Roger Taylor - H3 Waking Of Orthlund

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Copyright © 1989, Roger Taylor
Roger Taylor has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be
identified as the Author of this work.
First published in United Kingdom in 1989 by Headline Book Publishing.
This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1
4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without
the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 1843191385
The Waking of Orthlund
Book Three of The Chronicles of Hawklan
Roger Taylor
Mushroom eBooks
Map of Hawklan’s Land
“The time of Hawklan is so far in the past that it could be the distant future”
Prologue
When the Guardians, Sphaeera, Enartion, and Theowart, had formed the world as a celebration of their
being, they found such joy in it that they bade the First Comer Ethriss to create others so that they in their
turn might celebrate the miracle of being.
And with his three soul-friends, Ethriss created many others and taught them the Guardians’ ways and
gave them of their power so that they too could create and take joy in being.
And amongst these was man.
But Sumeral, the Great Corrupter, saw the flaw that must be in all things, and hated it and all the
creations of the Guardians, especially those of Ethriss. And He saw that man was possessed of greater
power of creation than any other. So as the Guardians slept, He came to him and with soft words said,
‘Blessed are the gifts of Ethriss that bring such joy unto yourself and your neighbour.’ And He passed on.
But in the word ‘neighbour’ He laid a subtle snare, and discontent was born, and men began to seek him
out, saying, ‘You are wise. Tell us, are we as blessed as our neighbours?’
And Sumeral did not answer, but showed them the gift of the power of creation that Ethriss had given
them, and said, ‘In the use of this power will your joy be increased.’ Which was both true and false, for
though joy may lie in creating, it is in the totality of the creating and that which is created that the true joy
of being lies.
And men found indeed that joy was to be found in the power of creating, but under His guidance their
creations were without harmony, and knowing there was no true joy in them, men’s discontent grew, and
they sought Him out further.
But He dismissed them, saying again, ‘I have told you. In the use of this power will your joy be
increased. Trouble me not. Create yet more.’ Though privily He would say to some, dropping His soft,
sweet words into the gaping maw of their desire, ‘If your neighbour’s creations are more joyous, perhaps
it is a flaw in the way of things that should be mended.’
And when they asked how this might be done, He said yet again, ‘In the use of this power will your joy
be increased.’
And looking on the perfection of His beauty, many men believed Him, and began to gather power to
themselves not only to create yet more of His flawed designs but to mar the creations of their neighbours.
And their discontent grew beyond measure, until the time came when many were utterly lost in
bewilderment and followed His words blindly.
Thus His stain spread across the world, and the air and the sea and the earth became fouled with the
poisons of His works, and many humbler creatures were slaughtered utterly. And He led His followers to
create war, and wage it upon those who remembered the Guardians and the ways of true joy, for His
own discontent grew also.
Chapter 1
Sylvriss struggled desperately to control the frenzied horse beneath her. Riddin born and Muster bred,
dealing with difficult mounts would not normally present her with any serious problem, but this was
different. The horse was almost demented with terror, and its screaming seemed to fill her very soul. It
was as though the animal were trying to obliterate the terrible rumbling clamour that had reached out from
the City towards them, shaking and buffeting the countryside as if it were not solid Fyorlund earth, but the
surface of a wind-whipped lake.
Almost unseated when the horse had stumbled on the heaving ground, Sylvriss too had felt a terror the
like of which she had never known before, and for a moment it was only the deep knowledge that her
body possessed that kept the reins in her hand and any semblance of control over the terrified mount.
Slowly her mind entered the whirling turmoil of emotions, and wilful skills began to replace the reflexes
that had saved her so far. She knew that the horse could be quieted by being made more afraid of her
than the terror that had just thundered over the countryside and, deep inside, part of her relished that. It
rose temptingly before her: primitive anger formed from primitive fear. But that was a demon the
Riddinvolk had tamed generations ago, and she spurned it. Rider and horse should be one, and Sylvriss
knew that the horse’s terror was in part a response to her own; the horse could not be properly stilled
until she herself was still.
And stilled it must be. Despite the questions that pounded for her attention, this was no time for debating
causes. Suffice it that if she lost her mount, she could not do her husband’s bidding.
‘Go to the Lord Eldric’s stronghold as you planned, my love,’ he had said. ‘As fast as only you can.
Raise his High Guard and ride back to meet us. I’ll follow as soon as I’ve had him released – and his
son.’
Then he had embraced her, almost painfully, and with a simple command had effectively dismissed her.
‘As you love me, Sylvriss. And our child. Go. Go quickly. Prepare the way, First Hearer.’
And she had left, all questions momentarily silenced by the driving urgency of his manner. When they
gradually returned they could not then overwhelm the momentum of her own galloping spirit. But they
lingered. What was he going to do? How could he get the Lord Eldric and Jaldaric released? How was
he going to face Dan-Tor? And now, what was that terrible noise – no, more than a noise – that force,
that had shaken the countryside?
But Rgoric’s plea impelled her more than any command could have, and she must regain control of her
horse if she was to answer it. To falter here might be to jeopardize all. There would be time enough later
to find out what had happened in the City, and time enough when they met again to learn of his plans and
schemes.
The thought of Rgoric, renewed and whole again, burst into her mind like the sun through
thunder-clouds, and briefly she had a vision of riding by his side at the head of the Lords’ High Guards,
sweeping Dan-Tor and his Mathidrin out of Vakloss and into perdition, to restore again the Fyorlund that
had been and the life they should have had.
Despite her struggle with the horse, she smiled ruefully at the thought, so childlike in its simplicity.
However, its effect was oddly cathartic, and sensing the renewed control of its rider, the horse gradually
slowed in its frenzied thrashing until at last Sylvriss was able to lean forward and embrace its neck, saying
softly, ‘We’re whole again. Whatever that was, we’re here together, and unhurt.’
The horse was still fretful and its eyes rolled white, but gently Sylvriss released the reins and let it have its
head until its circling and pawing gradually stopped.
Sitting back in her saddle she instinctively reached up to pull back her black hair that had flown free and
wild in her struggle with the horse. As she did so she felt the wind cold on her forehead and wiping her
hand across it she found it was wet with perspiration.
Looking up from her glistening fingers she stared for a moment at the ragged clouds flying overhead,
carried on the gusting wind that had shaken the City all day, like an uncertain harbinger carrying messages
of change. Now it seemed that even the clouds were fleeing.
Turning, she gazed back to look at the City, but it was out of sight, hidden by the brow of the
tree-covered hill she had been descending when the noise and shaking had so nearly ended her journey.
What could it have been? came the thought again. Now in control of her mount she felt she could allow
some concession to this question, and gently she urged the horse back up the hill until the City came
partly into sight.
All seemed normal. The palace towers rose up majestically, dominating but not overwhelming their
surroundings, and through the trees she could see the tops of many familiar buildings. Yet on the wind
there were strange noises. A crowd? She thought she had heard a crowd nearby as she had left the
palace to clatter through the quiet by-ways of the City, but she had dismissed the notion; the Mathidrin
held the streets too well for that. Now, as the distant sounds vied for her attention with the rustling trees
she thought she heard again many voices raised in . . . anger . . . fear?
She leaned forward, face intent, but nothing would take shape for her. Even the wind felt disturbed,
unnatural, now quiet, now tearing at her hysterically, and steadfastly refusing to deliver any clear answer
to her query. For a moment she thought of moving further forward, to leave behind the shaking trees and
come nearer to the City, but the urgency of her mission reasserted itself. Whatever had happened, it was
unlikely she could do anything except be taken by the Mathidrin and held as who knew what kind of a
hostage against Rgoric’s plans.
Turning round, she rode back down the hill, trotting the horse carefully but surely through the
widely-spaced trees that covered the slope. Soon she would be well clear of the City and able to ride,
ride, ride, over the Fyorlund countryside, each stride taking her further from that accursed brown streak
Dan-Tor and nearer to her true friends and a new future with her husband.
It would be a long hard journey, but she had done worse in her Muster training, albeit many years ago,
and just to be free from the cloying deception of the past months would sustain her far more than any
physical prowess could. Ruthlessly she trampled down the ever-present fears for her husband, lest they
infect her mount and, in slowing her progress, bring about their own tremulous prophecy.
At last she broke out of the trees to find herself at a high vantage-point. Reining to a halt, she paused to
examine the countryside for signs of movement, but apart from the ruffling of the blustering wind, all was
quiet. And there below was the old road which she should be able to follow for many miles, avoiding
villages, and thus Mathidrin patrols.
She clicked to her horse, but it hesitated and whinnied softly. Frowning slightly, Sylvriss cast around
again for some sign of danger that had escaped her first inspection.
Then a distant, rapid movement caught her eye. Before she could identify it, her horse began trembling
as if remembering again its recent fear. She whispered to it soothingly and slowly backed it into the shade
of the trees where she could watch without being seen.
The movement became clearer. It was a rider, travelling away from the City. Suddenly Sylvriss caught
her breath, and her horse shifted uneasily beneath her. Even at this distance she could feel waves of terror
moving before the approaching figure. What had happened in the City? came the question yet again, but
it was lost almost immediately as she saw that the rider was not simply travelling quickly, he was plunging
along the road at a speed that must surely bring both him and his horse to destruction very soon.
The realization cleared Sylvriss’s vision abruptly and the totality of the scene below swept over her. The
horse was not carrying one person, but two. Its rider was a large, solid-looking man, but across its neck
dangled a second, black clad figure, seemingly unconscious. And it was no ordinary horse. It was a great
black stallion – a Muster horse! And a magnificent one at that. There were few Muster horses in
Fyorlund, and none the like of that she was sure. Further, it was not being ridden, it wascarrying its
charges!
Questions overwhelmed her, but she dashed them aside. It was a rare man that such a horse would
carry in that fashion.
And no such horse could be allowed to break its heart thus.
Birds flew up in screaming alarm from the jostling trees as Rgoric’s queen burst out of her leafy shelter
and with a great cry, urged her horse at full gallop down the steep hill.
And none too soon, she realized as she looked again at the charging black horse below. She must be on
the road ahead of it, and travelling fast if she was to intercept it. Fine though her own horse was, she
knew it could not hope to catch such a powerful, fear-driven animal if once it got ahead of her. Not catch
it that is, until it fell suddenly dead, in all probability injuring or even killing both its riders.
Bending low over her horse’s neck she willed it forward. A fierce gust of wind caught them sideways
and, briefly, her horse staggered, but the two of them together caught their balance and the wind only
hastened their descent.
As they neared the road, the field dipped below it a little and Sylvriss became aware of the black horse
at the edge of her vision, though she did not dare to look lest the hesitation cause her horse to pause even
slightly. Then she was surging up a small embankment and on to the road, scarcely a length ahead of the
careering stallion.
The black horse faltered slightly as Sylvriss rose up abruptly in front of it, and its rider swayed
uncertainly. What a creature, thought Sylvriss fleetingly, as she saw the horse shift its weight to prevent
the man from slipping from the saddle. The action, however, barely slowed the animal and then it was at
her side, and moving past.
Gripping her horse with her legs she leaned out and took the bridle of the black horse. Pulling on it
powerfully she cried out to it to stop. But even as she did so she knew that the horse was past hearing
any normal commands. She tightened her grip and leaned further over. At least now it would feel the
weight of both her and her horse in addition to its own double burden, and that must surely take its toll
soon. For an interminable moment she clung on silently in a world filled only with the thunder of hooves,
the creaking and clattering of tackle, and the agonized breathing of bursting lungs. Pain began to fill her
whole body as she struggled to keep her grip on the powerful animal’s bridle.
Even in this extremity however, she marvelled at the great horse’s fortitude. Its eyes were white with
terror, but somewhere, deep inside, was a will that refused to abandon all control to whatever had so
frightened it. A will that made it carry and care for its charges even though it should die in the attempt. A
will that enabled it to carry its now increased burden without slowing.
Without slowing! She knew what would be her fate if her own horse stumbled at this terrifying pace.
And it was beginning to falter. She was going to die here! Die, in this whirling maelstrom of flying hooves
and Fyordyn dust which seemed now to be the very heart of all the confusion and upheaval that had rent
her life apart in just a few hours. Die, betraying her husband, herself, the people, everything.
Then, through all the turmoil she felt the tiny flutterings of her unborn child, helpless and needing, its life
not yet begun, the very antithesis of this powerful battle-horse charging purposefully towards the end of
its own life and sweeping all before it.
‘No,’ she cried out involuntarily in horror and reproach. That above all must not be. A fearful light came
to her as she saw the deep wisdom of her child’s lesson. This horse’s will could not be dominated, it
would turn from its course only for the greater need of another. Then, almost without realizing what she
was doing, she released her horse and slipping from it, swung her whole weight on to the creaking bridle.
Briefly her feet struck the ground with a juddering impact and she curled up her knees desperately. A
whitened eye looked into hers as the horse bent its head under this sudden and unexpected weight.
‘Rider down, horse, help me,’ she cried out, her own eyes wide with terror. ‘Rider down.’
And then she was gone, floating free for an instant, old reflexes curling her into a tight ball, before she
crashed on to the dusty road. Over and over she rolled, unaware of anything except her terrible
momentum until at last it was spent and, unfolding limply, she lay still, face upward on the hard Fyordyn
ground.
Gradually, the high scudding clouds came into focus, and with them her awareness, though for some time
she could not remember how she came to be here. Then a gust of wind blew her hair across her face and
her hand came up to move it. She winced with pain, and her memory cleared.
‘You’re hurt?’ said a voice, deep but unsteady, and a large square head came briefly into her vision,
concern and confusion in its brown eyes. It disappeared, and she felt strong hands gently testing her
limbs.
‘I’m no healer, lady,’ came the voice again after a while, ‘but I don’t think you’ve broken anything. Sit
up, slowly. Let me help you.’ And again she found herself looking into anxious brown eyes as a powerful
arm scooped round her shoulders and eased her up into a sitting position.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice sounding odd in her own ears. She took hold of her helper and, leaning
heavily on him, dragged herself slowly to her feet. It was a painful exercise, but some cautious probing of
her own confirmed the man’s diagnosis. She was bruised – badly bruised from the feel of it – but
seemingly not otherwise injured. She uttered a silent prayer to her oft-maligned instructors of the past.
Closing her eyes she felt her stomach tentatively. Yes, all was well.
Turning, she looked at her helper. He was tall, and powerfully built – rock-like almost – perhaps the
same age as Rgoric, though it was difficult to judge from his craggy, dust-covered face. And despite his
gentle aid to her, he was fretful and restless.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
The man started slightly as if his mind had flitted on to some other matter. ‘My name’s Isloman,’ he said
almost irritably. ‘I’m sorry. Come on, we must get away. We must keep moving.’ He took hold of
Sylvriss’s arm, but she shook it free. The man’s manner had no menace in it but it exuded fear and it
alarmed her. His great hands had been shaking. A host of questions surged into her mind.
‘You’re an outlander aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Orthlundyn from your speech.’ Isloman did not reply, but
turned to his horse which was standing nearby, sweating and steaming in the blustering wind. It too was
fretful and anxious, pawing the ground, but otherwise remaining still to avoid disturbing the figure draped
over its neck.
Sylvriss pursued her questions. ‘What are you running from?’ she asked. ‘Where did you get that horse?
What’s the matter with your companion? What . . .’
Her voice tailed off at the look on Isloman’s face as he turned to her. ‘My friend’s alive, we can look to
him later,’ he said, looking fearfully towards the City, still hidden behind the hill. ‘Please mount up and
ride. We mustn’t delay here, please hurry.’ He nodded in the direction of Sylvriss’s horse which was also
standing patiently nearby.
Mindful of her own journey and seeing that nothing was to be gained by further questions, Sylvriss
painfully clambered on to her horse. As she eased into her saddle, a terrible pain, far beyond her
immediate bodily discomfort, ran through her and she gasped out loud.
‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s voice was distant. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone,
leaving in its wake a cold and fearful emptiness as though something precious had been torn from her
forever. The tremulous life inside her fluttered agitatedly, but somehow she soothed it.
‘Are you all right?’ Isloman’s question came again.
She ignored it. She had no words to describe what had just happened. ‘As you’re travelling this road, it
seems we’re both going the same way, Orthlundyn,’ she said grimly. ‘So trot your horse gently if you’re
anxious to cover a great distance quickly. Match my speed. Talk when you’re ready.’
For a while they rode on in an uneasy silence, though Sylvriss noted that the black horse was still
carrying its rider rather than being ridden. Every now and then, it would increase its speed and ease
forward, but Sylvriss reached over and took its reins.
‘You’re not whole yet, horse,’ she said. ‘Your duty’s done for now. Take my guidance.’ Isloman did
not interfere.
Gradually the horse became quieter, and Isloman too seemed to lose a little of his fearful preoccupation,
though he kept turning round.
‘I’m sorry, Muster woman,’ he said, eventually. Sylvriss looked at him sharply, but did not speak.
He continued. ‘I saw you come out of the trees like a saviour out of an old legend. I thought you’d kill
yourself for certain, riding down that hillside the way you did. It was unbelievable.’ He looked down. ‘I
couldn’t help you. I’m sorry.’
‘You were hanging on to the horse,’ Sylvriss said, understandingly.
Isloman nodded his head a little and then looked at her sadly. ‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t
help you because I was petrified. I was so frightened I scarcely remember leaving Vakloss.’
Sylvriss looked at him intently, questions again bubbling up inside her. ‘Shouldn’t we look to your friend
now?’ she said.
Isloman hesitated. ‘He’s alive,’ he repeated. Then, almost childishly, ‘I don’t want to stop. Not yet.’
Sylvriss’s eyes opened in a mixture of horror and anger at the man’s tone. Even in this fearful state,
Isloman did not radiate cowardice. Further, a black sword and a black bow hung from the horse,
indicating that he or his inert companion was a warrior of some kind. And the horse was a splendid line
leader. What could have happened to reduce such a trio to such bewildered and terrified flight? And
again, why would such a beast willingly carry them?
Reaching across, she reined the black horse to a halt. ‘Dismount, Orthlundyn,’ she said firmly. ‘Like
your horse, you’re not yourself. We must look to your friend, and you must tell me your tale before we
go any further.’
There was a glimmer of resistance in Isloman’s eyes, but Sylvriss outfaced him. ‘The horses will warn us
if anyone comes near,’ she said. ‘And we can outrun anything the Mathidrin could send after us.’
Reluctantly, Isloman climbed down from his horse and gently lifting his companion, carried him to the
grassy roadside. Sylvriss followed and, as Isloman laid his friend down, she found herself looking at a
narrow and high cheek-boned face that seemed to radiate a powerful presence even in unconsciousness.
But was the man simply unconscious, for the face was also as pale as a death mask? Hesitantly, she
reached forward and placed her hand against his throat.
‘I can feel no pulse,’ she said anxiously. There was no reply. Turning, she saw Isloman lifting the sword
down from his horse, and in the corner of her vision a black shadow came from nowhere.
Chapter 2
Crouching in a shaded alcove, Dilrap shook and shook as if the only way his body knew to quell his
whirling mind was to destroy itself. Dismissed from the Throne Room by the King with a soft blessing and
a loudly proclaimed curse to give him some little protection, Dilrap had watched the ensuing scene
through the intricate carved tracery that formed a panel in one of the side doors. Watched the entrance of
the strangely transformed Dan-Tor impaled on a black arrow. Watched Rgoric move to slay him, only to
fall victim himself to Dan-Tor’s Mathidrin, perishing as he cut a hideous path through them towards their
evil Lord.
Rigid with horror, his hands pressed against the sharp edges of the carved wood, Dilrap had watched
the Kingship of Fyorlund rise grim and determined from its years of sullen decay only to fall in a welter of
primitive blood-lust. With it fell his own hopes and dreams. Now he was alone. Appallingly alone.
Fear and self-pity took alternate command of his mind, though rage seemed to dominate both. Rage at
his father for bearing such a poor scion to carry the Secretary’s burden, rage at Dan-Tor and his years of
silent, evil scheming, rage at the King for his futile death, at the Lords for their neglect, at the Queen for
deserting him, and at this last, rage at himself for the injustice of such base thoughts.
Cowering small in the alcove, it seemed to Dilrap that he was entering a darkness that could only
deepen, and that it would be beyond his soul to bear. And yet, even in this terrible extremity, bright
threads flickered and he reached out for them in the hope that they might grow and bind together to form
a desperate lifeline.
For he had heard too the King’s strange last words. That Dan-Tor would die at the very height of his
power; die at the hands of an ancient and insignificant assassin. And that the ancient line of Kings was still
unbroken, for the Queen now carried his heir.
Heartening words. But what of the King’s final eerie utterance into the dreadful waiting silence that filled
the hall as he had crawled agonizingly towards the fountainhead of all his ills? ‘Nothing shall end the reign
of your Master.’ A desperate, doom-laden avowal. And yet it was not uttered as such – ‘It is not what it
seems’ – and the King had laughed softly with his last breath, as at some private jest.
What could it mean? And who could be Dan-Tor’s master? Then the name that the King had uttered
returned to him.
Oklar.
A name from myth and legend. Oklar, the earth corrupter, greatest of the Uhriel, the servants of
Sumeral, the Great Corrupter.
A chill possessed Dilrap that set his previous terrors at naught. It couldn’t be. Such creatures could not
exist. It was contrary to reason. They were ogres for children, old tales embellished through the ages. But
the chill persisted. Hadn’t he seen Fyorlund deteriorate in his own lifetime? Hadn’t he seen the great
tower fortress of Narsindalvak and its Watch abandoned, and the ranks of the Lords’ High Guards
softened into foppery. And now its King was slain, its Queen was fled, and its Lords were arming for a
conflict that could only set brother against brother. And who could account for the force that had just
shaken the palace, perhaps even the City, to its very roots? But, rising above all this, came the vision of
Dan-Tor being carried into the Throne Room; changed, but unchanged. Dilrap knew it was no human
creature that now occupied that familiar lank form.
Resting his flushed and tear-stained face on the cold stone of the alcove, Dilrap struggled with his grief,
and the enormity of his revelation. Powers were awakening that were beyond human understanding. His
sense of loneliness and isolation deepened but, strangely, he felt comforted. He remembered the Queen’s
words: ‘Even your father couldn’t have stood against the wiles of Dan-Tor.’ The memory made him smile
bitterly. How could she have known the measure of the creature that they were opposing?
And yet they had opposed him, and done so successfully. Dilrap had fouled and encumbered his path
with his seeming helpfulness. The Queen had restored her long-sick King. They were achievements in
which to take no small pride, even if now they would doom him.
Scarcely had the thought occurred to him than the curtain of the alcove was pushed roughly aside and
two white-faced Mathidrin troopers confronted him.
* * * *
Sylvriss spun round, and rising rapidly to her feet, drew a large hunting knife from her belt. ‘I must have
been too long in the Palace,’ she said menacingly. ‘If a Lord can usurp the King, and thugs the High
Guard, then I suppose bandits could return to the highways. Well, you’ve no soft maiden here,
outlander.’ And she called out to her horse which reared up and flayed out wildly with its forelegs,
narrowly missing Isloman’s head.
Gavor squawked and hopped a considerable distance away, while Isloman’s mouth fell open at the sight
of this suddenly wild woman with her glittering knife and an indisputable will shining in her eyes. The
horse jostled him violently.
‘Lady,’ he said, staggering under the impact, ‘what are you doing?’
‘What areyou doing?’ Sylvriss retorted. ‘Lay down your sword before one of us kills you.’
Isloman hesitated, bewildered. Sylvriss’s horse moved towards him, forelegs dancing, but Isloman
watched it uncomprehendingly. Abruptly, Serian neighed, and Sylvriss’s horse stopped. The Queen
shouted to it again, but it did not move.
Sylvriss faltered at this unexpected intervention by the great horse. Whowere these people? At her
hesitation, Isloman seemed to come to himself and, bending down, he laid the sword gently on the
ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Sylvriss bridled. ‘I’m not afraid,’ she lied. ‘That damned bird startled me, landing so close.’
Gavor put his head on one side but did not speak. Then he walked over to Hawklan and peered at him
intently. Sylvriss caught the movement in the corner of her eye and, without taking her gaze from Isloman,
swung a foot in Gavor’s direction.
‘Shoo!’ she shouted.
Isloman stretched out a hand and stepped forward. ‘It’s all right . . .’ he began, but the Queen levelled
her knife at his groin.
‘Really,’ came a fruity voice from behind her. Startled she turned. But there was no one there, just the
lifeless black figure – and that damned bird again, standing by the body and staring at her.
Without thinking, she moved towards it angrily. Gavor spread his wings and flapped away. ‘Really,’ he
repeated. ‘Do something, Isloman. These Fyordyn women seem to do nothing but kill people when they
get hold of a knife.’
Sylvriss stopped, eyes wide. Then, turning, she found Isloman standing next to her, but with his hands
raised in surrender.
‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry I startled you with the sword, but I think it might help
Hawklan.’
Sylvriss glanced from Isloman to the motionless figure and then at Gavor.
‘The bird spoke,’ she said, ignoring Isloman’s explanation.
Isloman nodded. ‘Yes, that’s Gavor,’ he said, then, ‘Please call your horse off, so that I can pick up the
sword.’ Sylvriss looked at him. He looked powerful enough to have wrestled the horse to the ground had
need arisen, but his power was lost in his anxiety and concern. She sheathed her knife.
‘Your horse has called mine off already, Orthlundyn,’ she said. Then, sadly, ‘Attend to your friend if you
wish, but I fear he’s dead.’
As Isloman recovered the sword and moved to Hawklan’s side, Sylvriss walked slowly to her horse.
Patting its cheek, she said. ‘Why did you disobey me, old friend?’ The horse lowered its head, and
Serian bent forward and nudged her gently. Turning to him, Sylvriss saw that fear still flickered in his
eyes, but it was being well mastered. So many questions. She stroked his neck. ‘I don’t understand,’ she
said, ‘but thank you, line leader.’
She looked at Isloman, now kneeling by Hawklan and trying to place his hand around the handle of the
sword. He kept wincing, as though the sword were burning him.
摘要:

Copyright©1989,RogerTaylorRogerTaylorhasassertedtheirrightundertheCopyright,DesignsandPatentsAct1988,tobeidentifiedastheAuthorofthiswork.FirstpublishedinUnitedKingdomin1989byHeadlineBookPublishing.ThisEditionpublishedin2002byMushroomeBooks,animprintofMushroomPublishing,Bath,BA14EB,UnitedKingdomwww.m...

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