Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

He drew in a deep breath of the cool autumn air. It was scented with dampness and browning leaves, dying in preparation for the cold winter and the distant spring.

This is a good place to be, he thought again, then, pulling his cloak about him, he set off for his own tent.

It was indistinguishable from all the other tents except for the standard that hung motionless in the stillness. The Lords and people were never far apart in Fyorlund but both tradition and experience dictated that more than ever they should share both favour and hardship in such difficult times.

Arinndier rose as Eldric entered.

‘I’m sorry, Arin,’ Eldric said. ‘I’m a little late. I’m afraid I was… ’

‘Talking.’ Arinndier finished his apology for him with a wry smile.

Eldric conceded. ‘Talking,’ he admitted. ‘And think-ing.’

Arinndier raised a mocking eyebrow.

Eldric ignored the taunt. ‘The others are ready?’ he asked, affecting a briskness he did not feel.

‘In the command tent,’ Arinndier replied, indicating the entrance through which Eldric had just passed.

Darek and Hreldar were sprawled out in their chairs when Eldric and Arinndier joined them in the command tent. Both confined their welcomes to a cursory nod.

Eldric smiled broadly. ‘A good day’s march, gentle-men,’ he said.

‘No heartiness, please, Eldric,’ Darek replied. ‘Save that for the men. It’s been a good day and night’s march, and you’re as tired as we are.’

Eldric pulled a wry face and sat down by his col-leagues. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re none of us as young as we were.’

‘No cliches either,’ Hreldar said.

Eldric eyed him uncertainly for a moment, then, unexpectedly, a smile surfaced on Hreldar’s grim face and he chuckled.

‘It’s as well we all agreed to this forced march,’ he said. ‘Otherwise one of us would be unbearably self-righteous now.’

The fatigue-born unease in the tent faded and, lean-ing back, Eldric rested his arm on a nearby table. ‘How’s morale among your men?’ he asked, looking round at each of his companions.

Excellent, was the consensus. The Lords and their officers had always presumed that apart from Dan-Tor coming personally to use his power against them it was unlikely they would be assailed on their own territory. With regret, they recognized that if Fyorlund was to be freed from Dan-Tor and restored to its old ways, they would have to take the offensive and move on Vakloss.

The timing of such a venture, however, had proved to be a considerable problem. Their ranks grew daily as High Guards from other Lords joined them; some independently, some with the strong, if covert, blessings of their Lords. Yet with each new individual came the extra burden on food and resources and it soon became apparent that too long a delay might tip the balance inexorably in Dan-Tor’s favour; the Mathidrin and this new Militia would presumably be more prepared, and the natural momentum of the daily lives of the people would inevitably make them more amenable to their new leader, while the Lords would be increasingly burdened by a growing, expensive and probably fretful standing army.

Fearing this, and the consequent decline in morale, most of the senior High Guards’ officers had argued for a swift and powerful strike against Vakloss. Arguments that had been intensified by the appearance of early snow on the distant mountain peaks indicating perhaps a severe winter. However, despite the unusual fighting tactics they were devising, the fear of Dan-Tor’s terrible power, combined with the natural reluctance of the Lords to be seen as open aggressors, had outweighed all other considerations, and a degree of frustration had never been far below the surface.

The slaughter at Ledvrin had, however, materially changed these concerns. An attack by the Lords could now clearly be seen as not only a legitimate, but a necessary, response, and, more importantly, there was the substantial doubt about the ability, or willingness, of Dan-Tor to wield his power. Given these changes and the now raging anger of the men, there was little left to debate.

‘Hawklan would have told us to excise the diseased tissue as quickly as possible, before its infection spreads and destroys us all,’ Yatsu said at one meeting.

The men were in good fettle and it was debatable whether training through the winter, pending a spring offensive, would materially improve them.

Supplies were good; morale was good. Both were at risk if there was a delay amp;mdashparticularly the latter.

The discussion had not taken long. Nor had its logi-cal consequence. A swift attack meant swift amp;mdash‘Hit them hard and fast, before they really know what’s happening’ amp;mdashand that, in turn, meant forced marching. Each man would carry his own arms and two week’s field rations to ensure greater speed by dint of independence from the baggage and supply train, while this in its turn would be smaller and swifter. Normal practice on forced march exercises was for the men to carry a month’s field rations, and the reduction to two weeks was greeted at first by mocking applause, though this turned rapidly to laughter and cheering when its implications became clear amp;mdashwithin two weeks this business would be over!

Eldric stretched his legs. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve made the right decision. My men seem to be thriving on it after so long with no clear end in sight.’ He pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘However, now we’re on the point of leaving Garieth’s estate, we’ll have to face the problem we’ve avoided so far amp;mdashthe loyalties of the other Lords between here and Vakloss. They’re uncertain, to say the least.’

It had been a strange irony that the four Lords knew more of what was happening in Vakloss than they did of the minds of their former friends and colleagues. With the Mathidrin patrolling far and wide, and normal movement between villages and estates being greatly reduced as the country watched and waited, it was easier for the Goraidin to be inconspicuous on the more populous roads in and around Vakloss than on the quieter byways which filigreed the countryside. The seeming ease with which they moved across country belied utterly the considerable difficulty and danger of the journey.

Eldric ignored the unhappy expressions on his friends’ faces and ploughed on. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘But between here and Vakloss there’s only Irian, Tel-Amreo, Valen and perhaps Shalmson within striking distance of our route, who have amp;mdashor had amp;mdashHigh Guards of any worth.’

No one demurred from this observation.

‘We need to find out whose side they’re on before we leave them to our rear,’ Eldric continued.

‘Irian and Tel-Amreo would probably be with us,’ Hreldar said after a brief silence. ‘But Valen and Shalmson were always in Dan-Tor’s pocket. And Valen’s Guards were a rough lot at the best of times.’

‘They were supposed to disband their High Guards,’ Arinndier said tentatively, stifling an unexpected yawn that conveyed both his fatigue and his reluctance to be discussing this topic.

Hreldar looked at him sideways. ‘Valen’s men could be wearing black liveries by now,’ he said bitterly. ‘Shalmson’s amp;mdashthat’s difficult. I don’t know amp;mdashbut I wouldn’t trust him too far; he was always gullible and greedy.’

Arinndier grimaced at Hreldar’s tone. He would have liked to have protested at the idea of Valen’s High Guards joining the Mathidrin, but he knew there was a strong possibility that that could well be true. ‘Well,’ he said, almost impatiently, ‘there’s no point equivocating now. We can’t afford delay and we can’t afford to tie down too many men guarding our backs. Send a couple of cavalry squadrons to their castle gates, tell them what Dan-Tor’s done, what we’re doing, and ask them to join us.’