Throughout these happenings Berryn had followed the ancient survival technique of the trained soldier and kept himself inconspicuous while clinging to what he knew to be right and true. In his darker moments, he tried to console himself with the thought that this madness must pass; the spirit of the Fyordyn surely could not be so easily crushed.
And the memory of his brief encounter with Hawk-lan and Isloman persisted in returning like some kind of reproach. Hawklan, the strange healer from wherever it was down there, looking every inch the warrior, yet playing the coward before the crowd until his horse laid Uskal out. And Isloman, revealed suddenly as one of the Orthlundyn Goraidin. The two of them, alone, seeking out Dan-Tor to demand an accounting for an incident that could not possibly have happened. Armed Man-drocs marching through Fyorlund to commit atrocities in Orthlund?
Yet the two men had patently been telling the truth.
The paradox had cost him sleepless nights. He, who could sleep in his saddle in the middle of a forced march.
Then it was over. First, a flurry of increasingly im-probable rumours: Dan-Tor attacked? The King slain? Rebellion? Then, a dreadful silent lull and, as abruptly as they had come, the Mathidrin had left; the whole complement riding off secretly one night without a word of explanation. The villagers had scarcely had time to assimilate this change when Jaldaric and Arinndier had ridden in with a good old-fashioned High Guard escort, and announced the defeat and flight of Dan-Tor and the Mathidrin.