Facing an opponent of his own, Isloman noted these manoeuvres almost subliminally. Thoughts came to him again. Where had Hawklan learned to fight like that? So sure, so fast. What powers and ancient learning lay hidden in that familiar frame?
But it was no time for pondering. These Mathidrin were not without skill themselves. He felt a blade tear his tunic and cut into his side as he misjudged a feint by his attacker. The pain galvanized him and, before the blade could be withdrawn, he wrapped his arm around his opponent’s and with a sudden turn of his body broke it. Continuing the turn he hurled the screaming man into his fellows, knocking two of them down and making a third drop his sword. A few swirling seconds later the skirmish was over, and the Mathidrin were all disarmed and on the ground, either unconscious or nearly so.
Hawklan’s eyes were blazing green in the gloom and he seemed to be transfixed, as if wrestling with some appalling urge as he slowly sheathed his sword. Isloman moved over to the woman cowering by the side of the street.
‘You’re safe now,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. But she looked up at him with such a strange expression on her face that he withdrew his hand. As he straightened up, a shape moved rapidly towards him out of the gloom. Before he could react, it passed by his head and there was a scuffle and a strangled cry from behind him. Turning he found himself staring into the wild-eyed face of another Mathidrin. In one hand, the man held a knife, but the other was groping at his throat and blood was pouring through his fingers. Isloman stepped aside as the figure staggered dementedly forward to crash headlong on to the ground after a few paces. There was a burst of coughing from above.
‘Sorry I was a little late, dear boy.’ Cough. ‘Difficult to see in all this.’
The incident brought Hawklan to himself again. He glanced down at the dead Mathidrin and then looked upwards. ‘Gavor, you shouldn’t… ’ he began angrily.
‘He saved my life,’ interrupted Isloman angrily. ‘It was my fault. I was careless.’
Doubt and anger spread over Hawklan’s face but, before he could speak, a cry came from one of the fallen Mathidrin. The woman had picked up a dagger and stabbed him. Before Hawklan reached her, she had stabbed a second. None too gently he wrenched the knife from her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ he shouted furiously.
The woman met his stare unflinchingly. ‘I’m killing these cockroaches just like they killed my husband,’ she said savagely. Hawklan did not reply but, keeping hold of her wrist, he bent briefly over the two men. ‘They’re dead,’ he said.
‘So will the others be in a moment,’ said the woman, struggling to free herself.
‘No,’ cried Hawklan.
But with a desperate effort the woman tore her hand from his grip. ‘You’re foreigners, aren’t you?’ she said, backing away. Then without waiting for an answer, ‘You saved my life and I owe you that debt, but you don’t understand what’s happening here.’ Her face crumpled momentarily, but she controlled it almost immediately. ‘You don’t understand. Everything’s gone. No Geadrol. No Law. No High Guards. Only a sick King, a Warlock Lord and these vermin.’ She drove her foot brutally into one of the Mathidrin who was trying to rise to his feet. ‘They killed my husband. Now I’m killing them.’ She kicked him again repeatedly. Hawklan moved forward and she backed away from the fallen man. ‘If no one’s going to look after us, then we Fyordyn look after ourselves,’ and, bending down suddenly, she scooped up another dagger and drove it into the Mathidrin’s stomach before Hawklan could move.
Isloman stepped forward and caught her arm, but she spun round and drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over and she ran off into the gloom.
‘Leave her,’ Isloman gasped painfully as Hawklan made to run after her. ‘Leave her. She’s right. She knows what’s happening and, as you said, she knows where she is, which is more than we do.’
Hawklan stared uncertainly after the now-vanished woman, and then looked at his friend. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Isloman scowled and bent forward again. ‘Of course I’m not,’ he said acidly. ‘Just give me a minute or two.’
‘I’m not sure we’ve got that long,’ said Hawklan, looking round at the carnage. ‘There’s nothing we can do here, and there’s too much summary justice in the air for us to try explaining this. Come on. Mount up.’
Isloman glowered at him, but straightened up gin-gerly and hobbled to his horse. Gritting his teeth he accepted Hawklan’s support as he heaved himself painfully into the saddle.
No sooner were they both mounted than Gavor flapped between them. ‘Run. Quickly,’ he croaked, breathlessly.
As they disappeared into the gloom, a large patrol of Mathidrin emerged from the opposite direction and halted by the scattered bodies.
Chapter 35
The nerve centre of Urssain’s response to the fighting in the streets was high in one of the Palace towers, where he could supplement the information he was receiving simply by looking out of the window. It was for this reason that the lower floors of the Westerclave were fairly empty.
With the Goraidin setting a stern marching pace, and the Lords looking suitably harassed, the group had little difficulty in making their way through to its arched entrance. Such few Mathidrin as they met stepped smartly out of their way and saluted Yatsu’s officer’s uniform.
At the entrance, however, they found their horses being scrutinized by an officer. His uniform indicated a high rank, though how high, Yatsu did not know. Two other Mathidrin were standing by talking idly. Yatsu set his face and hoped that his ignorance of Mathidrin ranks and procedures would not betray them.
Maintaining the determined pace, Yatsu steered the group to the far side of the horses from the officer and loudly ordered them to mount, shouting, ‘Move, you sluggards, or you’ll answer to the Lord Dan-Tor personally.’
Following his lead, the Goraidin and the Lords mounted quickly and prepared to ride off.
‘Sirshiant,’ came an authoritative and supercilious voice. It was the officer.
Yatsu discreetly allowed his horse to move forward a few paces and then twisted round in his saddle as if seeking the owner of the voice. Finding him, he looked suitably surprised and then saluted smartly. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Didn’t see you. Watching the prisoners. They’re needed urgently.’
The officer’s eyes narrowed slightly. Adjusting the grip on his reins, Yatsu sent a danger signal to his men.
‘By whose authority have you released these men?’ the officer demanded.
‘Lord Dan-Tor’s direct command, sir,’ Yatsu replied.
The officer’s eyebrows rose slowly. ‘Direct com-mand,’ he echoed, as if testing its soundness. His look of suspicion increased. On the side away from the officer, Yatsu discreetly tapped his horse with his knee, to make it restive. Seeing this, the others did the same and the group fell into a slight but fluid disarray which spread out the watching Mathidrin and made the officer step back a little.
The movement enabled Yatsu to take his eyes off the officer and look around the courtyard. He could see no signs of ambush but his sense of danger was growing by the second. Somewhere a trap was closing, and this officer was playing for time.
As if in confirmation of this the officer waited very deliberately for the horses to quieten down, eyeing Yatsu coldly all the time. A horse jostled Yatsu and as its rider made soothing noises to quieten it Yatsu heard a soft whisper in the Battle Language. ‘They’ve recognized the horses.’
That had always been a risk. They had had to use the horses from the ambushed patrol because the Mathidrin horses were from the north of Fyorlund and were of a build and colour markedly different from local animals. Now some sharp eye had spotted a horse last seen going out on long patrol. Whatever this officer had set in motion, time was against them. Yatsu reached into a belt pouch with his left hand.