Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

Then, as her spirit quieted, she became aware of the sound of the horse’s hooves on the stone street as, reading her mood, it slowed down to a gentle canter. They echoed.

She reined to a halt and looked around. A deep silence pervaded everywhere and rang almost deafen-ingly in her ears. Only the familiar sound of creaking harness and the easy breathing of her horse told her she had not become suddenly deaf. The street was deserted. And from the silence it seemed as if the whole City was deserted.

She looked up at the surrounding buildings and identified where she was. Not one of the busier parts of the City but, even so, it was late morning and a great many people should have been about. She walked the horse forward, curiosity pushing all other concerns from her mind. For several minutes she moved quietly from street to street. All deserted. Unease began to temper her curiosity.

Glancing up, she saw a curtain flicker. She stared at it pensively for some time, then dismounted and went over to the small flight of stone steps which led up to the door of the house. The strangeness of her behaviour made her feel slightly disorientated but, following her impulse, she walked up the steps and took hold of the large heavy door knocker.

She found its cold contact reassuring and she brought her face close to it as if to hide from the rest of the world. The striker was a traditional iron ring with a radiant star at its centre, while the striking plate was a simple boss known colloquially as Sumeral’s pate. She brought the striker down purposefully.

The sound ruptured the silence and echoed up and down the street before it escaped out over the rooftops. It seemed to breed a myriad tiny whispers all pointing accusingly at her. It also brought her a little more to herself. She struck again and the answering whispers became terrified.

But no answer came from within. Her jaw stiffened and she beat a powerful tattoo on the door that seemed to raise dust whirls in the street. As the hissing echoes faded, she became aware of a presence behind the door.

‘Majesty,’ came a faint voice. ‘Majesty. What do you want?’ The voice was fearful, and the request peremp-tory.

Its tone dispelled her brief anger. ‘Open the door,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s happening. Where is everyone? Why are the streets empty?’

‘Majesty, how can you not know?’ came the reply. ‘I beg of you, go away’.

Again anger fluttered inside Sylvriss, but she con-tained it. She knew that no one would speak to her thus except under some dire provocation. ‘Are you going to leave your Queen standing at your threshold like some pedlar?’ she said gently.

There was a long silence, then some scuffling and whispering from behind the door. Her horse whinnied softly, but she ignored it.

Then a woman’s voice. ‘Majesty, please, I beg you, leave now, for all our sakes.’

Sylvriss began to protest, but the words died on her lips, such was the fear in the whispered voice. Baffled she turned and walked back to her horse.

‘You there, stop!’

A raucous command shattered her reverie and brought her harshly back to the street. She turned to see a Mathidrin foot patrol approaching. Patting her horse’s neck she whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t listen to you properly.’

Scanning the patrol she saw one or two familiar faces, but the Sirshiant at its head was unfamiliar. He was tall and well built, and carried himself with an attitude that set Sylvriss’s teeth on edge.

Leaving the patrol he strode towards her purpose-fully. Sylvriss drew herself up and met his gaze coldly, but his stride did not falter and knots of fear began to tangle in her stomach.

‘You’re aware of the punishment for being on the streets, wench,’ he said coldly, starting to draw his sword. There was a visible tremor in the ranks of the patrol behind him, and a disbelieving hiss of voices filled the air from no apparent source.

The Sirshiant faltered and then stopped. ‘Who was that?’ he said quietly and ominously. A trooper ran forward and spoke to him softly. Slowly he released his sword, tightening and untightening his grip on the hilt angrily. Then he slammed it back into its sheath and there was an undisguised snicker from someone in the patrol. His face became livid, but he turned again to the Queen.

‘Majesty,’ he said, as if the words were choking him. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know who you were. We’ve very strict orders about how to deal with people disobeying the Ffyrst’s edicts.’

Sylvriss could see a fury bubbling within the man, but it seemed to be disproportionate to the humiliation he had just brought on himself. She felt her horse tremble slightly, instinctively preparing itself for battle, and realized suddenly that the man was demented and barely in control. Then she noticed that his hands were bloodstained.

Abruptly the man’s anger meshed with and unleashed her own, and swinging up into her saddle she glared down at him. ‘Sirshiant,’ she said, ‘you need lessons in discretion I think. Have your Captain and his Commander report to me when you return to barracks.’

The man’s control slipped a little further, but he managed a restrained salute. Sylvriss swung the horse round, making him jump clear, then urged it forward at a slow walk.

She had gone barely ten paces when she heard, ‘Break that door down and execute the occupants for violation of the Edict.’ She spun round in disbelief. Several of the patrol were running towards the door she had been knocking on, and the Sirshiant was drawing his sword again. It, too, was bloodstained.

‘No,’ she cried, and turning her horse she drove it at the advancing men. Those who knew her retreated immediately while the remainder hesitated only to be scattered as she swung the horse round and placed it firmly across the foot of the small stairway.

The Sirshiant strode forward and took hold of the horse’s bridle in a white-knuckled grip. The horse tore it free and sent the man staggering. He raised his sword furiously.

‘Sirshiant,’ thundered Sylvriss. ‘Are you insane? Bad enough you seize the bridle of a horse like this, but raising your sword to me . You’re under arrest! Hand me that sword and return immediately to your barracks.’

The man hesitated, then turned and walked away from her for a little way. When he stopped his shoulders were hunched as if he were pushing against a great weight.

‘Sirshiant,’ said the Queen, ‘lay down your sword. That’s an order.’ But as he turned, she saw the last vestige of control slip away from him and knew that her words would be no more effective than falling autumn leaves in restraining him.

Some of the patrol saw it too and, breaking ranks, dashed forward. He struck the first to reach him with a single back-handed blow that laid him out along the street, blood streaming down his face, then turning towards the others he held out his left hand, inviting them forward, while his right hand brandished the sword menacingly. The patrol spread out in a wide, uncertain circle.

When he turned again, the Sirshiant’s intent was hideously clear. Battle-fever. Bloodlust. The words burst into Sylvriss’s mind. A lesser person would have faltered, disbelieving such a thing possible in this quiet City street. But, Muster-trained, Sylvriss saw it for what it was. Somehow, perhaps intentionally, she had released this demon. Now she must face it, with its dreadful hamstringing sword. There was no retreat. Her stomach was hard and hollow with a dreadful fear, but her only ally was her horse, and to allow fear to dominate would be to infect the animal and betray it. She leaned forward and whispered words of release to it; killing words. It was ready. Its eyes shone whitely and it pranced a little as with its rider it changed its fear to anger.