Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Isloman quailed. ‘How is the Queen?’ he said weakly by way of distraction.

‘The Queen’s fine,’ Hylland said, sitting down again. ‘Being female, she has more sense than you in such matters, not to say, probably, in most matters. She rested when her body told her to. Now, apart from worrying about her husband, she’s fine.’

Isloman sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Hylland nodded. ‘Well, never mind that,’ he said. ‘Eat your food, then get up. I can’t have you idling in bed all day. Your clothes are over there.’ And with that, he was gone.

Silently, Isloman did as he was bidden, Gavor stand-ing by his elbow expectantly. Slowly, he swung out of the bed and stood up. This time, the room stayed still, though he still felt a little unsteady. ‘Lack of food,’ Gavor diagnosed definitively when he mentioned it. ‘I myself haven’t had anything for… hours,’ he said, looking balefully at Isloman’s empty plate.

There was a soft tap on the door, and Yatsu entered. Standing in the doorway he looked Isloman up and down appreciatively. ‘Not a word, Commander. Not a word,’ said Isloman menacingly, carefully untying the laces that secured his gown. Yatsu pursed his lips, his face now taut and stern. ‘Hylland said you were with us again. Are you feeling better now?’

Isloman nodded.

‘Good,’ continued Yatsu. ‘We’ve all got a lot to dis-cuss.’ He raised his hand casually, to cover his mouth. Isloman eyed him suspiciously. ‘Perhaps you could come down to Varak’s office, when you’ve… changed your frock.’

Isloman’s boot hit the suddenly closed door with a loud thud.

As Isloman reached Varak’s office a clamorous trumpet call rang out. Reaching forward to push the door he nearly stumbled as it opened urgently and unexpectedly. He found himself confronting the neat form of Eldric’s High Guard Commander. Yatsu was standing just behind him.

Suddenly impeded by the Orthlundyn’s bulk, Varak stopped abruptly and looked up at him. ‘Ah. Isloman. You’re looking better for your rest,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Come along. This sounds like Dacu’s group coming back.’

Despite his meticulous and formal manner, Varak’s eyes betrayed his excitement, and Isloman found he had to stride out to keep pace with him as they walked towards the courtyard.

Nor did the pace lessen when they reached it, for Varak strode straight across and trotted neatly up the stone steps to the battlements. A Sirshiant ran up to greet him and saluted smartly. ‘It’s Goraidin Dacu’s group, Commander,’ he said. ‘They’ve got two riders with them. They’re about an hour away.’

Isloman moved to the wall and peered out over the valley. The morning air was clear and fresh after the recent rains, and laden with the scents of mountain trees and vegetation. In the distance, he could just make out a column of riders moving steadily along the wide track that would bring them eventually to the castle. They did not seem to be an hour’s ride away, but Isloman was sufficiently familiar with the deceptive perspective of mountain regions to accept the Sirshi-ant’s assessment as being correct.

‘Commander Varak. If you’ve a horse to spare I’d like to ride out and meet them.’

Varak grunted curtly and then nodded. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you.’

Within minutes, the two men were mounted and clattering through the main gates. High above, Gavor circled lazily in the sunny sky.

Varak rode with the same upright formality that characterized most of his actions, though, Isloman began to notice, what seemed to be stiffness was in reality extreme economy of effort, each movement the man made being small and efficient. As they trotted along the steep-sided valley, it came to Isloman that Varak was a man who habitually husbanded his resources jealously against some future need. A legacy of the Morlider War, he thought suddenly. The man had been in some extremity in which prodigality would have meant death, for him, or others, and the survival habits he had learned there had struck deep enough to last him for the rest of his life.

The clarity of the thought startled him. In so far as he had considered it at all, he had assessed the blight of war as being that it left conspicuous pain in the heart and the mind, or did permanent visible damage to the body. This sudden awareness of subtler harms disturbed him unexpectedly. Varak was a healthy tree grown from a wilfully bent sapling. I wonder what signs I carry to be read by those with the eyes to see, he thought. His troubled introspection did not last long, however, as the calm of the mountains eased into his carver’s soul. He looked up at the surrounding peaks. ‘I must do some carving while I’m here,’ he said. ‘The rock sings a different song from that of Orthlund.’

Varak turned to him, puzzled at first by this unex-pected direction in the conversation. He followed Isloman’s gaze and his face lightened. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Of course, keen stone carvers the Orthlundyn, aren’t they? It’s not common in Fyorlund. Temperament, I suppose. We’re not as patient as you are.’

Isloman laughed as he thought of the hours he had sat listening to arguments being diligently sifted and debated by the Goraidin and the Lords.

‘Temperament possibly,’ he said. ‘Patience no. You people can talk the legs off a table, and you misjudge your own wood carvers, Commander. I’ve seen some fine work here. Often tucked away quite casually, as if you didn’t want anyone to see it.’

Varak smiled shrewdly and cleared his throat. ‘Oh. You’re striking too near the nerve there, Isloman,’ he said, unexpectedly relaxed. ‘I used to do some wood carving myself. Still do occasionally, when the mood takes me. But you’re right. It’s for my own benefit, not for others.’

For the remainder of their short journey, the two talked pleasantly about their different arts, Varak’s stern face and manner softening under the influence of the open-hearted Orthlundyn, and Isloman himself finding solace both in listening to this professional soldier give a measure of his inner worth and in simply remembering his own carving again. It was a brief and happy interlude in the midst of stormy times and as such it would help sustain both men in the future, even though it might well be forgotten to their conscious memories.

Then the tide of present events washed over them again as the approaching column came into sight. At its head were Dacu, Eldric and a bearded individual that Isloman just managed to recognize as Jaldaric. Both seemed to be on the point of collapse.

Isloman held back a little as Varak greeted Dacu and then Lord Eldric and his son. He was formal again but he could not keep the emotion out of his face at the sight of his Lord.

Eldric focussed uncertainly on Isloman.

‘It’s good to see you, Isloman,’ he said distantly.

‘It’s good to see you too, Lord Eldric,’ Isloman re-plied gently. ‘And your son, safe and well, if a little the worse for wear.’

He reached across and took Jaldaric’s hand in both of his. The young man’s weary face broke into a smile, but Isloman could see that their meeting revived memories of their last parting and the horror that had taken his friends while he had lain unconscious.

‘A decent meal and a wash will repair any damage that just being free hasn’t cured,’ Eldric said with strained heartiness before Jaldaric could speak.

‘And a sleep,’ Isloman added, promising himself that he would talk to Jaldaric later.

Eldric shook his head and his face became grim. ‘No, Isloman. Not yet. Young Jal needs one, but I’ve far too many questions clattering around in my head to be able to sleep. You must tell me everything that’s happened, then we can start detailed planning. Dacu’s told me what he could.’ He put his hand to his head, and his eyes glazed slightly. ‘That was a bad business at Evison’s, Isloman, a bad business. He was a tough old devil. And what in thunder’s name happened in the City?’