Roger Taylor: The fall of Fyorlund

Jaldaric and his companions had ridden into Pedhavin down the River Road just after dawn, in search of a smith to re-shoe one of their horses.

‘How did you know that?’ he asked, in surprise.

Loman smiled and winked. ‘No great mystery, young man. It’s very characteristic work,’ he said, handing him the shoe. ‘Quite well made too. Your smithing’s improved in the last twenty years.’

‘Oh,’ came the reply. ‘I’m afraid all horseshoes look alike to me. I know very little about smithing.’ Then, changing the subject, ‘Have you ever been to Fyorlund?’

‘No, no,’ said Loman quickly. ‘But I’ve seen quite a lot of Fyordyn work in my time. A lot of people have passed through here over the years. Here we are.’

His last remark was spoken to the horse as he moved to the side away from the young man and started busily preparing one of its hooves. The Fyordyn work he had seen had been during the Morlider War and he did not want to become involved in relating sad old tales to sate the inevitable curiosity of this young man and his friends.

He regretted slightly his little demonstration in identifying the shoes and decided not to ask to which Lord this group were High Guards. They wore no livery, but their whole bearing told what they were as clearly as any uniform to one who had fought by the side of the High Guards. Loman paused in his work and screwed up his face as he forced down the old memories that came to his mind vivid and clear.

The young man walked around the horse to join him. ‘My name’s Jaldaric,’ he said, extending his hand and smiling nervously.

Loman looked up and, returning a reassuring smile, took the hand. ‘Are you journeying to the south?’ he asked.

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re just spending some leave-time in Orthlund before we go back on duty. We’re High Guards.’

Loman nodded understandingly and bent to his work again.

‘We’re due for the northern borders when we get back, and it’s miserable up there at the best of times,’ Jaldaric continued.

Loman was surprised to find he was relieved at this voluntary admission, and he reproached himself for harbouring suspicious, albeit unclear, thoughts. He attributed these to ‘too many changes going on round here these days’.

‘You must be my guests for the day then,’ he said, to salve his conscience. ‘And tonight you must join in our little celebration.’

Jaldaric seemed taken aback by this offer and pro-tested that he and his friends did not wish to be a burden to the smith.

‘Nonsense,’ said Loman. ‘We take a pride in our hospitality in Pedhavin. And, as it’s unlikely that you’ll come here again for a long time, if ever, you’ll need someone to show you round or you’ll miss a great many interesting sights.’

In common with most of the other people of the village, Loman felt he was emerging from the dark cloud that the tinker and his tainted wares had cast over the village, and the feeling of lightness, of returning to a welcome normality, had made him quite loquacious. Jaldaric’s half-hearted protestations were easily swept aside.

‘I’ve one or two things to do up at the Castle. Join me there in an hour and I’ll show you round. Well, I’ll show you a little of it anyway. It’s a very big place.’

The young men were amazed by the Castle and plied Loman endlessly with questions, many of which he could not answer.

‘I’m a humble castellan and smith, not a warrior lord-or a builder,’ he said eventually.

Jaldaric laughed. ‘A child could defend a castle like this,’ he said. ‘It’s the most incredible place I’ve ever seen. You can see for miles and miles, and you’re completely unassailable behind walls like these-and this gate.’

They all expressed surprise that the occupant of such a castle was not a great lord, but simply a healer-and a healer who had just decided to travel on foot all the way to the Gretmearc. But Loman just laughed.

‘We’ve no lords in Orthlund,’ he said. ‘We just tend our crops and practice our simple crafts.’

Jaldaric looked troubled. Loman thought he under-stood.

‘There’s a Great Harmony in Orthlund, Jaldaric,’ he said, ‘which most people from other lands can’t understand, even though they might sense it. No one knows why it is. Perhaps we’re a special people in some way. We accept Hawklan for what he is. Whatever he might have been once, he is beyond doubt a very special man, and a great healer.’

Jaldaric nodded vaguely.

Loman was spared further questioning by the ap-pearance of Tirilen. Her presence took the young men’s minds well away from matters military. Loman smiled to himself as he watched his daughter’s light grace draw the satellites away from his own more solid presence. He wondered what her new-found escorts would think if they had seen her in the not-too-distant past when she would crash down the stairs three at a time, or wrestle a village youth to the ground for some slight, real or imagined.

Strangely, Jaldaric did not lead the admiring throng, but kept himself a little aloof, and Loman noticed that he frowned occasionally as if some troublesome thought kept recurring to him.

The celebration that Loman had referred to was not intended to be anything special. The need for it seemed to have been agreed by an unspoken consensus among the villagers as an attempt to dispel the remaining gloom left by the tinker. However, the presence of strangers struck the powerful chord of hospitality present in all the Orthlundyn, and turned it into a very special occasion indeed.

Jaldaric and his troop found themselves over-whelmed with food, drink, and merriment, in a bright ringing whirl of dancing and singing and laughter, the predominant feature of which seemed indeed to be Tirilen, flying through the lines of clapping hands and jigging flutes and fiddles.

Eventually Jaldaric had to concede defeat. Flopping down next to Loman, red-faced and panting, he said, ‘You dance and sing harder than we do our military exercises. I think your daughter would make an excellent training officer for our cadets.’ He took a long drink. ‘Not to mention some of the Guards themselves.’

Then they had to leave. In spite of all protests. Jalda-ric held his ground valiantly. They had to be back in Fyorlund soon or they would be in serious trouble. They would not forget the friendship of Pedhavin and would surely return one day when time was pressing less on them. They refused all offers of hospitality for the night, saying that, leave or no, they were bound to certain ways as High Guards, and had to spend their nights in formal camp.

As Jaldaric leaned down from his horse to take Lo-man’s hand, the light from the fire seemed to make his boyish, innocent face look briefly old and troubled and, as he rode away, he seemed ill at ease, not turning to wave as most of the others did.

Too tired to face the long steep climb back to the Castle, Tirilen had begged a bed from Isloman. Now she revelled in the feel of a different room with all its shapes and shadows and smells: familiar, but free of her own personality.

Pausing before a mirror, she raised her chin, pushed her head forward and carefully examined the small scar on her throat. It was noticeably less inflamed and she touched it with a cautious finger. It was healing, but only slowly. How strangely persistent it had been, like the cut on Loman’s hand. Then she caught sight of her face in the mirror, incongruous, with lips pursed and chin extended. She put out her tongue and tossed her hair back with a spectacular flourish before setting about it vigorously with a delicate metal comb that her father had made for her many years earlier. It shone and sparkled, sending tiny lights about the room as she swept it repeatedly to and fro, unpicking the dance-swirled tangles.