Roger Taylor: The call of the sword

The little man leapt to his feet and ran over to Hawklan, remarkably sober.

‘Run, man, run. We’ve been lucky so far,’ he said, his whole manner urgent.

Then, eyes wide, as he stared at the remains of the chair, he muttered, ‘This is unbelievable. Appalling.’

Hawklan hesitated and the man pushed him in the chest with unexpected strength, sending him staggering backwards through the doorway and out into the night.

In the far north of Fyorlund, on its bleak border with Narsindal, stood the great tower fortress of Narsindal-vak. Built on top of a high peak with its roots set deep into the ancient mountain rock, the single circular tower tapered high into a sky invariably leaden with low cloud.

The base was unprotected by any wall, but was a solid and massive extension of the tower’s flaring taper. It blended into the rock in a manner that a travelled observer would have likened to the construction of Anderras Darion.

Narsindalvak dominated the surrounding land for many miles and its sheer size imposed a respect and awe on even the most hardened of its occupants. But for all its soaring majesty the towering fortress attracted little affection, for inside its great sprawling roots lay the extensive barracks that had housed the generations of High Guards who until relatively recent times had maintained The Watch, the Fyordyn’s ancient and traditional duty to guard their borders against the Second Coming of Sumeral.

In token of this duty, rings of windows peered out of every level of the tower like countless staring eyes, and at the top its sweeping sides flared out again to form the huge high-domed Watch Hall, the weary guard post for those same generations of High Guards.

Situated at the end of a long, weary and claustro-phobic valley journey, Narsindalvak offered nothing to entice a visitor but a continually howling wind and an unending view of the monotonous greyness of the plains of Narsindal, misty and miserable at their best; dank, sinister and dangerous at their worst.

For the High Guards, the dreary hours in the Watch Hall, staring through the polished stones that brought distant objects so near, were punctuated only by the long patrols along the southern borders and into the interior of Narsindal.

The former were to discourage Mandrocs from es-tablishing camps in the mountains from which they could raid the northern estates of Fyorlund for food and livestock. Very rarely however, were Mandrocs seen, although occasionally a patrol might come across the remains of a recent camp.

Figures bedded deep in Fyordyn lore, the Mandrocs were supposed to be the remains of hosts that had followed Sumeral, now confined forever to Narsindal because, unlike other of His followers, they were corrupted beyond redemption. Kindlier souls saw them as nomadic savages; vicious, admittedly, when pro-voked, but who would not be, scraping for survival in the midst of such harshness. None loved them however, and few inquired into their ways.

The patrols to the interior were ostensibly to exam-ine Lake Kedrieth where, legend had it, Sumeral-the Enemy of Life-had built his stronghold, Derras Ustramel, and had been there destroyed by the Guardi-ans at the Last Battle. However, while conditions around Narsindalvak and the southern borders generally, were unpleasant, in the interior they were appalling, and no one in living memory had ever actually seen Lake Kedrieth because of the ever present mists and the shifting, treacherous marshes that formed its shores.

Scarcely a year went by however, without one or two High Guards disappearing while on patrol in the interior, and this had helped make the gradual reduc-tion and final abandonment of The Watch easier. There was a faint uneasiness amongst the Fyordyn about the loss of this ancient tradition, but it found no focus, no clear voice and, apart from some of the older High Guards’ officers who saw the Narsindalvak tours as important training for their men, few came to its defence. Fewer still claimed to be sorry to see this ancient anachronism quietly discarded.

Now, to the Lords and most of the Fyordyn, Narsin-dalvak stood empty, deserted, and nearly forgotten. However, in this they were deceived, for as the High Guards had abandoned the great tower, another force had replaced them. The Mathidrin, the black liveried Guards formed and nurtured by the Lord Dan-Tor and now pervading Rgoric’s Palace. They did not keep The Watch.

Captain Urssain handed his exhausted horse to a guard and, stretching his aching limbs, stared up at the dizzying perspective of the tower, clearly visible today against a sky whose thin clouds were lit by a watery sun. Briefly he gazed around at the view. The dreary landscape faded, as ever, into the misty distance and, free now from the pounding clatter of his journey, he became aware of the moaning wind that eternally serenaded Narsindalvak.

Good to be reminded of what I’m missing, he thought ironically. Palace life suits me fine.

He marched quickly up the wide ramp to the re-cessed door now being held open for him, acknowledging the attendant Guard with a curt salute. Despite his considerable fatigue, he knew that his approach would have been noted days ago and that any delay now would find little favour. Within a few minutes he was standing looking down at his Commander, making every effort to keep the nervousness from his voice and manner.

Commander Aelang stared at the papers in front of him for what must have been the fourth time then, swearing, stood up. He was a little shorter than Urssain but more heavily built and with a menacing physical presence. Short-cropped red hair and a heavy-jowled jawline framed a sallow face that housed red-rimmed, pale grey eyes, a broad nose, and an incongruously voluptuous mouth.

He began pacing the floor. Urssain watched him carefully. Commander Aelang was not a man to be trusted. He was not only a devious, ruthless, and ambitious schemer, he was capable of considerable personal viciousness when the mood so took him, and his mood now looked decidedly uncertain.

Abruptly he turned, and snatching up the papers from his desk, waved them in Urssain’s face.

‘I’m supposed to act on these?’ he said savagely. Then, reading, ‘ "Commander Aelang. You will take the new deep penetration patrol and arrest the traitor Jaldaric of the House of Eldric-Rgoric, Protector of etc etc." Just like that?’ As he spoke he revealed the discoloured teeth and prominent canines that had earned him the title ‘Mandrocsson’ amongst the Mathidrin troopers.

‘They’re the King’s direct orders, Commander,’ Urssain replied reluctantly. ‘I don’t see any alternative.’

Aelang dropped down into his chair again, and motioned Urssain to do the same. ‘Relax, Urs. Sit down, you look exhausted.’

Gratefully, Urssain lowered himself into a nearby chair, quietly resolving that under no circumstances would he relax.

Aelang rested his head on his hand. Recent events had moved so rapidly that he had had little opportunity to think matters through. It occurred to him that this was all some devious test by Lord Dan-Tor. Or perhaps even the King. But nothing seemed to ring true. What was going on? What did the King know about the deep penetration patrol? Was he, Aelang, Commander of Narsindalvak, being used as a pawn in some power struggle between the King and the Lords? Aelang curled his lip. He was no man’s pawn, he was a player, albeit a minor one for the time being.

He looked up and caught Urssain’s eye. ‘Didn’t you try to dissuade him?’ he said.

Urssain returned the gaze steadily and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘He never asked my advice and I wasn’t going to volunteer it. I was content to remember yours. Keep your mouth shut, your head down, and your ears open.’