The Waking of Orthlund

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3Dilrap made no pretence at dignity as the two Mathidrin manhandled him along the palace corridors back towards the Throne Room. In fact, he felt oddly grateful to the two men for supporting him on this inevitable journey, as his own legs seemed incapable of the task. Strangely however, though the strong hands that gripped him and propelled him along were none too gentle, he sensed little malice in them. Their contact was human and felt comforting for all its harshness.

Glancing at his two escorts he saw that both were struggling to maintain the blank stony features typical of their kind when on palace duty. Catching the intermittent eye signals that were passing between them, he realized that they too were afraid and that, in their fear, there were even elements of compassion and regret for what they were now doing. What was to happen to him could happen to them also.

Their reservations however, were not sufficient to prevent them doing what they were doing and, all too soon, Dilrap found himself before the open doors of the Throne Room. Around him, the Palace echoed with the sounds of people running and shouting, though as he looked to the left and then the right, the corridor he was standing in was deserted except for a few restless Mathidrin.

A push propelled him forward uncertainly into the Throne Room. He gasped. Not at what he saw, for he seemed to be having difficulty in focussing, but at the aura that filled the hall. It was like coming out of the hot summer sun into an inner room expecting to find a shaded coolness but finding instead that a large fire had been left burning. Here however, was not an unexpected and unpleasant heat, but a crawling malevolence that seemed to pass right through him. He felt his legs beginning to shake uncontrollably.

‘Ah, Honoured Secretary.’

The voice was familiar, though it seemed distant and coldly inhuman, and as it spoke, the air around him seemed to vibrate and press in upon him with each syllable.

‘Come forward.’

Dilrap did not move; for a moment he had forgotten how to walk. The air around him vibrated again, appallingly impatient, but before any voice could speak, Dilrap’s legs found their wits and he stepped forward uncertainly.

The scene before him was little changed from what it had been when he had finally fled from his vantage-point at the latticed panel. The King’s body had been removed, but the slaughtered Mathidrin were only just being dragged away by their fellow assassins, unceremoniously trailing blood and viscera across the ancient floor.

A sweet and unmistakable smell rose to Dilrap’s nostrils and he felt the room swirling around him as his stomach heaved with revulsion. Some residue of regard for the erstwhile dignity of the hall managed to prevent him from vomiting but a great roaring rose up and filled his head. He did not remember falling, but suddenly he was surprised to find himself in the grip of powerful hands again, lifting him up from his knees.

With an incongruous gentleness they held him upright until he was sufficiently recovered to stand alone. He needed to breathe deeply, but that smell.

‘Come forward, Honoured Secretary,’ came the voice again, pressing in on him. Still it was cold and distant, but there was a note of scorn in it which lessened its chilling inhumanity, and deep inside Dilrap the spirit of his long silent defiance stirred again tentatively.

Blinking to clear his vision, Dilrap brought into focus the image of his lifelong tormentor. Dan-Tor was sitting in the chair that had been used to carry him away from his fateful confrontation with Hawklan. He had sat in it when he ordered the murder of the King and had been trapped in it by the dying monarch to hear his enigmatic last words. He was both changed and unchanged. His posture radiated an all too human pain, and from time to time his teeth grimaced white in his creased brown face as some spasm passed through him. Yet though his body and pain were human, he was beyond doubt the source of the malevolence that was filling the Throne Room.

Beside him stood a white faced and very still Urssain. Dilrap walked forward awkwardly. Here is my death, he thought.

Please let it be quick, please let me not whimper. Father, I loved you. Sylvriss, I love you still...

‘Ffyrst,’ he said, interrupting his own silent last declamations.

Dan-Tor looked up at him. As their eyes met, Dilrap flinched away. The Lord Dan-Tor had terrified him, but this was not Dan-Tor, this was just an image of Dan-Tor floating on the surface of something... unspeakable. The King had spoken truly. Dilrap knew he was indeed standing in the presence of a being whose very existence he would have laughed to scorn but hours ago.

His earlier promise to the King floated before him, mocking his impotence and insignificance. ‘I’ll corrode his new Order as he corroded the old one.’ Then, terrifyingly, from somewhere inside him came the realization that he had no choice. He could not allow this abomination to be. He must oppose because its loathsome machinations would spread beyond all control; spread across all Fyorlund and out into the world. Faced with the reality of the Uhriel, Dilrap faced also its implications. If the Uhriel were among people, then somewhere He too must exist. This... creature was but a herald.

The awful clarity and certainty of this revelation froze Dilrap’s heart, so loud was it. It was as if he had just cried it out at the top of his voice for all to hear. His rational mind struggled to tell him that there was nothing he could do against such a power, but the inner certainty persisted. He fixed his eyes on the floor. While he was as nothing, he might yet survive.

‘Why did you not tell me that the King was restored to health, Honoured Secretary?’ Again, the scorn in Dan-Tor’s voice heartened Dilrap rather than dismayed him. This was familiar. This was human.

Tell as few lies as you must, he thought. This... creature... will smell them out.

‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ Dilrap replied, his voice shaking.

There was a long tingling silence, then, ‘Look at me, Dilrap.’ The voice was heavy with malice, but its icy inhumanity was fading, as if the wakened Uhriel were retreating, withdrawing its attention from trivial considerations.

Dilrap felt his reluctant head rising as if under the influence of some will other than his own. His gaze met Dan-Tor’s. He could not move. Dan-Tor’s eyes seemed to fill his very soul.

‘Tell me again, Dilrap.’

Dilrap’s heart sang out to Sylvriss in thanks that she had had the foresight to keep all knowledge of the King’s well-being from him.

‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ he repeated.

The eyes probed further. ‘You were that horse witch’s confidant, were you not? She would have told you of such a joyful change, wouldn’t she?’

Speak against us if you must. Sylvriss’s words returned to Dilrap.

‘I didn’t know, Ffyrst,’ Dilrap said again, his mind frantically clutching the flimsy straw of truth that was keeping him afloat. ‘I didn’t know.’

Abruptly, though Dilrap felt that more and deeper questions were intended, the gaze was gone, and he was released. He breathed deeply to recover himself, despite the reek pervading the hall. He could not have withstood that scrutiny had the questions turned to his quiet conspiracy with the Queen, or the help he had given to Eldric and Jaldaric but minutes ago.

In front of him, Dan-Tor was staring upwards, grimacing in pain, his long hands clutching at his side around the protruding black arrow, but shying away from touching it.

To his surprise, Dilrap felt a flutter of sympathy for the man in his agony. Again the air around him seemed to stir, like a hunter scenting a distant and hated prey. Dilrap crushed the sentiment and substituted self-interest.

‘Ffyrst, I didn’t see you were wounded,’ he said, his voice — his whole manner — full of concern. ‘You must not exert yourself. Let the healers remove that...’ He pointed a trembling hand towards the arrow. ‘Such a wound could become infected.’

Dan-Tor’s gaze left the scenes of ancient history that decorated the ornate ceiling, and returned to the King’s Secretary. Dilrap felt the impact of its scorn, but it was still the gaze of his old enemy. Terrifying, but again human. The demon was gone... for now.

Nonetheless the gaze was grim and penetrating, and Dilrap let out a long soft breath as Dan-Tor turned to Urssain. ‘Help me stand,’ he said, his hands releasing his side and gripping the arms of the chair. Urssain bent down and placed the injured man’s arm around his shoulder, at the same time signalling to one of his men to assist. Slowly and painfully, Dan-Tor rose.

Dilrap watched but kept his eyes from Dan-Tor’s face, fearing the retribution that might fall on him at being seen to watch his master’s weakness. But the image before him was not one of human frailty, commanding sympathy; it was repellent. The lank brown figure not so much being supported by, as wilfully burdening the two Mathidrin in their black, bloodstained liveries, his arms spread wide and his hands clawing their shoulders as if he drew sustenance from their oppression.

Is this what you and your Master will do to the world, you monstrous blight? Dilrap found himself thinking unexpectedly. He lowered his gaze in case the thought showed in his eyes.

‘This wound is infected beyond your imaginings, Dilrap,’ Dan-Tor said, his neck stretching forward to make him look even more like a grotesque carrion bird. ‘It will trouble me for some long time but, have no fear, it’ll neither kill me nor blunt my purpose.’ A spasm of pain shook him. ‘However, you’re right in one matter. I must rest. Take heart, Secretary, that your final piece of advice to me was accepted.’

Dilrap’s stomach, tight and pained by the restraint of his reaction to the gore around his feet, became icy and leaden.

‘Final piece of advice, Ffyrst?’ he said faintly. ‘Am I dismissed my office? The King...’

‘The King is dead,’ Dan-Tor said coldly before Dilrap could finish. ‘Killed by...’ He paused and looked at Dilrap thoughtfully. ‘By my guards.’

Dilrap had little difficulty feigning horror and disbelief; that Dan-Tor had told the truth had genuinely shaken him. He tried to speak, but could not.

Then Dan-Tor’s predatory smile slashed white across his brown face. It was not the cold spirit of Oklar that shone through it, but the malice there showed Dilrap that humankind could be as foul as any of the creatures they self-righteously label monster.

‘A new order is with us, Honoured Secretary,’ said Dan-Tor. ‘Your office is no longer needed. Nor are you.’ He paused as though savouring the moment. ‘Kill him, Commander.’

Before Urssain could relinquish his burden to implement this command, Dilrap fell to his knees, his mouth working noiselessly. At last he found his voice. ‘Ffyrst. I beg of you. What have I done?’

Dan-Tor looked at him. ‘Done, Dilrap?’ he said. ‘You’ve done well. You were serving my ends admirably, but circumstances have cut across my plans and brought about their conclusion sooner than I had hoped...’

Dilrap interrupted desperately. ‘Why kill me then, Master?’

Dan-Tor turned away his face suddenly as if he had been struck. ‘Don’t presume to question me, Dilrap,’ he said angrily, turning back. ‘Your eternal terror clouds my vision, and your eternal fretting over the minutiae of the Law rings in my ears like the buzzing of a trapped insect. Now all can be swept aside. The New Order will be one of simplicity. One requiring only the swords of my Mathidrin and my will. I would be free of you, Dilrap. Urssain, attend to it now. I grow weary.’

Dilrap stared at him, unable to either speak or move, finding no resource within himself that could hope to deflect such malice. All courses of action were closed to him now. Let me not whimper, he thought again. Had he not just seen men dispatched by a single swift stroke from the King’s sword? There would be a moment’s pain and then his journey through his worrisome life would be over. Surely he could receive that with dignity and calm. But immediately behind this calmness came an unexpected and raging anger. No, he would not go so lightly. He would give this... obscenity a measure of what it could expect should it hope to hold sway over humanity. Before anyone could seize him he would tear that black arrow from its side and plunge it into its heart.