Chapter 7.

Two days later the patrol was moving briskly and steadily northwards. The sky was pregnant with great swollen clouds waiting to shed their watery burdens and send them cascading down on to the coweringland below. A boisterous west wind shouldered them into towering indignant mounds as it strove to push them eastwards over the mountains.

Jaldaric wrapped his cloak around himself and looked upwards. 'Quite a conflict,' he said. 'I think we're due for a wetting soon.'

Hawklan was gazing into the grey ma.s.s acc.u.mulating overhead. Since he had seen the Viladrien sailing over Riddin some inner need had constantly drawn his eyes upwards in search of another, and his mind had been filled with a tumbling host of questions. What kind of people could live in such a place? And how? What must it be like to be at the mercy of the winds and to float through great turbulent clouds like those now broiling overhead? How must the world below seem? He had looked down from the tops of high mountains to see patchwork fields and forests, but from the height of these cloud lands . . .

His imagination foundered. But the darker note that had come to taint so many of his thoughts of late would sound. 'Enemy dispositions,' it tolled, 'you would see enemy dispositions.' It saddened him, so at odds was it with the haunting beauty of the Viladrien and its barely audible, singing wake.

Jaldaric's comment brought Hawklan's mind back to earth. 'Yes,' he said. 'I think some of that water up there is about to start its long journey back to the sea.'

Jaldaric looked at him, puzzled.

Hawklan smiled. 'Yes,' he said. 'I agree. It's probably going to rain.'

And, as if so commanded, a slow tattoo of great raindrops started to speckle the dusty road at their feet.

Jaldaric turned in his saddle and looked enquiringly at his men. There was much shaking of heads and gestures to continue the journey. Cloaks were fastened and hoods pulled up. The patrol slowed to a walk.

Admitting defeat, the wind dropped and the rain came down triumphantly in a shifting vertical downpour, reducing visibility all around to a few hundred paces. Hawklan stared down, hypnotized by the coronets of spray bouncing off the road, a mobile and patternless web flowing over the almost imperceptible geometry of the ancient stone blocks.

The noise of the rain was sufficient to drown the sound of the horses' hooves, and such conversation as there had been guttered out in the face of this opposition. Each rider withdrew into himself, and the patrol became an indistinct and introverted procession moving silently through the hissing rain.

Hawklan became aware of Isloman by his side. He raised his eyes from the glistening road and looked ahead into the greyness. Over the past two days he had seen an unexpected change come over his friend.

After the abduction of Tirilen, Loman had discarded the gruff irritation he brought to his daily duties, and had become more voluble and straightforward. Isloman, by contrast, had become quieter and had discarded in turn much of his bluff heartiness. The two brothers had moved towards one another during the crisis. An understandable reaction, thought Hawklan. Such an event must necessarily blow away the dust that daily routine laid over their real selves.

But now Isloman seemed to be oscillating between elation and troubled concern, as if two parts of him were wrestling for command of the whole.

To Hawklan it seemed that the change began after the High Guards questioned Isloman about hisbrother's knowledge of the Battle Language, and his own part in the Morlider War had become known.

The Orthlundyn volunteers, though small in number, had made a considerable impression on the High Guards of the day and, by now, had almost entered Fyordyn legend. To be in the presence of one and, for some of them, to have actually been hit by one, brought out an almost boyish excitement in the young men and for a while they plagued Isloman with questions. Even the surly Esselt and his cadre showed an interest.

Now, in the grey rain, Isloman's posture showed that he was troubled again and, even though Hawklan could not see his face under the deep hood, he knew that it was pensive and lined.

'You're riding better,' he said. 'How are your aches and pains?'

Isloman started a little at Hawklan's voice, and then craned forward almost as if to catch the words as they fled into the distance.

'Oh fine,' he said, after a moment. 'I'm remembering how to ride again. And I'm easier in my mind now that Tirilen's safe.'

Hawklan picked on the word. 'I think you're remembering more than how to ride, aren't you?' he offered.

Isloman nodded. 'Yes, I'm afraid so,' he replied. 'Talking to these young lads about the old days has brought back things I'd rather had stayed forgotten.'

'They mean no harm,' Hawklan said. Then, in a gently mocking tone, 'You're like something out of a history book to them. A real warrior.'

Isloman did not reply immediately, but turned his head and cast a look full of doubt at Hawklan. 'Even you don't understand, do you?' he said resignedly. 'Not really.'

They rode on in silence for a while.

'It's not your fault, I suppose,' said Isloman eventually. 'No one can understand it who's not actually had to fight for his life not even these . . . soldiers.' He indicated the following group with an inclination of his head. 'It leaves you with . . . feelings . . . opposite feelings that shouldn't be able to exist at the same time, but do.'

Hawklan looked at his friend intently and almost immediately observed the same phenomenon in himself.

The healer in him knew that Isloman must speak his concerns out loud if he was to ease his pain. But at the same time he heard his darker side coldly declaiming that Isloman must deal with this problem now or it would seriously impair his worth as a fighter. He recoiled from the thought but he knew it would not leave him.

'Explain,' he said flatly.

Again there was a long silence before Isloman spoke, and Hawklan sensed the tension building in his friend.

A small furry animal scuttled its bedraggled way across the road in front of them. The movement seemed to dislodge Isloman's pent-up words. 'Being in a battle is terrifying and degrading,' he said suddenly. 'Iknow that with both my head and my . . .' He tapped his chest with his fist. 'Everything. It's a thing to be avoided. But a part of me enjoyed it, Hawklan, and, I think, might enjoy it still. It's precious little clearer now than it was then. Part of me enjoying what was obviously wrong. And yet it wasn't wrong, was it? Here was an enemy people who'd killed and robbed, and worse, people who couldn't be reasoned with and who broke such promises as they made, people who'd kill you and your friends if you didn't stop them. What do you do in those circ.u.mstances when all other alternatives have been unsuccessful?'

He did not wait for an answer. 'And then there's the fear. Horrible. Your heart thumping, your mouth dry and sour, your stomach churning. Until . . .' He reached out and took Hawklan's arm in a powerful grip. 'Until you fight. Then ancient forces within you rise and say "This is good". All around is mayhem and destruction, and you don't care. You carry on killing and revelling in it.' Isloman shuddered as his muscles and sinews recalled long-forgotten deeds. 'And when it's over, when everywhere's full of the sights and sounds of the wounded crawling and writhing, groaning and screaming you have to crush your remorse underfoot to stay sane.' He fell silent and gazed down at the bouncing rain. 'Your only solace,' he said after a while. 'Is that all other forms of . . . entreaty had failed.'

Hawklan searched for some way to help his friend. Isloman's words had struck a strange chord within him; brought to his mind a dark place full of horror and noise and death. But it was too deep, too distant, and it flitted away from him uneasily when he tried to examine it. None the less it left a faint after-glow of understanding.

'We act to preserve ourselves,' he said, finally. 'It's the most ancient of laws; written deep into all living things. And who can answer the question that that poses?'

He turned to look at Isloman and a small stream of water cascaded from his hood like a tiny waterfall.

'But there are other things. It's also written in us to avoid violence. It's too arbitrary, too open to chance. Too open to appalling consequences.' He leaned across to his friend. 'But if others strip that protection from us, then they take the consequences. If it can't flee, life will fight against all odds and with any means it can, to survive.'

Isloman straightened up. 'Strange,' he said. 'I remember the old Sirshiant I first served with. "Once you're committed to combat," he said, "it's the most violent who'll prevail. You have to be worse than your enemy. Don't think otherwise, or you'll die." Said we shouldn't worry about it. We were good lads and when we'd won we'd "stay our hands from excess".' Isloman shook his head reflectively and smiled slightly. 'Fancy remembering him after all these years.' He turned to Hawklan and nodded. 'And we did too. Stayed our hand from excess. It's something, I suppose.'

'It may well be everything,' Hawklan said.

Isloman seemed lighter in his saddle. His unease was still there, but it had been faced and he saw that time had in fact made it clearer for him. It was not a dilemma after all. It was simply the stern, cruel consequence of life a.s.serting itself against those who would deny its right to be.

Hawklan felt the tension leave his friend but noted again his own ambivalent response. He was happy that Isloman's pain had been eased, but that cold part of his mind was happy also. Isloman's heart would now be uncluttered by hidden doubts should the need arise for him to fight. In the dry shade of his hood, Hawklan scowled to himself. Gradually the rain eased into a light spring drizzle, and eventually stopped. The clouds receded over the mountains and the sun illuminated their path again, glistening off the wet road and raising clouds of steam in the distant woodlands.

Like enemy camp fires, thought Hawklan.

Hoods were pushed back, horses shook their heads, showering tiny rainbow-decorated sprays about them, and casual conversation sputtered back into life again.

Jaldaric trotted up to Isloman and Hawklan, screening his eyes against the bright light from the shining road. Then he pointed.

'Riders coming,' he said.

Chapter 8.

Jaldaric's expression grew more and more puzzled as the riders approached, but he replaced it with a smile of welcome as the two groups stopped opposite one another.

The visitors were six in number and clad in a black livery. They were grim-faced and had obviously been riding hard. One of them wore insignia which, together with his general demeanour, identified him as their leader. His face was lean and would have been handsome had not narrowed eyes and a curl in his thin mouth given him a cunning and treacherous expression.

Jaldaric saluted, but the gesture was not returned and an uneasy silence fell between the two groups.

The leader of the new arrivals frowned. 'You're Jaldaric?' he demanded, his voice harsh.

Jaldaric bridled slightly at the man's manner, but replied pleasantly. 'Yes I am. May I ask who you are?'

The man ignored him, and gazed around as if looking for someone. 'Where is the Lord Dan-Tor?' he asked, just as Jaldaric was about to repeat his question. His voice was a little softer, but still unpleasant, and Jaldaric's face flushed at this further incivility.

'The Lord Dan-Tor has returned to Fyorlund,' he replied. 'Now, may I ask again, to whom I am speaking and what is your concern with the Lord Dan-Tor?' His voice was harder, and this time it was the visitor who bridled, as if unused to being spoken to thus.

'My name's Urssain,' he said. 'Captain Urssain of the . . . King's High Guard.' Then, before this could be fully registered, 'Did the Lord Dan-Tor receive a messenger from Commander Aelang before he left?'

Jaldaric's innate politeness overcame his immediate surprise. 'We've had no messengers from anyone . . . Captain,' he said. 'But that's hardly of any relevance. What's more to the point is why are you, Fyordyn, marching armed and liveried in Orthlund, inquiring about the Lord Dan-Tor and calling yourselves, of all things, a King's High Guard?'

Urssain seemed disconcerted by the news that Dan-Tor had not received Aelang's message and, for a moment, his face showed his uncertainty. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward in his saddle radiating arrogance. 'It's unfortunate that neither we nor our messenger met the Lord Dan-Tor, though it's understandable enough in this benighted country. However, it changes nothing and, in answer to your question, we're here on the King's orders to arrest you. I must therefore ask you to surrender yoursword immediately.'

The suddenness of this reply as much as its content made Jaldaric jerk back in his saddle and for a moment he seemed almost inclined to laugh. It was anger, however, that dominated his reply.

'Captain Urssain,' he said. 'Even a child knows that the King can have no High Guard.' He paused, and his eyes narrowed. 'I have no idea from where you come, or what I'm supposed to make of your rambling nor have I any intention of wasting my time trying to find out but your very presence here const.i.tutes a considerable offence in itself, and it's not I who will be surrendering to you, but you to me.'

He made a discreet gesture and his patrol quietly spread itself across the road. Urssain watched the manoeuvre with disdain.

'A larger patrol is close behind us, Jaldaric,' he said. 'Our various messages may have gone astray but I can at least give you the opportunity of surrendering with dignity. If you offer me violence while I'm on the King's business then it'll go much worse for you.'

Jaldaric ignored the comment, but his jaw stiffened. 'Enough, Urssain,' he said angrily. 'Your sword.'

Urssain made no move. 'Jaldaric,' he said, almost conciliatory in tone. 'Understand. Weare the King's High Guard, whatever you might think about it. We were formed in secret because of the treachery of some of the Lords. You're to be arrested at the King's express command, because your father, the Lord Eldric, was at its heart. He and his co-conspirators are now in prison in Vakloss awaiting trial.'

Jaldaric put his hand to his head. 'This is nonsense,' he said uncertainly.

Hawklan looked round at the faces of Jaldaric's patrol. Esselt's eyes were gleaming, as were those of his friends, but all the others seemed to be as shocked and disorientated as their Captain.

Jaldaric shook his head as if to waken himself. 'No,' he said. 'This isn't nonsense. It's madness. My father's no traitor. With whom would he conspire and for what? He's an old man and a respected member of the Geadrol.'

'The Geadrol was a sink of conspiracy. It no longer exists. The King has suspended it,' said Urssain contemptuously.

A babble of voices broke out at this, and Jaldaric's patrol surged forward almost involuntarily to gather around their leader. Esselt and his friends, however, though also surprised, stayed aloof and watchful.

Isloman indicated their response to Hawklan with his eyes, and Hawklan acknowledged with a slight nod.

Jaldaric called out for silence. 'I can make nothing of this. The King cannot have High Guards. The Geadrol cannot be suspended. And how can I be arrested without charge or authority? What crimes have I committed?'

'The King can do all things,' came Urssain's reply, 'and this uniform is authority enough for your arrest.

I'm just a Captain obeying orders. I know nothing about your crimes except those you're committing just by arguing with me. I've told you once, surrender now or it'll go much worse for you later.'

For a moment Jaldaric seemed inclined to draw his sword and lay about him, but other counsels prevailed and when he spoke his voice was hard and coldly purposeful. 'The longer we stay away from Fyorlund, the more strange questions acc.u.mulate for answering. I'm about to continue my journey to Vakloss, Urssain, together with my guests from Orthlund.' He indicated Hawklan and Isloman. 'You'll accompany us, either peacefully or bound, that choice is yours. When we're there we'll all stand before the Geadrol and, if necessary, the King himself, and you can spin your babbling fancies to your heart's content.'

Urssain cast a quick glance at the two Orthlundyn, then turned away with an insolent shrug. 'As you wish. The rest of my patrol is nearby. I'll complete my orders when they arrive.'

Jaldaric's eyes blazed momentarily, but he walked his horse forward quietly until he was by the side of the black-liveried Captain. Then, turning swiftly, he drew his sword and placed the point against Urssain's throat.

'Listen carefully, Urssain,' he said very softly, 'whoever you are, and whoever's bidding you're doing.

You wear a livery unknown to us, you defame the King, you bring arms into Orthlund, then you threaten us, the Lord Dan-Tor's personal escort, and finally you defame both my father and myself. As far as I'm concerned you're just a criminal. I've no doubt you've got friends lurking in ambush somewhere along the road, but be under no illusions as to who'll die first if we're offered violence by anyone.'

Urssain looked uneasily down the length of Jaldaric's sword, and then at the bows the Guards were carrying. His arrogance faltered. Jaldaric smiled grimly.

'We'll dispense with the formalities,' Jaldaric concluded grimly. 'You may keep your sword, for what good it'll do you. I guarantee you'll have no time to draw it.'

Then, without apparent instructions, Jaldaric's patrol moved forward and surrounded Urssain's group.

Jaldaric rode across to Hawklan and Isloman.

'I don't know what's happening,' he said, his round face incongruously furrowed. 'Either these people are quite insane or something terrible's happened at home while we've been away.'

Hawklan looked at him without replying.

'I fear it's probably the latter,' continued Jaldaric. 'I can't see six men coming against fifteen of us with that att.i.tude without some resource behind them. We need to get back quickly.'

'I agree with you,' said Hawklan. 'But take care. Whatever's happened in Fyorlund, that man expected his livery alone to command absolute obedience.'

Worry clouded Jaldaric's face. 'Still,' he said, 'it's none of your affair. I can only recommend you head back for home. It looks as if I may not even be able to escort you as far as the border safely, let alone Vakloss. I'm sorry.'

Hawklan stretched his legs lazily and nodded. 'Thank you for your advice, Jaldaric,' he said. 'It's sound.

But Isloman and I are very anxious to speak to your Lord Dan-Tor and we'll be heading for Vakloss no matter what happens. For what it's worth I suspect our questions and whatever political upheavals have been occurring may well be related.'

Jaldaric shrugged and let out a resigned breath. 'If we run into trouble I'll try and talk us through it, but if it comes to a fight I may not be able to protect you,' he said. Hawklan smiled rea.s.suringly and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'We understand,' he said. 'Don't worry.

We'll make our own judgement about when and who to fight. You look to yourself and your men.' He laughed gently. 'We absolve you from your duties as host.'

Jaldaric smiled unhappily but could find no reply. Shrugging his shoulders nervously again he turned back to his men. Hawklan signalled to Gavor who was listening in a nearby tree, and the bird took off silently towards the north. Echoing this action, Jaldaric sent two men out into the adjacent fields to scout the road ahead. The remainder of the patrol restarted their leisurely progress.

'You're getting very bold, healer,' said Isloman anxiously, riding alongside Hawklan. 'Smiling and joking in the face of a possible battle against Fyorlund High Guards.'

'Well,' said Hawklan, 'the lad needed rea.s.surance. He really doesn't know whether he's coming or going at the moment. I don't want him worrying about us. Anyway, I told him no more than the truth.

Whatever happens, you and I go north, don't we?'

Isloman rubbed his hand and nodded.