Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

‘They’ll provide useful information,’ Yatsu had said, apparently satisfied after Olvric had reported, but Hawklan had caught the subtle, almost unconscious signs that had flickered between some of the Goraidin.

‘You mistrust Olvric,’ Hawklan said into the cool evening. Yatsu did not seem surprised at this remark, but just nodded slightly.

‘Olvric knows his trade better than average,’ he said non-committally.

‘But?’ said Hawklan.

Yatsu breathed out a long breath. ‘It’s complicated, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘I’d trust Olvric’s loyalty without question. I’d trust him with my life without a moment’s qualm… ’

‘But?’ Hawklan repeated.

There was a long silence.

‘Our training was harsh-brutal, even. It was in-tended to make us self reliant under almost any conditions, and to weld us into a single fighting unit-bound by loyalty-and by common suffering.’ Yatsu smiled ironically, though the smile faded almost immediately. ‘But what really binds us, binds us beyond any release, isn’t our training-even though that runs deep. What binds us is a shared horror of the things we saw… ’ His voice faltered. ‘And the things we did-had to do,’ he added softly in reluctant self-justification. ‘We’re a unit now because only we understand one another. Only we know what it’s like to hunt without mercy, and the terror of being hunted the same way. Know what it’s like to choose between killing and abandoning your own.’

Hawklan watched the man intensely, remembering vividly his conversation with Isloman as they had ridden north through Orthlund with Jaldaric.

‘But Olvric and some of the others relished the life too much,’ Yatsu continued. ‘When we came back from Riddin, it took most of us months to adjust to peacetime living. For some it took years. Some wandered off into the mountains to find themselves… or just disap-peared. Some killed themselves. But Olvric… he just carried on waiting. Peacetime was just a long wait, a long interval, until the next time. Somehow, he only lived when he was fighting. Stalking a prey-killing it. Did you see those Mathidrin when they came in?’

Hawklan nodded.

‘Terrified,’ Yatsu continued. ‘Not nervous or appre-hensive-terrified. That’s what Olvric and his kind do to people-enemies. And he didn’t have to kill three of them.’

‘Two,’ corrected Hawklan.

Yatsu shook his head. ‘Come now, Hawklan. I don’t need to be a healer to know that that head injury’s fatal. It’s three dead, without a doubt.’

‘What else could he have done?’ asked Hawklan. ‘He was heavily outnumbered.’

‘He knows that wounded men present a greater problem than dead ones,’ said Yatsu. ‘He had the initiative. They wouldn’t have been expecting an ambush. He’s a first-rate slinger. He could have immobilized almost all of them and scattered their horses. The killings were superfluous.’

‘But you’ll use the terror that Olvric’s induced to obtain more information than you would otherwise, won’t you?’ Hawklan said searchingly.

Yatsu’s eyes glinted and he grimaced. ‘Yes,’ he said bitterly. ‘I told you I wanted none of it. I’m too old, seen too much.’ He took Hawklan’s arm. ‘That spirit, that worm that wriggles inside Olvric, wriggles in us all. It’s in me, I know. I want it far away-away in the shadows-away from the treacherous old skills for killing and betraying that it feeds on.’

Yatsu’s voice was calm and steady. It held no emo-tional tremor, and its very control chilled Hawklan. The truth is to be faced, however terrible, he thought again, and here was a man facing it at its worst.

‘I’ve no answer for you, Yatsu,’ he said eventually. ‘You see the truth of what you say, and it’s immutable. But just to see it is to be armoured against many things. Every step we take is a step into darkness, you know that, even for Dan-Tor. He knows the future no more than any of us. Travel with a good heart, Yatsu, don’t cloud the present with the unknowable future, and don’t be frightened of this worm inside you. Your conscience and your judgement will keep it in hand, have no fear.’

Yatsu did not reply.

Hawklan spoke again. ‘We may be pawns in some great game played by powers beyond us. But if we can’t feel the strings that control us, then we’re free. We must use what faculties we have to the full and celebrate the gift of life as best we can. To do otherwise is to do the enemy’s work for him.’

‘I know that,’ said Yatsu quietly. ‘I’m not a starry-eyed cadet.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I was just giving my thoughts to the evening, to get rid of them. I’ll do what I have to do. Like you, I’m a right piece in the right place, and my real avenues of movement are heavily circumscribed.’

In spite of himself and his protestations to the Lords, Hawklan said, ‘Do you need any help?’

Yatsu gazed up into the moonlight. ‘Of course I do, Hawklan. But I’ll manage without it. And you belong elsewhere-I know that.’ He smiled. ‘You carry more weight on the playing board than I do, you’re nearer the player. Dan-Tor’s your quarry.’

Then, abruptly, his face became angry and gripping Hawklan’s arm powerfully he spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Bring him down, Hawklan. Destroy him as soon as you can-and whatever’s behind him. You’re the healer-cut out the root of the disease. We’ll attend to the body’s defences-it’s not that enfeebled yet.’

Then he stood up and, without any word of parting, moved off silently into the darkness.

Hawklan looked up at the moon and wrapped his arms about himself. He remembered the sinister chair at the Gretmearc; the strange destruction of the pavilion by Andawyr; the bird that sprang hideously to life; and Andawyr’s mysterious tent that disappeared into an eerie distance. Then Gulda, so knowledgeable and yet so enigmatic; the Mandrocs chanting and charging in close order; and the Viladrien dominating the singing sky over the Riddin. Powers and mysteries far beyond his understanding.

Nearer the player, he thought ruefully. No idea who I am, pushed and pulled by forces I know nothing of, a healer inside the body of a warrior that attracts the service and loyalty of others as if of right.

A great wave of fear broke over him, and he sat in the shade of the alcove for a long time.

So, like a sad echo of their departure from Anderras Darion, Hawklan and Isloman left the Lord Eldric’s mountain stronghold, accompanied by Lorac and Tel-Odrel. There were few words spoken as they left, although everyone in the castle braved a squalling rainstorm to see them leave.

Some way down the road, Hawklan turned and looked back at the castle. It was almost totally hidden by the blowing rain and for a moment he could not distinguish it from the crags behind. Some of the watching people, cloaked and hooded against the weather, huddled round its base, while others on the walls broke the sharp lines of its crenellations. It looked like an old cliff face with boulders fringing its feet.

Hawklan raised his arm as a last salute, and a few voices floated down to him. His action opened his cloak and an indignant Gavor peered out. ‘Steady on, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It’s raining in here.’

Hawklan gave him a narrow look, then pulled his cloak about himself again. Slowly the four figures merged into the dull grey rain and disappeared from view.

Light filtered through to Eldric’s brain slowly and vaguely, and his mind snatched at it fitfully as it rambled past on its way from nightmare to nightmare. Nightmares of prisons and roof-tops and a smoke-shrouded City filled with shapeless horrors from some distant time; of an eternity in a saddle and an endless argument the threads of which slipped ever away from him each time he reached his clinching point. Occasion-ally a sound joined the light, and light and sound and pain rose and fell together in an unholy harmony. With infinite reluctance, the light slowly formed itself into a single image which his mind, with equal reluctance, strove to identify. It was a torch. An old torch. Very old, said something in the background.