Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Eventually Isloman drew Serian to a halt on a prominent grassy knoll so that he could gaze around at the surrounding countryside. In the distance, barely visible, he could just make out the lines of Eldric’s stronghold amid the myriad subtle shades of the mountains. Below him was a broad green valley, its sides tree-lined and scored by streams making their way to the small river that meandered along the bottom. Here and there were dwellings and patchwork patterns of cultivation, rendered tiny and toy-like by the scale of the scene. In the distance, peaks receded to the horizon like a storm-tossed sea suddenly frozen. Hints of green and blue told him of other valleys and lakes.

Dismounting, he lifted Hawklan down and carefully propped him in a sitting position against a rock. ‘It’s not Orthlund, is it, Hawklan?’ he said. ‘But it’s beautiful.’ He sat down by him and, closing his eyes, leaned back to feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Everywhere was peaceful and calm, but he knew he could not fully accept such a gift while his friend was stricken thus. And, as if signalled, came the memory of the desecration he had felt near the mines: a sensation so foul that it had almost overwhelmed him and only Hawklan, with his sword, had been able to retrieve him.

He opened his eyes and looked around again at the mountains and valleys. ‘I doubt such splendour plays any part in Dan-Tor’s scheme, though,’ he said, continuing his one-sided conversation. ‘Come back to us, Hawklan. Tell us what he is. Tell us what you saw that made you attack him. Come back. We need you.’

But there was no response.

In a rush of wind, Gavor skimmed suddenly in front of him, making him start. ‘Sorry, dear boy,’ the raven cried. ‘Just seen someone I know. Got something I need to talk about. Join you later.’

Isloman shook his head as Gavor disappeared from view into the valley below. ‘No chance of Gavor being stuck in the past, is there?’ he said. ‘He’s well rooted in the present.’

Later, as they were returning to the castle, Serian stopped and bent forward to drink from a small stream that bubbled briefly and noisily along the edge of the path before disappearing underground. Watching the horse, the thought of Gavor’s hedonistic dive recurred to Isloman, and with it came another; that he should not seek too eagerly to return Hawklan to a world which seemed to hold such burdens and so few pleasures for him.

Had he not already given twenty years of light for no tangible reward? Had he not sought out and faced an enemy who had wilfully persecuted him? Wasn’t he entitled to return in peace to Anderras Darion and let others finish the task that was, after all, none of his making?

Even as the thoughts passed through his mind, Is-loman knew that Hawklan would reject them, but they left him filled with guilt. He tightened his arms gently about his friend and held him close. ‘Don’t be afraid, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We don’t know who you are, but we know your worth. You’re not alone. Truly you’re not alone. And other things are stirring than Sumeral’s creatures.’

Serian paused from his noisy drinking and looked up as if he had heard something. Then, unbidden, he began to trot along the narrow path back towards the castle. Isloman, slightly taken aback by this unexpected action, concentrated on supporting Hawklan. He knew from past experience that when the horse moved thus it would go its own way, independent of any of his instructions.

As they neared the castle, he saw riders milling around the courtyard.

‘The King must have arrived,’ he said to Hawklan in some excitement. He was anxious to meet this man whose flag he had fought under during the Morlider War and in whom the Fyordyn placed such store despite his long withdrawal from public life. He was interested also in seeing what kind of a man could so command the affection of a woman as remarkable as Sylvriss. Unexpectedly, hopes rose within him. Perhaps this man had finished the work that Hawklan had begun. Perhaps he had ended the life of the man who had hunted Hawklan and who by all accounts had held him thrall in sickness for so many years.

But these thoughts withered as they bloomed. He remembered the abject terror he had felt as he cowered behind Hawklan in the face of Dan-Tor’s wrath. Who could have faced that? And would the King be here if his troubles were ended? Then again, perhaps it was not the King but a messenger bringing good news.

However, as he rode through the gates, his darker thoughts were confirmed. The courtyard was the usual noisy confusion of men and horses that might be expected on the arrival of a large patrol, but there was no air of joyous return, and such friendly greetings as he heard were subdued and weary. Neither King nor good news had returned with these men.

Through the melee he saw the familiar forms of Lorac and Tel-Odrel walking towards the main door, talking, apparently casually to Yatsu. Only days ago the two Goraidin had been guiding him and Hawklan to Vakloss, to establish contacts for obtaining the informa-tion that would be needed if the Lords were to consider moving against the City in force. Why had they returned so soon? Further, though he could not see their faces, something in their postures disturbed him and his sense of disappointment turned suddenly into foreboding.

The High Guards that Varak had selected to help him tend to Hawklan, ran forward and, leaving his friend to their care, Isloman dismounted and began pushing his way through the crowd after the retreating figures.

As he stepped into the spacious entrance hall, the noise in the courtyard fell away abruptly and he could hear the purposeful footsteps of the three men still walking away from him. He ran after them, calling out.

Hearing him, they turned and waited, though when he reached them their greeting was preoccupied and unsmiling.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked, but before anyone could reply the Queen appeared from a nearby stairway. Her face was flushed and excited and she was obviously running to meet the newly-arrived patrol.

She stopped suddenly as she saw the four men. ‘You’ve been so long,’ she said. Then, looking round expectantly, ‘Where’s Rgoric?’ Isloman caught the brief frightened look on Tel-Odrel’s face, like that of a man suddenly and unexpectedly attacked and wishing only to flee. Sylvriss too saw it, for it was reflected immedi-ately in her own face.

‘Where’s the King?’ she repeated uncertainly, her glow fading as though an icy wind had just struck her.

Isloman found himself holding his breath.

Tel-Odrel stepped forward and bowed slightly. He swallowed and faced the deed he had been dreading since he left Vakloss. Despite Dilrap’s request, and his own wish, there was no gentle way to do this. Swiftness was all he could offer. ‘Majesty,’ he said tonelessly. ‘The King is dead. He was mur… ’

‘No!’ The Queen’s voice was raucous with a mixture of fear and regal defiance. Her right hand swung up and struck him across the face as if the ferocity of the deed and the loudness of her cry might reach back through time and prevent the escape of such news. But even as she did so, the blood drained from her face, and Isloman knew that she was looking into the cold empty void that the rest of her life had suddenly become.

Tel-Odrel staggered slightly under the impact of the blow and red weals appeared on his cheek almost immediately. His left hand started to reach up to soothe the injury, but the right hand restrained it. Water came to his eyes.

‘Majesty,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘I’d take a thousand such if it would make my news untrue, but the King is dead. Murdered by Urssain and the Mathidrin at the command of Dan-Tor.’

The Queen looked at him pleadingly for a long mo-ment, but Tel-Odrel’s tearful gaze gave her no escape. Suddenly spent, she closed her eyes and briefly covered her face with her hands.