The Morlider War had been fought mainly in the north of Riddin and following its dreadful conclusion the various allies had said their sad farewells on the battlefield and departed directly for their homelands. Thus neither Yengar nor Olvric had ever visited Dremark.
It was unlike anything they had ever encountered in Fyorlund. Where Vakloss stood high on a solitary hill, dominating the surrounding countryside and domi-nated itself by the Palace, Dremark was spread over the floor of a lush valley, its centre being overlooked by those outskirts that rose up the valley sides. Where Vakloss had tall, haughty buildings, bedecked with elaborate and colourful wood carvings, Dremark had wide, open streets and smaller, simpler buildings whose plain white walls were decorated with expansive painted murals showing, inevitably, horses and horse riders: horses grazing on rolling countryside; horses in battle, from travelling columns to cavalry charges; horses working in the fields; horses in Festival celebrations and parades and, above all, in the Helangai, a fearsome game played at the least excuse and with monumental zest by seemingly all the Riddinvolk.
Girvan’s line had played it once on the journey from the north, shortly after they had crossed the River Endamar. It seemed to Yengar to be almost like an act of thanksgiving now that they were leaving the harsher pastures of the north behind them.
The principle of the Helangai was simple enough: a large, weighted bag, suspiciously man-shaped, was to be picked up and carried to an agreed place on the field. It could be played anywhere, and by any number of riders, and would sometimes last for days, ranging far and wide across the countryside. Apart from outright murder and maiming, however, there seemed to be no rules, although Yengar noted that anything which threatened to injure the horses brought swift dismissal from the field for the offender.
He and Olvric watched it for a little while from the edge of the field, but with their unerring instinct for survival, soon retired to a nearby, higher rock to watch the remainder of the game in a combination of amaze-ment and bewilderment.
At one point, Lennar, circling wide, rode by them and stopped to wipe perspiration from her flushed face. She waved enthusiastically to Yengar. ‘Get your horse. Join in,’ she cried.
Yengar declined the invitation as politely as he could, but freely cited cowardice as his excuse.
‘It’s only a little knockabout. Nothing serious,’ the woman declaimed, puzzled, but seeing Yengar was not to be persuaded, she was soon swept into the fray again.
Olvric chuckled.
‘Shut up,’ Yengar said brusquely, staring intently at the mayhem swirling in front of them.
Olvric’s chuckle turned to a barely stifled and pro-longed laugh.
The journey to Dremark had been hard on Sylvriss’s escort. They had neither the mounts, the skill, nor the endurance to keep up with the Muster line for any distance once they moved beyond a leisurely trot. Girvan was thoughtful about his guests and tried to keep the pace moderate, but even the Goraidin were more than pleased when at last they came to the top of a ridge and saw Dremark sprawling below, peaceful in the autumn sunlight; the silver thread of a river running through it.
The city streets were busy, but their width and the sense of spaciousness afforded by the relatively low buildings lent it a relaxed and pleasant air. Girvan had sent the captives in discreetly, by post-wagon, and had equally discreetly sent a personal messenger to Urthryn to tell him of the unexpected arrival of his daughter and of her wish to enter Dremark unnoticed. Thus their arrival was that of an ordinary Muster line accompanied by a few strangers, and attracted little or no attention, although one or two passers-by stared at Sylvriss awkwardly, trying to place a long-forgotten face.
The murals fascinated the Fyordyn, as did the prac-tice of the Riddinvolk of grassing the roofs of their buildings and sweeping them down to ground level in long continuous ramps.
‘Look, horses on the roofs,’ Kirran exclaimed de-lightedly, when the nature and function of the architecture became apparent. ‘These people are splendid.’ Then, gazing round: ‘It’s bigger than it seems from above, but these buildings still seem small. I wonder where they all live.’
‘Below ground,’ Sylvriss said, catching the remark. ‘Most of our buildings go at least twice as far below ground as they go above it.’
Kirran snapped his fingers. ‘I remember someone telling me about it,’ he said. ‘Fascinating. But what a strange way to live.’
The Queen smiled at this inadvertent discourtesy. ‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s very cosy. Personally I found it quite difficult to understand a people who chose to live high in the air on top of a hill, especially when their winters were so long and so cold.’
Kirran, realizing his mistake, began stammering an apology, but the Queen waved it aside, still laughing.
Then, accompanied by Girvan and one or two other riders, they were riding slowly into the city estate of Urthryn, the Ffyrst of Riddin and father to Sylvriss.
Despite the comparative warmth of the day, the Queen pulled her hood forward.
The extensive parklands of the estate were calm and peaceful after the bustle of the streets. Here and there, horses were grazing, and a few individuals were quietly tending the gardens. They paid little heed to the passing riders. The surrounding trees were rich with the yellows and golds of dying leaves and the whole was redolent with the soft scents of autumn.
The buildings at the heart of this quiet estate were taller than most of those the Fyordyn had seen in the city, but they had the same simple elegance although, conspicuously, their walls were undecorated. A small group of people stood at the foot of a broad flight of steps that led up to a wide patio which fronted the largest building.
As they drew nearer, Sylvriss urged her horse for-ward. Girvan signalled to the others to stop, and, as if at the same signal, the waiting group by the steps divided, leaving a solitary grey-haired figure watching the approach of his long-absent daughter.
Yengar and the others looked on in silence as Sylvriss dismounted and stood in front of her father. They stood for a little time looking at one another and, perhaps, talking, then without haste Urthryn opened his arms and the two embraced.
Girvan nodded his group forward, and the standing watchers too, converged on the couple.
Later, after they had eaten and been shown their quarters, the two Goraidin found themselves alone with Urthryn and Sylvriss and two of Urthryn’s closest advisers.
Yengar saw his Queen’s face in her father’s vividly as, smiling, he ushered them into a large, light room and waved them towards a circle of high, cushioned couches.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, pausing in the doorway. ‘There’s another who should be joining us here, I believe. I won’t be a moment.’
When he returned, he was accompanied by a tall man with a high domed head and a long narrow face. He was wearing a long, plain robe secured by a rope about his waist.
‘May I introduce you to Oslang,’ Urthryn said. ‘He’s from the caves, up north.’ He cleared his throat. ‘To be honest, I was on the verge of politely throwing him out, but after listening to Girvan and my daughter, his story is just one among three wild tales now, so I thought we’d hear them all together.’
Oslang bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘My brothers and I knew that it would be difficult to persuade you of our news, but you’ve been patience itself. I’m just glad that other signs have appeared without any real hurt having been done to your people.’
Urthryn grunted non-committally and eased himself stiffly onto a couch. He addressed the Goraidin. ‘We’ve heard Girvan’s tale about the Morlider,’ he said, indicating his advisers. ‘And confirmed the immediate action he’s taken about the coast watch. That’s only sensible.’ He leaned forward and waved a finger at the Goraidin. ‘But I must admit, I’m not keen on the idea of housing and feeding these beggars, to put it mildly. Sets a bad precedent.’
Before either could reply, he waved the topic aside. ‘However, we can talk about that later.’
He turned to Sylvriss and extended his hand to en-compass Oslang and his two advisers. ‘You remember Agreth and Hiron don’t you?’ Sylvriss nodded and smiled at the two men. ‘I’m afraid they’ve weathered about as badly as I have, but we’re still all here.’ He tapped his head. ‘I don’t think you ever met Oslang,’ he went on. ‘Funny sticks, the cave people. Have to be, to live up there; but harmless enough, and fine healers, without doubt. And they’re not usually given to excessive foolishness. At least, in the past they weren’t,’ he added significantly. ‘So tell me your tale again, girl. And you, Fyordyn. And you, Oslang. And let’s see if between us we can’t find out what’s going on.’
His heartiness, however, was forced, and an anx-iousness came through in his voice which even the mellowing qualities of his sing-song Riddin accent could not disguise.
It took some considerable time for the whole tale to be told, not least, Yengar thought, because of the disordered way in which the Riddinvolk proceeded, with frequent interruptions and questions, and seemingly endless repetitions. However, even he had to concede that amazement could understandably override ordered procedure when Oslang referred to Hawklan’s part in his own telling.
When eventually all had been said, Urthryn looked repeatedly from his daughter to the two Goraidin and then to Oslang. Finally he looked in some despair at his advisers.
‘I’ll be honest, lads,’ he said after a long silence. ‘If I didn’t know the people who were telling me all this, I wouldn’t have given it two minutes’ stable room.’
The two men nodded.
‘It takes a lot of believing,’ Agreth said, rather help-lessly.
‘A lot?’ Urthryn exclaimed, standing up. ‘You always did have a gift for understatement, Agreth.’ He walked to the door and spoke to someone waiting outside.
Returning, he sat down again and scratched his head. ‘I’ve always thought having kings and lords and suchlike was no way to run a country. But you seemed to manage well enough, and we’ve all got out own ways… ’ He shrugged off the digression and looked at his daughter again.
‘Rgoric poisoned and murdered.’ He shook his head and grimaced bitterly. ‘I can hardly believe it yet. I must admit, I never liked that long brown streak, Dan-Tor, but I’d never have thought… ’ He shook his head again. ‘And as for all this business about Sumeral being born again, and Dan-Tor being one of the Uhriel amp;mdashOklar amp;mdashsmashing a city with a gesture of his hand? It’s chil-dren’s tales we’re talking,’ he concluded without conviction.
Sylvriss spoke, very quietly. ‘It’s war we’re talking, father. Civil war in Fyorlund… ’
‘And who can tell what kind of a war against Narsindal?’ Oslang finished Sylvriss’s comment.
Urthryn looked up and stared at him, businesslike now.
‘I’ll need to know more of your part in this, cave dweller,’ he said bluntly. ‘We’ve always taken you for a bunch of harmless eccentrics, living in your caves up there, by Elewart; studying your lore and doing your healing. We’re a tolerant people, and we’ve always left you alone. You did no harm, and we’ve had some fine teachers and healers from you in the past. But now, you’re up to your necks in this nonsense in some way.’
Oslang sat motionless.
Urthryn continued. ‘If I’m to believe that this an-cient… demon, or whatever, has suddenly reappeared, and is already wreaking havoc in Fyorlund’ amp;mdashhe looked at Sylvriss amp;mdash‘and, seemingly, I must for now, then I want to know what amp;mdashor who amp;mdashbrought it back.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Was it some shenanigans by your people, Oslang? Meddling with things they ought to have left alone?’
Oslang met his gaze squarely. ‘No, Ffyrst, it wasn’t,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll tell you about our Order with pleasure when the need arises, but it hasn’t yet, and when I tell you it’ll be for you and your closest, most trusted aides only. The longer it is before Sumeral knows of our existence, the better.’ He looked signifi-cantly at the others in the room. ‘Suffice it to say for the moment that we are students of lore,’ he went on, ‘and teachers, and healers. But we’re more as well. And, like all of you here, we too have failed in our ancient duty.’
Urthryn frowned angrily, but Oslang continued.
‘We became introverted, parochial, neglected our duty to be out in the world, watching, listening, learning. The Fyordyn let slip their duty to watch both Narsindal and their very government. Your people, Ffyrst, the least offenders thus far, let Morlider land unhindered and unseen.’
Urthryn bristled, but Oslang waved a mitigating hand. ‘I make no judgements,’ he said, hastily. ‘There are seemingly sound reasons for all these things, but they’re irrelevant except insofar as they should be learned from. What is relevant is the dreadful whole they make.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Urthryn said, taken aback slightly by Oslang’s unexpected conclusion.
‘If the Lords can’t restore Fyorlund, or if the country is seriously weakened by civil war, then an army from Narsindal could walk straight through it and down through Orthlund, probably without resistance, unless the Orthlundyn have taken Hawklan’s advice to heart.’ It was Olvric. He had not spoken before, leaving the telling of their news to Yengar. Now his voice was cold. ‘And if the Morlider land in force they’ll fully occupy the Muster, as they did before, and an army could march down the Pass of Elewart to attack your rear leaving Riddin wide open… ’
Urthryn interrupted. ‘No, no, no,’ he protested loudly, gesticulating violently. ‘Too fast. Too fast. There are too many ifs here, Goraidin. Nobody’s mentioned armies yet. And one Morlider raiding party doesn’t make an army.’
Olvric was unabashed. ‘What else but an army slaughtered Lord Evison and his men, and gutted his castle?’ he said, an anger pervading his voice that was made the more chilling by its very restraint. ‘An army that included heavily equipped Mandrocs! Infantrymen! Evison had no doubts that Sumeral had risen, and you, above all, knew his worth as a fighter and leader. He did you service enough.’
Urthryn turned his face away at this reproach.
Olvric continued, less severely. ‘Consider, Ffyrst. In the Mathidrin, Dan-Tor has built up, armed, and trained thousands of men; unknown to us all. My belief is that they’re the officer corps of Sumeral’s army. Some of them are just ruffians, admittedly, but some aren’t. The group that chased Yengar and me half across the country were very capable.’
Yengar nodded in agreement.
‘As for the Morlider,’ Olvric went on, ‘you’re right. One raiding party amp;mdashif it was a raiding party amp;mdashdoesn’t make an army. But their leader said some ominous things, and they had torches with them that are like Dan-Tor’s globes. Twenty years ago they couldn’t even make an ordinary torch or prepare radiant stones; they still used fire of all things! We asked you to keep them captive so that we could question them, and get some facts, but there’s enough already to sketch out an overall pattern of strategy, and my every instinct tells me… ’
A knock at the door interrupted him.
‘Come in,’ Urthryn said.
The door opened to reveal Drago escorted by two large men in Muster livery. Urthryn motioned them forwards.
‘You’re not the only one with instincts, Goraidin,’ he said to Olvric. ‘I thought we’d be needing this one eventually. Let’s question him together.’
Drago scowled as he caught this remark, then laughed scornfully. ‘Question?’ he said. ‘You?’ He laughed again, then struck his chest with his clenched fist. ‘I’ve sailed through seas with waves twice the height of this building, through winds that’d pull your hair out by the roots, seen lightning burn half my crew to blackened cinders and known weather so cold it’d freeze your eyelids shut. What could you do to make me answer your questions?’
At Urthryn’s signal, the two guards ushered Drago to an empty seat and pushed him into it. He looked oddly incongruous, seated, rugged and blustering, in the midst of the quiet elegance of the Ffyrst’s chamber. His bombast faltered slightly, however, as he caught Olvric’s eye and his manner became at once quieter and more resolute.
‘And, anyway, what could you do to me that the Chief couldn’t do ten times worse with a flick of his hand?’ he asked.
‘Which chief’s this, Drago?’ Yengar asked casually. ‘Your tribe’s?’
Drago scowled indignantly and struck his chest again. ‘I’m the chief of our tribe, Fyordyn.’
Yengar looked puzzled, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, disparagingly. ‘You might have your own ship. Perhaps even be your chief’s right hand. But you’re no chief. The few I met in the war bent the knee before no one, and you were so scared of yours you were prepared to burden yourself with a pregnant woman when anyone in his senses could see it was folly.’
For an instant, Drago looked as though he was about to leap at Yengar, but something restrained him.
‘The war was twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘Things have changed since, as you’ll find out soon enough, believe me.’
‘You mean your raiding parties will sweep ruthlessly across Riddin, except when they have to run back to their chiefs with any pregnant Muster women they come across?’ Yengar said, chuckling.
Drago’s eyes blazed, but again he restrained himself.
‘Raiding parties!’ he sneered. ‘Our armies will sweep across Riddin, because we won’t quarrel amongst ourselves this time and because we’ll not have to flee after our islands.’
‘I don’t want to rake over dead ashes, Drago,’ Yen-gar said, almost offhandedly. ‘I appreciate you’ve had to make your own excuses about why you lost, just to be able to live with yourselves. But lose you did, and you’ll lose again every time you come. Let’s be honest: your people are brave, but they don’t have the skills to cope with disciplined troops.’ He gestured towards Urthryn. ‘The Muster are more active than ever now, and if you come in force again, our people and the Orthlundyn will be over the mountains without any delay this time.’ He leaned back, relaxed. ‘And even if you’ve got faster ships, you’ll still have to leave when the tides carry your islands too far away. Everything’s against you.’
Yengar’s manner had become increasingly disdain-ful and casual as he spoke but, unexpectedly, Drago did not rise to his subtle taunting.
‘That was twenty years ago, High Guard,’ he re-peated, shaking his head, knowingly. ‘I told you, things have changed. We’ve learned how to fight your way.’ He waved his hands about. ‘In lines and squares. And our islands aren’t moved at the whim of the tides anymore.’
Yengar turned to Olvric. ‘I said there’d be no point talking to him,’ he said. ‘He’s just an under-chief of some kind. Blustering because a woman bested him.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Armies!’ he said to himself with a chuckle. ‘Lines and squares. Morlider Infantry!’ Then, with a laugh, and his hands holding imaginary reins, ‘It’ll be Morlider Muster next.’ His manner was cruelly infectious and the laughter spread round the group.
‘And how do you defy the tides, Drago? How do you stop your islands floating away?’ he managed after a moment. ‘All line up on the shore with oars, and row?’
Drago leapt to his feet furiously as the laughter rose around him. The two guards restrained him, although he did not struggle. ‘You’ll sing a different song when our fleets land and when we cut through your precious horses without even breaking step,’ he shouted. ‘As for the Fyordyn and the Orthlundyn, let them come amp;mdashas fast as they like. We’ll deal with them when they get here and then we’ll take their lands too.’
Yengar pulled a face of mock concern. ‘Riddin, Orthlund and Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘Things have changed. Your chief must be quite a big talker.’
Surprisingly, Drago’s anger fell from him, and for an instant he looked frightened. ‘I wouldn’t be too free with your abuse, if I were you,’ he said, sitting down again.
Yengar’s mood changed with the Morlider’s and he looked sympathetic. ‘He frightens you, Drago?’ he said, seriously.
Drago looked at him uncertainly. ‘All leaders frighten those they lead, Fyordyn. Even in your country.’
Yengar made no comment but leaned forward, con-cerned. ‘Drago, look around,’ he said. ‘We’re none of us children. We know something of your ways. Your tribes are fiercely independent. You said yourself that they quarrelled amongst themselves even during the war. It’s just not possible for one tribe to do what you’ve described, however fearsome a leader they might have.’
Drago did not reply.
‘And, realistically, do you seriously expect us to believe that you can stop your islands following the flow of the tides?’ Yengar concluded.
Drago looked down. ‘I don’t give a damn whether you believe it or not,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll find out soon enough when his heel’s on your neck as well.’
Yengar looked at him shrewdly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s it, is it? One of the tribes on your island has conquered the others and forced you into some kind of alliance.’
Drago turned away from him.
‘What’s this chief called, then?’ Yengar continued. ‘Which tribe did he come from?’
‘I’ve said enough,’ Drago replied. ‘I’ll tell you noth-ing further. Take me back to my men.’
Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances. Yengar’s casual and seemingly irrelevant probing had yielded all it could for the moment; another approach could now be tried.
‘Let him go,’ Olvric said caustically. ‘He’s just an-other loud-mouthed ruffian, full of wind and sea-water. They’re all the same.’ He gestured towards Sylvriss. ‘One good woman’s worth a dozen of them, fancy new chief or not.’
Drago’s eyes narrowed at Olvric’s tone. ‘You won’t be so brave when you look into his face, Fyordyn,’ he said menacingly.
Olvric sneered. ‘Nasty stare, has he?’ he said. ‘Well, it wouldn’t take much more than a stern look to intimi-date someone who lets his men do infantile tricks like Symm did with his biiig knife. How’s his toothache, by the way?’ He smacked his fist into his hand and laughed scornfully.
Drago gripped the arms of his chair, goaded by Olvric’s tone. The Goraidin sneered again and, holding out his hands, palms upwards, mockingly beckoned him forward. Drago snarled at this further taunt then leapt up before his two guards could prevent him.
Three strides would have brought him to Olvric, but he had scarcely completed one when he staggered backwards as if a great blow had struck him in the chest.
There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room. No one had touched him.
Olvric, half standing, in anticipation of Drago’s assault, gazed in amazement at the sprawling figure. For all his size, the Morlider would have been no match for Olvric, and the intention in their impromptu interroga-tion had been for Yengar to intervene and rescue Drago from Olvric’s brutality.
Now the Morlider was struggling to rise as if a heavy weight were pressing down on him.
‘Get up slowly, Drago, and take your seat again.’ The voice cut quietly through the confusion. It was Oslang’s.
Urthryn looked at him sharply.
The two guards, as stunned as everyone else, bent down to help Drago, but he shook them off angrily and staggered to his feet unaided, his face riven with fear and rage. He pointed a shaking hand at Oslang and his mouth opened and shut several times before he managed to speak. Yengar frowned in sympathy with the man’s massive distress.
‘You’re the same,’ Drago managed eventually, his voice hoarse and cracked. ‘I’ll… ’
Oslang lifted his hand and Drago fell silent. ‘Take your seat, Drago,’ he said again, gently.
The Morlider did as he was bidden.
Oslang caught Urthryn’s eye and looked quickly at the guards. ‘It’s all right, lads,’ Urthryn said to them. ‘You can wait outside. I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble.’
As soon as the two men had left, however, Olvric made a brief signal to Yengar then, drawing his knife, he swung round and held it to Oslang’s throat. The movement was hypnotically fast, and no one reacted except Yengar who, at the same time, drew his sword and levelled it at Drago.
Urthryn started up, but Sylvriss restrained him.
‘Explain,’ Olvric said grimly. ‘Very quickly. Make no movement. If I feel any force acting on me, I’ll kill you without further warning.’ Oslang’s eyes widened in terror at the simple unemotional resolve in his voice and in the cold steel against his throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed after a moment. ‘It was a reflex. He startled me when he jumped up. I didn’t mean to… ’ His voice faded.
‘Goraidin, you abuse your rights here,’ Urthryn said angrily, but still Sylvriss restrained him, though she too was wide-eyed and anxious at this sudden development. Yengar and Olvric had been so sensitive to her needs on their journey, tendering her many subtle kindnesses, yet now they were threatening this seemingly harmless old man. But was he harmless? Something had knocked the Morlider down. She realized abruptly that it was the Goraidin’s very sensitivity that gave them such appall-ingly clear vision and the freedom to act on it.
Olvric ignored Urthryn’s outburst, his gaze never once wavering from Oslang’s frightened face. ‘The only person we know who can deliver a blow at a distance without a weapon is Dan-Tor,’ he said quietly but coldly. ‘This one just did the same. Perhaps he too could raze a city if he wished. We can’t afford the risk of him being one of Dan-Tor’s lackeys. I’ll give him the opportunity to explain himself, but a hint of any such power again and he dies.’
‘Please… ’ gasped Oslang.
‘Are you here to do Dan-Tor’s will?’ Olvric asked simply.
‘No,’ Oslang replied, swallowing. ‘Truly. We oppose him and his Master, utterly.’
‘But you use his weapons,’ Olvric pressed.
‘Yes amp;mdashno amp;mdashthey’re not his weapons. They’re any-one’s. Anyone with the knowledge of how to use them,’ Oslang replied. ‘You could kill friend and foe alike with your dagger, couldn’t you, Goraidin?’
Olvric did not reply.
‘You’ll not face Dan-Tor, let alone Sumeral, with any chance of victory without those beside you who can use the same power,’ Oslang gasped. ‘You must have learned that already.’
Olvric’s eye narrowed, then he withdrew the knife. Oslang slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. He was shaking violently. Only Sylvriss and Yengar noted that Olvric’s hand too was shaking as he sheathed his knife.
When Oslang sat up, he was white-faced and still trembling. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I’m a student of lore, not a warrior. I feel sick amp;mdashlet me have a moment to recover myself.’ He looked at Olvric. ‘You’re a terrifying man, Goraidin,’ he said softly.
‘I take no pride in it,’ Olvric replied. ‘It’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of our calling. But it’s saved my life and others’ before now. Another aspect is to use my instinct and it’s that which has saved your life. But we still need an explanation from you.’
Oslang nodded. ‘In a moment,’ he said, still dis-turbed.
Urthryn looked on doubtfully, still angry at the Goraidin’s savage threat to his guest. Only his daugh-ter’s silent support for Olvric had restrained him from calling to the guards waiting outside. Yet he too was alarmed by the demonstration of power that Oslang had inadvertently given.
‘I’ll have the Morlider taken away before we do any more talking,’ he said. ‘We can deal with him later.’
‘No, Ffyrst,’ Oslang said, anxiously. ‘With your per-mission I’d like to ask him something.’
Glancing first at Olvric, Urthryn nodded his assent.
Drago, still with Yengar’s sword at his breast, looked at Oslang like a trapped animal.
Oslang cleared his throat. ‘Why’ve you come here, Drago?’ he said gently. The Morlider did not reply. Oslang looked puzzled. ‘Just twelve of you, in that little boat. Your raiding parties used to be much bigger.’
Drago shot an anxious glance at Urthryn. ‘You have our boat?’ he asked.
Urthryn nodded, then in response to the almost paternal concern in the man’s voice said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s unharmed. We want you away from here as soon as we can. Just tell us why you were here. Did you get lost or something?’
Drago seemed grateful for Urthryn’s news about his boat but curled his lip at his last remark. ‘Lost,’ he said. ‘I’m Morlider. I don’t get lost at sea. For what it’s worth to you amp;mdashwhich is nothing amp;mdashwe were here looking for suitable landing places for our fleet.’
Urthryn’s eyes widened at this unexpected admis-sion.
Drago looked at him. ‘I’m not a fool, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I know what I’ve told you. But it’ll make no difference. Not this time.’
Urthryn seemed inclined to pursue the matter but Oslang spoke again. ‘Tell us about your new chief then, Drago,’ he said casually. ‘You’re a quarrelsome and fractious people if history tells aright. I’d be interested to know about a man who could bring together not only the tribes of one island, but the tribes of all the islands.’
Drago started. ‘I said nothing about that,’ he said defensively.
Oslang shrugged. ‘What else could you have meant?’ he asked. ‘You allied yourselves after a fashion last time when chance brought you together. Now I presume what Yengar said is true: one of your chiefs has taken over an entire Island. He’s also persuaded some of the other islands to join him in another assault on Riddin.’ He looked impressed. ‘It’s not the first time that a strong man has brought disparate tribes together,’ he went on. ‘And I don’t suppose it’ll be the last. But it’s rare, and the men who achieve it are usually fascinating people. Is he a young man? A great fighter in personal combat? Or is he a thinker? An organizer?’
‘It’s more likely to be an old woman,’ Olvric inserted acidly.
Drago gritted his teeth, and levelled his finger at Olvric. ‘If you were my greatest friend, High Guard, I’d drag you behind my ship for the sharks before I’d wish Karios’s attention to fall on you,’ he said viciously. Then, suddenly, he looked desperate, as if the very mention of his leader’s name were likely to bring some dire punishment down on his head immediately.
Oslang raised his hand gently and when he spoke his voice was low and thoughtful, almost rhythmic. Drago leaned towards him attentively, as if he were listening to a voice that none of the others could hear. His anxious look gradually faded.
‘It sounds to me as though your leader is a fearsome fighter, Drago,’ the Cadwanwr said. ‘A man who cut his way up through the ranks of the tribe unexpectedly. A younger son perhaps? Killed his brothers?’
Drago shook his head, his manner becoming in-creasingly relaxed and calm. ‘He’s not one of us,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea where he came from. A boat brought him from the battle shore during the war.’
‘A slave has taken charge of your people?’ Oslang asked in amazement.
Drago shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘He was a healer. He saved my old chief. Dragged him out from under a pile of bodies on the battle shore, got him to a boat and back to his ship and then nursed him until he was well again.’
Oslang nodded his head steadily. ‘And then?’ he prompted.
Drago shrugged. ‘He just became part of the tribe. Doctoring people, then advising, then tending to tribal matters when the chief was sick again.’
Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances at this brief telling, with its similarities to the progress of Dan-Tor through the government of Fyorlund.
‘Your chief’s illness kept recurring?’ Yengar asked.
Drago did not seem to hear him. Oslang repeated the question.
The Morlider nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Fighting fit one minute. Down the next. But never bad enough to be set aside by acclaim.’ He grinned, as if at old memories. ‘Any sign of any real opposition to his authority and he was out, axe swinging. Soon put paid to anyone looking to take his place.’
‘How did this Karios become chief of all the islands, Drago?’ Oslang asked softly.
Drago frowned, as if confused. ‘The chief was mur-dered,’ he said. ‘His other advisers were jealous of Karios. They turned on him for some reason… ’
‘Don’t you know?’ Oslang probed gently.
Drago hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was at sea. It was all over when I got back.’ The alarm came back into his face. ‘It’s as well I was,’ he said. ‘A lot of the chief’s men died that day, one way and another, fighting for or against him… ’ He fell silent.
Oslang prompted him gently.
‘They say Karios protected him with his own body,’ Drago began again. ‘But there were too many attackers, and although they were all killed in the end, it was too late.’
‘And Karios took command?’ Oslang asked.
Drago nodded. ‘He was the only one who could,’ he said enigmatically. ‘But he was changed.’
‘In what way?’ Oslang asked.
Drago looked up, his eyes fearful. ‘He had… power,’ he said, as though the words were being dragged from him. ‘Terrible power.’ Then, anxious at even this slight betrayal of his leader, ‘But he uses it only on his enemies, those who oppose him. He’s changed many of our ways… for the better.’ His voice became strident. ‘Now we’re one people. He’s united us. Promised us our old country back.’
Oslang’s gesture prevented Urthryn intervening. Drago’s voice dropped and he became confidential.
‘He has power over the waves,’ he said. ‘Now the islands move at his will, not the whim of the tides.’
He fell silent again.
Oslang, now seemingly fully recovered from Olvric’s threat, went pale again at Drago’s last remark. He moved his hand gently from side to side, and the Morlider leaned back in his chair and fell asleep.
‘What have you done to him?’ Urthryn said, his voice low in amazement.
Oslang, preoccupied, started slightly. ‘Oh. Just de-ceived him a little,’ he said.
‘You have some surprising skills,’ Olvric said.
Oslang looked at him nervously. ‘He was frightened and alone,’ he said. ‘And his ways of thinking are simpler, more primitive than ours. Even so, it wasn’t easy. Have no fear, it’s not a device I could use on you.’
Olvric raised an eyebrow. Sylvriss looked between the two men. ‘You must understand, Oslang,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor smashed houses, streets, people, with a wave of his hand. We’re ordinary people. We’re frightened enough by swords and spears, but these amp;mdashpowers amp;mdashthat you and he seem able to use, take us far beyond that fear and our thinking becomes primitive in its presence.’
Oslang looked at her. ‘I do understand, lady,’ he said. ‘And I’ll explain as best I can, but you must understand also: Sumeral will have to be opposed both with swords and spears, and the Old Power.’ He turned to the two Goraidin. ‘You know that, don’t you? You’d not have let me go if you hadn’t already asked your-selves how an army of men could stand against the destructive force that Oklar used against Vakloss.’
Olvric eyed him narrowly. ‘Have you the power to oppose Dan-Tor’s strength?’ he asked.
Oslang smiled ruefully. ‘To oppose, yes. To survive, no,’ he said, looking round at the others. ‘Not alone. Any more than you could oppose a cavalry charge and live. My skills, like those you possess amp;mdashriding, fighting, ruling amp;mdashare such as can be acquired by one man with a lifetime’s hard study and practice. Dan-Tor’s… Oklar’s… were acquired over generations, under the tutelage of Sumeral Himself. I’m little or nothing compared to him, but there are many in our Order and such skills as we have between us we will ally with yours to oppose Him. Your swords, our knowledge, are all we have, be they inadequate or no.’
Olvric leaned forward to speak, but Oslang contin-ued. ‘Now we have another consideration. Now we must ask whose power is it that can move the Morlider islands against the ways of the ocean?’
This abrupt reversion to Drago’s remark brought an uneasy silence to the room.
‘No riddles, Oslang,’ Urthryn said, cutting through it. ‘Let’s hear this tangled saga to its end, then we can debate conclusions.’
Oslang nodded an acknowledgement, but it was Olvric who spoke.
‘Karios barely disguises his real name,’ he said qui-etly. ‘He’s Creost the second of the Uhriel. He could be no other. Who else could oppose the tides? And his rise to power and his control over such a people parallels almost exactly that of Oklar over the Fyordyn.’ In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, he put his hands to his head. ‘Every step we take along this road sinks us further and further into ancient horrors.’
No one seemed inclined to dispute Olvric’s opinion, and the room become silent again.
Then Urthryn leaned forward and conspicuously pinched himself.
‘Just making sure I actually woke up today,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Unfortunately, it seems that I have.’
He sat back and surveyed his guests. ‘I said before, it was children’s tales we were listening to and I’ve not changed my mind. However, children’s tales or no, they appear to be true.’ He looked at his two advisers who had remained virtually silent throughout. ‘However ludicrous it all seems I can’t doubt either my daughter’s word or the words of two Goraidin. That, plus this fellow’s tale,’ he nodded towards the sleeping Drago, ‘and Oslang’s party tricks, set aside any serious doubts we’re entitled to.’
Agreth spoke. ‘I fear you’re right, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to laugh all this to scorn; it defies reason. But, as you say, the witnesses are too weighty by far. We can’t do other than accept what they say at its face value, ridiculous though it seems. I think all we can do after that is find out from Drago here what the strength of the Morlider is, when their invasion is due, and then make plans accordingly.’
Urthryn nodded. ‘That’s our major problem for sure. If they come in force they’ll outnumber us as before, but if they’ve learned to fight in "lines and squares, like the Fyordyn"’ he mimicked Drago’s harsh accent amp;mdash‘then we’ll have desperate problems. We’ll have to defeat them as they land. If they get any kind of a foothold, it’s going to be grim indeed.’
He turned to Olvric and Yengar. ‘Can you stay and advise us, Goraidin?’ he asked.
Yengar looked relieved. ‘Yes, Ffyrst,’ he replied. ‘But we can’t advise you on how to deal with Creost. Even now, Lord Eldric and the others go in fear of Dan-Tor amp;mdashOklar amp;mdashapproaching alone, and destroying their strongholds as easily as he did Vakloss.’
Urthryn turned to Oslang and then back to the two Goraidin. ‘Can you three work together in some semblance of peace and trust?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Olvric replied without hesitation. ‘He fright-ened me badly when he knocked down the Morlider, but neither before nor since did I feel any evil in him.’ He extended his hand to Oslang. ‘I won’t apologize for what I did,’ he said. ‘You know I’d no alternative, don’t you? But I’ll accept any rebuke you care to offer me, and if you wish’ amp;mdashhe looked quickly at Yengar, who nodded amp;mdash‘we’ll share our knowledge with you, and work with you in every way to defeat this abomination that’s leached back into the world.’
Oslang took the hand. ‘I’ve no rebuke for you, Goraidin,’ he said. ‘I’m just glad I survived, and glad you’re on our side. I’d be honoured both to teach you, and to learn from you.’
‘Good,’ Urthryn said vigorously, clapping his hands and looking increasingly businesslike. ‘We’ll have to sort this out with the heads of the Houses and the Decmills before we call a Moot, but for the time being we can double the coastal patrols amp;mdashand tell the fishing villages that the Morlider are near again.’
Hiron intervened. ‘We’ll have to make arrangements for looking after the villagers,’ he said. ‘They won’t go to sea once they hear that.’
Urthryn nodded. ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ he said, his eyes wrinkling in self-reproach. ‘But we can’t not tell them.’ He fell silent.
‘Why won’t they go to sea?’ Yengar asked.
‘Their boats can’t outrun the Morlider ships,’ Urth-ryn said, almost offhandedly. ‘Some of the villages lost nearly all their menfolk as slaves just before the war started. The fishing’s never really been the same since.’
Yengar grimaced and looked angrily at the sleeping Morlider. Innocent fishermen amp;mdashfathers and sons amp;mdashsnatched away from their families to slavery! A host of feelings swept through him quite suddenly, but dominating them was one he had not felt for a long time. Satisfaction. Satisfaction that he, at least, could fight; that on occasions he had been able to put his skills, sometimes his sharp steel, between such inno-cents and their harrowers; that perhaps he might be able to do so again.
‘We have Drago’s boat,’ he said. ‘He and his men can’t be allowed to return to their island yet amp;mdashnot knowing what he knows now.’
Urthryn looked uncertain ‘It’s not our way, Goraidin,’ he said.
‘Times are changed, Ffyrst,’ Yengar replied. ‘And many of our ways will be changed whether we like it or not. I think you have enough disadvantages against this foe without him knowing in advance that he may be facing Fyordyn, Orthlundyn, and someone who can use the same power as their new leader.’
Urthryn nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘But what do we need their boat for?’
‘Have your fishermen learn how to use it,’ Yengar said. ‘Make more if you can. A good sea-borne signalling system might ease your fishermen’s minds and also give you several extra hours of warning.’
Urthryn nodded again, his face more optimistic. ‘Hiron, will you see to that as soon as we’re finished here. And the extra coastal patrols. Oslang, can you talk to… question… all the Morlider, separately? Find out as much as you can about this new leader and his plans?’
The two men bowed their heads in acknowledgment.
Urthryn hitched himself up in the chair. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘that’s a start made towards dealing with the Morlider. But it was no easy task fighting them the last time, and it sounds as if it’s going to be even worse now, for all we’re forearmed.’ He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. ‘We’ll have to work out our strategy and tactics and so on, but it seems to me that we’re going to have precious little left to help you with your problem in Fyorlund,’ he said. ‘And as for Sumeral… ’
Sylvriss laid her hand over his, and looked at the two Goraidin. ‘Only the Fyordyn can solve their immediate problem, father,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be pain and horror enough with kin fighting kin without one side calling on Outlanders for help. I came here to have Rgoric’s child in safety and to tell you what’s happened before news from any other source reached you.’
‘But we can’t stand idly by,’ Urthryn said.
Sylvriss’s voice became resolute. ‘When the weather permits, send messengers to Eldric. Tell him we’re safe, and what’s happening here; it will stiffen his own purpose. Tell him also that you’re sending one of your advisers to Orthlund, to Anderras Darion, to enlist the help of the Orthlundyn and to find out what’s happened to Hawklan.’
‘Hawklan,’ Urthryn said, as if testing the name. ‘He slips through this tale like a binding thread. And he’s made a considerable impression on you, considering you’ve only seen him unconscious.’ There was a gentle, fatherly taunt in his voice, but Sylvriss did not respond in kind.
‘He lies near the heart of this, father, I’m sure,’ she said, intensely. ‘It seems he started Oslang’s people towards their awakening. He faced Oklar’s wrath, and lived amp;mdashor at least didn’t perish. And while he was amongst them, he won the loyalty and obedience of the Goraidin. He’s no ordinary man.’
Urthryn looked at his daughter keenly.
‘Oslang, what’s your view on the worth of this man?’ he asked.
‘He is the heart, Ffyrst,’ Oslang said immediately. ‘The leader of our Order, Andawyr, is even now journeying to Anderras Darion to discover his where-abouts.’ He paused and looked reflective. When he spoke again, it was half to himself. ‘It seems Sumeral tests us with his lieutenants. The Fyordyn must face Oklar, and the Riddinvolk, Creost. If either fall, then both fall, and Orthlund will stand alone. If we prevail, then my heart tells me that it will be Hawklan and the Orthlundyn who lead us against the Dark Lord Himself.’