Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

And then she was gone, floating free for an instant, old reflexes curling her into a tight ball, before she crashed on to the dusty road. Over and over she rolled, unaware of anything except her terrible momentum until at last it was spent and, unfolding limply, she lay still, face upward on the hard Fyordyn ground.

Gradually, the high scudding clouds came into fo-cus, and with them her awareness, though for some time she could not remember how she came to be here. Then a gust of wind blew her hair across her face and her hand came up to move it. She winced with pain, and her memory cleared.

‘You’re hurt?’ said a voice, deep but unsteady, and a large square head came briefly into her vision, concern and confusion in its brown eyes. It disappeared, and she felt strong hands gently testing her limbs.

‘I’m no healer, lady,’ came the voice again after a while, ‘but I don’t think you’ve broken anything. Sit up, slowly. Let me help you.’ And again she found herself looking into anxious brown eyes as a powerful arm scooped round her shoulders and eased her up into a sitting position.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice sounding odd in her own ears. She took hold of her helper and, leaning heavily on him, dragged herself slowly to her feet. It was a painful exercise, but some cautious probing of her own confirmed the man’s diagnosis. She was bruised amp;mdashbadly bruised from the feel of it amp;mdashbut seemingly not otherwise injured. She uttered a silent prayer to her oft-maligned instructors of the past. Closing her eyes she felt her stomach tentatively. Yes, all was well.

Turning, she looked at her helper. He was tall, and powerfully built amp;mdashrock-like almost amp;mdashperhaps the same age as Rgoric, though it was difficult to judge from his craggy, dust-covered face. And despite his gentle aid to her, he was fretful and restless.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

The man started slightly as if his mind had flitted on to some other matter. ‘My name’s Isloman,’ he said almost irritably. ‘I’m sorry. Come on, we must get away. We must keep moving.’ He took hold of Sylvriss’s arm, but she shook it free. The man’s manner had no menace in it but it exuded fear and it alarmed her. His great hands had been shaking. A host of questions surged into her mind.

‘You’re an outlander aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Orthlundyn from your speech.’ Isloman did not reply, but turned to his horse which was standing nearby, sweating and steaming in the blustering wind. It too was fretful and anxious, pawing the ground, but otherwise remaining still to avoid disturbing the figure draped over its neck.

Sylvriss pursued her questions. ‘What are you run-ning from?’ she asked. ‘Where did you get that horse? What’s the matter with your companion? What… ’

Her voice tailed off at the look on Isloman’s face as he turned to her. ‘My friend’s alive, we can look to him later,’ he said, looking fearfully towards the City, still hidden behind the hill. ‘Please mount up and ride. We mustn’t delay here, please hurry.’ He nodded in the direction of Sylvriss’s horse which was also standing patiently nearby.

Mindful of her own journey and seeing that nothing was to be gained by further questions, Sylvriss painfully clambered on to her horse. As she eased into her saddle, a terrible pain, far beyond her immediate bodily discomfort, ran through her and she gasped out loud.

‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s voice was distant. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone, leaving in its wake a cold and fearful emptiness as though something precious had been torn from her forever. The tremulous life inside her fluttered agitat-edly, but somehow she soothed it.

‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s question came again.

She ignored it. She had no words to describe what had just happened. ‘As you’re travelling this road, it seems we’re both going the same way, Orthlundyn,’ she said grimly. ‘So trot your horse gently if you’re anxious to cover a great distance quickly. Match my speed. Talk when you’re ready.’

For a while they rode on in an uneasy silence, though Sylvriss noted that the black horse was still carrying its rider rather than being ridden. Every now and then, it would increase its speed and ease forward, but Sylvriss reached over and took its reins.

‘You’re not whole yet, horse,’ she said. ‘Your duty’s done for now. Take my guidance.’ Isloman did not interfere.

Gradually the horse became quieter, and Isloman too seemed to lose a little of his fearful preoccupation, though he kept turning round.

‘I’m sorry, Muster woman,’ he said, eventually. Sylvriss looked at him sharply, but did not speak.

He continued. ‘I saw you come out of the trees like a saviour out of an old legend. I thought you’d kill yourself for certain, riding down that hillside the way you did. It was unbelievable.’ He looked down. ‘I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry.’

‘You were hanging on to the horse,’ Sylvriss said, understandingly.

Isloman nodded his head a little and then looked at her sadly. ‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help you because I was petrified. I was so frightened I scarcely remember leaving Vakloss.’

Sylvriss looked at him intently, questions again bubbling up inside her. ‘Shouldn’t we look to your friend now?’ she said.

Isloman hesitated. ‘He’s alive,’ he repeated. Then, almost childishly, ‘I don’t want to stop. Not yet.’

Sylvriss’s eyes opened in a mixture of horror and anger at the man’s tone. Even in this fearful state, Isloman did not radiate cowardice. Further, a black sword and a black bow hung from the horse, indicating that he or his inert companion was a warrior of some kind. And the horse was a splendid line leader. What could have happened to reduce such a trio to such bewildered and terrified flight? And again, why would such a beast willingly carry them?

Reaching across, she reined the black horse to a halt. ‘Dismount, Orthlundyn,’ she said firmly. ‘Like your horse, you’re not yourself. We must look to your friend, and you must tell me your tale before we go any further.’

There was a glimmer of resistance in Isloman’s eyes, but Sylvriss outfaced him. ‘The horses will warn us if anyone comes near,’ she said. ‘And we can outrun anything the Mathidrin could send after us.’

Reluctantly, Isloman climbed down from his horse and gently lifting his companion, carried him to the grassy roadside. Sylvriss followed and, as Isloman laid his friend down, she found herself looking at a narrow and high cheek-boned face that seemed to radiate a powerful presence even in unconsciousness. But was the man simply unconscious, for the face was also as pale as a death mask? Hesitantly, she reached forward and placed her hand against his throat.

‘I can feel no pulse,’ she said anxiously. There was no reply. Turning, she saw Isloman lifting the sword down from his horse, and in the corner of her vision a black shadow came from nowhere.

Crouching in a shaded alcove, Dilrap shook and shook as if the only way his body knew to quell his whirling mind was to destroy itself. Dismissed from the Throne Room by the King with a soft blessing and a loudly proclaimed curse to give him some little protection, Dilrap had watched the ensuing scene through the intricate carved tracery that formed a panel in one of the side doors. Watched the entrance of the strangely transformed Dan-Tor impaled on a black arrow. Watched Rgoric move to slay him, only to fall victim himself to Dan-Tor’s Mathidrin, perishing as he cut a hideous path through them towards their evil Lord.