Dan-Tor gazed down from the high platform that had been built on top of the temporary structure now serving as a gate to the Palace. On either side of him, resplendent in full dress uniform, stood Urssain and Aelang, while behind him stood Dilrap, together with several other senior palace officials and Mathidrin Commanders.
In front of them, disappearing into the darkness, the two great avenues that the unleashed Oklar had cut through the City were lined with crowds, upturned faces mottled and seething in the harsh light of the globes that illuminated the immediate vicinity of the Palace.
An excited clamour rose up around the high-placed watchers.
Dan-Tor stepped forward and placed both hands on the guard rail at the front of the platform. For a moment he looked up and down the crowd, then he raised one arm high above his head.
The noise from the crowd fell, and a rippling motion passed through it as though it were corn bowing before the wind as heads turned expectantly away from the Ffyrst to look into the darkness that shrouded the further reaches of the two avenues. The globes dimmed and the hush deepened in response, then, faintly, a distant sound percolated through the residual murmur: an insistent, pulsing rhythm.
Slowly it drew nearer and grew in intensity until it seemed it was shaking the very ground. The noise of the crowd grew with it, and then, abruptly rolling out of the darkness, came the clamorous din of horns and trumpets, their sound harsh and brazen. At the same time, lights began to appear, eerily, like uncertain fireflies.
One by one, raggedly but rapidly, they flickered into existence, spreading down the long, unseen perspectives of Oklar’s handiwork until they formed two vast wavering carpets of light.
A great cheer went up from the crowd as the bearers of this light came into view: rank upon rank of Mathidrin troopers.
Relentlessly, following the insistent beat of their pounding drummers, the two great streams of men moved forward until, reaching the large open area that now fronted the Palace, they began, amid much raucous shouting of orders, to spread out and merge together to form a single glowing mass surrounded by the cheering people.
Behind them, in even greater numbers, followed men and women, wearing the dark brown livery of the new Citizen’s Militia; and finally came the various local troops of the equally new Youth Corps, stern, spruced and front-faced.
A little behind Dan-Tor, Dilrap gazed down at the spectacle. Apart from those playing instruments, everyone was carrying a blazing torch or a standard or flag of some kind.
The sight chilled him, as did the pounding, braying din that filled the night, not least because he himself found he was once again exhilarated by its massive, primitive splendour.
And yet he could see the heart of the corruption in these great rallies flickering even in the torches that illuminated them. The revealing light of the traditional sun-fed Fyordyn torches could not have produced such a sight, nor could the garish hand-globes that emerged from Dan-Tor’s workshops; their light was inhumanly penetrating. Only naked flames could achieve what he was watching now. Flames guttering wantonly; tainting the air with their smoke and destroying what fed them to produce a light too unsteady to serve any fine purpose, and an uncontrolled heat to be scattered pointlessly into the night. It typified the new spirit of Dan-Tor’s Vakloss, and it was appalling.
Surreptitiously, Dilrap turned his attention to Dan-Tor. Since his fateful encounter with Hawklan, the Ffyrst had become more stooped in his posture, his head leaning forward slightly, like a leashed animal trying to pull away from some restraint that Hawklan’s fearful arrow had imposed on him. The memory drew Dilrap’s eyes downwards. There, as ever, was a small but growing stain in the rough-hewn boards of the platform, as Dan-Tor’s blood dripped slowly but unceasingly from the barbed head of the Orthlundyn arrow.
Dilrap winced inwardly at the sight and then at his own response. It troubled him that he should have even the slightest sympathy for this… creature, that had so painstakingly corrupted Fyorlund, poisoned and then brutally murdered its King, and destroyed hundreds of its people with a mere gesture. How could he conceiva-bly have any pity for it?
He had asked himself the same question many times but had found no answer. Perhaps Dan-Tor, stooping and more careful now in his movements, reminded him of Rgoric?
It troubled him also that part of him responded to, perhaps even relished, these huge rallies. But how could he have any trait in common with this Uhriel, this abomination?
Even as he stood there, it came to Dilrap that he and Dan-Tor amp;mdashOklar even amp;mdashshared a common humanity, with all the rich and varied mixture of bonds and freedoms that that implied. Didn’t the pounding hysteria of the rallies only mirror his own urge to lash out and crush into nothingness everything that Dan-Tor stood for? Yet he was a poor torturer; he would willingly annihilate Dan-Tor, but he found it difficult to harden himself to the man’s continued suffering.
Not tonight though, he thought. This was Dan-Tor at once at his least and most human. Least, in that his stoop had gone and he stood now straight and tall like some terrible parasite drawing sustenance from the barbarous energy of the scene before him. Most, in the subtle understanding and callous cynicism he would show when he spoke once again to the people.
Cutting across Dilrap’s thoughts, Dan-Tor extended both arms, and the crowd fell silent.
He paused.
The only sound that could be heard was the gutter-ing of the countless burning torches.
‘Soon,’ he began. ‘Soon, my people.’
Your people? Dilrap thought witheringly.
‘Soon we will be ready to strike a blow against our enemies. Against the treacherous Lords and their minions, skulking in the eastern mountains.’
A great cheer went up. Dilrap presumed that, as usual, the Mathidrin had been well tutored in their responses, and those among the crowd who did not believe knew well enough what to do and when to do it.
‘Soon you will be able to witness these traitors being brought before you in chains to hear your verdict on their perfidy and dishonour.’
Dan-Tor spoke slowly but with great force, and he paused at the end of each sentence. His voice was rich and sonorous, and reverberated across the crowd, strangely magnified. Dilrap noticed that when Dan-Tor spoke in this manner he would hold his hand to his wounded side as if the very act of speaking caused him pain, though nothing showed either on his long brown face or in those terrible eyes.
The Ffyrst raised his hand after a moment, to still the cheering. ‘Only for a little while now need I ask you to curb your righteous impatience,’ he continued. ‘We must not misjudge the cunning, the strength or the will of our enemies. We must wait until all our strength is full ripe before we strike. But the time will be soon.’
The cheering rose again. Dan-Tor nodded under-standingly. ‘Do not forget, my people. There is no depth to which our foes would not stoop to seize the crown and crush you under the heels of their High Guards again. Did they not bring an Orthlundyn assassin to draw me from my King’s side so that he would be alone; sick and defenceless against the ruthless ambition of Eldric and his son?’
His voice began to rise. ‘But by the will of some greater protector than I, they failed. Their murderous lackey missed his mark… ’
He struck his chest with his hand.
‘… and seeing his failure, showed his true nature amp;mdashnot just that of a murderer, but that of a foul meddler in forbidden and long-forgotten arts.’
Then, arms pounding forward with each word along the two great avenues that he himself had smashed through the city, his voice reached a terrible peak. ‘See what the Orthlundyn wrought across your fair city in his spite and fury.’
The crowd roared.
Dan-Tor allowed the clamour to continue for some time, then extended his arms to beat it down. ‘Yet even as his City amp;mdashthe heart of his kingdom amp;mdashwas being thus destroyed by a terrible and ancient power, your King was fighting. Fighting his last and greatest battle.’
His voice fell abruptly. ‘I, above all, knew that even in the darkest moments of his illness, Rgoric’s thoughts were ever and only for his people. Tormented though his body was, his heart was yours, and his spirit was that of the line of kings that stretches back unbroken to the Ir… ’ He faltered and lowered his head as if overcome.
Say it, you black-hearted demon, Dilrap thought viciously.
Say it, say the Iron Ring, and may the words them-selves tighten around your evil throat and choke you.
Dan-Tor recovered, but left the sentence unfinished.
‘Alone,’ he said, still softly. ‘Faced with a terrible and unexpected peril and seemingly abandoned by his closest aides.’ He lowered his head again, affecting self-reproach. ‘Rgoric reached into his innermost depths and found that ancient spirit: unbowed, undiminished. Found it amp;mdashand found the sword by his side could still fashion the will of that spirit.’
His voice rose steadily. ‘And his hand, though long weakened by illness, took that sword and fought. Fought as it had not fought in twenty years. Fought against the youth and power of Jaldaric. Fought against the age-hardened treachery and cunning of Eldric. Fought to his bitter and tragic end, dying, cut down at the foot of his own throne.’
The crowd’s roar became one of fury, the zealots among them now captured utterly by Dan-Tor’s words.
He raised his voice above their clamour. ‘Assailed and wounded myself, I returned too late to save my king amp;mdashour king amp;mdashbut I saved Fyorlund’s crown. And with his last strength, Rgoric held it out to me and implored me to accept the burden he had borne so long. "For my people," he said. And with his dying breath he imposed on me a further duty. "Seek out and destroy those who have so cruelly destroyed me," he said. "Save my people. Lead them to the truth."’
Dan-Tor paused, waiting for the moment that would catch the crest of the crowd’s frenzy. Then, into a momentary lull, he almost whispered, ‘I am Fyordyn. How could I not accept?’
The roaring swept up around him again. ‘How could I not?’ he thundered over it. ‘And how can you not accept that same burden? Vengeance must be ours. Vengeance for Vakloss, smashed by an alien intruder at the whim of the Lords. Vengeance for your friends slain in that same terrible moment. And… ’
His voice disappeared under the great cry of ‘Vengeance for Rgoric. Vengeance for Rgoric. Venge-ance for Rgoric.’ Over and over, it filled the night air.
Dan-Tor’s arms stretched out again and suddenly, amid the tumult, the drums began to beat and the trumpets and horns to sound; louder and more raucous than before. The Mathidrin, the Militia, and the Youth Corps began to divide and execute a series of elaborate marching and counter-marching exercises, the rhythm of their iron shod feet underscoring the brutal rhythm of the music. Dan-Tor stepped back from the front of the platform.
Different this time, Dilrap thought, as the party on the platform began to relax. A strike against the enemy soon, he had said. Soon!
How soon?
Dilrap let the thought pass; Dan-Tor would give no further clues that night. He glanced at Urssain and Aelang, heads close, smiling knowingly as if at some private jest. For all the sinister power these two exercised, he suspected that the Ffyrst’s announcement had been news to them. He would just have to watch and listen; watch events and listen for the meaning behind the words.
His train of thought led him to Tel-Odrel and Lorac and the other agents of the Lords currently in Vakloss. His eyes flickered over the crowd. He knew that it would not be possible to see anyone clearly from such a height in that grotesque mixture of subdued globelight and flickering firelight, not to mention the haze of smoke that was accumulating in the still night air, but it offered him a small comfort to know that they would be there.
For there they would be, beyond doubt, as they had been at all the other rallies. Indeed, Dilrap had hoped when these rallies began that the Goraidin would be able to stop Dan-Tor’s progress with another single arrow. He had stood on the platform, almost holding his breath, waiting for the Goraidin’s messenger to come singing out of the darkness to strike down Dan-Tor as he stood exposed to view. But, gently, the Goraidin had disabused him: good archers though they were, the nearest houses were too far away for a safe shot, especially at night; Dan-Tor might well be wearing body armour now; indeed, could an ordinary arrow even injure him? Who knew what strange protections such as a creature might have? And the price of a failed attempt? It would surely cost those Fyordyn under Dan-Tor’s sway what few liberties they still had left. No, the Goraidin must do as Dilrap did: watch and listen.
And that is what they would be doing now: watch-ing, listening. They too would have noted the change in emphasis from previous such speeches. Shorter than many, and no mention this time of the enemy within; no calls for the people to ‘Be vigilant. The Lords have many friends and sympathizers amongst us.’ No corrosive insinuations: ‘Look around you. How many of your friends and neighbours are not here tonight? How many of your work-mates? Have these people no wish to hear what we intend against our enemies in the east? No wish to support us in our work?’ Followed invariably, with voice lowered and bony finger jabbing the air, by, ‘If they are not here, where are they? What are they doing?’ and then, ‘Be vigilant. Listen for the words of doubt and treachery that will inevitably betray those who lapse from honour. Bring their names forward so that they can be reasoned with and given the opportunity to admit their error before it spreads and corrodes us all.’
Perhaps more than anything, Dilrap was grieved by the harvest that these seeds yielded: the growth of secret informers whispering and denouncing, settling old scores, real and imagined; the growth of the Citizens’ Militia, a grotesque imitation of the High Guards, peevish and strutting at its best, savagely vicious at its worst amp;mdasha haven for the self-righteous, the unrepentant ignorant and the petty. But worst of all was the Youth Corps amp;mdashthe ‘next generation of Mathidrin’ as Dan-Tor called them. Dilrap knew already of several people who had been denounced to the Mathidrin by their own children.
The next generation!
Fighting now, against today’s enemies, was grim enough for Dilrap, but the thought that Dan-Tor had his eyes on some distant future, that his vision was one of a rule that would last for generations, chilled Dilrap utterly.
Yet at the same time it stiffened his resolve. Dan-Tor’s towering intent would be but the foundation for His plans, and if the one could be undermined at its inception, then so perhaps could be the other. And Dilrap was sure that Dan-Tor’s hold on the hearts of the Fyordyn was far less than the rapturous hysteria of the rallies seemed to indicate.
Dilrap understood fear, and it was fear that held the Fyordyn silent and acquiescent; fear of the naked brutality of the Mathidrin holding the streets, and fear of the knocking at the door in the dark hours of the night that would leave houses greeting the morning empty and deserted.
And tightening the bonds of fear was ignorance: ignorance of the truth of the fate of their King and Queen, and ignorance of the deeds and intentions of the Lords. It was ignorance which fed the whispering web of lies and mistrust that grew daily, bringing rumours of unseen violence and horror from the dark heart of the Mathidrin’s power, the Westerclave; bringing rumours of massacres of innocents by High Guards in distant estates, and rumours of Orthlundyn armies massing on the borders, led by a terrible warlock Lord. It was ignorance that brought the darkness and confusion through which only Dan-Tor seemed to offer a way.
Yet other threads mingled with the choking gossa-mer of this web amp;mdashthreads based no less in ignorance but with a truer, sounder, feel: Dan-Tor had poisoned the King for years and had murdered him when he at-tempted to regain his power and released Eldric and Jaldaric; the Queen had fled to the Lords for safety, carrying Rgoric’s child inside her; and, sibilant under these, were whispered words such as ‘Mandrocs’, ‘Narsindal’ and, softest of all… ‘Sumeral, risen again’… and was not Dan-Tor, Oklar, His erstwhile lieuten-ant, come to prepare a way for Him? And was it not Dan-Tor who had destroyed the city to silence the accusation of the strange Orthlundyn?
But the darkness dominated. Fear of unknown in-formants, unheard denunciations and silent arrests seeped into every aspect of the people’s lives, cracking apart old friendships, straining and even destroying families. Yet the very darkness itself hid the opposition to their new ruler that bubbled within many of the Fyordyn, so that it waited, silent and watchful, until eventually his step would falter.
A voice roused Dilrap from his reverie.
‘The people grow more enthusiastic with each dem-onstration, don’t you think, Secretary?’
The voice was Dan-Tor’s, normal now, and it brought Dilrap sharply and coldly back to the present.
‘Indeed, Ffyrst,’ he said, bowing and stepping for-ward. ‘Your spirit fires us all.’ He looked down at the interchanging columns and ranks of marchers with their swaying banners and blazing torches.
Dan-Tor watched him intently, but without the awful eyes of his true self. ‘Yet you yourself do not seem inspired by the sight of our growing army,’ he said.
Dilrap did as he always did when opportunity al-lowed, he spoke as much of the truth as he dared.
‘I’m not a military man, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I find the prospect of war frightening and these displays of your power quite overwhelming.’
Unexpectedly, Dan-Tor almost sneered. He waved a dismissive hand across the bellowing scene in front of him. ‘This is not my power, Dilrap,’ he said. ‘This is the puny ranting of a crushed people. When they have destroyed the Lords, then you will begin to see my power: the true power.’
Dilrap said nothing, but held his breath close. His stomach turned over. Why does he talk to me like this? he thought. Why does he come so near to saying who he truly is?
Abruptly, Dan-Tor turned. Dilrap’s chest tightened. But the Ffyrst ignored him. ‘Stay here and watch,’ he said brusquely to the people around him, then he strode from the platform. Dilrap bowed hastily, as did all the others, then, turning back to the crowd, he gripped the guard rail and, closing his eyes briefly, let out as long a breath as he dared.
When he opened his eyes, Urssain was standing beside him. He looked at the Mathidrin Commander. The man was changing perceptibly. Learning from his master, Dilrap thought. He was becoming less surly, and seemed even to be developing a peculiar charm at times. It made Dilrap’s flesh crawl. Urssain as an ambitious thug was bad enough, but at least it had a certain honesty. Now, with his greater authority and power allowing more rein to his true nature, the civilized veneer he was affecting was repellent in the extreme.
Ironically, though, it made Dilrap feel easier with the man. It gave him a measure of the Mathidrin’s monstrous ego. It was a weakness. Dilrap had begun looking for weaknesses in the moths that fluttered around Dan-Tor’s dangerous flame. As Urssain learned from Dan-Tor, so, inadvertently, Dilrap followed the example set by Sylvriss, by wilfully ingratiating himself into the favours of anyone who could be remotely useful. This he did not by obsequious fawning, but by simple straightforward courtesy and by ensuring that where favours were sought, they would be granted if possible. But always he left a gentle, unfelt, barb in his debtor. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to do something for me one day,’ he would say, smiling, and waving his hand airily, while his eyes said, equally dearly, ‘These are difficult times. We who see this reality must help one another when need arises. Be prepared.’
It would have been an ineffective device once, when he was Rgoric’s flustered and flapping Secretary, but now, because he had not only survived the demise of Rgoric but also retained his old office, and because Dan-Tor would speak to him alone on occasions in con-spicuous privacy, it was assumed that he had the Ffyrst’s ear and that he was thus a man to be both courted and feared. In reality, no one had Dan-Tor’s ear, and Dilrap was meticulous in never claiming such a privilege; but equally, he did nothing to disabuse people of the idea. It was far too valuable a misunderstanding. Indeed, it left even Urssain uncertain.
‘Is the Ffyrst angry, Secretary?’ Urssain asked.
Dilrap looked at him enigmatically, but did not reply. This was another device that he was finding increasingly valuable. What was not said could not be argued and could not be repeated or distorted.
‘He left so suddenly,’ Urssain tried again, following the lure. ‘I thought his speech and the marching went down well.’
Dilrap turned away from him and looked down at the still marching figures. ‘The Ffyrst is the Ffyrst, Commander,’ he said. ‘Who can tell what he’s thinking?’
Urssain nodded. ‘It’s just that he spoke to you,’ he said affecting a casualness that Dilrap could smell was far from the reality of his inner feelings. Dilrap’s earlier suspicions returned. I wonder if this is the first he’s heard of this imminent assault on the Lords, he thought.
‘Just a small administrative matter,’ Dilrap said off-handedly, then, turning to the Mathidrin, he smiled nervously and attacked. ‘I didn’t realize your battle plans were so advanced, Commander. I thought your intention was still to fight a defensive war amp;mdashletting the Lords move to Vakloss, rather than risk moving across country to attack them on their own territory.’
Urssain’s eyes narrowed briefly at this unexpected observation, then he remembered his new persona and Dilrap’s uncertain status. ‘I can’t discuss that with you, Dilrap,’ he said, managing a nice balance of menace and regret.
Dilrap looked understanding, and bowed his head respectfully. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it if you did. The sooner the whole business is over, the better, as far as I’m concerned. Then we can get on with running the country properly.’
We, noted Urssain. Sooner or later, Dilrap would have to go, without a doubt. If only he could be certain of Dan-Tor’s response to such a deed.
He gave Dilrap a curt bow and returned to Aelang.
You didn’t know, did you, Commander? Dilrap thought with some glee. Your precious leader prods you along like cattle, doesn’t he?
He looked again at the weaving mass of Mathidrin, Militia and Youth Corps below him. He had no concern for the Mathidrin; let them take their chances against the Lords’ High Guards. But the Militia? That was only a sad aberration. Didn’t he himself respond to the drama of Dan-Tor’s rallies? And he knew what the creature was! How could weaker, less knowledgeable souls resist such rousing blandishments? But it would be tragic indeed if they came to be pitched into battle.
He pushed the thought away painfully. The fate of the members of the Militia was in their own hands and in any event was beyond his control. Once battle lines were drawn, many terrible things would happen, and they would only end when the conflict ended. It was his self-appointed duty to ensure that the Lords knew as much as possible about the Mathidrin so that such an end came as swiftly as it could.
When he next saw Lorac or Tel-Odrel, he would give them his impression of Urssain’s response to Dan-Tor’s announcement, but he could still tell them nothing in answer to the question that concerned the Lords most. How could Dan-Tor’s amp;mdashOklar’s amp;mdashterrible, city-wrecking power be faced and overcome by ordinary flesh and blood?
He turned, and with a pleasant bow to those around him, made his way down the long winding stairs into the glaring globelight of the courtyard.
Part of Urssain told him that he would be happier pottering about Fyorlund as he used to do, surviving on a judicious mixture of small-scale thieving and occasional employment. It was only a small part however, and only made itself heard with any force when he was facing the prospect of speaking, or worse, questioning Dan-Tor, as now. At all other times it was well submerged, lost under his desire to attain the goals that Dan-Tor had shown him at their very first meeting: goals of wealth and power.
Now, however, it was proving extremely alluring even though he knew it was an illusion, and a foolish one at that. His itinerant life held charm only in retrospect and in any event could not have been pursued in these troubled times. Besides, he was trapped; willingly, admittedly, but trapped nevertheless. He could go nowhere now but where Dan-Tor led; knives waited in every other direction.
He took a deep breath and crushed the foolishness utterly. Walk forward, he forced himself to think. Better I hold this position than someone else.
Gradually he took control of his unease. It was not, after all, unfamiliar; he had never relished talking to Dan-Tor. Against the likes of Aelang and the other senior Mathidrin officers he would risk cunning for cunning, steel for steel. Dangerous and ruthless though such men were, they were no more so than he, and he had always had the wit to learn as he moved through life. But Dan-Tor! Words such as dangerous and ruthless dwindled into insignificance, so inadequate were they, and no knowledge could assail him. And since that Orthlundyn had attacked him! Since his… transformation… Urssain shuddered inwardly and raised his hand…
‘Come in, Commander,’ Dan-Tor’s voice spoke be-fore Urssain had struck the door. He started and almost lost the inner balance he was maintaining so precari-ously. Then he straightened up and pushed the door open.
A faint, familiar scent pervaded the room. Familiar now because it lingered wherever Dan-Tor had been. It was delicate perfume, underlain by the smell of blood.
The palace servants did sterling and silent work to eradicate all signs of the Ffyrst’s slight but relentless bleeding, but traces always remained. Urssain had long stopped asking himself why Dan-Tor would not allow the arrow to be drawn, or why the wound did not either heal or fester. One day, when Dan-Tor appeared, the shaft of the arrow had been mysteriously broken, but there was an aura about the Ffyrst that forbade all questions, and the barbed head still protruded from his back.
What kind of a creature are you? Urssain’s mind still screamed at times, when the inhuman reality of Dan-Tor and his affliction touched some still uncalloused part of his nature. How can you live impaled thus? And where in your fragile human flame hides the power to destroy a city? But the answer was always: he is your future, Urssain, your only future.
Dan-Tor was standing by the window, staring northwards out over the City. His posture was slightly stooped as usual and, as he turned to face Urssain, his eyes were still focussed in the far distance. Briefly, Urssain thought he felt a fleeting sense of homesickness, a longing for other places, other times, but it passed almost before he was aware of it as Dan-Tor turned his attention to him.
‘You come to quiz me about my speech, Com-mander?’ he said, almost good-humouredly.
Urssain hesitated. ‘I have come to ask if you could clarify it for me, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Last night was our most effective rally so far amp;mdashvery exhilarating. I was concerned that in the excitement I might have misun-derstood what you were saying.’
Dan-Tor’s eyes narrowed and Urssain felt a ripple pass through his already pervasive terror. That was wrong, he thought, bracing himself for the reproach that must inevitably come.
But no soul-searing glance came to mark his folly. A wave of relief passed over him. The Ffyrst was in a quiet, seemingly straightforward mood. The force of his presence dominated the room as ever, but there was little if any of the terrifying malevolence that the Orthlundyn’s arrow had seemingly released: the malevolence of Oklar. Occasionally, Urssain allowed himself to think of that name when he was in the Ffyrst’s presence, but not often, and not for long. The implications of the name were more than terrifying and he knew he must gradually school himself to them if they were not to overwhelm him. Rumours were all over the City about the true nature of Dan-Tor but, like the King in his death throes, Urssain knew the truth. He had been too close to the unleashing of Oklar for it to be otherwise.
‘Urssain,’ Dan-Tor said coldly. ‘Is palace life addling your wits that you think to flatter me? Don’t do that again if you wish to remain of service to me. I need your obedience, that is all. Ask your question.’
He turned away to recommence his vigil, and Urs-sain breathed out softly. He knew that to apologize now would be to compound his error, so he gave Dan-Tor what he required: obedience.
‘Is it your intention now to mount a campaign against the Lords in the east, Ffyrst?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Dan-Tor replied simply and without hesitation.
‘But… ’
‘The logic for a defensive stand against the Lords is sound, is it not, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked brusquely, still looking out of the window.
Urssain hesitated. Dan-Tor turned slowly and looked at him. ‘It is still valid, is it not?’ he pressed. ‘Better they weary themselves trekking across the countryside to face an entrenched defensive line than we, surely?’
‘For armies of men, Ffyrst, yes,’ Urssain said awk-wardly. ‘But… ’ He was aware that his eyes were widening in fear as his thoughts began to form into words, but he knew he could do no other than plunge on. It had been discussed by the Mathidrin but it was the first time it had been spoken of before Dan-Tor. ‘But you have… weapons far beyond the limits of sword and spear. You could destroy their enclaves with a gesture. I thought… ’
A glimmer of red shone faintly in Dan-Tor’s eyes and Urssain’s voice tailed off. He quailed.
But the distant storm came no nearer.
‘You would reduce your Ffyrst to a siege piece, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked flatly. Urssain’s mouth opened, but as Dan-Tor’s tone betrayed neither humour nor reproach, he could find no reply.
Dan-Tor released him. ‘Look to no such aid from me, Commander,’ he said, moving to a nearby chair. ‘The Orthlundyn was a darker force than you can know. What was done was necessary, but men must fight men. The new Fyordyn must prove themselves in battle if they are to be of any value to me. Those who survive will become the heart of the even mightier force that will be needed for our future conquests. Those who do not survive will serve a useful end simply by wearying the enemy.’ Involuntarily, he placed his hand over the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his side. ‘And we face more enemies than you know, Commander,’ he added enigmatically.
Urssain chose to ignore this last remark. ‘But you spoke of a blow against the Lords, Ffyrst,’ he said.
‘Indeed I did,’ Dan-Tor replied. ‘Indeed I did.’
He fell silent.
His euphoria following the death of the King had gradually faded. He was more whole now, his truer self, but the limitations imposed on his use of the Old Power by his Master and by Hawklan’s embedded arrow weighed on him appallingly.
It gave him little consolation that he knew the re-straint was the result of his own weakness, and that a far greater punishment could have been meted out to him. Everything since Rgoric’s madness in suspending the Geadrol and bringing the Mathidrin to Vakloss had betokened too much haste. That, and his own folly in disturbing Hawklan in his lair at Anderras Darion, had obliged him to move with, and manipulate, events, rather than dictate and control them. That was almost inexcusable in His schemes.
Now His icy grip had ensured His favourite Uhriel would not easily commit a similar folly again. Hawklan’s arrow would return upon him much of the conse-quences of using the Old Power and only He could remove it. Dan-Tor looked down at his hand. A great weal ran across it where he had seized the shaft of the newly fired arrow, but that wound at least had healed eventually, though it was still painful from time to time. Ironically, the arrow itself and its eternally bleeding wound, gave him no pain except when he used the Old Power; rather, it burdened and wearied him, as if it were constantly drawing him to some other purpose.
And he was blind still! One of the birds was bound and his precious, hard-crafted, Vrwystin A Goleg, with its all-seeing eyes, was impotent and useless. He should have torn it free when he had the power, he thought. Then he tightened his hand painfully on the livid scar in atonement for this persistent residue of his too human impatience and impetuosity.
It would have to be sufficient recompense for the loss of his spies that he had learnt that the Cadwanol still watched, for surely no others could have the knowledge and the power to do such a deed? And if the Cadwanol had survived the millennia, how great now was their knowledge and power? Not great enough to prevent the corruption of Fyorlund and the re-awakening of Narsindal, it seemed, but it would have been folly to pit himself against them with Hawklan roaming free to be an accidental beneficiary of the Old Power that would have been levied to such a battle.
And, inexorably, the thought of Hawklan took Dan-Tor along a well-trodden pathway. Who was the man, and what had happened to him? True, Ethriss had not risen, grim and terrible out of the maelstrom to thank his wakener by dashing him into oblivion, but neither Hawklan’s body nor that of his oafish companion had been found in the debris, and still Dan-Tor sensed him watching, waiting.
But if he was not Ethriss, who was he? The question was strangely terrifying. Key-bearer to Anderras Darion, holder of Ethriss’s sword, and seemingly protected, at least in part, by the Cadwanol…?
Yet, Dan-Tor consoled himself ironically, he might still be Ethriss. Perhaps the Guardian’s host had thwarted his master’s design by defending himself too well with that sword? Perhaps he had deflected the very power that was to waken the greatest of the Guardians?
The questions would not rest. Dan-Tor squeezed his hand tighter, and forced his mind back to the bewil-dered Urssain and present realities.
To use the Old Power against Eldric’s castle would not only wrack his body beyond belief, but with Hawklan’s whereabouts unknown, it would still risk awakening the sleeping Ethriss and bringing down His wrath as never before.
‘You can be expunged at my whim, and others made in your image.’ His Master’s words hung cold in his mind.
Your wisdom and mercy are without bounds, Mas-ter, he thought.
He must return as soon as possible to the steady patient progress that had ensured Fyorlund would fall so easily when the great tree of state was shaken. Haste could destroy His schemes more effectively than the strength of His enemies.
Yet, some modest haste was perhaps now appropri-ate. His power, underwritten predominantly by the Mathidrin, held the heartland of Fyorlund: the routes to Narsindalvak, and Vakloss and its environs. But the further-flung estates were maintaining an uncertain neutrality; their Lords avoiding contact with Vakloss as far as was diplomatically possible and, when it wasn’t, giving pledges of loyalty that had a distinctly hollow ring.
To aid such unsteady allies in their reflections, Dan-Tor had co-opted various of their relatives into palace service, thus holding them as discreet hostages. It was a hazardous device to use with the Fyordyn, however, and he knew its limitations well enough.
And even the securely held territory was uncertain. For all the ranting success of the rallies, and the support given to the Mathidrin by the rapidly swelling ranks of the Militia and the Youth Corps, Dan-Tor knew that there was an underlying stratum of opposition to him which was impervious to rumour and gossip and which only the destruction of the hope offered by the continu-ing resistance of the eastern Lords would crush.
His power had always been at risk while these Lords remained to defy it. But was it now increasingly so?
The summer had been good and the Lords’ grana-ries would be well-stocked. Almost certainly, he reasoned, they could survive the winter without difficulty and still have adequate food to carry them across country in the spring without burdening the communities they passed through. In any event, many of these would welcome and aid the Lords’ army.
It would be pointless, even dangerous, to risk wait-ing another year, before facing the inevitable armed conflict. The Lords would be husbanding their resources already and, beyond doubt, the High Guards, with their greater self-discipline, would withstand the debilitating effects of delay better than the ruthlessly controlled and ambitious Mathidrin, whose main motivation was the promise of the lands and wealth they would come to when the Lords fell.
He faltered. The High Guards of Eldric and Arinndier would be a formidable force…
But those fops and dandies of Hreldar and Darek…?
He had superior numbers by far. The High Guards would be weary and sick at heart, by the time they had cut their way through rank upon rank of the hapless Militia to reach their real opponents, the Mathidrin. And while they might have superior fighting skills, he doubted they could match his black liveried troops in sheer brutal ferocity.
Dan-Tor frowned. It was not satisfactory. But it would never be so. Too much rode on chance in such encounters. Yet, boldly done, it could be a fitting end to this difficult, turbulent period, and would leave him with his foot on the neck of a quiescent Fyorlund, free to continue silently preparing the way for his return.
On balance, he decided, conclusions could and should be made soon, before the Fyordyn winter arrived to preclude the matter.
It was simply a matter of luring the Lords forth.
He looked up at the now anxious Urssain. ‘Listen to me carefully, Commander,’ he said.