Roger Taylor: The fall of Fyorlund

Hawklan still had no clear idea how to reach Dan-Tor other than by walking directly to the Palace and asking for him. He looked discreetly at Isloman. That he should voluntarily walk into the hands of the man who had tried twice to capture him was one matter; taking with him his faithful friend was another entirely. But even as he considered this he heard in his mind Isloman’s voice. ‘I’ve questions of my own for this man.’ Then came the memory of Aynthinn laughing gently and telling him that no Orthlundyn would follow anyone blindly. The memory was reassuring. At least this time he knew he was walking into danger. This time he would be lulled by no strange power, nor bound by fear for a hostaged innocent. This time he would be armed in every way, and with someone to guard his back. He might yet be taken, but not easily.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and angry voices. Looking round, he saw a group of Mathidrin smashing down the door of a nearby house. Two of them pushed past the remains of the broken door and reappeared within seconds dragging an old man, blood streaming down his face. Instinctively, Hawklan moved towards the group, shaking off Isloman’s hesitant, restraining hand. He found, however, that he was just part of a larger movement, as people rushed out of neighbouring houses and passers-by converged on the scene.

The old man was struggling violently and angry shouts began to rise from the crowd as the Mathidrin started to beat him. It looked for a moment as though the crowd would turn on the men but Hawklan sensed that their anger was counter-balanced by an equal fear. Eventually, to resolve the situation, one of the Mathidrin raised a baton to strike the old man.

Hawklan could not restrain himself. ‘No!’ he cried, his voice commanding and clear, even over the noise of the crowd. The trooper stopped, his baton still raised, and Hawklan found himself looking at the man down an aisle of watching faces, as the crowd opened before him spontaneously. The crowd’s anger seemed to possess him.

‘Leave him alone,’ he said and, striding forward, he snatched the hovering baton from the trooper, now open-mouthed at the sight of this approaching green-eyed apparition. Even as he strode towards the man, Hawklan felt the will of the waiting crowd changing, urging him on, and as he snatched the baton, a great roar, angry and defiant, filled the small square.

The globes in the Throne Room had been extinguished, but the room was alive with sunlight bursting in through the single large window. The old torches had been re-struck and complemented the sunlight by illuminating the arched corridors and the upper balcony so that they seemed to be open and spacious, instead of lowering and forbidding as though they harboured night predators in their shadows. Under the caress of this lighting, the stone throne shone and glittered as it had not been seen for decades.

Rgoric looked down at his hand resting on the arm of the throne. There was no movement in the torches, only the occasional dimming of the natural light as a cloud obscured the sun, but the polished stone seemed to dance patterns of light around his hand, like revellers in a Festival Round Dance.

The effect of Sylvriss’s tale had been like someone shaking him brutally out of a long and fitful sleep tormented by frightening and elusive images. He had lurched away from it, but Sylvriss had held him with her unremitting telling as she would a headstrong mount. Inexorably, fragmented pieces of memory tumbled into place to form a grim mosaic of truth. A mosaic bound hard in the matrix of his wife’s long and faithful love.

Perhaps, he realized, he had been felled by an oppo-nent whose skill and cunning were beyond any man’s ability to fathom. But that was of no concern. The weakness still pervading his body tore at him to return to his oblivion, but Sylvriss’s love and courage had reached through to the long-dormant King she had married, and he saw only that, as his wife had done, he must pick up the battle flag he had dropped and hold it high again at whatever cost and against whatever foe.

His reverie was disturbed by the opening of the hall’s great double doors, to reveal the lank frame of his Chief Physician and adviser.

Dan-Tor started as he entered the Throne Room and a tremor passed through him such as he had not known since he was awakened from the darkness. The work of the craftsmen of the Great Alliance pervaded the hall like a cleansing flood, opening its dark crevices into airy openness, and decking the stern figure on the throne with a powerful radiance.

For an instant, the fear gripped him that this light might penetrate even into his own black soul and lay him open to the sight of the man he had worked so diligently to destroy.

That horse witch! he blazed inwardly, sensing in-stantly whose hand lay behind this sudden transformation. I’ll roast her in the belly of her favourite horse when my Mandrocs have finished with her…

‘Majesty.’ An awe-stricken voice interrupted his proposed vengeance, as Dilrap dropped to his knees involuntarily.

Dan-Tor walked slowly forward to greet his King. Stopping at the foot of the steps, he bowed slowly and respectfully. ‘Majesty,’ he said, forcing his voice to fill with surprise and delight. ‘To see you so recovered is as welcome as it is unexpected.’

The King nodded, but his face was unreadable. ‘Lord Dan-Tor,’ he said. ‘The time we’ve both sought for has arrived. I must now shoulder again those burdens of office that you’ve faithfully borne for me these many years. And, as the Law requires, I must ask you formally to Account for your Stewardship.’

Dan-Tor dropped his head to hide the red anger in his eyes. ‘You shame me, Majesty,’ he said regretfully. ‘Had I known you were so near recovery after the many years of failure I’d have devoted myself more diligently to your well-being. Perhaps then you’d have sat here many months ago. As for an Accounting… sadly, Majesty, I’ve been so occupied with matters of State that I’m ill-prepared to give one of even the most recent happenings, so grim have they been.’

‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing that you could re-proach yourself for, Lord,’ said the King. ‘And I require no stringent rendering immediately. That we can do at our leisure together with the Lords of the Geadrol. Just tell me briefly what has passed in my land since my illness deluded me into arresting four of my good and faithful Lords. Such a telling will satisfy the require-ments of the Law, will it not, Honoured Secretary?’

Dilrap started at being dragged into this improvisa-tion of the King’s, but after a protracted stammer and a cadenza of flourishes and twitches, he managed to say, ‘Yes, Majesty.’

How many years’ work has that hag undone? Dan-Tor thought, but when he looked up at the King his face was concerned. ‘Majesty, are you sure that you’re fully recovered? We’ve had these flashes of sunlight in the past, only to fall into darkness again.’

The King smiled slightly. ‘I’m not the man I was, Lord Dan-Tor,’ he said. ‘But I’m recovered sufficiently, rest assured.’

An echoing silence filled the hall as Dan-Tor fought back an urge to strike down this usurping clown. There were too many unknown factors at work here. What other schemes had been prepared in secret? Had Hawklan’s hand reached into his Palace yet again to wreak this havoc? A rash stroke could destroy not only the spectacular progress of the last few months, but the work of years. The shadow of his Master’s wrath almost froze his tongue to his palate. He must play this farce through until a pattern or an opportunity emerged.

‘Majesty,’ he said, with a helpless gesture, ‘you must forgive my hesitation. I’m still overcome by the suddenness of your recovery. However, perhaps I should begin by explaining about… ’