Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Dacu’s eyes widened. ‘The King! Fleeing Vakloss, Majesty?’

‘Yes,’ Sylvriss replied, frowning, anxious not to waste any time in idle and perhaps vain speculation. ‘All having gone well, they should be travelling this road. Can you help?’

Sensing the Queen’s mood, Dacu set aside the ques-tions bubbling up inside him. ‘Yes, Majesty,’ he said simply. ‘When you reach the stronghold, would you tell Commander Yatsu what you’ve asked us to do. Tell him we’re in sound condition, with no injuries and no serious supply problem. We’ll be going in in correct livery.’

Then he saluted the Queen and turned to Isloman, hand outstretched. ‘Ride safely, Orthlundyn,’ he said. ‘We’ve come across no Mathidrin but… ’ He nodded significantly towards Gavor. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

The remainder of the journey was uneventful, though it took its toll of the three High Guards that Sylvriss had seconded. As she had surmised, they were of great assistance in the latter stages of the journey, Eldric’s stronghold being well hidden in the mountains and quietly protected by a maze of wandering paths and byways.

However, when they finally arrived, the three men were in a sorry state. Sylvriss swung easily down from her horse and walked across the courtyard to them through the gathered servants and guards.

‘You ride well,’ she said, reaching up and supporting one of them as he slithered stiffly out of his saddle. Several hands took the burden from her. ‘I’ll give you some instruction later, when you’ve rested,’ she added.

Isloman, helping the other two, smiled. ‘I don’t think they’re listening, Majesty,’ he said.

Sylvriss looked round at Eldric’s stronghold, solid, traditional and reliable, like the man himself. The wet courtyard glistened in the bright torchlight which shone like so many welcoming smiles out of windows and doors now filling with inquisitive heads.

Come soon, Rgoric, she thought. This is the real Fyorlund amp;mdashyour Fyorlund. From such as this we can stop Dan-Tor, whatever he’s become.

Grooms moved forward to take her horse, but she shook her head. ‘No no, I’ll tend to my horse, thank you,’ she said, then looking at Isloman, tenderly lifting Hawklan down from Serian. ‘And yours, Isloman. Get Hawklan to Eldric’s healer right away.’

Isloman woke up with a start. For a moment he could not remember where he was, then the memories of recent events flooded in on him reproachfully. Hawklan! How could he have dozed off like that? He sat up suddenly, but the movement sent his head spinning and he slumped back, eyes closed and hands clasping at his bed until the darkness itself stopped whirling.

There was a low chuckle from nearby. ‘Relax, Islo-man,’ said a voice. ‘Relax. Just lie still. The dizziness will pass.’

Slowly he opened his eyes and turned towards the speaker. It was a slight, thin-faced man, with sparse grey hair and grey bushy eyebrows currently arched ironically over amused brown eyes.

Isloman screwed up his face in concentration, and gradually recognition dawned. Eldric’s chief healer, fetched hastily from his lowland home when Yatsu saw Isloman bearing the inert form of Hawklan.

‘Hylland,’ he said slowly. Mockingly, the man mouthed the name as Isloman spoke it, and then laughed outright. ‘Well, you’ve not lost all your wits, have you, Orthlundyn?’ he said. Isloman lay back again and stared up at the ceiling. It was skilfully decorated with a simple rural scene and he smiled appreciatively as he noticed how the painted foliage that fringed the scene blended imperceptibly into an intricate carved wooden tracery which decorated the upper part of the walls. He recognized it as belonging to the room he had occupied on his earlier stay at Eldric’s stronghold, and he remembered remarking to Commander Varak that it reminded him of Orthlund. He appreciated the man’s thoughtful gesture in putting him there again.

Hylland followed his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Varak said you liked this room. Not many left who can do that kind of work I’m afraid.’ He stood up and walked to a nearby table. ‘Bit of a carver yourself, I believe.’

‘A bit,’ replied Isloman, cautiously levering himself into a sitting position.

Hylland placed a tray of food on his lap. ‘You’re hungry,’ he said.

Isloman shook his head and lifted a hand to wave the food away. Hylland’s eyebrows went up again. ‘That wasn’t a question, Isloman. Or just idle conversation. It was a statement for your information. Eat!’

‘But… ’

‘Eat!’ repeated Hylland firmly. He swung a chair round and sat down by the side of the bed. ‘Lord Eldric’s instructions to his healers are unequivocal,’ he said. ‘"Keep the men in fettle whether they like it or not," he says. And we do.’

Isloman could not help smiling at the man’s man-ner.

‘I must go to Hawklan,’ he said.

Hylland shook his head. ‘What could a bit of a carver do that we couldn’t?’ he said, adding, more seriously, ‘Shortly, Isloman, shortly. I’m afraid there’s no hurry. Hawklan’s unchanged. No better and no worse. Still… asleep.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I think we’ll all have to talk later on. Perhaps we’ve all got part of the answer.’

Isloman concurred reluctantly and made a tentative start on the food in front of him. His memory of the immediate past was becoming clearer. Despite the entreaties of Sylvriss, Yatsu and various others, he had sat by Hawklan’s bed for hour after waking hour, waiting anxiously for some sign of movement apart from the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Hylland and his assistants had moved patiently round him, and finally pronounced Hawklan fit and uninjured.

Finally he had a vague recollection of slithering into a delirium of fatigue and an equally vague memory of being manhandled argumentatively along interminable corridors and stairways.

He looked at Hylland guiltily. ‘Did I give you a lot of trouble?’ he said.

‘You’re heavy,’ said the healer pragmatically.

Isloman cleared his throat and was about to return to his food when the door opposite his bed opened slightly. No one entered, but he heard a characteristic clunking step and, abruptly, Gavor flapped up to perch on the end of his bed. He shook his wings noisily, and tilting his head first one way then the other, examined Isloman critically for some time.

‘Love the robe, dear boy,’ he said finally. ‘Very fetch-ing.’

Isloman followed his gaze to find himself clad in an embroidered orange gown. He glared at Gavor and then at Hylland.

The healer looked insincerely apologetic. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was the nearest thing to hand. And we’d other things on our mind at the time.’

‘Yes,’ purred Gavor. ‘Who’s a naughty boy, then? You were a problem the other night.’

The remark deflected Isloman’s response. ‘The other night?’ he said. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘A couple of days or so,’ Hylland replied casually.

Isloman’s eyes opened wide and he made to remove the tray from his lap. With an air of resignation, Hylland stood up and levelled a finger at him. ‘Stay there until you’ve eaten,’ he said, in a tone that would accept no dispute.

Gavor chuckled, and Isloman glowered at him.

Hylland continued. ‘You were worn out when you arrived, Isloman, physically and emotionally. You declined suggestions that you rest and, nuisance though you were, I let you have your way until your condition rendered you more amenable.’ He leaned over Isloman purposefully, making the big man cringe slightly. His eyes narrowed with professional relish. ‘And when you finally went out, I kept you out until I was satisfied you were rested enough.’