Roger Taylor: The fall of Fyorlund

Ireck seemed inclined to demur.

Hawklan silenced him gently. ‘No, Ireck,’ he said. ‘Do nothing other than as I’ve said.’ He glanced up towards Gavor, who floated silently down and landed on his shoulder. ‘We four will go ahead and do what we can by stealth. If we’ve not achieved anything by the time you arrive, then perhaps your arrival will cause a diversion and give us the opportunity. And, if by some chance we’ve been hurt or captured, Gavor will at least tell you what our position is.’

Ireck still seemed inclined to argue, as did one or two others in the group, but their erstwhile healer was exuding an authority that would brook no further debate. Nodding reluctantly, Ireck mounted his horse silently and signalled to the others to follow him.

When Ireck and the villagers had ridden into the distance, Hawklan turned to Loman and Isloman, grim-faced. His forced confidence had fallen away from him.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘I’m pinning my faith in you two old soldiers knowing something, preferably a lot, about stealth. I don’t think Ireck will be able to control the younger men if anything happens to us, and I don’t want those High Guards massacring half the village.’

Continuing their northward journey, Hawklan was surprised at the subtle changes he noted in his two friends. It was as if knowledge long dormant were re-awakening. He reminded himself that the two men had travelled widely and fought bitter battles shoulder to shoulder in the past, and that they could not have survived such experiences without developing traits which necessarily would not be apparent in their normal peaceful daily lives. Both sat easier in their saddles, and the anxiety that had lined and furrowed their craggy faces ever since they had met in the mountains gave way periodically to looks of a grim purposefulness that chilled Hawklan, so alien was it to his understanding of the two men.

Worse, however, was the occasional gleam of antici-pation he caught in their eyes, though he himself had to admit that his concern for Tirilen was at times forgotten in unexpected moments of exhilaration as Serian carried him steadily forward through the sunlit countryside.

The rhythmic pounding of the horses’ hooves, the soft spring breeze blowing in his face, the endless variety of the Orthlund countryside, with its meadows and leas, streams and rivers, forests and arbours, all combined to dispel pain and fretfulness for unmeasured and effortless miles. But to the east were the mountains; white-tipped peaks and heavy shoulders hulking against the blue sky. Their silent, timeless vigil reproached him when unexpectedly he found himself relishing the deeds that were to come.

As the day drew towards evening and the sun dipped beneath a cloud-lined horizon, the three men eased their pace to a steady walk. Gradually, and without debate, both Loman and Isloman slowed down even further, and then eventually stopped and dis-mounted.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Hawklan.

‘Nothing,’ said Isloman. ‘But according to Ireck, we’re not far from the camp now, and they’ll have plenty of sentries looking out for us if your guess is right and it’s you they’re waiting for. We’ll have to leave the road and move very carefully from now on.’

Hawklan nodded. Gavor glided silently out of the darkening sky and landed on his shoulder. Hawklan held out his hand, palm upwards, and Gavor jumped onto it. Speaking softly, as if his voice might carry to the enemy across the still evening, Hawklan said, ‘While there’s still a little light, go and see if you can find their camp and how many of them there are. We’ll stay here and rest until you return.’

Gavor flew off without speaking.

The three men settled themselves down to wait in the shade of a nearby copse, each too preoccupied with his own thoughts to indulge in conversation.

Hawklan felt strange stirrings within him as he lay in the darkness. His stomach felt uneasy and he had difficulty in controlling his breathing, frequently having to stifle a yawn. Then he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and a quietness came over him. Pre-battle nerves, he thought, without wondering where such a thought could have come from.

At last Gavor returned and the three men sat around him while he recounted his tale. Fifteen men altogether, seven on watch, seven doing nothing in particular, and a leader, Jaldaric presumably. And Tirilen.

Loman started. ‘She’s there?’ he asked breathlessly.

Gavor stepped back a pace. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And she’s well,’ he added before Loman could ask.

Loman breathed out almost as if he had been hold-ing his breath since his daughter’s disappearance. His face wrinkled as if he were going to weep. Isloman placed an arm around his shoulders, but Loman recovered his composure almost immediately.

Hawklan nodded. ‘This confirms that they’re not interested in Tirilen. She could have been in Fyorlund days ago. She’s just being used as bait, I’m sure. Are you sure she’s all right, Gavor?’

‘Certain, dear boy. She can’t get away and she’s not happy, but it looks as if she’s being treated more like a special guest than as a prisoner.’

After some further discussion, Gavor took off again into the night, Hawklan spoke softly to Serian, and the three men disappeared into the gloaming like shadowy night predators.

A slow hour later they were at the High Guards’ camp.

Gavor flew down and whispered to Hawklan. ‘His perimeter guards are constantly moving.’

Isloman nodded. ‘They’ll have prearranged check-points. If we attack one, however quietly, the others will know within the minute.’

Hawklan turned to Loman enquiringly. They had been able to get quite close to the clearing where the Fyordyn had camped, but the trees and foliage that had hidden their approach also prevented their seeing all of the camp clearly. Gavor’s information was timely, for without it they would surely have encountered one of the slowly strolling guards.

Loman pursed his lips. ‘Shrewd young man, this Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘Assuming his men are up to scratch, which I imagine they will be, he could destroy a large group of disorganized villagers without even being seen in this terrain, but even so he’s taken the trouble to guard his camp like a fortress.’ He gave a soft bitter chuckle. ‘Someone must have told him something about you, Hawklan.’

Hawklan winced slightly at the implications of Lo-man’ s comment. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And our second task, after rescuing Tirilen, is to find out who that someone is.’

However, the rescuing of Tirilen would be no easy matter. Even with the element of surprise, Hawklan knew that against such odds they could not fight their way in and out again. And if they were able to rescue Tirilen by stealth, there would be the problem of pursuit, bringing the soldiers down on their backs or into direct conflict with Ireck and the villagers. The matter had to be ended now, Hawklan decided. They must strike at the head of their enemy.

The two brothers took little persuading.

‘All the protection is centred on Tirilen. We must seize Jaldaric and then negotiate some kind of a peace with them.’

So close to his daughter, Loman was in a mood for cracking heads, not negotiating, but he agreed reluc-tantly that Hawklan’s reasoning was correct.

They skirted around the camp seeking some weak-ness in Jaldaric’s defences, using the breeze rustling through the swaying branches overhead and the occasional scufflings of night creatures to disguise the slight sound of their movements.

‘Ah,’ sighed Isloman eventually. ‘Shrewd he might be, Loman, but he’s got no shadow lore. Look.’ He pointed out into the clearing.