The warlord picked up his bowl and fell to eating at once, without another glance at his guests.
The food, an unfamiliar kind of boiled grain heavily spiced with chunks of meat in a thick sauce, was steaming hot. It tasted exotic and otherworldly to Quentin’s uninitiated palate, and once swallowed it left a lingering warmth on the tongue. They ate with fingers, bowls held to their lips. Quentin contrived to balance his bowl on the inner part of his knee, dipping with his left hand, his useless right arm cradled in his lap.
Midway through the meal, a slave appeared with a jar and began to pour out an amber liquid into golden cannikins. These, too, were placed before each one, and the slave departed. The beverage was a wine of some kind. Quentin recognized the slight metallic tang, but it was of a kind he had never encountered: smooth, almost thick, and wonderfully sweet. He found that a sip banished the warm tingle on his tongue produced by the spice of the food.
The warlord ate two bowls greedily without looking up. When he had finished, he laid down his bowl and placed his hands upon his knees. He belched once, and then said something very quickly.
“The meal is over,” the seneschal informed the prisoners. And though Quentin’s bowl was still half-full, he put it down and rested his hand upon his knee in imitation of his host.
“Lord Gurd wishes you to know that he only eats in the presence of those he respects, and that he will only share food with those he admires.” The emissary nodded to them, indicating that some response of like nature was intended.
“Who are we that he should respect or admire us, his enemies?”
The emissary translated Quentin’s question, and the warlord chuckled deeply and made a short reply.
“Lord Gurd says that your spirit has ennobled you. You, fair-skinned one, have survived the ordeal of the wheel. Had you been a coward, you would have died. You,” he addressed Toli, “risked death to rescue your friend. This deed has value, even though it is the act of a fool. The Lord Gurd admires such courage. He will be sorry to kill you when the time comes, but your blood will flow through him—as a most satisfying oblation for his immortality. This pleases him.”
This answer mystified and angered Quentin; he started to make a reply, but felt Toli’s light touch on his arm. Instead he said, “Why do you invade our land? Who are you?”
The seneschal spoke to the warlord, who smiled thinly, like a serpent. “I informed the Lord Gurd that you were honored that he should deem you worthy for such service.” To Quentin’s sharply angry look, he added, “It would not serve to anger him just now. He would have you disemboweled to return the food you have eaten with him.”
“What does he want with us?” asked Toli.
“He alone knows.”
Gurd picked up his goblet and drank deeply of the sweet liquor. When he had done, he rumbled a long discourse to his emissary, who interpreted. “Lord Gurd wishes to know how far is the great city—this Askelon—and how is it fortified and by how many soldiers is it guarded.”
“How is it that he believes I know the answers to such questions?” Quentin replied.
After a brief consultation with his lord, the man replied, “Lord Gurd knows that you have horses and therefore are not insubstantial men. He has seen your weapons and clothing and believes that you are of favored rank. The fact that you attacked his soldiers, the two of you alone, tells him that you are not unfamiliar with military matters and are in fact well trained for such purposes.”
Quentin hesitated. Toli’s thoughts could not be discerned.
“If you are wondering whether to answer or not, please allow me to remind you that Lord Gurd perceives any answers following such reluctance to be a lie, as I have already told you. Give me your answer at once, and he will be appeased.”
“Askelon is a far distance from here, many leagues. And he is right to call it a great city, for it is. There is none like it. No host has ever conquered Castle Askelon, and none ever will.”
“And how many soldiers defend this palace?”
“Tell your Lord Gurd that the Dragon King’s army is sufficient to any need.”
The warlord watched this exchange closely, not entirely pleased with Quentin’s response. But he nodded with satisfaction when his interpreter had finished his reply. Gurd beamed at Quentin and Toli and in his thick, incomprehensible speech addressed them both.
“The Lord Gurd is pleased with your answers. He has decided to allow you to live until we reach Askelon, where you will be sacrificed in order that he might win the city more quickly. He wishes to assure you that your blood will flow for him alone. This is a very high honor.”
“It is an honor we would rather forego,” Quentin said in a voice edged with subtle sarcasm, “but perhaps we may reciprocate the distinction at some future time.”
The emissary smiled slyly and began to offer Quentin’s remarks to his master, who bowed faintly and then yawned. He waved his hand toward his servant, who stood, saying, “The audience is now at an end. Bow to him and retreat; do not show your back to him.”
They backed away from the warlord’s presence and through the curtain. They crossed the tent and stepped once more outside. The evening was deepening, and Quentin felt the atmosphere in the camp pulsing with a barely contained excitement. The soldiers clustered together in knots, and coarse laughter could be heard on every side. The sun was well down, and the sky blushed crimson in the west. When the light finally disappears, thought Quentin, these barbarians will deliver themselves to frenzy.
As if reading his thoughts, the seneschal said, “This night there will be wild celebration, for it is Hegnrutha—the Night of Animal Spirits.”
“You speak our language well, sir,” said Quentin cautiously.
A sly look came into the dark eyes. “I speak eleven languages very well.”
“What did you say in there?” asked Quentin as his former guards hurried up to take them away.
The warlord’s personal servant smiled, revealing a row of fine white teeth that seemed to glow in the fading light. “I told him that it was an honor you would gladly repay in kind. He was flattered.”
“Why should you protect us?” asked Toli as the guards retied their hands. “What is it to you if we live or die?”
“There is no time to explain. I will come to you tonight when the chaos is at its peak.” The emissary spun on his heel and went back into the tent. Quentin and Toli were marched away to the wagon once more, but this time Quentin felt as if they moved in an aura of increased respect. The looks they received from the soldiers they passed were frankly awed to the point of reverence. He guessed that most who were summoned to the tent did not walk out, but they had.
21
Durwin remained long enough with the guests to ease their fears over the king’s odd behavior. He had walked about and greeted all, as if he were the king himself, and his presence seemed to calm any feeling of disquiet created by the king’s speech. The music trilled and eddied, a rippling river to carry away concerns of the moment.
The minstrel master called a cotillion, and the couples began choosing the leaders from among the best dancers present. Durwin chose this time to sneak quietly away, as neither Eskevar nor Alinea had returned. He was vaguely worried that something more serious might have transpired.
He hurried up the stone steps and fled into the castle’s gallery entrance; the wide wooden doors were thrown open, and rows of bright torches illuminated the corridor. A few curious guests strolled the gallery to marvel at the interior of Castle Askelon. Without appearing in haste, Durwin nevertheless hurried along to the king’s apartment. He had little doubt he would find Eskevar there.
Oswald was at the door when Durwin came bustling along. “Oswald, is all well?”
Oswald ducked his head in a shallow bow and said, “Aye, m’lord. The king is inside and the queen with him. He has a messenger.”
Durwin’s eyebrows arched. “Who?”
“I do not know. I did not see him arrive. The warder brought
him here at once.”
“Very well. Let us see, then, what is afoot.”
Oswald opened the door and went in. As Durwin made to follow the old chamberlain, he felt a light touch on his arm.
“Bria, I thought you were in the garden.”
“I followed you.” Her smooth brow furrowed with worry. “What is it?”
“A messenger has come; that is all. Wait here but a little, and I will come and tell you all I can.”
“No, I would go with you.” So saying, she stepped through the doorway and pulled Durwin with her.
“Ah, Durwin! I was about to send for you.” Eskevar sat in a great carved chair; Alinea stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder. Both were looking intently at the knight, bedraggled and exhausted, his clothing and light armor grimed over with the dust of the road. The soldier stood swaying with fatigue before them.
“It is Martran.” Eskevar indicated the man with an open hand. “One of Ronsard’s knights. He was just about to tell us his message.”
The knight bowed and said, his voice rough from the dust he had swallowed, “Lord Ronsard says, ‘We are continuing on our mission and are sorry for the delay in returning to him sooner. We have seen nothing to occasion his concern. We will return to him as soon as we have found what we seek, or have some better report to give him.’”
“Is that all, sir knight? You may speak freely.”
“That is all, Sire. That is my message.”
Eskevar, his eyes displaying concern, stroked his chin with his hand.
“Why did he send you with such a message, brave knight?”
“I believe that he was worried that his long absence would cause you alarm. Theido suggested a message be carried back that they might continue their errand.”
“Why was that? Had you seen nothing to render an account?”
“No, Sire. We saw nothing out of the ordinary. But—” He hesitated, as if unsure of his place to speak further.
“But what, good fellow?” asked Durwin, drawing closer. “Have no fear. There is nothing you can say that will incur your king’s displeasure. Withholding your thoughts, however, could be a mistake. Please speak and allow us to judge.”
“Yes, sir.” The knight bowed to Durwin. “It is this. I sensed that something was bothering my lords. They were looking for something and not finding it. This upset Theido greatly. He pushed a furious pace; he wanted to ride all night on occasion. But Ronsard would not let him. They often had words with one another over it.
“But I saw something that puzzled me on the way back. I think that if Theido had seen it, he would have been even more adamant in his ways.”
“And what did you see?” Eskevar asked softly. His eyes were eagle’s eyes as he watched the messenger.
“One of the villages we had passed through only a day or so before was empty when I rode back through. I thought it strange that I did not see anyone, though I did not stop to look further into the matter.”
“Empty?”
“Yes, Sire. It was completely abandoned.”
“Anything else? Anything to indicate why that should be so?”
“Not at all. It seemed as if it had been deserted very quickly, though I could see no cause. But, like I say, I did not stop to wonder at it. I came on.”
“I see. Very well, Martran; you may go to your bed. You have well earned your rest.
“Oswald, take Sir Martran to the kitchen and feed him, and then find him a bed in the castle where he will not be disturbed.” To the knight he added, “Stay close about; I may wish to question you further. Now go and take your ease.”
Oswald led the knight away; the man reeled on his feet. “Just one more thing, sir,” said Durwin as Oswald swung open the door. “You did not say that you met Quentin or Toli on the road. Yet you must have passed them at some point. They left here in search of your party a fortnight ago.”
The knight shook his head. “I passed no one at all. And I thought that strange as well, for until I reached Hinsenby the roads were mine alone.”
“Thank you, Martran. Sleep well.”
Durwin fixed a wondering look on the king. “His tale is odd indeed. I do not know what to make of it.”
“It is as I have said—there are strange happenings in the land. An evil grows, but we do not see it.”
“But what has happened to Quentin?” Bria was suddenly concerned.
“We do not know, my lady,” answered Durwin. “But the land is great. They may have traveled by another route.” His tone was not as reassuring as he would have liked.
“At any rate we will soon know,” Eskevar offered. “I propose to go myself in search of them.” The Dragon King was on his feet, striding forth as if he would leave at once.
“My lord, no!” pleaded Alinea. “You have not yet recovered enough strength to abide the saddle.”
“Go if you would, Sire. It is your pleasure. But in going you risk missing the return of your envoy. And where would you begin searching for them?” Durwin asked.
Eskevar threw a wounded look at the hermit. “What am I to do? I cannot remain here forever, waiting while the enemy grows stronger.”
“No one has seen an enemy,” pointed out the queen.
Eskevar turned on her with a growl. “You think he does not exist? He does!” He thumped his chest. “I can feel him here. He is coming—I can feel it.”
“All the more reason to wait. Gain your strength. The action you seek will come soon enough if you are right.”
King Eskevar fell back into his chair in frustration. His noble countenance seethed with dark despair. He thrust his hands through his hair. “Mensandor cries out for her protector, but he sits abed and quakes with fear. Who will save us from our weakness?”
“Leave him now,” said Alinea, taking Durwin and Bria aside. “I will tend him. This is the duty of a wife and queen.”
“By your leave, my lady. I will withdraw to my chambers. Send for me should you need anything.” Durwin took Bria by the arm and drew her from the room.
“I have never seen him thus,” said Bria, her voice quivering on the edge of tears.
“It is a most difficult time for him, and he is not a man much accustomed to difficulty. But it is well. For I see signs of his former spirit returning. He will be the Dragon King once more.”
The great hand closed over the small white body of the bird. There was a flutter of tiny wings and a surprised chirp as the hand withdrew from the cage. The dove struggled weakly, its head poking through the circle formed by the giant thumb and forefinger. A small red-ringed eye stared in terror at the contorted face of the mighty Nin.
Nin the Immortal felt the swift beating of the tiny heart and the dove’s soft, warm body filling his hand. Then he squeezed. The bird squirmed and cried out. Nin squeezed harder. The yellow beak opened wide; the tiny head rolled to the side. Nin, whose fleets stretched the breadth of Gerfallon, opened his hand slowly. The bundle of feathers shivered and lay still.
With a cry of delight, Nin the Destroyer flung the dead bird across the room, where it landed with a soft plop near the door of his chamber. A flurry of white down floated gently to the floor to settle like snowflakes around the lifeless body.
As Nin sat gazing at his handiwork, a chime sounded in the passageway beyond, followed by the ludicrous sight of Uzla’s head peering around the edge of the door.
“Immortal One, I bring news.” The minister’s eyes strayed to the small, white lump of feathers on the floor beside him.
“Enter and speak,” Nin’s great voice rumbled.
Uzla tiptoed quietly in and prostrated himself before his master.
“Rise. Your god commands you. Speak, Uzla; let your voice utter pleasing words of worship to the Eternal One.”
“Who is like our Nin? How shall I describe his greatness? For it is more brilliant than the shining deeds of men, and his wisdom endures forever.” Uzla lifted his hands to his face as if to shade his eyes from the piercing rays of the sun.
“My news is perhaps better suited to a different time and place, Most Noble Nin. I know not of Askelon, but may it be as you say.”
“What, then? Tell me quickly—I grow tired of your foolishness.”
“The commander of your fleet below Elsendor sends word of victory. The ships of King Troen have been destroyed, and the battle on land is begun.”
The great hairless face split into a wide smile of satisfaction; the flesh of his cheeks rolled away on either side like mountains forming alongside a deep chasm. His dark, baleful eyes shrank away to tiny black pits, and his chin sank into the folds on his neck. “It is well! How many prisoners were sacrificed to me?” The room shook with the ringing joy of the thunderous voice.
Uzla’s look transformed itself momentarily into one of dismay. “I know not, Infinite Majesty. The commander did not say, but we may deduce, I think, that it was a very great number. It is ever thus.”
“True, true. I am pleased. I will have a feast to celebrate!”
“May I dare remind the Supreme Light of the Universe that it is Hegnrutha? There is already a feast tonight; it is being prepared even now.”
“Ahh, yes. How suitable. Go, then, and bring me word when all is ready. And command the slaves to ready my oil bath; I will be anointed before the celebration begins. My subjects will fill their eyes with my splendor tonight. It is my will for them. Hear and obey.”
Uzla fell on his face once more and then backed out of the room. His brittle cadence could be heard moments later calling the slaves together to prepare fragrant oils in which to bathe their sovereign.
Nin raised his round moon of a face and laughed; the deep notes tumbled from his throat to reverberate to the farthest corners of the enormous palace ship. Those who heard it shuddered. Who among them would be asked to provide for the Immortal One’s amusement tonight? Whoever chanced to serve that honor on the night of Hegnrutha likely would not see another morning.
In the Hall of the Dragon King Page 51