Roger Taylor: The fall of Fyorlund

Dan-Tor heard its ancient song but, for all he de-spised humanity, it was his human frame that saved him, not his vaunted Power. Reflexes that were ancient even before he was born turned him from the path of the approaching doom, and though the arrow tore through flesh and smashed bones before it tore out through flesh again, it struck no vital organ.

The impact drove him backwards and he stumbled on the steps. Both crowd and Mathidrin stood paralysed by the suddenness of the assault and, seeing its failure, Hawklan reached for a second arrow. But the wound to Dan-Tor was to more than his mortal form. Loman had not the skills of the craftsmen of the Great Alliance, but he was a fine apprentice to them, and the arrow was as perfect in its making as any could be in that time.

Delivered from the Black Bow of Ethriss by a great warrior-healer, it rent not only Dan-Tor’s flesh, but his black spirit also. His eyes widened and blazed a baleful red, and his mouth cracked open, his brown face like the crater of an angry volcano. From its depths, rising interminably from the faintest whisper was unleashed a sound that became so loud it seemed solid in the air, and so inhuman that all who heard it, save Hawklan, staggered and fell to the ground in terror.

Far to the north, a dark and brooding form heard the cry of His servant, and in cold anger reached out over the mountains and plains to deny its will.

Unnoticed, an enfeebled form slipped from His thrall.

Hawklan recognized now the creature that writhed on Loman’s arrow and stood paralysed with horror. He felt no stirring within him. No resurrection of the Guardian Ethriss or any other spirit to save him from the fate that was to be his-he who had released Oklar, the earth corrupter, First among the Uhriel of Sumeral.

Images of desolated, war-sacked lands, of Tirilen, Loman, Gulda and countless others rose up to reproach him for his failure. Then in the uttermost darkness of his fear a faint familiar voice spoke to him. ‘The sword, Hawklan. Ethriss’s sword.’ The voice was Andawyr’s-pained, weak, and distant.

Unthinking, Hawklan drew the sword and held it in front of himself with trembling hands as Oklar unleashed the Old Power at him.

The ground at his feet started to rage and heave as if it were a wind-lashed ocean. Great fissures opened and closed about him like the mouths of predatory animals. A terrible rumbling seemed to fill the very universe and a million tiny barbs entered his body as if to rend and tear his every cell. Somewhere in the distance was the faint noise of falling masonry and a screaming crowd crushing itself in panic.

Hawklan knew only the sword. He poured out his spirit into its perfection and strength, hoping in some way to save those around him. But even as he did so, he knew he could not use the sword as it should be used and he felt his own strength ebbing as the tumult grew louder and louder.

Slowly he sank to his knees and, as his mind slid into oblivion, he felt a cold presence passing near him. Sweetly spoken words, faint but filled with appalling malevolence formed like ice burns in his heart: ‘ … Keeper… Ethriss’s lair… Mine… ’

Then it was gone, and darkness took him.

The King sat motionless and stunned as the awesome rumbling and shaking faded and gave way to the more identifiable sounds of panic and disorder spreading through the Palace. The torches which had flared up and filled the Throne Room with a dazzling brightness, as if to protect him from some terrible assault, now returned to normal, and Rgoric found himself tremblingly aware that some great evil was near.

Dilrap staggered into the room, wide-eyed and be-wildered.

‘What’s happened?’ the King demanded. ‘That noise. And the whole Palace shaking?’

Dilrap gesticulated aimlessly. ‘I don’t know, Maj-esty,’ he said fearfully. ‘I was helping the Lord Eldric and his son. People are running everywhere in panic. I came straight back here.’

The King put his hand to his head in despair, then almost angrily, ‘And what are you doing here anyway? You were to leave with the Lord Eldric.’

Dilrap looked at the King with unexpected resolu-tion. ‘I’m no rider, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Still less a warrior. It’s my duty as your Secretary to stay by your side. A duty determined by the Law… ’

‘Never mind the Law,’ shouted the King, his eyes widening in disbelief. ‘Do as I order you-get after them.’

Dilrap looked apologetic. ‘Majesty, you’re not above the Law. You’re at once sustained and constrained by it. You can’t break it without due penalty.’

Rgoric clenched his fists, but Dilrap moved forward urgently. ‘Majesty, if you kill Dan-Tor, then punish me as you see fit. But if he kills you, then I’ll be the only person close to Dan-Tor and loyal to the old way. I’ll corrode his New Order as he corroded the old one. It may be precious little that I can do, but it’s more than I can do anywhere else, and I intend to do it.’

Before the King could recover from the shock of Dilrap’s unequivocal statement, a grim procession made a noisy entrance into the hall, bearing the injured Dan-Tor in a chair.

Briefly Rgoric caught Dilrap’s eye. ‘Go, Honoured Secretary,’ he said, very softly. ‘You humble me. This is all the protection I can offer you.’ Then he shouted, ‘Get out, you treacherous ingrate, I’ll deal with you later.’

Dilrap fled.

Turning from the retreating figure, the King started in shock as he looked at his erstwhile minister and jailer. The man was both unchanged and changed beyond recognition. He radiated a force that made the King tremble. Only a black arrow embedded in his side seemed to be wholesome; only the arrow seemed to be restraining this force. All inquiry about what had happened left the King.

I must strike now, he thought. Kill this creature swiftly and have done.

Then the figure’s eyes opened: distant, baleful and glowing red. They stared directly at Rgoric and fear swept over the King such as he had never known. His mind touched on the edge of the truth that was Dan-Tor.

But he returned the gaze, and the red eyes them-selves became uncertain. ‘I see you for what you are,’ Rgoric said quietly. ‘My battle against your own poisons has given me a true sight.’

A pained hand was lifted and levelled at the King, but though Rgoric felt a power touch him, he could see the arrow absorbing much of it and, with a soundless cry, the seated figure arched its back and tugged vainly at the shaft.

Swiftly Rgoric drew his sword and strode towards the struggling figure. Fear and hatred burned in its eyes as he neared it.

‘You may have some sight, Rgoric,’ came a low, cavernous voice. ‘But so do these, after their own light, and they’re mine.’

Rgoric paused and looked at the Mathidrin standing by the figure. ‘Stand aside,’ he said, but none of them moved.

The fear in the red eyes faded.

‘Your time is finished, Rgoric,’ said Urssain. ‘A new hand rules Fyorlund now. A hand stronger than yours, even though he’s been foully struck down.’ He looked at his men. ‘Kill him,’ he said.

Without hesitation, the Mathidrin moved towards the King, drawing their swords. Rgoric took his own sword in two hands and swinging it upwards cut one of them open with a terrible gaping wound from stomach to shoulder. Then, turning and swinging the sword sideways, he almost severed the head of another.

Turning again under the momentum of this stroke he impaled a third before one of them drove a sword into his back. The King rounded on his attacker and severed his hand, but another struck him from behind. His onslaught would have scattered ordinary men, but the Mathidrin were creatures possessed as they closed on him like a pack of hunting animals, regardless of their own safety.