Roger Taylor: The fall of Fyorlund

Hawklan followed his gaze, but could see nothing. Loman stared intently. Although a smith, he was, like all the Orthlundyn, no mean carver. He glanced up at the moon and then into the clearing again.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘You’re right. There’ll be a dark path along that edge of the clearing… ’ He looked at the moon again. ‘In about ten minutes I’d think.’

‘And the rest of the clearing will be brightly lit,’ said Isloman. ‘Which will make it difficult for the guards to see into the shadow.’

‘I can’t see what you mean,’ said Hawklan.

‘Trust me,’ said Isloman. ‘We’ll be able to go straight to the back of Jaldaric’s tent in a few minutes. You watch.’ He hesitated.

‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.

‘The way they’re moving, we might have a guard to deal with,’ replied Isloman. ‘It’ll slow us up and might raise the alarm.’ Hawklan thought for a moment and then spoke quickly to Gavor who flew noiselessly up into the night. Minutes later there was a startled cry from the far side of the clearing as the raven descended on the head of an unsuspecting guard, ruffled his hair a little and then flew off with a great flapping of his wings. Three guards emerged silently from the shade and ran in the direction of the cry. There were more cries as Gavor repeated his trick. Then came laughter as the guards decided that it must have been a bat or an errant owl. While the laughter and noise continued, the moonlight in the clearing grew brighter and, as Isloman had predicted, one edge of the clearing disappeared into inky darkness.

‘Now,’ he hissed, and the three men ran low, swift and silent to the rear of Jaldaric’s tent. The shadow here was less deep and they had only a little time to act before they would be seen by the guards. Hawklan raised his finger needlessly to his lips and placed his ear against the tent wall. Someone was laughing and describing what had just happened.

Hawklan drew his sword quietly and, signalling his intention to Loman and Isloman, cut a vertical slash in the tent wall with a single silent stroke. The three men burst into the tent simultaneously, Loman moving to the right, Isloman to the left and Hawklan commanding the centre.

The surprise was total. Hawklan found himself un-opposed and looking across a simple trestle table at Tirilen and a fair-haired young man with a flat, round, innocent-looking face, whom he presumed was Jaldaric.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Isloman’s great hand rise and fall twice rapidly, each movement being followed by a thud, indicating that one of Jaldaric’s guests had been excused after-dinner conversation.

To his right he sensed the stocky, more enraged figure of Loman restraining an urge to crush together the skulls of two men he had seized by the neck. Instinctively, the two men offered no resistance to his iron-bending grip.

Hawklan was aware of these actions in an instant, but he also saw Jaldaric knock over his chair and seize Tirilen’s wrist as he rose, his face showing fear and surprise, then, almost immediately, anger at his negligence.

It was Jaldaric’s brief flash of self-reproach, and the look of concern for the injured men, mingled with the alarm and relief in Tirilen’s face, that made Hawklan pause.

It was a pause sufficient for Jaldaric to draw a knife and twist Tirilen’s wrist expertly so that she could not move. He offered the knife to her throat and looked at the trio in front of him: two hulking villagers who had dealt with four of his men in no more time than it took him to stand up; and this terrifying man with penetrat-ing green eyes and grim face, gaunt in the torchlight. He felt his knees quaking and hoped desperately that it did not show in his face, or sound in his voice.

‘Hawklan, I presume,’ he said. ‘I congratulate you on your surprise, but I have the advantage, I think, and you can’t hope to master my whole patrol. Lay down your arms and surrender peacefully and all this can be forgotten. We want only you. These people can return to the village.’

Hawklan answered quietly. ‘And you must be Jalda-ric. I’d heard the High Guards of Fyorlund were honourable men, not brigands. Not betrayers of hospitality. Kidnappers of womenfolk. What value shall I put on your word, High Guard?’

Jaldaric’s jaw tightened angrily. ‘Enough,’ he said harshly. ‘We are High Guards, and we must obey our Lord. I regret what I’ve had to do but you’re an enemy of Fyorlund and I’ve been ordered to seize you in this way to avoid conflict with the local villagers and the consequent loss of life. Believe me, it’s been no pleasure for me to resort to this kind of conduct. The Lady Tirilen will confirm that she’s had nothing but courtesy and honourable treatment from us while we’ve held her captive.’

Hawklan’s green eyes searched deeply into the young man and found he was probably telling the truth. Tirilen showed no signs of ill-usage, and her eyes showed alarm rather than real fear, even though Jaldaric’s knife was at her throat.

Hawklan spoke quietly. ‘Jaldaric. I’m no man’s en-emy, let alone a country’s. You’ve been deceived. A person who’d give you such orders would be unlikely to stop at lying, would he?’

A doubt flickered across Jaldaric’s face, but he tight-ened his grip on Tirilen’s wrist and rested his knife against her throat. ‘Release my men and surrender yourself. I’m not here to debate, I’m here to ensure you’re taken to Fyorlund to account for your treachery. Surrender now or this girl’s blood will be on your heads.’

Hawklan’s manner changed imperceptibly, but the tent seemed to fill with a terrible aura of menace. ‘No, Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘I doubt that your loyalty to whatever oath it is you’ve sworn will enable you to do that. But, even so, you must realize that if you injure Tirilen, your men will die on the instant as will those outside, and nothing could protect you from Loman’s wrath.’

Jaldaric glanced at the two unconscious figures sprawled at the feet of Isloman, and at the two with their heads held effortlessly against the table by Loman. He scarcely heard Hawklan’s words, or noticed the look on Loman’s face, but the tone of Hawklan’s voice and his unwavering green eyes chilled him to his heart. This time he could not keep the fear out of his voice.

‘So be it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We’re High Guards. If we’ve to die then that’s… unfortunate. The manner of our dying is rarely ours to choose. Our orders must be obeyed. We’ve some honour left.’

Hawklan realized, to his horror, that he had driven the young man too far. Now, impulsively, Jaldaric had steeled himself to face death, and his actions would be unpredictable. Hawklan did not allow the uncertainty into his face but an eerie silence descended on the group.

Abruptly an unearthly shriek filled the tent and a black thrashing shape burst through the gash in the tent wall and made straight for Jaldaric’s face. Involuntarily he raised his knife hand to protect himself from this screaming apparition.

Isloman took one step forward, seized Jaldaric’s wrist and wrested the knife from his grip as if it had been from a child. Then he immobilized him in a great bear hug. Jaldaric was almost the same height as Isloman, but less heavy and far less powerful. He made a token effort to drive the back of his head into Isloman’s face, only to find he was suddenly unable to breathe in the huge man’s embrace.

Loman casually threw his two captives to the floor, and moved quickly to Tirilen, who had also been deposited on the floor when Jaldaric was seized by Isloman.

Hawklan let out a long breath and put his sword back in its scabbard. Other High Guards appeared in the doorway of the tent, attracted by the noise. Two rushed forward but Hawklan’s hands went out like striking snakes and the two men received blows which rendered them so instantly unconscious that they fell to the floor like dropped meal sacks.