers of the Mathidrin and the Militia.

Granted, the Militia were of uncertain value, but they would burden the Guards in many ways, leaving them the wearier when they finally hacked their way through to the Mathidrin.

He smiled as the thought came to him that the loss of so many Fyordyn men would cause great social upheaval and ease the subsequent governing of the land. It was an advantage he had not considered before.

He brought his mind back to the present. Below him, the City was unnaturally silent; its stillness disturbed only by the Youth Corps’ patrols and the occasional rider or runner. In the distance he could see some of the activity as his troops transformed the eastern edge of the City into a defensive enclave.

Slowly he stilled his mind and set forth his power. Out to the north under his own extensive estates to touch the comforting roots of the cold dark mountains that separated Fyorlund from Narsindal. Tentatively to the south where it shied away from the ominous shadow of Orthlund. Then east, out under the bustling prepara-tions of his own army until eventually it felt the purposeful tread of the advancing High Guards.

Ever guarded, Oklar mused. How easily you could be destroyed, in your pathetic strutting arrogance, without the protection of forces you know nothing of. Once it would have been Ethriss or Theowart, or some cadre of potent Cadwanwr, now He Himself guards you from my wrath.

As a reminder of this protection, Hawklan’s arrow hung heavy in his side; a terrible, waiting presence. He knew no hurt would return to him while his Power was quiescent and watching, but should he use it…

Oklar withdrew his Power lest the nearness and vulnerability of his enemies tested his patience too far. To strike them thus would be to shatter his own mortal body.

Let these creatures hack and hew each other, he thought. It is the way it always was and in itself would be a passing amusement for him. It would also be a valuable exercise for the Mathidrin; it was a long time since they’d faced angry, armed opposition. It would thin out their weaker fry and leave him with a battle-hardened nucleus around which could be built His real army.

Briefly he felt a wave of weariness pass over him, but he ignored it. It was just another remnant of his own erstwhile humanity. His eternal solace lay in the knowledge that one day these flawed and erratic creatures would be no more, and he would stand by His side in a world of perfection; shaped by Him and peopled by His creations. It was a heady thought, and he allowed it to soar freely.

Eldric was tired after the day’s marching and riding, but he had spent the evening walking around the camp: talking to the sentries slowly pacing the perimeter; talking to cadet runners, excited and anxious, homesick yet glad to be there; talking to troopers and officers alike in their tents and shelters, resting after the day’s rapid march; talking to grooms and ostlers, tending the cavalry horses and remounts, and the great draught horses that were hauling the supply and baggage wagons in relays to keep pace with the swiftly moving army. Talking… and listening. Answering questions. Asking questions. Lifting up the jaded and fearful, calming the over-heated.

Though a soft and hazy mist filled the camp and the surrounding countryside, the stars above shone sharp and clear. He looked up at them.

I envy you your cold clarity, your certainty, he thought. Silver and aloof in your rich purple darkness.

Then he cleared his throat self-consciously as if he had inadvertently spoken this poetic sentiment out loud.

Two passing troopers saluted him.

He returned the salute and wished them goodnight as they faded into the darkness.

Around him was the dwindling hubbub of the quiet-ening camp. Torches and shadowy figures moved hither and thither, though without menace; snatches of conversation, laughter, even some singing, floated to him. Then a dog barked somewhere and, far in the opposite direction, a horse neighed. Standing alone in the darkness he felt as though he were one strand in a huge moving tapestry of sound and quietly bustling life.

He had stood thus many times before, during the Morlider War, and even, occasionally, when on the Watch in Narsindal, though there had always been an indefinable unpleasantness about that place and a different quality of tension had pervaded the Watch camps. Now at least he knew why.

This is a good place to be, he thought. The quiet unity of purpose, the caring companionship of fellows in arms. A good place. Would that it could last. Would that this time it might not end in horror. Other familiar thoughts returned to him unbidden. Armed conflict was an obscenity; a loathsome catharsis, like vomiting, but infinitely worse. Infected, the nation fretted and fumed in discomfort, then in pain, then it retched and heaved until, uncontrollably, in a terrible spasm, it shed the offence, leaving itself exhausted but perhaps renewed amid stench and degradation. The analogy pursued itself. Sometimes it was not an end, but a beginning; even a presager of death.

Eldric let the thoughts pass him unhindered. They held nothing new for him. It grieved him deeply that he and his companions were now the seeming aggressors, but he took solace from the knowledge that if an acceptable alternative presented itself at any time they would take it, and gladly.