Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

‘It’s more than well made,’ said Eldric, examining the faint scratches again. ‘This was made by craftsmen the like of which don’t exist any more, nor have for generations.’ He became excited. ‘I’ll wager they’ve tried to remove that to put in one of Dan-Tor’s stinking globes to illuminate his treachery. But this wall’s turned their best chisels. And this torch has withstood every-thing they’ve hit it with.’ He began walking up and down. ‘They say that the Westerclave was built during the Wars of the First Coming. Some kind of an outpost that changed hands repeatedly as the war swept to and fro.’ He came to a conclusion. ‘This room’s held prisoners who could exert a power that’s beyond us and it was built accordingly.’

Jaldaric could not share his father’s enthusiasm. He sat down again and leaned back against the wall. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen nothing but these walls and that torch for months. Ancient it might be-magic even-but it holds little charm for me. I’ll be glad when I don’t have to see it again.’

Eldric nodded understandingly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But just think what that torch means, Jal.’ He sat down beside his son. ‘Outside that door there’s a passage, a long passage, torchlit like this, and lined with exactly similar doors. Who knows how many cells there are down there? And I had no idea it even existed. This place probably hasn’t been used in centuries, but what happens when someone opens it up? That torch,’ he pointed to it emphatically, ‘that torch-like any good old reliable torch would-bursts into life. After all this time. An unimaginable span of years and darkness. It lit when it was needed. And they couldn’t put it out or destroy it.’

He paused thoughtfully. ‘There might be an ancient evil waking again in the world, Jal, but there’ll be other ancient forces stirring as well. Bringing light into the darkness. Even if Fyorlund falls and Riddin, and then Orthlund. Each step will take its toll and the world will know Sumeral for what He is sooner this time. Eventu-ally it’ll be He who finds Himself surrounded by an iron ring. One that will close on Him and seal Him away forever.’

Jaldaric gently mocked his father’s unexpected rhetoric. ‘Father, you sound like an old storyteller… a Keeper of the Festivals.’ But his brief jauntiness vanished abruptly and he wrapped his arms around himself as if for protection. ‘And if you’re right. You talk about the fall of countries as if it were nothing. Whole populations swept aside for the sake of some greater future.’ There was a question mark in the word greater. ‘What are people? Just so many dust motes?’

Eldric reached out to his son. ‘I don’t know, Jal,’ he said. ‘Maybe we are motes floating through this world at the behest of others, but we have our own wills.’

‘But we’ve no freedom to exercise them in action, Father,’ Jaldaric replied. ‘No freedom. What can we do here?’

Eldric chuckled and, as if in response, the torch turned to the colour of spring sunshine. Eldric looked at it and threw it a salute. ‘Thank you, old craftsman, wherever you are. Your gift continues unalloyed.’ Then, turning to his son, ‘What we can do, Jaldaric, Eldric’s son-as motes-is get in Dan-Tor’s eyes.’

The Mathidrin trooper quailed under Sylvriss’s baleful stare. ‘Brown eyes a man would drown in,’ he had once heard a lustful compatriot wax in a more lyrical moment, but the gaze that held him now took all the moisture from his mouth and throat.

‘Release my bridle,’ she said but, though the words were slow and soft, they held such menace that the hand did as it was bid without any conscious effort on its owner’s part. Two fears met inside him like clashing waves, and from somewhere he found a voice. It was hoarse and nervous, but it would have to do.

‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘It’s the Ffyrst’s orders. You’re not to be allowed out into the City without a full escort. It’s too dangerous.’

It was not in Sylvriss’s nature to confront when she could walk around, nor did she often use the authority which her position allowed and the people bestowed. But she was a Muster woman, and to obstruct the way of a Muster rider was to invoke responses which tran-scended normal social restraints. She swung her riding crop round and placed it accurately under the trooper’s chin. Then, bending forward, her gaze still relentlessly steady, she said, ‘ I am not to be allowed?’ in a soft echo of the man’s words. ‘Even the King would not order me thus. Now stand aside or this horse may kill you before I can stop it.’

The man took a hesitant step to one side. ‘Majesty, please,’ he said piteously. ‘I’ll be punished if I allow you through.’

Exuding fear, and drained of the arrogance and disdain that was the hallmark of the Mathidrin, the man became more human, and Sylvriss relented slightly. ‘Find a senior officer immediately,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you two minutes.’

It did not help, however. The man swallowed. ‘I may not leave my post, Majesty,’ he said.

Some materials, when stressed, yield and move, giving outward signs of their condition. Others hold the stress within themselves, allowing it to build unseen, until one last increment bursts the fabric suddenly and catastrophically. So it was now with Sylvriss.

Fretful at the news of repression her contacts were bringing to her, and fearful for their safety as Dan-Tor swept aside the ancient Law and replaced it with the even more ancient law of superior force; fearful also for the safety of Dilrap, daily playing aide and would-be confidante to Dan-Tor; and above all, fearful for her husband, steadily improving in health away from the pernicious influence of his Chief Physician, and becoming increasingly anxious to take to himself some of the reins of government he had so long relinquished, Sylvriss needed her riding to be able to retain some inner peace and outward semblance of calm and composure.

Thundering through the City’s great parks, and sometimes beyond the City itself, the wind blowing in her face and at one with the powerful animal under her, she could find again the spirit of the Riddinvolk and renew her courage and the sense of purpose that would sustain her when she returned to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Palace.

Now this was threatened and the many fears came together like sharp-pointed chisels to destroy her. Her mind knew that the guard was only doing as he had been bidden and that she was placing him in an intolerable position, but it was a small cry against the roar of her heart and spirit, and while it did not yield its right, it saw its defeat.

The Mathidrin saw it also, so acute had his fears made him, and he stepped back hastily even before the Queen urged her great horse forward and galloped through the gate regardless of him.

As the hoofbeats echoed into the distance, he recov-ered himself and, running over to an alarm bell hanging by the side of the gate, he rang out a clamorous carillon in celebration of the passing of his dilemma. He’d done everything he could, cried the bell, let the officers deal with her.

But Sylvriss and her mount were out of earshot before the first resonating vibrations left the bell. At full gallop she cascaded through the streets of the City heedless of direction and destination. What was important was to ride, to ride, to ride. To set aside the endless complexities and ambiguities of her life, and just be, just exist for a little while. She could not be constrained by guards and escorts any more than could the horses of Riddin be penned; free spirits both, they would either die or kill if pinioned.

How long she rode she could not have said, nor through what streets and by-ways, but gradually her passion ebbed and the mind’s voice became louder. She had been hasty with that guard. There had been a great deal of trouble in the City following the arrest of Eldric and Oremson, and she knew huge contingents of Mathidrin had been brought in from somewhere to contend with it. Her action had not been wise from any point of view except insofar as it eased her own inner pains. However, she could make amends and at least ensure the trooper was not punished. No great hurt need come of it.