Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

The speed and ease of this action stopped the other High Guards in their tracks. Hawklan gazed at the uncertain faces in front of him, as they slowly registered the implications of what they were looking at: their expert defences silently breached, their leader taken and six of their compatriots incapacitated with apparently contemptuous ease, Loman standing protectively in front of Tirilen, his hand on his iron-bound club. The two men Loman had held were massaging their necks and twisting their heads ruefully, but they remained on the floor, loath to make any move that might bring down further punishment on them.

Without taking his eyes off the group in the door-way, Hawklan spoke. ‘Loman, explain to these young men that we need to have a little talk.’

Loman shot a baleful look at Jaldaric, then Tirilen touched his arm and his manner softened. He put his arm round her again and looked across to his brother, eyebrows raised. Isloman nodded and released Jaldaric who fell, gasping, to the ground. Then Loman spoke to the men in a language that Hawklan had never heard before.

Without exception, surprise suffused the faces of the watching men. Loman, an Orthlundyn, was speaking their Battle Language, the language that was known only to the Fyordyn High Guard. Sometime during his life this Orthlundyn had done service for, or with, the High Guard.

Jaldaric staggered painfully to his feet, his young face riven with confusion. He gestured to his men. ‘Lay down your arms,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We must talk. This has been a sorry affair from the start. We must talk.’

There was some hesitation.

Jaldaric leaned with one hand on the table while the other tenderly rubbed his ribs and stomach. ‘Do as you’re ordered,’ he shouted angrily. He waved his arm towards Loman. ‘Didn’t you hear him? It was an ill thing to kidnap a woman for whatever reason. Now we find we’ve made war on the daughter of an Orthlundyn who speaks the Battle Language. We’ve violated the hearth of one of our own. Lay down your arms now ! We must talk.’

While some of the High Guards righted the disarray in the tent, Hawklan busied himself with the injured. With a little massage he very quickly revived the two men he had knocked unconscious, and they seemed none the worse for their experience, physically at least. The victims of Loman and Isloman, however, had to be advised, after examination, that they could look forward to several days of discomfort.

Briefly, the child still in Tirilen showed itself as she embraced her three rescuers, but it was only they who felt it, and it was a composed young woman that turned away from them and moved her attention to Gavor, now proudly displaying his spurs.

‘You look very dashing, Gavor,’ she said.

Gavor acknowledged the praise with a toss of the head and a bow and then, jumping on to her head, looked down beadily at Jaldaric who returned the gaze nervously.

‘Is that bird safe?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tirilen. ‘Perfectly safe. It’s you who’s in danger.’ Then unexpectedly she laughed and ruffled his hair.

Her laughter lightened the atmosphere and Hawklan could not forbear smiling both at her powers of recovery and at Jaldaric’s discomfiture as he stood up and occupied himself with straightening his tunic until he had stopped blushing.

In spite of what this young man had done, Hawklan felt no real evil in him. He was certainly not the instigator of what had been happening. Nor were any of the others, although one or two of them seemed to be of an angry and surly disposition.

However, knowing or unknowing, Jaldaric was a player in this game and was, so far, Hawklan’s only contact with whoever was manipulating events.

‘Good,’ Hawklan said, dismissing his last patient and dropping into a seat. ‘We’ve reached this point without serious injury or damage to anything other than our peace and our pride. But it’s been a near thing. I’d welcome an explanation, Jaldaric, as would Loman and Isloman.’

One of the surly-faced individuals spoke out. ‘The Lord Dan-Tor’s decreed this man an enemy of Fyorlund, Jaldaric. We shouldn’t even be talking to him. Tell him nothing.’

Jaldaric answered him wearily. ‘Esselt, sit down. This is a truce. Don’t dishonour us further with your foolish talk. I’ll be responsible to the Lord Dan-Tor for my decision.’

His attitude seemed to find favour with most of the High Guards present, and Esselt sat down and folded his arms sulkily without further comment. Hawklan was about to ask a question when Jaldaric spoke again.

‘Hawklan, are you an enemy of Fyorlund?’

The question was put so positively that Hawklan started.

‘Brilliant,’ said Esselt sarcastically. ‘Such mastery of the subtle techniques of interrogation.’

The men on either side of him eased away slightly, as if to avoid an impending impact.

Jaldaric rounded on him. ‘Esselt, keep that wicked tongue of yours to yourself or you’ll find your much vaunted favour with the Lord Dan-Tor won’t protect you from severe field punishment, and I’d remind you that we’re a long way from home. I’ll ask such questions as I see fit and we’ll all judge the answers for ourselves.’

Esselt held Jaldaric’s gaze for a moment and then lowered his eyes without replying. Jaldaric turned his still angry face back to Hawklan enquiringly.

‘I’m an enemy to no thing and no creature as far as I know,’ Hawklan said. ‘But I see this Lord Dan-Tor of yours imagines I am. I’d like to meet him and ask him why he should think this and why a Lord of Fyorlund should pose as a prancing tinker and bring corrupted wares to our village.’

Esselt looked up but did not speak. Jaldaric looked embarrassed.

‘The Lord Dan-Tor has returned alone to Fyorlund, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘And he doesn’t account to us for his actions. He’s the King’s closest adviser and friend. He’s greatly respected and has brought many changes to our land.’ Hawklan caught his eye and Jaldaric hesitated. ‘Although I think some of them have a price we weren’t originally aware of,’ he added reluctantly.

Both Loman and Isloman nodded.

‘What your Lord brought to our village carried a price in its every fibre,’ said Loman. ‘It wasn’t the work of Fyorlund craftsmen such as I’ve seen in the past. That had its own rough harmony. These objects were made by evil hands; hands that knew nothing of balance and harmony or, more probably, wilfully destroyed them.’

Hawklan briefly recalled the unreasoned horror he had felt when he looked into the face of the tiny mannequin marching up and down on his hand. A horror that drove him across the mountains to look for its source and, he presumed, was driving him still.

‘What do you know about craftsmen, you soil-tilling oaf?’ sneered Esselt. ‘Nothing can equal the work that comes from the Lord Dan-Tor’s workshops.’

Surprisingly, the insult seemed to roll off Loman without effect, and Esselt started as if his own venom had returned and struck him in the face. Hawklan looked straight at him.

‘Esselt, you’re a foolish young man, but I suspect it’s beyond my skill to make you understand why. You seem to be set on an ill course and, if your rash tongue doesn’t get you killed by one of your own kind, then I fear much worse lies ahead of you. Be silent and listen carefully.’

Although this was said without any menace, Esselt went white under Hawklan’s gaze.

Jaldaric watched the exchange impassively and for a while only the rustling hiss of the wind-blown trees could be heard in the tent. Then he looked at Loman sitting quietly, unperturbed by Esselt’s vicious taunt, and then at Hawklan, also sitting patiently, waiting. He made his decision.