Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

‘They mean no harm,’ Hawklan said. Then, in a gently mocking tone, ‘You’re like something out of a history book to them. A real warrior.’

Isloman did not reply immediately, but turned his head and cast a look full of doubt at Hawklan. ‘Even you don’t understand, do you?’ he said resignedly. ‘Not really.’

They rode on in silence for a while.

‘It’s not your fault, I suppose,’ said Isloman eventu-ally. ‘No one can understand it who’s not actually had to fight for his life-not even these… soldiers.’ He indicated the following group with an inclination of his head. ‘It leaves you with… feelings… opposite feelings that shouldn’t be able to exist at the same time, but do.’

Hawklan looked at his friend intently and almost immediately observed the same phenomenon in himself. The healer in him knew that Isloman must speak his concerns out loud if he was to ease his pain. But at the same time he heard his darker side coldly declaiming that Isloman must deal with this problem now or it would seriously impair his worth as a fighter. He recoiled from the thought but he knew it would not leave him.

‘Explain,’ he said flatly.

Again there was a long silence before Isloman spoke, and Hawklan sensed the tension building in his friend.

A small furry animal scuttled its bedraggled way across the road in front of them. The movement seemed to dislodge Isloman’s pent-up words.

‘Being in a battle is terrifying and degrading,’ he said suddenly. ‘I know that-with both my head and my… ’ He tapped his chest with his fist. ‘Everything. It’s a thing to be avoided. But a part of me enjoyed it, Hawklan, and, I think, might enjoy it still. It’s precious little clearer now than it was then. Part of me enjoying what was obviously wrong. And yet it wasn’t wrong, was it? Here was an enemy-people who’d killed and robbed, and worse, people who couldn’t be reasoned with and who broke such promises as they made, people who’d kill you and your friends if you didn’t stop them. What do you do in those circumstances-when all other alternatives have been unsuccessful?’

He did not wait for an answer. ‘And then there’s the fear. Horrible. Your heart thumping, your mouth dry and sour, your stomach churning. Until… ’ He reached out and took Hawklan’s arm in a powerful grip. ‘Until you fight. Then ancient forces within you rise and say "This is good". All around is mayhem and destruction, and you don’t care. You carry on killing-and revelling in it.’ Isloman shuddered as his muscles and sinews recalled long-forgotten deeds. ‘And when it’s over, when everywhere’s full of the sights and sounds of the wounded-crawling and writhing, groaning and screaming-you have to crush your remorse underfoot to stay sane.’ He fell silent and gazed down at the bouncing rain. ‘Your only solace,’ he said after a while. ‘Is that all other forms of… entreaty had failed.’

Hawklan searched for some way to help his friend. Isloman’s words had struck a strange chord within him; brought to his mind a dark place full of horror and noise and death. But it was too deep, too distant, and it flitted away from him uneasily when he tried to examine it. None the less it left a faint after-glow of understand-ing.

‘We act to preserve ourselves,’ he said, finally. ‘It’s the most ancient of laws; written deep into all living things. And who can answer the question that that poses?’

He turned to look at Isloman and a small stream of water cascaded from his hood like a tiny waterfall.

‘But there are other things. It’s also written in us to avoid violence. It’s too arbitrary, too open to chance. Too open to appalling consequences.’ He leaned across to his friend. ‘But if others strip that protection from us, then they take the consequences. If it can’t flee, life will fight against all odds and with any means it can, to survive.’

Isloman straightened up. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I re-member the old Sirshiant I first served with. "Once you’re committed to combat," he said, "it’s the most violent who’ll prevail. You have to be worse than your enemy. Don’t think otherwise, or you’ll die." Said we shouldn’t worry about it. We were good lads and when we’d won we’d "stay our hands from excess".’ Isloman shook his head reflectively and smiled slightly. ‘Fancy remembering him after all these years.’ He turned to Hawklan and nodded. ‘And we did too. Stayed our hand from excess. It’s something, I suppose.’

‘It may well be everything,’ Hawklan said.

Isloman seemed lighter in his saddle. His unease was still there, but it had been faced and he saw that time had in fact made it clearer for him. It was not a dilemma after all. It was simply the stern, cruel consequence of life asserting itself against those who would deny its right to be.

Hawklan felt the tension leave his friend but noted again his own ambivalent response. He was happy that Isloman’s pain had been eased, but that cold part of his mind was happy also. Isloman’s heart would now be uncluttered by hidden doubts should the need arise for him to fight. In the dry shade of his hood, Hawklan scowled to himself.

Gradually the rain eased into a light spring drizzle, and eventually stopped. The clouds receded over the mountains and the sun illuminated their path again, glistening off the wet road and raising clouds of steam in the distant woodlands.

Like enemy camp fires, thought Hawklan.

Hoods were pushed back, horses shook their heads, showering tiny rainbow-decorated sprays about them, and casual conversation sputtered back into life again.

Jaldaric trotted up to Isloman and Hawklan, screen-ing his eyes against the bright light from the shining road. Then he pointed.

‘Riders coming,’ he said.

Jaldaric’s expression grew more and more puzzled as the riders approached, but he replaced it with a smile of welcome as the two groups stopped opposite one another.

The visitors were six in number and clad in a black livery. They were grim-faced and had obviously been riding hard. One of them wore insignia which, together with his general demeanour, identified him as their leader. His face was lean and would have been hand-some had not narrowed eyes and a curl in his thin mouth given him a cunning and treacherous expression.

Jaldaric saluted, but the gesture was not returned and an uneasy silence fell between the two groups.

The leader of the new arrivals frowned. ‘You’re Jal-daric?’ he demanded, his voice harsh.

Jaldaric bridled slightly at the man’s manner, but replied pleasantly. ‘Yes I am. May I ask who you are?’

The man ignored him, and gazed around as if look-ing for someone. ‘Where is the Lord Dan-Tor?’ he asked, just as Jaldaric was about to repeat his question. His voice was a little softer, but still unpleasant, and Jaldaric’s face flushed at this further incivility.

‘The Lord Dan-Tor has returned to Fyorlund,’ he replied. ‘Now, may I ask again, to whom I am speaking and what is your concern with the Lord Dan-Tor?’ His voice was harder, and this time it was the visitor who bridled, as if unused to being spoken to thus.

‘My name’s Urssain,’ he said. ‘Captain Urssain of the… King’s High Guard.’ Then, before this could be fully registered, ‘Did the Lord Dan-Tor receive a messenger from Commander Aelang before he left?’

Jaldaric’s innate politeness overcame his immediate surprise. ‘We’ve had no messengers from anyone… Captain,’ he said. ‘But that’s hardly of any relevance. What’s more to the point is why are you, Fyordyn, marching armed and liveried in Orthlund, inquiring about the Lord Dan-Tor and calling yourselves, of all things, a King’s High Guard?’