‘No more, please,’ said Hawklan pleadingly. It was still important to keep the crowd divided in their attitude to him; laying this oaf out might still turn them against him.
But Uskal was beyond listening. He wrenched a sickle off a man standing nearby, sending him stagger-ing with a powerful blow in the chest when he offered some resistance. Then, crouching slightly, he moved towards Hawklan, his face turned into a grinning mask. He twisted the curved, shining blade so that it reflected the sunlight into Hawklan’s eyes.
You’re a demented, unfettered creature, came the thought to Hawklan, and he felt his right hand prepar-ing to draw his sword. A vision of the black sword singing out and severing this abomination in two floated alluringly before Hawklan, and he dismissed it only with a considerable conscious effort. Time enough later to consider such thoughts-and the throw that had saved Flec and brought about this predicament-but there was a more pressing problem to be dealt with first.
Uskal was still moving forward, swinging the sickle from side to side. Hawklan retreated slowly, still anxious to play the bewildered traveller.
‘No more,’ he repeated, to reinforce this, but soon he would have to defend himself in earnest, and he knew that his body would act outside his control when threatened, using skills beyond his knowing. And while this might overcome Uskal, it could turn the crowd against him.
As if sensing Hawklan’s dilemma, Isloman started to struggle with the two men holding him, dragging them to and fro. ‘Let me go,’ he shouted. ‘This is madness. There’ll be murder done.’
Serian, apparently alarmed by the disturbance, be-gan to jig and prance like a skittish colt, his hooves kicking up a great cloud of dust. But his eyes were firmly fixed on Hawklan, awaiting a command. Hawklan gave it with an almost imperceptible nod and Serian pranced even more wildly.
With a swift step, Hawklan moved across to the horse as though to quieten it, or perhaps hide behind it, away from Uskal’s swinging blade. The movement seemed to act like a signal to Uskal who charged towards Hawklan like a wild predator after fleeing prey. Serian reared wildly and his flailing hoof caught Uskal a pitiless and accurate blow on the shoulder, sending him sprawling and screaming in the dust, the sickle bouncing harmlessly towards the feet of its real owner.
Hawklan took his horse’s head as if calming it. ‘I presume you didn’t want him killed,’ Serian said softly. Hawklan patted the great head affectionately and then ran across to his fallen assailant who was writhing on the ground and lashing out at anyone who tried to touch him.
‘Be still,’ he said urgently, kneeling down beside him. ‘Be still. I know a little about bone-setting.’
‘What’s all this noise?’ A huge voice boomed out over the crowd and the square suddenly became silent. Even Uskal groaned more softly. Hawklan looked up to see a grey-headed old man standing at the top of the steps of the large building. Bright, penetrating eyes shone out of a stern and powerful face.
Chapter 27
The first citizen of any Fyorlund community, be it village or town, was its Rede. It was an office that fell to many different types of people, though none were young, as all had had some experience of service with the Lords or the King. It was part of the Law of Fyorlund that no man should lead until he had served, though little leadership was generally required of a Rede, the natural temperament of the Fyordyn being generally towards order and discipline. In practice, the office tended to be no more than a form of dignified retire-ment for some respected member of the community.
It was the intrusion into this retirement of a mount-ing hubbub that brought a scowl to Rede Berryn’s stern face and sent him to a window, and thence to the outer door of his official residence to make his distinctly personal form of inquiry of the crowd.
He had been a senior training officer in the High Guard of a very traditionally minded Lord, and he could make his presence felt and his voice heard over disturbances far greater than that currently raising a dust in his village square.
‘Well,’ his voice boomed out again, ‘what’s going on?’
Gister stepped forward to the foot of the steps, his manner a mixture of deference and defiance. He waved an accusing hand towards Hawklan and Isloman.
‘These men are spies, Rede. They’ve been sneaking around for days, they’re armed to the teeth, and they’ve attacked Uskal just because he asked who they were.’
The old man fixed Gister with a look of suspicion and contempt, and then looked at the crowd. Under his gaze, the tiny seeds that Hawklan had sown began to germinate.
‘Rubbish,’ shouted someone. ‘They weren’t doing any harm.’ Gister cast a furious eye over the crowd, but apparently could not see his denouncer.
Several others joined in. ‘That’s right, Rede. They’ve done nothing. Gister accused them of being spies and Uskal started the fight.’
‘But the horse won,’ came a delighted laugh, which again had Gister searching the crowd. Many of the others joined in, but several were still quiet and unsure.
‘I know you all,’ shouted Gister petulantly. ‘Don’t think I don’t see you. You’re all traitors, I’ll repo… ’
‘Gister.’
The Rede’s interruption stopped the man in mid-sentence. For a moment the two men locked gazes and, although it was Gister who turned away first, Hawklan noticed that the old man was uncomfortable in his authority. He felt again that Gister drew his confidence and power from others, presumably outside the village.
The Rede came down the steps and walked across to Hawklan; he had a slight limp. Hawklan had rendered Uskal unconscious in order to set the bones that Serian’s hoof had so casually shattered and, laying the man down gently, he stood up and spoke to the watching Rede.
‘I’ve set the damaged bones, but he’ll have to be strapped up and properly nursed,’ he said. ‘He should be taken to your healer right away.’ He looked down at the unconscious figure. ‘I’m afraid that arm’s never going to be quite right though,’ he said.
The Rede grunted non-committally and then ges-tured in a direction over Hawklan’s shoulder. Turning, Hawklan saw a pale-faced, lightly built man moving through the crowd. He wore what Hawklan took to be a robe of office although, from the stains and dust on it, it was obviously also a working robe. Followed by a group of excited children who had obviously summoned him, the man moved straight to the fallen Uskal, confirming Hawklan’s first impression that he was the local healer.
Hawklan bowed slightly to the Rede. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said and, kneeling down by the healer, he explained what he had done to ease Uskal’s immediate distress. He took the man’s hands and moved them over Uskal’s arm and shoulder. The healer closed his eyes and then opened them with a start. They were wide with surprise. In an awed whisper he said, ‘You must be Hawklan from… ’ But a look in Hawklan’s green eyes silenced him.
‘Shh, please,’ said Hawklan under his breath. ‘I gave your friends a false name. You can tell I mean no harm, but it may be difficult with the others. They’re in a strange mood. Tend to your charge. I have to speak with your Rede.’
Like a humble acolyte at the feet of a great master, the man nodded and quickly gave orders to some of the men in the crowd for the removal of Uskal to his home. Then, turning to Hawklan, ‘Your healing… we must speak, sir. Before you leave the village. Please. There’s so much I could learn from you.’ Then, a little abashed at his forwardness, ‘I’d consider it an honour.’
Hawklan smiled at the man. ‘If I can,’ he said. ‘But… ’ He cast a quick glance at the watching people.
Standing, he found that the Rede had moved away and was contending with a now recovered Gister, who was hovering at his shoulder.
‘They’re spies, Rede. Look at them,’ he said, his eyes flicking from the Rede to Hawklan.
The old man waved him to silence irritably but of-fered him no other rebuke.
‘I apologize for your welcome to our village, sir,’ he said to Hawklan. ‘But times are troubled and there are many strange rumours in the air. I have to confess that your appearance is unusual, with your fine bow and sword, and… ’ He looked at Serian intently, and a note of considerable surprise came into his voice, ‘and your Muster horse if I’m not mistaken.’