Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

Fear and self-pity took alternate command of his mind, though rage seemed to dominate both. Rage at his father for bearing such a poor scion to carry the Secretary’s burden, rage at Dan-Tor and his years of silent, evil scheming, rage at the King for his futile death, at the Lords for their neglect, at the Queen for deserting him, and at this last, rage at himself for the injustice of such base thoughts.

Cowering small in the alcove, it seemed to Dilrap that he was entering a darkness that could only deepen, and that it would be beyond his soul to bear. And yet, even in this terrible extremity, bright threads flickered and he reached out for them in the hope that they might grow and bind together to form a desperate lifeline.

For he had heard too the King’s strange last words. That Dan-Tor would die at the very height of his power; die at the hands of an ancient and insignificant assassin. And that the ancient line of Kings was still unbroken, for the Queen now carried his heir.

Heartening words. But what of the King’s final eerie utterance into the dreadful waiting silence that filled the hall as he had crawled agonizingly towards the foun-tainhead of all his ills? ‘Nothing shall end the reign of your Master.’ A desperate, doom-laden avowal. And yet it was not uttered as such amp;mdash‘It is not what it seems’ amp;mdashand the King had laughed softly with his last breath, as at some private jest.

What could it mean? And who could be Dan-Tor’s master? Then the name that the King had uttered returned to him.

Oklar.

A name from myth and legend. Oklar, the earth corrupter, greatest of the Uhriel, the servants of Sumeral, the Great Corrupter.

A chill possessed Dilrap that set his previous terrors at naught. It couldn’t be. Such creatures could not exist. It was contrary to reason. They were ogres for children, old tales embellished through the ages. But the chill persisted. Hadn’t he seen Fyorlund deteriorate in his own lifetime? Hadn’t he seen the great tower fortress of Narsindalvak and its Watch abandoned, and the ranks of the Lords’ High Guards softened into foppery. And now its King was slain, its Queen was fled, and its Lords were arming for a conflict that could only set brother against brother. And who could account for the force that had just shaken the palace, perhaps even the City, to its very roots? But, rising above all this, came the vision of Dan-Tor being carried into the Throne Room; changed, but unchanged. Dilrap knew it was no human creature that now occupied that familiar lank form.

Resting his flushed and tear-stained face on the cold stone of the alcove, Dilrap struggled with his grief, and the enormity of his revelation. Powers were awakening that were beyond human understanding. His sense of loneliness and isolation deepened but, strangely, he felt comforted. He remembered the Queen’s words: ‘Even your father couldn’t have stood against the wiles of Dan-Tor.’ The memory made him smile bitterly. How could she have known the measure of the creature that they were opposing?

And yet they had opposed him, and done so success-fully. Dilrap had fouled and encumbered his path with his seeming helpfulness. The Queen had restored her long-sick King. They were achievements in which to take no small pride, even if now they would doom him.

Scarcely had the thought occurred to him than the curtain of the alcove was pushed roughly aside and two white-faced Mathidrin troopers confronted him.

Sylvriss spun round, and rising rapidly to her feet, drew a large hunting knife from her belt. ‘I must have been too long in the Palace,’ she said menacingly. ‘If a Lord can usurp the King, and thugs the High Guard, then I suppose bandits could return to the highways. Well, you’ve no soft maiden here, outlander.’ And she called out to her horse which reared up and flayed out wildly with its forelegs, narrowly missing Isloman’s head.

Gavor squawked and hopped a considerable dis-tance away, while Isloman’s mouth fell open at the sight of this suddenly wild woman with her glittering knife and an indisputable will shining in her eyes. The horse jostled him violently.

‘Lady,’ he said, staggering under the impact, ‘what are you doing?’

‘What are you doing?’ Sylvriss retorted. ‘Lay down your sword before one of us kills you.’

Isloman hesitated, bewildered. Sylvriss’s horse moved towards him, forelegs dancing, but Isloman watched it uncomprehendingly. Abruptly, Serian neighed, and Sylvriss’s horse stopped. The Queen shouted to it again, but it did not move.

Sylvriss faltered at this unexpected intervention by the great horse. Who were these people? At her hesita-tion, Isloman seemed to come to himself and, bending down, he laid the sword gently on the ground.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Sylvriss bridled. ‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied. ‘That damned bird startled me, landing so close.’

Gavor put his head on one side but did not speak. Then he walked over to Hawklan and peered at him intently. Sylvriss caught the movement in the corner of her eye and, without taking her gaze from Isloman, swung a foot in Gavor’s direction.

‘Shoo!’ she shouted.

Isloman stretched out a hand and stepped forward. ‘It’s all right… ’ he began, but the Queen levelled her knife at his groin.

‘Really,’ came a fruity voice from behind her. Star-tled she turned. But there was no one there, just the lifeless black figure amp;mdashand that damned bird again, standing by the body and staring at her.

Without thinking, she moved towards it angrily. Gavor spread his wings and flapped away. ‘Really,’ he repeated. ‘Do something, Isloman. These Fyordyn women seem to do nothing but kill people when they get hold of a knife.’

Sylvriss stopped, eyes wide. Then, turning, she found Isloman standing next to her, but with his hands raised in surrender.

‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry I startled you with the sword, but I think it might help Hawklan.’

Sylvriss glanced from Isloman to the motionless figure and then at Gavor.

‘The bird spoke,’ she said, ignoring Isloman’s expla-nation.

Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, that’s Gavor,’ he said, then, ‘Please call your horse off, so that I can pick up the sword.’ Sylvriss looked at him. He looked powerful enough to have wrestled the horse to the ground had need arisen, but his power was lost in his anxiety and concern. She sheathed her knife.

‘Your horse has called mine off already, Orthlundyn,’ she said. Then, sadly, ‘Attend to your friend if you wish, but I fear he’s dead.’

As Isloman recovered the sword and moved to Hawklan’s side, Sylvriss walked slowly to her horse. Patting its cheek, she said. ‘Why did you disobey me, old friend?’ The horse lowered its head, and Serian bent forward and nudged her gently. Turning to him, Sylvriss saw that fear still flickered in his eyes, but it was being well mastered. So many questions. She stroked his neck. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘but thank you, line leader.’

She looked at Isloman, now kneeling by Hawklan and trying to place his hand around the handle of the sword. He kept wincing, as though the sword were burning him.

She patted the horse again and walked back over to Isloman. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, kneeling beside him.

There were tears in Isloman’s eyes, and his hands were shaking. ‘I can’t hold the sword,’ he said. ‘I can’t touch the handle. It’s too… charged… too… ’ His voice faded. Then, thrusting the sword towards her, he said, ‘Will you try? Please.’

Sylvriss looked helplessly down at the plain black scabbard that held the sword, and then back at Islo-man’s pleading gaze. She did not take it. ‘Your friend’s dead, Isloman,’ she said. ‘I could find no pulse.’