‘This is vital,’ Gulda emphasized. ‘Real strength can only come from firm and tenacious roots. And you,’ she swung her stick around the assembled instructors, ‘will bring all this information together as soon as possible so that we here will have a complete and detailed picture of the whole country.’
Loman’s feet took him upward and outwards until he found himself on the Castle wall looking out across the rolling landscape. He was tired and stiff; though not unpleasantly so. For all her impudence, his daughter had eased the more excruciating pains very effectively.
He stretched massively, drawing the fresh summer air into his barrel chest and closing his eyes to feel the sun on his craggy face. Hawklan had been right. The Orthlundyn, himself included, he realized, strove naturally for perfection and, while it gave them a profound satisfaction to do well, much of it was only because it was a step to something better. Perhaps only an outlander could see that in us, he thought.
In truth though, he could not have imagined that so much could have been achieved so quickly. Few had expressed serious reservations about what was being done. The evil that had come into their land had awakened some long-dormant spirit in the Orthlundyn and, while they regretted the need, they took to their new studies with the same thoroughness that typified all their acts. Their weakness, Loman knew, was that few of them were battle-hardened. Combat was not an extension of training, it was profoundly different. But, for all that, a tool was being formed which could do fine service if the need arose. He frowned anxiously at the thought as if the very thinking of it might fulfil it. He patted the stone in front of him with his powerful hand almost superstitiously. Then he turned his eyes northwards towards Fyorlund.
The string of riders established as a message line for Hawklan and Isloman had been used frequently as part of various training exercises and Loman knew that the two men had made steady and uneventful progress, and that they in turn knew of the progress that had been made at the Castle.
Then had come Hawklan’s last message before they disappeared into the mountainous approaches to Fyorlund. ‘Well done. Now select your finest and train them beyond their limits, for special needs.’
It was a message he had feared Hawklan’s reason would lead him to eventually: the formation of an elite corps. He had assiduously avoided mentioning such an idea to Hawklan because in it were enshrined all the painful and irreconcilable paradoxes of the wilful use of violence. Further, he and Loman had both served with such a group: the Goraidin. The only non-Fyordyn ever to do so. It had been a difficult experience, at once enriching and impoverishing, and he had little desire to relive it.
Even now, so many years later, he would wake occa-sionally in the night, shivering, full of the nightmare of that first meeting.
Their small unit had been scattered by a surprise night attack and he and Isloman had spent days wandering through the snow-covered terrain trying to find out where they were and what exactly had hap-pened. Then the weather turned and the two brothers found themselves clinging to one another in mortal fear. Everything disappeared into a horrifying glaring whiteness that burned into their eyes. Mountains, forests, even the sky and the very horizon were gone-not as in a mist-not hidden from view but vanished utterly into brightness. Only vaguely could they see one another and their footsteps in the snow. Their main awareness of one another came through touch and, hand in hand, they wandered aimlessly for miles until eventually they stumbled across a fallen tree whose roots offered them some shelter.
They built a rough snow wall to keep out the wind, and slumped down in the cramped space to contemplate their imminent demise. Even with their Orthlundyn clothing, and the extra garments that the local Riddin-volk, used to such conditions, had given them, the bitter cold struck through and both knew that without food and warmth they would soon die.
Loman was wakened from a fitful half sleep by his brother clamping a hand over his mouth and whispering in his ear. ‘Morlider. Just outside. Listen.’
Nearby voices speaking a strange language drifted into their shelter. Loman craned forward, listening intently, and then raised four fingers to his brother. Isloman nodded. Four men.
‘Food,’ mouthed Loman silently. Isloman nodded again and raised a clenched fist. This time Loman nodded and cautiously slipped his gloved hand through the straps of his shield. Isloman slowly did the same and, on his brother’s signal, the two of them crashed down their snow wall and charged out roaring and shouting at the four men.
Except that there were not four, but six. Without pausing to assess the consequences of their mistaken arithmetic the two brothers pressed on. Strong even in those days, Loman sent two of the men staggering with a single blow of his shield and then swung his club at the head of a third.
But the blow never landed and, instead, Loman found himself sprawling on his back only vaguely aware of where he was and how he got there. There had been no impact, he was sure. He rolled over and tried to regain his balance and then there was an impact. A stunning blow came from nowhere and exploded in his head, filling it with white light. Now he was face down in the snow and sufficiently aware to know that he was losing this battle utterly. He was going to die. Some-where he could hear his brother’s voice and the sound of fighting.
‘I’m coming, Isloman,’ he shouted weakly and, with head still ringing, he struggled to his knees. His shield and club were gone, but he had his fists and his strength. As he moved, he heard a gasp of surprise and the sound of a sword being drawn. Looking up and focusing blearily, he saw a white, fur-clad figure approaching purposefully with a white-bladed sword in his hand. He was not going to be able to move in time.
‘Wait,’ cried an authoritative voice. ‘Wait.’ The fig-ure paused. A second figure joined it and, bending forward, spoke to Loman.
‘What did you say?’ it demanded.
Loman, uncertain at this strange turn in the pro-ceedings, swore at him roundly and tried again to stand.
‘Well I’m damned,’ said the figure. ‘Orthlundyn or I’m a Mandroc. What are you doing here?’
Loman kept his gaze on the drawn sword. ‘Wishing I was somewhere else,’ he said.
The figure laughed unexpectedly and stepped for-ward, its hand extended. ‘Yes. Orthlundyn without a doubt. Put up your sword, Yatsu, we mustn’t slaughter our allies, even if they do ambush us. Take my hand, man.’
Hesitantly Loman grasped the offered hand and struggled to his feet, swaying dizzily. The two men steadied him, and for a moment he leaned on them both while his head cleared.
The second man chuckled again. ‘I didn’t know Orthlundyn were so hard,’ he said. ‘One kick from Yatsu is usually sufficient to take a man out of this world and you’re only a bit dizzy. Remarkable.’ He gestured to an untidy white mound by the roots of the fallen tree. ‘Let him up,’ he said, and Loman watched the mound break up as four more fur-clad individuals rose to their feet and released his bruised and winded brother.
‘Well, Orthlundyn,’ said the man, turning back to Loman, ‘you gave us quite a surprise. I think we’ll talk a little. My name’s Dirfrin, and this little group you’ve assailed is a detachment of King Rgoric’s Goraidin.’
The name meant nothing to either of the brothers, and Dirfrin did not seem disposed to elaborate.