Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

Abruptly Sylvriss realized that they were riding almost at full gallop. Isloman’s relived terror had wakened Serian’s own. Her Muster instincts set aside the confusion that Isloman’s telling had produced in her and leaning over, she spoke softly to the black horse; gentle words of reward for tasks well done and rest well earned. Gradually, Serian slowed until he was trotting steadily again.

Isloman seemed unaware of the incident and sat motionless in his saddle, staring blankly ahead, apparently with nothing further to say. Sylvriss was content to ride in silence for some time, while she tested the reality of his bizarre tale. Dan-Tor attacked! And by Orthlundyn. Orthlundyn riding a Muster horse. The City raked by some terrible force released seemingly by Dan-Tor. A Dan-Tor transformed into… What?

She had felt the fringes of whatever had happened in the City and had been terrified. There was no doubting that reality. To be near its heart could indeed have overwhelmed even as fine a horse as Serian and such a man as Isloman seemed to be. As for his stricken friend, Hawklan amp;mdasha man whose presence could be felt even though he was at the very edge of death amp;mdashwho was he and what had he borne as carrier of that awesome sword, at the very centre of the horror?

For a moment, she felt as though her mind was going to break free from all restraint and plummet shrieking into an abyss. She had grown used to living in a world of treachery and deceit, a world of political manipulation and intrigue, of power-seeking ambition. It was repellent and oppressive, but it was human. Now what was she fleeing from? A man amp;mdasha thing, as Isloman called him amp;mdashwho could shake and destroy the very roots of a city?

A chilling thought crystallized abruptly. She seized Isloman’s arm. ‘Isloman. My husband. What’s happened to my husband?’

Isloman turned and looked at her, his eyes focussing slowly as Sylvriss repeated the question.

‘I don’t know,’ he said gently. ‘I don’t know your husband, Muster lady. I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name, for all I’m in your debt.’

Sylvriss closed her eyes irritably at the tiny worm of vanity that intruded into her concern. Of course, this man was an outlander, how could he be expected to recognize her?

‘I’m sorry Isloman,’ she said. ‘I’m Sylvriss, daughter of Urthryn, Ffyrst of Riddin, and Queen to King Rgoric.’

Isloman stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Your voice marks you out as Riddinvolk and your riding and your horse would mark you out as Muster trained even if you weren’t wearing their field uniform. But why would Rgoric’s Queen be fleeing the City? he asked.

Sylvriss’s eyes blazed. ‘How do Orthlundyn come to be riding a Muster horse?’ she shouted, suddenly angry. ‘And take pride that they’ve tried to kill a Fyordyn Lord?’ But before Isloman could speak, her tone changed. ‘For pity’s sake Isloman. What of Rgoric? He must have been with Dan-Tor when you arrived.’

‘I don’t know,’ Isloman replied. ‘The only other people with Dan-Tor were Mathidrin amp;mdashit’s difficult, but I don’t remember anyone else.’ He searched for more comforting words. ‘The palace seemed undamaged when we looked back, didn’t it? Dan-Tor’s harm flowed out away from it. Your husband will probably be all right.’

Sylvriss recalled the terrible chill that had possessed her soon after she had brought Serian to a halt. She shuddered. No, she thought, she must not give way to doubts. Isloman’s words were all he could possibly offer. And he was probably right. Perhaps even now Rgoric was on this same road with Eldric and Jaldaric at his side. She could serve him best by doing his bidding; by riding to Eldric’s mountain stronghold and raising his High Guards.

‘Where are you going, Isloman?’ she asked.

‘The horse chose the road,’ he replied. ‘As it’s east-ward I’ll go to Lord Eldric’s stronghold. There’s nowhere else in this land I can go. And there are people there who need to know what’s happened.’

‘Good,’ Sylvriss said simply. ‘That’s where I go.’ High above, Gavor rode the boisterous air with a relentless purpose, his eyes fixed on the tiny figures below and their precious burden.

Dilrap made no pretence at dignity as the two Mathidrin manhandled him along the palace corridors back towards the Throne Room. In fact, he felt oddly grateful to the two men for supporting him on this inevitable journey, as his own legs seemed incapable of the task. Strangely however, though the strong hands that gripped him and propelled him along were none too gentle, he sensed little malice in them. Their contact was human and felt comforting for all its harshness.

Glancing at his two escorts he saw that both were struggling to maintain the blank stony features typical of their kind when on palace duty. Catching the intermittent eye signals that were passing between them, he realized that they too were afraid and that, in their fear, there were even elements of compassion and regret for what they were now doing. What was to happen to him could happen to them also.

Their reservations however, were not sufficient to prevent them doing what they were doing and, all too soon, Dilrap found himself before the open doors of the Throne Room. Around him, the Palace echoed with the sounds of people running and shouting, though as he looked to the left and then the right, the corridor he was standing in was deserted except for a few restless Mathidrin.

A push propelled him forward uncertainly into the Throne Room. He gasped. Not at what he saw, for he seemed to be having difficulty in focussing, but at the aura that filled the hall. It was like coming out of the hot summer sun into an inner room expecting to find a shaded coolness but finding instead that a large fire had been left burning. Here however, was not an unexpected and unpleasant heat, but a crawling malevolence that seemed to pass right through him. He felt his legs beginning to shake uncontrollably.

‘Ah, Honoured Secretary.’

The voice was familiar, though it seemed distant and coldly inhuman, and as it spoke, the air around him seemed to vibrate and press in upon him with each syllable.

‘Come forward.’

Dilrap did not move; for a moment he had forgotten how to walk. The air around him vibrated again, appallingly impatient, but before any voice could speak, Dilrap’s legs found their wits and he stepped forward uncertainly.

The scene before him was little changed from what it had been when he had finally fled from his vantage-point at the latticed panel. The King’s body had been removed, but the slaughtered Mathidrin were only just being dragged away by their fellow assassins, uncere-moniously trailing blood and viscera across the ancient floor.

A sweet and unmistakable smell rose to Dilrap’s nostrils and he felt the room swirling around him as his stomach heaved with revulsion. Some residue of regard for the erstwhile dignity of the hall managed to prevent him from vomiting but a great roaring rose up and filled his head. He did not remember falling, but suddenly he was surprised to find himself in the grip of powerful hands again, lifting him up from his knees.

With an incongruous gentleness they held him up-right until he was sufficiently recovered to stand alone. He needed to breathe deeply, but that smell.

‘Come forward, Honoured Secretary,’ came the voice again, pressing in on him. Still it was cold and distant, but there was a note of scorn in it which lessened its chilling inhumanity, and deep inside Dilrap the spirit of his long silent defiance stirred again tentatively.

Blinking to clear his vision, Dilrap brought into focus the image of his lifelong tormentor. Dan-Tor was sitting in the chair that had been used to carry him away from his fateful confrontation with Hawklan. He had sat in it when he ordered the murder of the King and had been trapped in it by the dying monarch to hear his enigmatic last words. He was both changed and unchanged. His posture radiated an all too human pain, and from time to time his teeth grimaced white in his creased brown face as some spasm passed through him. Yet though his body and pain were human, he was beyond doubt the source of the malevolence that was filling the Throne Room.