Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

No further words were spoken as the two couples parted. Idrace and Fel-Astian, grim, but more com-posed, rode north. It was their intention to enter Fyorlund quietly and find out what had happened in their absence. Hawklan and Isloman turned south, back towards Pedhavin and Anderras Darion, intending to rouse on the way such village elders as they could. The need to seek out Dan-Tor seemed more pressing than ever, but too much had happened for them blithely to enter Fyorlund and leave the Orthlundyn unaware of what had happened on their soil. They would have to return later.

Gavor had flown north again, at Hawklan’s request, to observe the Mandroc patrol before himself returning to Pedhavin.

The sun was setting when Hawklan and Isloman emerged from the wood and set off along the ancient road. A slight mist was forming, smothering the land in white anonymity. In places it arched up over the road to form translucent grottos. Through it, the dying sun shone blood red.

Dan-Tor idly fingered the medallion of office hanging from a slender gold chain around his neck. Then abruptly he released it with a grimace; these lingering traits of his fretful humanity irked him profoundly.

Uncharacteristically he found himself longing bit-terly for the day when all pretence could be discarded, when the Old Power could be used, when battle lines could be drawn and he could join with his companions and lead His hordes out of Narsindal to sweep all before them and raise Him, and themselves, to the height that destiny had ordained.

But the road to such a day was hazardous. The past had shown the folly of too lightly dismissing the forces that could be ranged against them. Humans could be endlessly troublesome for all their weakness and inconsistency.

Now, ensconced in his eyrie, in the highest tower of the King’s Palace far above Vakloss, unfamiliar doubts pervaded his thoughts.

His encounter with Hawklan-Ethriss?-had made him terminate his journey and go scuttling back to Narsindal with the news. No other could be trusted with that. But He had shown only His cold silent anger at the risks that had been taken in provoking Hawklan. Then, looking into Dan-Tor for a trembling eternity, He had delivered a further blow, a stunning, unexpected blow. ‘You have erred twofold. Your King runs amok. Abandon the south, I have others better suited.’

No counsel had been offered, nor aid. Only a brood-ing silence. Only the weight of that endless dark patience. From this Dan-Tor knew that the conse-quences of his actions must run their course, however erratic and unforeseeable, and he must bear them.

He closed his eyes and heard again the words of his Master when He had finally wakened. ‘You are my faithful servant and will again be rewarded as my power grows-as grow it will-beyond even its ancient greatness.’ Then, the re-affirmation:

‘But recall. You are bound to me and by me. You can be expunged at my whim and others made in your image. Serve me well.’ It was a statement cold beyond measure and a verdict beyond appeal.

‘Expunged at my whim,’ Dan-Tor mouthed to him-self into the silence of his room.

With an effort, he dismissed from his mind the questions that his Master’s knowledge about the King had prompted. Who could know what sight He had? What dark envoys?

Then, standing up, he moved to the window and stared out over the great avenues and parks and proud old buildings that were Vakloss, out over its bustling heart nestling around the Palace walls in a maze of twisting, narrow streets thronged with people. But he saw only the distant mountains to the north, red-tipped and strangely shadowed in the setting sun. Frustration hissed through his clenched teeth and he turned to more immediate problems.

Who could have rescued Hawklan from the Gret-mearc and avoided his agents? And what had happened to the birds? A long-forgotten name came into his mind. The Cadwanol. Could they still exist? After such a time? The Cadwanol: Ethriss’s ancient allies and repository of most of the knowledge of the First Coming. A constant thorn in His side, but elusive and cunning, hiding in deep and strange places, deep beyond even Oklar’s power.

It was a disturbing thought, and it persisted. And yet Ethriss was not awake. The Cadwanol must surely know how to waken their old master? Had not he and his companions learned how to waken theirs after countless aeons bound in darkness? But Hawklan had fled from the Gretmearc; he could not be Ethriss. And yet…

Beyond doubt, he must be captured, Dan-Tor re-solved again. But captured with great cunning.

A discreet scratching at the door interrupted his reverie. Face twitching irritably, he paused until he could smell the servant’s fear leaking through to him.

Was the Lord there? Had he scratched loudly enough? Should he scratch again and risk the Lord’s wrath at his impatience?

Dan-Tor could charm the most obdurate of Lords when needed, but the lesser fry of Fyorlund who dealt with him, being both less burdened with office and more perceptive, knew him more truly. He sensed a hand rising hesitantly and on an impulse spared his victim.

‘Enter,’ he said calmly. The wave of relief sickened him. These humans were contemptible-a small distant voice within him reminded him that he, too, had once been thus.

‘His Majesty has asked me to request that you attend him in his rooms, Lord.’

You mean he’s told you to tell me, you worm, thought Dan-Tor viciously.

‘Please inform His Majesty that I’ll attend him im-mediately,’ he said courteously. Another repellent wave of relief, and the servant walked out backwards before fleeing down the Palace’s twisting stairs and corridors to safer quarters.

With the King in his present unstable condition, Dan-Tor knew he must not be left alone for long. The damage the King had accomplished in so short a time verged on being a considerable achievement and nothing could be taken for granted until he was completely under control again. This, however, might prove none too easy. In Dan-Tor’s absence, the King had unconsciously turned to his wife, Sylvriss, and her influence, though weak, lay deep. Deeper than Dan-Tor dared risk threatening.

The King lay alone in his chamber, stretched along a wide couch and gazing vacantly up at the ornate painted ceiling. That he was in this room indicated the influence of Sylvriss. It had been their bridal chamber and still carried resonances of happier times.

It made Dan-Tor’s flesh crawl.

Large clear crystal doors at the far end of the room looked across a beautifully tended garden of lawns, shrubs and fountains, but, as they faced east, to bring the morning sun into the chamber, they showed now only the mounting evening darkness, as purple mountains merged into the purple sky.

Dan-Tor noted with malicious satisfaction the harsh shadows cast by the light of the globes which had replaced the older, gentler torches. He entered with a discreet amount of noise, and bowed low.

‘Majesty,’ he said gently and with concern. ‘The pain has returned?’

Rgoric made no reply. Dan-Tor did not move, but tried to sense the man’s mood. Little ripples of anger still crossed Dan-Tor’s mind at what the King had done and at having such inadequate material for the weaving of his Master’s design, but he swept them away ruth-lessly. Such self-indulgence offered nothing but hindrance and, he thought bitterly, reminded him too much of the King himself.

He moved forward into the King’s line of sight, but kept his face slightly in the shade. He was uncertain what might be showing in his eyes and how sensitive the King might be to what he saw there.

‘Majesty?’

The King’s eyes unfixed themselves from the ceiling and turned to Dan-Tor.