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Roger Taylor: The fall of Fyorlund

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Roger Taylor The fall of Fyorlund

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Isloman woke up suddenly from a fitful, dream-racked slumber. He shook his brother and gestured silence. Something seemed to be out of place. Cautiously he crawled to the entrance of the tent and peered out. The guards were not there, and there were sounds of merriment coming from one of the other tents.

He found it hard to believe that the High Guards could be so neglectful of their duty but, realizing that a similar chance was unlikely to occur again, he gestured frantically to Loman. The full implications of this lapse by the High Guards passed between the two brothers with a mere glance and, after pausing only until a cloud slid in front of the moon, they ran crouching and silent to where their horses were tethered. Fighting down a powerful urge just to mount and flee they led the horses on foot quickly and quietly out of the camp.

After several minutes, Loman stopped. ‘What are we doing?’ he said. ‘We must go back for Tirilen.’ His shocked voice was loud in the still darkness.

Spinning round as if struck, Isloman seized him and clamped a huge hand violently over his mouth.

For a moment Loman struggled, but even in the moonlight he could see the desperate plea in Isloman’s eyes, and he became still.

‘I want to go back too,’ Isloman hissed, slowly re-moving his hand. ‘But we don’t even know if Tirilen’s there, do we? She’s being taken to Fyorlund, Jaldaric said. And, in any case, what can we do against so many trained soldiers, even if they’re a bit the worse for drink at the moment?’

Loman glowered furiously but did not speak. Islo-man nodded. ‘Yes, we could do a great deal of damage. But that’s all. We’d still end up being killed, and then what would happen to Tirilen?’ Loman turned his face away as Isloman continued. ‘We need help. We’ll have to go back to the village.’

Breathing heavily, but still without speaking, Loman clambered on to his horse and started off at a canter. Isloman glanced back at the camp briefly and then mounted up and rode after his brother. Behind the two men, the sound of carousing and laughter faded into the distance.

They rode back to Pedhavin as they had never rid-den before and reached it in the middle of the morning, stiff and weary, with horses steaming and foaming.

Their noisy arrival brought out many of the villagers and it was barely a matter of minutes before they were pouring out their tale to a gathering of the High Fellows of the Guild. The predominant reaction was one of shock and disbelief. The Orthlundyn regarded the Fyordyn as an honourable people, some of the older men referring to them as the Protectors of Orthlund. This act of treachery was beyond most of them to grasp immediately and Loman and Isloman had to repeat their tale several times before any semblance of a clear decision was reached.

Ireck summarized it. ‘Now you’ve escaped, they’ll assume you’ll return with help, so they’ll probably make haste northwards. We’ll gather such as can be spared and go after them, though I doubt we’ll be able to catch them. You two must wait here for Hawklan. He should be on his way back by now. We need his guidance.’

Both Isloman and Loman bridled at this suggestion, but Ireck used the authority of their long friendship and was unequivocal.

‘Every one of us around this table loves Tirilen. What’s happened defies belief, but we’re carvers, we must see things the way they are. You two are too heated and you’ve been warriors in your day. If you go, there’ll be fighting.’ He gave Loman a stern look. ‘Look at you, Loman. You’re clenching your fist even while I’m talking to you.’ Loman breathed out heavily and put his hands behind his back awkwardly. Ireck continued. ‘If there’s fighting, then others than yourselves may be hurt, or worse. Could either of you carry that burden? That Jaldaric struck me as a reasonable and honest young man. If enough of us go to him peacefully they’ll not be able to take us captive, and I doubt they’ll fight us if we don’t attack, so there’s a chance we might resolve the matter by talking. Don’t you agree?’

Isloman was about to argue, but surprisingly, Lo-man cut him short. ‘You’re right, Ireck, it’s a good idea. Besides, Tirilen wouldn’t want anyone hurt on her account. And we do need Hawklan’s advice.’

He looked round at the wooden beams overhead and at the sunlight washing across the floor, then at the ceremonial stone table they were all sitting around. Unlike the rest of the village, but like the remainder of this room, the table was completely undecorated in symbolic homage to the greater carvers yet to come.

‘It’s a sad tale to relate around our Meeting Table, friends,’ he went on. ‘But I’m indebted to you, Ireck, for your sound sense. Do what you can. Isloman and I will do our best to wait patiently for Hawklan.’

‘When he arrives, give him the horse I bought,’ said Jareg. ‘Whatever he did to it, he’s cured it, and it’s a fine animal.’

Loman bowed. ‘Thank you, Jareg, but I doubt that Hawklan will ride it. You know what he’s like.’

‘He’ll ride it for Tirilen, Loman,’ said Jareg. ‘Offer it to him. He’ll need it. Times are moving too quickly for walking.’


* * * *

Almost before his mind could register the fact, Hawklan rolled away from the menacing shadows and rose quickly to his feet. As he did so he drew his sword in one singing sweep, though it felt heavy and reluctant in his hand.

In spite of his terror, part of his mind seemed to be watching him: noting with approval his rapid glance around the whole area for other attackers and com-mending him for the speed with which he recovered his balance when he caught his foot in his cloak as he stood up.

Taken aback by the quickness of this movement, the two figures seemed to be momentarily paralysed. Then, suddenly, to Hawklan’s horror, the strange helm on the taller of the two seemed to come to life. Hawklan crouched low and waited for whatever attack might come from this apparition.

‘Dear boy,’ said a familiar voice, laden with both alarm and reproach. The helm flapped its great black wings. ‘Fine way to greet friends.’

Hawklan straightened up and lowered his sword as the faces of Loman and Isloman became clearer in the moonlight. His immediate reaction of delight and relief was, however, stemmed by the appearance of his friends. They were grim-faced and armed.

Before Hawklan could speak, Loman stepped for-ward, his face fighting for control over some powerful emotion.

‘Hawklan,’ he said. ‘Help us. Tirilen has been taken by strangers.’

It took the two men but moments to tell the tale of Tirilen’s disappearance, their ill-fated encounter with the High Guards, and the decisions made by the Guild.

‘We couldn’t wait back in the village,’ said Loman, almost sheepishly. ‘You might have been gone for weeks. We had to try and find you.’

Hawklan nodded silently.

‘It’s a good job I heard them, dear boy,’ said Gavor. ‘You disappear without trace when you wear that cloak in the dark. They’d have walked straight past us.’

Even now, Hawklan was difficult to see, wrapped in his cloak and squatting on the shadow-dappled ground, as he listened to his friends’ tale. He kept his body very still in an attempt to keep his mind calm, but he felt it was beginning to race out of control. The blows recently struck against him were disturbing and mysterious enough, but this strange and sinister happening seemed to dwarf everything else.

Something within him told him that he was the cause of Tirilen’s abduction, and that he was being led towards some destiny beyond his seeing at the moment. Both logic and an inner resolve brought him to the same conclusion, namely that he must seek out the person, or thing, that was seeking him, and confront it, or he would be pursued endlessly and his friends would be crushed one by one in the wake of his flight.

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