Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

It was in fact four days since he had inquired about when they would be breaking camp and continuing their southward journey, and he judged that another careful inquiry now would not be too presumptuous.

Normally he did not have any great problem in dealing with the Lord Dan-Tor, though opinions among the Fyordyn generally were divided about him, often quite markedly. At one extreme, he was the King’s saviour and good right arm, cutting through old and fusty ways and leading Fyorlund into a newer, brighter future. At the other he was a destroyer of long, cher-ished and valuable traditions, and a man whose influence on the King was wholly pernicious.

For Jaldaric himself, there was, admittedly, some quality in the man that made him feel uneasy. Some-thing he felt he could not see, like a shadow in the corner of his eye. But as a Captain in the High Guard, seconded to Palace duty, he had to judge the man by his actions, and hitherto, in his day-to-day dealings, he had found the Lord pleasant, courteous, clear in his orders, and generally thoughtful about the men and animals. He’d served under far worse in his time.

After his lone visit to that village though, Dan-Tor had changed. He made a single statement on his return, and the tone of its transmission had brooked no questioning. ‘Our journey is delayed, perhaps even abandoned. We must wait here until I receive news.’ Since then he had become quieter, even abruptly irritable on occasions. And he had taken to spending most of his time away from the camp, deeply preoccu-pied, just staring out over the countryside.

Jaldaric made a leisurely progress along the narrow path. It took him through soft burgeoning grasses and under natural arbours decked in scented blossoms. All around him birds were singing, and he could hear small animals scurrying away busily at his approach. Eventu-ally it took him out of the dappled shade of the trees and onto a small rocky outcrop overlooking the rolling Orthlund countryside.

He paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, then following the path around the rocks, he came to the place where the Lord was most usually to be found. Today was no different. The tall, lank, figure was standing motionless against the skyline, looking northwards. Not for the first time, Jaldaric wondered how the man could stand so still for so long.

‘Captain?’

Dan-Tor’s voice made him start. He had not sought to approach secretly, but his training made him both naturally silent and aware of his gait and he had made no noise that he was aware of.

‘Lord,’ he replied. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

The figure turned slowly and looked at him for a moment, then a brilliant white smile cracked open the lined brown face. ‘Not at all, Captain,’ he said. ‘You’ve been remarkably patient. I presume you’ve come to ask when we’ll be restarting our journey.’

Jaldaric let out a discreet sigh of relief and returned the smile. ‘Indeed, Lord. The men are getting a little… ’

‘… bored.’ Dan-Tor finished the sentence. ‘And you’re not finding it too exhilarating yourself are you?’

Jaldaric avoided the question. ‘Perhaps if you could tell us what happened in the village, Lord, it might help,’ he offered. Dan-Tor did not reply, but turned away to look northwards again.

There was a long silence. Jaldaric did not wish to press his question and, having intruded, was loth to move away without being formally dismissed.

‘Don’t be deceived by this land, Captain,’ Dan-Tor said unexpectedly. ‘Nor by the people.’

‘Lord?’

There was another long pause, then, ‘Terrible things have come from this land in the past, Captain, and may yet again in the future.’

‘Lord?’ Jaldaric repeated, stepping forward. ‘I don’t understand you. This is a beautiful country, and such people as we’ve met have been… ’

Dan-Tor’s hand went up sharply and Jaldaric fell silent. ‘You have neither my sight nor my knowledge, Captain,’ he said, his tone suddenly sharp. Jaldaric waited cautiously. Once again, the Lord’s mood had changed abruptly. ‘This land is not what it seems, and its people are deep, devious, and dangerous.’

Dangerous to whom? The suddenness of the thought caught Jaldaric by surprise and only a conscious effort prevented him from speaking it out loud.

‘Set the men to their drills,’ Dan-Tor continued curtly. ‘Remind them that but a few years ago they’d have been serving in The Watch at Narsindalvak and that would have been a most salutary lesson in boredom and futility for them. We’ll be here until I receive news. It may well be some time. Dismiss.’

‘Lord.’

Chastened, Jaldaric saluted and set off back down the narrow track. Once in the shade, he scowled slightly at the rebuff he had just received. The Lord’s comment however, was apt. He would indeed have to bend his mind to keeping his men properly occupied. This idleness was becoming corrosive. It was only a matter of time before the Lord’s arbitrary irritability began to affect them all and then there would be problems, so far from home.

As Jaldaric walked away, Dan-Tor fixed his gaze implacably northwards. The interruption had irritated him. Like some buzzing insect. What did these so-called soldiers know of waiting, of boredom? Boredom. A fitting word for this merest blink of a penance. What word existed to measure the unending eons he had been bound in the darkness?

He grimaced. Orthlund was a fearful place, and lingering here with matters unsettled irked him immeasurably, clouding his thoughts and judgement and twisting like an ancient knife in his heart. Especially so near to that sinkhole of a castle, Anderras Darion.

Anderras Darion. Twenty years open and he had not known; his spies impotent in this accursed land.

But had He? What other eyes did He have?

Or had he, Dan-Tor, been sent like some expendable lackey into the darkness, to be His eyes because all others had failed? What tremor had He felt those twenty years ago? The implications made his flesh crawl.

A cloud moved in front of the sun, and his dark thoughts ebbed away slightly. At least his presence gave his birds their sight here. And wait he must, now. Wait until they told him of the binding of Hawklan by his servant at the Gretmearc. Then he could abandon his southward journey and return with his triumphant news to Narsindal.

At that very thought however, doubts surged in upon him. What train of consequences had he set in motion with his impulsive decision? Had this land blinded him to make him take such a risk?

Blinded and perhaps blighted.

Still, the deed was done. If Hawklan were not Eth-riss, then no harm could arise. He was still an enigma, a man with a strange history and strange skills that could beyond doubt be used against Him in the fullness of time. He must be examined, perhaps even turned to the true way. Many before had been so persuaded, and been of great value, rising high in His service, not least himself.

But if he were Ethriss, what then? Ethriss awake would see all; would rouse the Guardians and sweep all before him more cruelly than before.

The chill horror of his Master’s wrath pervaded Dan-Tor as he stood in the warm Orthlund sunlight.

And yet the trap, though new-made, was of an an-cient and well-tried form. One of His designing in times gone. No one could see it for what it was without the insight of the Old Power, and certainly none could escape it without great skill in the use of the Old Power. No. The trap could not fail. It was subtle beyond any human imagining. And it would be well laid. His servant there was able and well skilled.

But is he? The doubt rankled relentlessly. Can he safely use the Old Power against such a prey? What if he is opposed by a powerful will? Will his paltry human frame and spirit not shatter under such a burden? Is he not already unsound?