Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

‘He does come from Narsindal you know.’

Eldric spoke half to himself as the four men sat in his room. They had fallen into an uneasy silence and the memory of Tirke’s outburst had returned to Eldric’s mind and sent it spinning back across the years to the time when Dan-Tor had first appeared.

The four of them had been there, returning with the army from Riddin after the Morlider had finally been driven away. They had used the eerie, blasted Pass of Elewart for the sake of speed, instead of taking the much longer, though less daunting route through Orthlund. The Pass led them into Narsindal and they were obliged to travel along the edge of the mountains that formed its southern boundary for some considerable distance.

The prospect of an early return home after a victory well won however, prevented the dank cheerless atmosphere from damping their spirits too much, and the torchlight now dancing in the carvings on his golden cup reminded Eldric of the clatter and rattle of horse-men and equipment colourful and cheerful even in the murk of Narsindal.

He felt a lump come into his throat as he remem-bered the young King Rgoric, who had fought with so much courage and led with such flair and inspiration, riding up and down the long train, talking with the men and cheering them on, especially the wounded. Laughter, that was what came to mind-laughter. What a King he could have been.

Then, quite suddenly, King Rgoric was laid low. A minor arrow wound, almost healed, unaccountably deteriorated and he developed a severe and intractable fever which none of his physicians could ease. The train halted and the gloom of Narsindal started to settle into the hearts of the men. The physicians were divided. To move the King was to risk his life, but to leave him in that place was equally hazardous. Then, while they were debating, a tall lank figure appeared from nowhere, claiming to be a travelling physician who had lost his way.

Intelligent, cultured, genial and patently relieved at having been rescued, he was readily accepted by both Lords and men, and was soon offering, discreetly, his advice to the physicians on the King’s illness.

And that had been that. The King recovered and returned to Vakloss in triumph but, as Dan-Tor had intimated, the fever returned from time to time, and as he was the only one who seemed to be able to relieve it, the King’s dependency on him grew and grew.

‘What do you mean?’ said Arinndier cutting into Eldric’s thoughts.

‘Dan-Tor,’ Eldric replied. ‘He came out of Narsin-dal.’

Arinndier shrugged. ‘He was lost,’ he said.

‘Lost,’ said Eldric viciously. ‘Who gets lost in Narsindal? How can you wander into it accidentally? Twenty-odd years and I don’t think any of us have asked the obvious question, we were so relieved when he cured the King. Where does he come from, and what in Ethriss’s name was he doing in Narsindal in the first place?’

No one seemed inclined to offer an answer.

‘What are you trying to say, Eldric?’ asked Arinndier after a while. Eldric puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.

‘I don’t know, Arin,’ he said. ‘Too much seems to be happening for me to Gather it properly.’ He paused as if reluctant to continue. ‘But everything that’s gone wrong in this country seems to stem from the arrival of Dan-Tor.’

‘That could equally be due to the King’s illnesses. They started at the same time,’ said Darek, his legalistic mind seeking round the suggestion to test it.

Eldric nodded to concede the point, but his expres-sion rejected it, and even Darek’s thin face showed no conviction in his comment.

‘True,’ said Eldric. ‘But I don’t think any of us be-lieve that, do we?’ He looked round at his friends, tired and subdued from their journey and their fruitless debates. There was no denial. Eldric entwined his fingers and rested his head on them.

‘Look at our country. It has changed. And for the worse. We’re not just playing the old men’s game, are we?-"Things were better when I was a lad." Things are actually deteriorating.’ He sat back and, holding up his hand, enumerated the points with his fingers. ‘Narsin-dalvak deserted. No patrols along the borders or into the interior of Narsindal. Lords, The Watch was a tradition that had been unbroken for generations. Why are we so wise that we can discard it so lightly? Then we allow the King to make more and more decisions without proper debate in the Geadrol-all for seemingly good reasons-his poor health, whatever-but still without proper debate. And not twenty years after they saw actual combat, our High Guards are gradually being turned into… ’ He caught Hreldar’s eye. This was no time to get into that debate. He left the comment unfinished.

‘And little things like those damned globes. All manner of things that are supposed to make life easier for someone but always seem to bring some poison in their wake. A craft lost, and craftsmen embittered. Some stream choked or land blighted… ’

He paused and closed his eyes. A chair creaked as Hreldar shifted his position. Eldric continued.

‘It’s as if something’s been corroding our whole society-our whole way of life.’ He opened his eyes and looked at Darek.

That’s my inner feeling. I offer it without reasoned argument I admit but, for what its worth, I believe it. I can’t see why it should be thus, but I can’t chase it from my mind, and I can’t chase that silly young man’s words from my mind either. He called Dan-Tor that devil spawn out of Narsindal.’

Darek chewed his bottom lip pensively and looked down at his hands.

‘I understand, Eldric,’ he said slowly. ‘I think we probably all feel something similar now you’ve put it into words. But without facts and proper argument, how can we convince anyone else? Who can we accuse, and of what? And who would we want to convince anyway? We’re not intending to become rebels, are we?’

Eldric brushed the remark aside.

‘That’s a different matter, Darek, and you know it. Evison and the others in the north have a case that can be argued. They’ve been a bit hasty perhaps, but the King had no right to forbid extension of their High Guards when they were suffering from Mandroc raids.’ He became brisk. ‘Good grief. Between ourselves I think their reply was a model of moderation. I know what I’d have said if I’d had Mandrocs raiding my lands and the King had said, "No, you can’t have more Guards." ’

Arinndier smiled broadly and Darek’s thin mouth allowed itself a slight curve. Only Hreldar, plump and jolly Hreldar, with his multi-coloured, laced and braided High Guards, did not smile.

‘Mandrocs,’ he said quietly. ‘Narsindal again. Seep-ing through the mountains.’ The atmosphere in the room changed perceptibly, as if the mists of that grim country had crept in and suffused the air. Eldric’s bright torches did not seem to be able to dispel it. The men looked at one another in silence again. Into Eldric’s mind came the picture of his family’s Festival shrine and he felt himself approaching the edge of a great chasm. He leapt.

‘Here are some facts then,’ he said quietly. ‘Dan-Tor came out of Narsindal. Our society has decayed since he came. Our King has been broken. Our great Geadrol has been progressively demeaned and now finally cast aside. And lastly, but perhaps most significantly, our ancient duties over Narsindal have been wilfully neglected and, for the first time in generations, our Northern borders are plagued by Mandroc attacks.’

He looked distinctly embarrassed, but grimly de-termined to continue.

‘I think… I think… that Dan-Tor is of Narsindal. I think that it’s his homeland.’ Then, hesitantly but distinctly, ‘I think… that he’s an agent of Sumeral… a herald of the Second Coming.’