It was a pause sufficient for Jaldaric to draw a knife and twist Tirilen’s wrist expertly so that she could not move. He offered the knife to her throat and looked at the trio in front of him: two hulking villagers who had dealt with four of his men in no more time than it took him to stand up; and this terrifying man with penetrat-ing green eyes and grim face, gaunt in the torchlight. He felt his knees quaking and hoped desperately that it did not show in his face, or sound in his voice.
‘Hawklan, I presume,’ he said. ‘I congratulate you on your surprise, but I have the advantage, I think, and you can’t hope to master my whole patrol. Lay down your arms and surrender peacefully and all this can be forgotten. We want only you. These people can return to the village.’
Hawklan answered quietly. ‘And you must be Jalda-ric. I’d heard the High Guards of Fyorlund were honourable men, not brigands. Not betrayers of hospitality. Kidnappers of womenfolk. What value shall I put on your word, High Guard?’
Jaldaric’s jaw tightened angrily. ‘Enough,’ he said harshly. ‘We are High Guards, and we must obey our Lord. I regret what I’ve had to do but you’re an enemy of Fyorlund and I’ve been ordered to seize you in this way to avoid conflict with the local villagers and the consequent loss of life. Believe me, it’s been no pleasure for me to resort to this kind of conduct. The Lady Tirilen will confirm that she’s had nothing but courtesy and honourable treatment from us while we’ve held her captive.’
Hawklan’s green eyes searched deeply into the young man and found he was probably telling the truth. Tirilen showed no signs of ill-usage, and her eyes showed alarm rather than real fear, even though Jaldaric’s knife was at her throat.
Hawklan spoke quietly. ‘Jaldaric. I’m no man’s en-emy, let alone a country’s. You’ve been deceived. A person who’d give you such orders would be unlikely to stop at lying, would he?’
A doubt flickered across Jaldaric’s face, but he tight-ened his grip on Tirilen’s wrist and rested his knife against her throat. ‘Release my men and surrender yourself. I’m not here to debate, I’m here to ensure you’re taken to Fyorlund to account for your treachery. Surrender now or this girl’s blood will be on your heads.’
Hawklan’s manner changed imperceptibly, but the tent seemed to fill with a terrible aura of menace. ‘No, Jaldaric,’ he said. ‘I doubt that your loyalty to whatever oath it is you’ve sworn will enable you to do that. But, even so, you must realize that if you injure Tirilen, your men will die on the instant as will those outside, and nothing could protect you from Loman’s wrath.’
Jaldaric glanced at the two unconscious figures sprawled at the feet of Isloman, and at the two with their heads held effortlessly against the table by Loman. He scarcely heard Hawklan’s words, or noticed the look on Loman’s face, but the tone of Hawklan’s voice and his unwavering green eyes chilled him to his heart. This time he could not keep the fear out of his voice.
‘So be it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We’re High Guards. If we’ve to die then that’s… unfortunate. The manner of our dying is rarely ours to choose. Our orders must be obeyed. We’ve some honour left.’
Hawklan realized, to his horror, that he had driven the young man too far. Now, impulsively, Jaldaric had steeled himself to face death, and his actions would be unpredictable. Hawklan did not allow the uncertainty into his face but an eerie silence descended on the group.
Abruptly an unearthly shriek filled the tent and a black thrashing shape burst through the gash in the tent wall and made straight for Jaldaric’s face. Involuntarily he raised his knife hand to protect himself from this screaming apparition.
Isloman took one step forward, seized Jaldaric’s wrist and wrested the knife from his grip as if it had been from a child. Then he immobilized him in a great bear hug. Jaldaric was almost the same height as Isloman, but less heavy and far less powerful. He made a token effort to drive the back of his head into Isloman’s face, only to find he was suddenly unable to breathe in the huge man’s embrace.
Loman casually threw his two captives to the floor, and moved quickly to Tirilen, who had also been deposited on the floor when Jaldaric was seized by Isloman.
Hawklan let out a long breath and put his sword back in its scabbard. Other High Guards appeared in the doorway of the tent, attracted by the noise. Two rushed forward but Hawklan’s hands went out like striking snakes and the two men received blows which rendered them so instantly unconscious that they fell to the floor like dropped meal sacks.
The speed and ease of this action stopped the other High Guards in their tracks. Hawklan gazed at the uncertain faces in front of him, as they slowly registered the implications of what they were looking at: their expert defences silently breached, their leader taken and six of their compatriots incapacitated with apparently contemptuous ease, Loman standing protectively in front of Tirilen, his hand on his iron-bound club. The two men Loman had held were massaging their necks and twisting their heads ruefully, but they remained on the floor, loath to make any move that might bring down further punishment on them.
Without taking his eyes off the group in the door-way, Hawklan spoke. ‘Loman, explain to these young men that we need to have a little talk.’
Loman shot a baleful look at Jaldaric, then Tirilen touched his arm and his manner softened. He put his arm round her again and looked across to his brother, eyebrows raised. Isloman nodded and released Jaldaric who fell, gasping, to the ground. Then Loman spoke to the men in a language that Hawklan had never heard before.
Without exception, surprise suffused the faces of the watching men. Loman, an Orthlundyn, was speaking their Battle Language, the language that was known only to the Fyordyn High Guard. Sometime during his life this Orthlundyn had done service for, or with, the High Guard.
Jaldaric staggered painfully to his feet, his young face riven with confusion. He gestured to his men. ‘Lay down your arms,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We must talk. This has been a sorry affair from the start. We must talk.’
There was some hesitation.
Jaldaric leaned with one hand on the table while the other tenderly rubbed his ribs and stomach. ‘Do as you’re ordered,’ he shouted angrily. He waved his arm towards Loman. ‘Didn’t you hear him? It was an ill thing to kidnap a woman for whatever reason. Now we find we’ve made war on the daughter of an Orthlundyn who speaks the Battle Language. We’ve violated the hearth of one of our own. Lay down your arms now! We must talk.’
Chapter 6
While some of the High Guards righted the disarray in the tent, Hawklan busied himself with the injured. With a little massage he very quickly revived the two men he had knocked unconscious, and they seemed none the worse for their experience, physically at least. The victims of Loman and Isloman, however, had to be advised, after examination, that they could look forward to several days of discomfort.
Briefly, the child still in Tirilen showed itself as she embraced her three rescuers, but it was only they who felt it, and it was a composed young woman that turned away from them and moved her attention to Gavor, now proudly displaying his spurs.
‘You look very dashing, Gavor,’ she said.
Gavor acknowledged the praise with a toss of the head and a bow and then, jumping on to her head, looked down beadily at Jaldaric who returned the gaze nervously.
‘Is that bird safe?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Tirilen. ‘Perfectly safe. It’s you who’s in danger.’ Then unexpectedly she laughed and ruffled his hair.
Her laughter lightened the atmosphere and Hawklan could not forbear smiling both at her powers of recovery and at Jaldaric’s discomfiture as he stood up and occupied himself with straightening his tunic until he had stopped blushing.
In spite of what this young man had done, Hawklan felt no real evil in him. He was certainly not the instigator of what had been happening. Nor were any of the others, although one or two of them seemed to be of an angry and surly disposition.