The Call of the Sword by Roger Taylor

Author:Roger Taylor [Taylor, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Epic, epic fantasy, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781843192732
Google: h81x1zYfL2gC
Amazon: B004I1KNLS
Publisher: Mushroom eBooks
Published: 2002-10-24T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

In a small clearing in a wood about a day’s ride to the north of Pedhavin, the bright spring sunshine shone down on a group of young men. Some of them were cleaning weapons or tackle, and one or two were reading, but the majority were lounging about idly.

Their camp was clean and orderly as were the men themselves, but from their various postures and the vigour, or lack of it, with which those working pursued their tasks, it was apparent that they had been there for some time and, despite the spring weather and the pleasant ease of their location, they were ceasing to relish an enforced leisure.

‘Has he told you when we’re going to move yet, Jal?’ one of them asked, brushing an insect off his nose as he stared straight up into the blue sky.

The recipient of this question was a well-built individual sitting on a grassy knoll and leaning against a tree. He had fair curly hair and a round, rather innocent face. Looking up, he eyed his questioner narrowly and then furrowed his brow as if searching his memory.

‘I make that the . . . twenty-fourth time you’ve asked that question in two days, Idrace,’ he said after a while.

‘Twenty-fifth,’ came a voice from somewhere. Someone else clapped leisurely and Jaldaric raised an acknowledging hand.

‘It could well be,’ he conceded wearily. ‘It could well be. But the answer’s still the same.’

The questioner levered himself up and leaned on one elbow. He was dark-haired, with a hooked nose and powerful deep-set eyes. ‘Well then,’ he said, with exaggerated shrewdness, ‘that means it must be at least two days since you asked him about it, mustn’t it, Captain?’

Jaldaric looked round idly for something to throw at his tormentor, but finding nothing suitable, he stood up awkwardly and stretched. Orthlund was a beautiful place, but this inaction was beginning to be soul-destroying.

‘Thank you, Idrace,’ he said, with mock formality. ‘I shall attend to my lack of diligence immediately. I shall also retail your anxiousness faithfully to the Lord Dan-Tor. I’m sure he’ll be most impressed by your eager zeal.’

‘No, no,’ Idrace replied magnanimously. ‘I insist you retain the credit for yourself, Captain.’

Jaldaric dropped grass on his friend’s head. ‘Where is he then?’ he asked.

‘Usual place,’ said Idrace, shaking his head and indicating the direction with a flick of his thumb as he resumed his supine vigil under the spring sky.

Jaldaric brushed the grass and leaves from his tunic and, circling his shoulders to relieve their stiffness, set off down a narrow winding track.

It was in fact four days since he had inquired about when they would be breaking camp and continuing their southward journey, and he judged that another careful inquiry now would not be too presumptuous.

Normally he did not have any great problem in dealing with the Lord Dan-Tor, though opinions among the Fyordyn generally were divided about him, often quite markedly. At one extreme, he was the King’s saviour and good right arm, cutting through old and fusty ways and leading Fyorlund into a newer, brighter future.

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