Part 9 (1/2)

Urssain breathed out very quietly.

'You're a man who'll learn. And quickly when needs be. You learned immediately that to tell me other than the truth would be not only foolish but dangerous.' There was a dreadful chill in his voice and the coincidence of the words with his own earlier thoughts shook Urssain profoundly. He remained motionless and involuntarily held his breath again. He wanted to be a long way from here.

'And you have wants, have you not? Desires?' A long bony hand airily encompa.s.sed the room.

'Ambitions? For wealth? For power?' Again the coincidence of words. Urssain shrank within himself as if to close off his own thoughts.

'Nothing is hidden from me, Urssain,' Dan-Tor stood up and, placing his hands on Urssain's shoulders, stared deeply into his eyes. Urssain felt himself dwindle into nothingness in the shadow of such power, then he felt himself lifted up and carried somewhere high above his wildest ambitions.

Abruptly the power was withdrawn, leaving only a lingering after-image of some attainable goal burning in his mind. Dan-Tor was matter-of-fact again.

'I'll call you when I need you, Captain. Return to your barracks.'

'Lord,' said Urssain as steadily as he could, then he turned to leave the room. As he reached the door, Dan-Tor spoke again. 'The Mandrocs, Urssain. How did they behave in Orthlund?'

Urssain thought for a moment. 'It upset them, Lord. It's a creepy place. They were very unsettled anxious to be . . . home . . . somewhere else. I didn't like it very much myself to be honest. But they fought well enough.'

Dan-Tor nodded slowly. 'Send word they're to be kept in isolation until I've had an opportunity to study them. Don't let them mix with their own.'

Urssain acknowledged the order and closed the door quietly behind himself.

That at least is one useful piece of salvage from this wreck, thought Dan-Tor when Urssain had left. He had been watching the man for some time, looking for someone suitable to place in charge of the restructuring of the City Garrisons as the Mathidrin were gradually eased into power. Urssain's conduct while making his report had confirmed his worth the right balance of self-seeking cunning and stark fear, a perceptive man in his own barbarous way. And his ambition! Dan-Tor nodded to himself. You haven't even got your own measure of it yet, Urssain, he thought.

But, despite this, Dan-Tor's thoughts were dominated by Hawklan. Escaped again. Escaped with the knowledge that Fyorlund was under threat from some unknown enemy. Escaped to tell the Orthlundyn that Mandrocs were abroad and had killed on their blessed land if they didn't feel it already. Not even his Master could foresee how the Orthlundyn would react to such news. And why were Hawklan and that oaf of a Carver riding armed with Jaldaric? And where was the girl? Things were moving too quickly. Dan-Tor had the uneasy feeling that he was watching one pebble dislodge two as it rolled away from him down a hillside.

He dismissed the thought. Whatever the Orthlundyn had been, they were not so now and, in any case, they were too few to offer any serious opposition. All the damage that had been done could be repaired with a little thought. Useful experience would have been gained from the Mandrocs' exposure to Orthlund. More traps could be laid for Hawklan. Time was on the Master's side. Tomorrow he would interrogate Jaldaric.

'We'll weave a net to hold you yet, Hawklan,' Dan-Tor muttered softly to himself. 'Weave one from the threads your new-found friend will give us.'

A moth fluttered against the window, futilely rattling its wings against the gla.s.s as the invisible barrier kept it from its goal of light.

Chapter 13.

The journey back to Pedhavin was a strange, uncomfortable affair. Hawklan and Isloman both wavered in and out of different moods as they tried to adjust to recent events. But no real peace was to be found.

Something had been lost forever. Such tranquillity as they could achieve from time to time was only the stillness of the sea between breaking waves. Havoc would descend again on their minds all too quickly and with it came the grim feeling that it would never end.

Gavor returned eventually, exhausted but with news that Hawklan, at least, found heartening. The Mandroc patrol had maintained its rapid progress to the north and, leaving the road, had a.s.siduously avoided all contact with the villages and communities that lay between it and Fyorlund. Jaldaric was aliveand mounted, though bound.

'It looked to me as if they were leaving by the same way they came in, judging from the tracks,' he concluded.

'That's a relief,' said Hawklan. 'At least there'll be no more killing.'

Isloman snorted. 'The presence of those creatures in Orthlund is a murder in itself. Wherever they've come from they're a defilement. The very ground they tread on cries out in pain.'

Hawklan looked at him, a puzzled frown on his face at this unexpected vehemence. Isloman met his gaze.

'Can't you feel it?' he said impatiently, as to an obtuse pupil.

'I'm sorry . . .' began Hawklan, but Isloman interrupted him with a remorseful gesture.

'Don't apologize, Hawklan. It's my fault. It's hard to remember you weren't born here.' There was regret in his voice, though whether it was at his own impatience or because Hawklan was not an Orthlundyn was not clear. A little further on he spoke again. 'I can't explain, Hawklan, any more than I can explain rock lore to you, but everyone will know that something terrible has happened. You see. The first village we reach they'll be out, asking, worried.'

And that, thought Hawklan, is all the explanation I'm going to get, judging from the tone of your voice.

Gavor broke the slight uneasiness with a throaty chuckle. 'I'll tell you what those Mandrocs don't like, though.' He fell silent, awaiting a response from one of them. Hawklan looked at him sideways and raised his eyebrows, indicating it would not be from him. After a few moments, Isloman's curiosity got the better of him and, reluctantly, he asked what that might be. 'Ravens,' laughed Gavor. There was a note of malevolent exultation in his voice that made Hawklan turn sharply.

'What have you been doing, Gavor?' he asked before Isloman could respond.

'Nothing, dear boy,' replied Gavor innocently. 'Just ruffled a few feathers, metaphorically speaking.'

'Never mind the metaphors,' Hawklan said firmly. 'What have you done?'

'Well . . . I just flew round a little.'

'And?'

'Nothing much. Just sang them a little tune I'd remembered.' Green eyes and black eyes locked. Old friends.

'That little tune, as you call it, is a death cry, isn't it? A warning. Something out of your murky past, you feathered ancient.'

Then Gavor was all devilment. 'Yes it is. Yes it is. I don't know what it means, dear boy, b.u.t.they do.

And they don't like it. They becamevery restless. The poor man at the front had a very difficult time with them.' He chuckled again and hopped on to Hawklan's head. 'And less of the ancient, dear boy,' he said, ruffling Hawklan's hair with his wooden leg and hopping nimbly out of the way as a hand came upto dislodge him. 'After all, we're no hatchling ourselves, are we?'

Hawklan ignored the comment. 'Well?' he demanded.

'Well what?'

'What else did you do?'

'Oh. Nothing special. Just had a closer look at them once or twice.'

'How close?'

Gavor was gone, then . . .

'This close,' he shrieked, flying tumultuously between the two men from behind, and catching their heads with his thras.h.i.+ng wings. Both of them jumped at his sudden appearance and Isloman offered him a clenched fist as he soared high up above them. Gavor laughed raucously and tumbled over in the air.

'Theydidn't like it either,' he cried.

'I'll put you in a pot, you black-hearted crow,' roared Isloman as he struggled to regain control of his startled mount.