Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

He could not have said how long he stared at it, seeing it clearly, before he finally identified it. ‘Torch,’ he said, and his voice sounded like a child’s. He screwed his face up irritably. A figure came between him and the light, and he waved it aside crossly. He needed to explain. ‘Torch,’ he repeated. ‘Old-in a book when I was a child. A book of old legends-with great big beautiful pictures. Full of colours.’

He felt his awareness returning, and the pain in his head diffused itself throughout his whole body in a general discomfort. The figure moved again, and was now by his side. He took its arm, and continued to explain. ‘It’s incredible,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen one like it. It’s strange how childhood memories impress themselves so deeply, isn’t it? It was in a picture of a Prince in a dungeon-during the Wars of the First Coming.’

A chill struck him and dispelled the childlike aura protecting him. He struggled to sit up. The figure put an arm around his shoulders and helped him. ‘Gently, Father,’ it said. ‘Gently. I don’t think you’ve any bones broken, but you were badly knocked about when they threw you in here, and you cracked your head on the floor.’

The words disorientated Eldric for a moment and for a while he mouthed them to himself. Then he turned and looked at the figure for confirmation.

Fair hair matted, round flat face with its innocence scarred by lines of care and neglect, and fringed with an unfamiliar beard.

‘Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘Jaldaric. Is it really you, or am I dreaming again?’ He closed his eyes as if he expected to find the mirage gone when he opened them again.

‘Yes, Father,’ replied his son. ‘It’s me, and you’re not dreaming. I wish you were. Rest a moment until you’re fully awake.’ Unexpectedly, Eldric’s face crumpled and he dropped his head into his hands to hide his tears. Jaldaric looked at him awkwardly, uncertain what to do.

Then, wiping his eyes with his hands, Eldric took his son in an embrace and held him still and close like a small child. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said after a while. ‘When Hawklan told me about the Mandrocs I hardly dared to think about it, it was so horrible. I just… pushed the thoughts away. It was all I could do. I’m sorry.’

Jaldaric did not reply but returned his father’s em-brace and for a long time the two sat leaning against the cold dungeon wall taking solace from each other until the tide of euphoria ebbed a little and left them alone and lost on a strange shore.

Eldric found his memories of recent events return-ing sporadically, and he winced as a hesitant exploration of his skull discovered a large lump. He recalled being dragged with Lord Oremson from the house and through the City. He remembered the frightened faces of his followers, and did he remember bodies lying in Oremson’s gardens, in the moon shadow?

Jaldaric spoke. ‘What’s happening, Father?’ he asked. ‘I remember being in Orthlund. And arguing with some… thug. And a patrol of Mandrocs… and a journey.’ He shuddered. ‘Then all of a sudden I’m here. The Lord Dan-Tor’s asking me questions and telling me not to worry.’ He shrugged bitterly. ‘Now I don’t know whether these are memories or whether I’ve gone mad. I feel as if I’ve been here all my life. Are you here, Father, or have I truly gone mad?’

Eldric held his son tighter. ‘No, son, you’re not mad, though the world seems to be. If you’ve a memory of two Orthlundyn called Hawklan and Isloman, then you’re sane enough and so am I.’

Jaldaric started up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Lord Dan-Tor asked me about him. Green-eyed and… ’ He stopped. ‘My friends. What happened to my friends?’

Eldric looked down and then back up at his son. He saw the knowledge in his son’s face before he spoke, and his voice seemed to echo through the years, back to the many times he had spoken such words to such faces in the Morlider War. They were always inadequate, but there were no others. His stomach turned over. ‘I’m sorry, Jal, they’re all dead. Hawklan said they took quite a toll of the Mandrocs, but… ’

Jaldaric clenched his teeth and standing up, turned away. But he did not weep. So long tormented by his isolation, the certainty gave him as much comfort as it did grief. When he turned round, his face was almost petulant. ‘What’s happening, Father?’ he asked again. ‘Why am I here? What crime have I committed? Where’s the Law? And where were you?’ His tone became reproachful. ‘Every time there was a footstep outside, I’d think, here he is, come to set me free and tell me it’s all been some terrible mistake. But you didn’t come. Day after day you didn’t come.’

Eldric struggled to his feet and faced his son. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know at first, and when I did know, I couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry.’

The two looked at one another in silence for some time, then Eldric laid his hand on his son’s arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘That bunk looks none too sweet, but it’ll be more comfortable than the floor. Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’

Jaldaric listened to his father intently and in silence. ‘I can’t believe this, Father,’ he said when at last Eldric had finished. ‘All these dreadful things.’

Eldric nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘My mind’s done some scurrying over the past weeks, I can tell you. Waiting to wake up. But it’s all true, believe me. It’s all brutally true. It’s as if some poison has leached into the people and corroded their spirits so that they just crumble helpless before Dan-Tor’s will.’

There was a long silence.

‘And you think this is the… Second Coming?’ Jal-daric said awkwardly. ‘That… Sumeral… has risen in Narsindal and that this is His first step out into the world?’

Eldric held his son’s gaze, aware of his fearful uncer-tainty. ‘Yes,’ he said unequivocally. ‘Beyond all doubt now. But our immediate problem is Dan-Tor. He’s foe enough for us, and whether he’s master or servant is irrelevant. Suffice it that he has all the advantages.’ Looking at the doubt still written on Jaldaric’s face, he smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind you thinking your old father’s gone peculiar, I’m sure I would have in similar circumstances, but you’ll be able to form your own conclusion when we’re out of here.’

Despite himself Jaldaric smiled in response. Then he rubbed his face. ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘I haven’t smiled in months. It’s made my face ache.’

Eldric put his arm around his son’s shoulder. ‘You’ve passed your lowest point, son,’ he said. ‘From now on we go upwards and out of here. Dan-Tor’s probably put us together because he thinks he has nothing to fear from us. Judging from the number of Mathidrin I saw when I was brought here I’d say he’s taken the City by force. But he can’t take the whole country by force, and I doubt he can hold even the City for long.’

Jaldaric’s face clouded as he moved away from El-dric. ‘I’m glad of your optimism, Father,’ he said. ‘But how can we get away from here? They open that door twice a day-at least I think it’s twice a day-I haven’t seen the sky since Orthlund. There’s always two of them, and I don’t even know where we are.’

Eldric, however, refused to be downed. He had found his son again. The son he had believed cruelly dead at the hands of Mandrocs. He had good and powerful friends outside, and surely the people weren’t all beyond redemption?

‘We’re in the Westerclave,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I watched where I was going this time, for all I was groggy.’ Abruptly he clenched his fists. ‘We’ve been no more than a flight of stairs apart all this time.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Just out there are the stairs that I shouted down when we tricked our way out of our cell.’ His face creased in distress. ‘If only I’d known. The Goraidin could’ve… ’ His voice tailed off. ‘Still. That’s talk through the rafters now. No recalling it.’ He looked thoughtfully round the cell, and his eyes lit on the torch that he had seen when he recovered consciousness. He stood up and walked over to examine it. Running his fingers around its ornate, fluted body, he said, ‘This is old. Very old. I’ve never seen the like except in an old storybook.’ Then his hand moved to the wall by it. ‘And look at these.’ He gestured to Jaldaric and pointed out some faint scratches in the wall by the torch. Taking hold of the torch he shook it violently. It did not move. ‘You try,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’re stronger than I am.’ Jaldaric frowned but took hold of the torch and strained at it until his pale face became red. Still it did not move. ‘It’s well made,’ he said offhandedly.