Yengar’s mood changed with the Morlider’s and he looked sympathetic. ‘He frightens you, Drago?’ he said, seriously.
Drago looked at him uncertainly. ‘All leaders frighten those they lead, Fyordyn. Even in your country.’
Yengar made no comment but leaned forward, con-cerned. ‘Drago, look around,’ he said. ‘We’re none of us children. We know something of your ways. Your tribes are fiercely independent. You said yourself that they quarrelled amongst themselves even during the war. It’s just not possible for one tribe to do what you’ve described, however fearsome a leader they might have.’
Drago did not reply.
‘And, realistically, do you seriously expect us to believe that you can stop your islands following the flow of the tides?’ Yengar concluded.
Drago looked down. ‘I don’t give a damn whether you believe it or not,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll find out soon enough when his heel’s on your neck as well.’
Yengar looked at him shrewdly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s it, is it? One of the tribes on your island has conquered the others and forced you into some kind of alliance.’
Drago turned away from him.
‘What’s this chief called, then?’ Yengar continued. ‘Which tribe did he come from?’
‘I’ve said enough,’ Drago replied. ‘I’ll tell you noth-ing further. Take me back to my men.’
Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances. Yengar’s casual and seemingly irrelevant probing had yielded all it could for the moment; another approach could now be tried.
‘Let him go,’ Olvric said caustically. ‘He’s just an-other loud-mouthed ruffian, full of wind and sea-water. They’re all the same.’ He gestured towards Sylvriss. ‘One good woman’s worth a dozen of them, fancy new chief or not.’
Drago’s eyes narrowed at Olvric’s tone. ‘You won’t be so brave when you look into his face, Fyordyn,’ he said menacingly.
Olvric sneered. ‘Nasty stare, has he?’ he said. ‘Well, it wouldn’t take much more than a stern look to intimi-date someone who lets his men do infantile tricks like Symm did with his biiig knife. How’s his toothache, by the way?’ He smacked his fist into his hand and laughed scornfully.
Drago gripped the arms of his chair, goaded by Olvric’s tone. The Goraidin sneered again and, holding out his hands, palms upwards, mockingly beckoned him forward. Drago snarled at this further taunt then leapt up before his two guards could prevent him.
Three strides would have brought him to Olvric, but he had scarcely completed one when he staggered backwards as if a great blow had struck him in the chest.
There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room. No one had touched him.
Olvric, half standing, in anticipation of Drago’s assault, gazed in amazement at the sprawling figure. For all his size, the Morlider would have been no match for Olvric, and the intention in their impromptu interroga-tion had been for Yengar to intervene and rescue Drago from Olvric’s brutality.
Now the Morlider was struggling to rise as if a heavy weight were pressing down on him.
‘Get up slowly, Drago, and take your seat again.’ The voice cut quietly through the confusion. It was Oslang’s.
Urthryn looked at him sharply.
The two guards, as stunned as everyone else, bent down to help Drago, but he shook them off angrily and staggered to his feet unaided, his face riven with fear and rage. He pointed a shaking hand at Oslang and his mouth opened and shut several times before he managed to speak. Yengar frowned in sympathy with the man’s massive distress.
‘You’re the same,’ Drago managed eventually, his voice hoarse and cracked. ‘I’ll… ’
Oslang lifted his hand and Drago fell silent. ‘Take your seat, Drago,’ he said again, gently.
The Morlider did as he was bidden.
Oslang caught Urthryn’s eye and looked quickly at the guards. ‘It’s all right, lads,’ Urthryn said to them. ‘You can wait outside. I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble.’
As soon as the two men had left, however, Olvric made a brief signal to Yengar then, drawing his knife, he swung round and held it to Oslang’s throat. The movement was hypnotically fast, and no one reacted except Yengar who, at the same time, drew his sword and levelled it at Drago.
Urthryn started up, but Sylvriss restrained him.
‘Explain,’ Olvric said grimly. ‘Very quickly. Make no movement. If I feel any force acting on me, I’ll kill you without further warning.’ Oslang’s eyes widened in terror at the simple unemotional resolve in his voice and in the cold steel against his throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed after a moment. ‘It was a reflex. He startled me when he jumped up. I didn’t mean to… ’ His voice faded.
‘Goraidin, you abuse your rights here,’ Urthryn said angrily, but still Sylvriss restrained him, though she too was wide-eyed and anxious at this sudden development. Yengar and Olvric had been so sensitive to her needs on their journey, tendering her many subtle kindnesses, yet now they were threatening this seemingly harmless old man. But was he harmless? Something had knocked the Morlider down. She realized abruptly that it was the Goraidin’s very sensitivity that gave them such appall-ingly clear vision and the freedom to act on it.
Olvric ignored Urthryn’s outburst, his gaze never once wavering from Oslang’s frightened face. ‘The only person we know who can deliver a blow at a distance without a weapon is Dan-Tor,’ he said quietly but coldly. ‘This one just did the same. Perhaps he too could raze a city if he wished. We can’t afford the risk of him being one of Dan-Tor’s lackeys. I’ll give him the opportunity to explain himself, but a hint of any such power again and he dies.’
‘Please… ’ gasped Oslang.
‘Are you here to do Dan-Tor’s will?’ Olvric asked simply.
‘No,’ Oslang replied, swallowing. ‘Truly. We oppose him and his Master, utterly.’
‘But you use his weapons,’ Olvric pressed.
‘Yes amp;mdashno amp;mdashthey’re not his weapons. They’re any-one’s. Anyone with the knowledge of how to use them,’ Oslang replied. ‘You could kill friend and foe alike with your dagger, couldn’t you, Goraidin?’
Olvric did not reply.
‘You’ll not face Dan-Tor, let alone Sumeral, with any chance of victory without those beside you who can use the same power,’ Oslang gasped. ‘You must have learned that already.’
Olvric’s eye narrowed, then he withdrew the knife. Oslang slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. He was shaking violently. Only Sylvriss and Yengar noted that Olvric’s hand too was shaking as he sheathed his knife.
When Oslang sat up, he was white-faced and still trembling. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, almost plaintively. ‘I’m a student of lore, not a warrior. I feel sick amp;mdashlet me have a moment to recover myself.’ He looked at Olvric. ‘You’re a terrifying man, Goraidin,’ he said softly.
‘I take no pride in it,’ Olvric replied. ‘It’s one of the more unpleasant aspects of our calling. But it’s saved my life and others’ before now. Another aspect is to use my instinct and it’s that which has saved your life. But we still need an explanation from you.’
Oslang nodded. ‘In a moment,’ he said, still dis-turbed.
Urthryn looked on doubtfully, still angry at the Goraidin’s savage threat to his guest. Only his daugh-ter’s silent support for Olvric had restrained him from calling to the guards waiting outside. Yet he too was alarmed by the demonstration of power that Oslang had inadvertently given.
‘I’ll have the Morlider taken away before we do any more talking,’ he said. ‘We can deal with him later.’
‘No, Ffyrst,’ Oslang said, anxiously. ‘With your per-mission I’d like to ask him something.’
Glancing first at Olvric, Urthryn nodded his assent.
Drago, still with Yengar’s sword at his breast, looked at Oslang like a trapped animal.
Oslang cleared his throat. ‘Why’ve you come here, Drago?’ he said gently. The Morlider did not reply. Oslang looked puzzled. ‘Just twelve of you, in that little boat. Your raiding parties used to be much bigger.’
Drago shot an anxious glance at Urthryn. ‘You have our boat?’ he asked.
Urthryn nodded, then in response to the almost paternal concern in the man’s voice said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s unharmed. We want you away from here as soon as we can. Just tell us why you were here. Did you get lost or something?’