by Robert Evert
Edmund looked around in amazement.
It’s . . . it’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. All of it . . .
Scores of people pushed past him. Several swore when a large pile of manure fell from Blake, splattering on the cobblestones under his swishing tail. A worker with a shovel appeared and quickly deposited Blake’s waste into a small cart.
This is the cleanest city I’ve ever seen!
It’s the only city you’ve ever seen.
Edmund gawked at the gleaming domes of the cathedrals and their stained glass windows of red and blue. Even Thorax seemed impressed. Blake snorted.
“It’s incredible, eh, girl?” Edmund said to Thorax, who was sniffing the mixture of sweet flowers, roasting meats, and fresh cut grass.
Somewhere in the park, people were singing and playing stringed instruments.
I wonder if there’s a festival. The Spring Faire will be starting in Rood soon. I wish I could be—
Focus! Think of Molly in the hands of those damned goblins. Heaven only knows what they’re doing to her.
An image of Molly being whipped sprang to mind, her soft skin splitting open, blood oozing down her spine. He shuddered, her imaginary screams lingering.
She’s probably dead by now.
No. The goblins need her to get to me. They probably assumed that I went back to Rood, where I’d learn about her disappearance. They’ll be expecting me to return to the mountains to rescue her. What they don’t realize is that I’ll have a thousand knights with me.
Edmund studied the beautiful buildings, the masses of people going this way and that, and finally the children chasing each other in the park.
Sighing, his thoughts returned to his task.
So what now? Do I just ride up to the castle and demand to see the King? What if he refuses to see me?
He won’t refuse. Not since you have this.
He patted the Star of Iliandor in his pocket.
More people pushed past Blake as he stood idly in the road.
“All right Blake,” Edmund said, “l-l-let’s . . . let’s go see the King.”
At that, Blake heaved forward, plowing his way through the crowd with deliberate strides. He carried Edmund and Thorax through the bustling streets of Eryn Mas—past wagons full of merchandise, past markets with dead chickens, geese, and piglets hanging from hooks in the window, past taverns and shops and buildings of all sorts, past town squares where musicians played bouncy tunes as young women danced and spectators clapped. Through it all, Blake ambled, ascending the road leading to the fortress overlooking the city.
The fortress rose up from the hill, ringed by three golden walls. Around each wall were seven towers of heights grander than any construction that Edmund had ever seen. Each one made the tower of the Undead King seem like a child’s imitation built from sand. However, on the hill’s crown was the real jewel of Eryn Mas—Tol Aden, the Castle of the Kings. Tol Aden erupted like a crescendo in a symphony. With its gables and spires of white granite and mammoth statues of gargoyles and dragons, each level surged upward even grander than the last, until it reached a dome covered in glittering rubies and sparkling sapphires.
Staring at the magnificent citadel that could fit all of Rood within its walls, Edmund suddenly realized that Blake was approaching the fortress’s main gate. Two guards in elegant suits of silver plate mail and long halberds blocked the massive gate. On his own accord, Blake stopped before them.
“State your name and purpose,” the guard on the left said without enthusiasm.
“Oh yes, m-m-my, my name. My name, yes indeed,” Edmund said, flummoxed.
The guards blinked at him. One yawned.
“Well, m-m-my, my name is Edmund of Rood. And I’m here to meet with the King on urgent matters of the utmost importance. You see—”
“Let me guess,” the guard on the right said. “You found something you want to give to him. Something priceless. A relic of some sort.”
Surprised, Edmund’s mouth opened, his hand falling on his right front pocket where the Star of Iliandor was hidden.
“Don’t tell us,” the guard on the left said, evidently wanting the challenge to break up the monotony of his day. “You have found the Ring of Ingram the Cleric.”
“Why would you guess that?” the guard on the right asked his comrade.
“Because Rood is over in the swamplands of Anthica, now isn’t it? Which make it more likely that he—”
“It’s not in Anthica. It’s . . . it’s by…” The guard on the right snapped his fingers. “It’s along the coast, by Endenbury. In Ringold Province. And he hasn’t gotten the Ring of Ingram the Cleric. That’s already been turned in.”
“Has it? I hadn’t heard. But I don’t think Rood is in Ringold. I’d wager a day’s pay on that.”
“You’re on then. And I say he thinks he has found the Shield of Uzbad, if he’s found anything at all.”
“Oh, that’s just a stupid guess. I mean, where would he put it? Under his saddle?”
“Okay, fair enough. You got me there.”
Lifting their visors, the guards inspected Edmund with increasing curiosity.
The guard on the right scratched his nose. “Maybe he’s bringing His Highness that dog. The King loves dogs, after all.”
“A dog? No, you’re wrong about that. He touched his pocket when we asked him what he brought. Whatever it is, it’s something small, like a ring or a necklace, maybe.”
Opening his mouth again, Edmund raised a finger to interject, but the guards waved him to be quiet.
“Something . . . small,” the guard on the right repeated thoughtfully.
“Honestly,” Edmund said, “I haven’t m-m-much time.”
“Be quiet or we’ll throw you in the dungeon,” the guard on the left said. He went back to studying Edmund and his gear.
Edmund closed his mouth.
The guard on the left pointed at Blake as he pulled great heaps of grass out of the ground alongside the road, dirty roots and all. “That there is one of those High Horses, that’s plain. They’re specially bred in Meadowshire. So what are people looking for in Meadowshire?”
“A golden horse turd?” the guard on the right suggested.
The guard on the left shook his head in defeat. “Okay,” he said to Edmund. “We give up. Where’s Rood and what do you think you’ve got?”
“Rood is in the northern province, in the Highlands—” Edmund began.
The guard on the right snapped his fingers again as if he knew where Rood was all along.
“The Highlands?” the guard on the left said. “I thought only sheep lived up there?”
“Evidently people do as well,” the guard on the right replied, gesturing to Edmund as if to prove his point. “Of what sort, however, I haven’t a clue. They’re poor by the looks of it.” He returned his attention to Edmund. “Okay, what do you have for His Highness? It’s jewelry of some sort, am I right?”
“I, I suppose,” Edmund replied, unsure if he was expected to produce what he had brought. “I have the Star of Iliandor and wish to talk with the King about—”
“What’s a Lilly and Door?” the guard on the right said to the one on the left.
The guard on the left lifted his palms. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“Iliandor,” Edmund said again. “The Overlord of the Highlands?”
They gave him blank stares.
“Supreme General during the Northern Goblin Wars?”
“Northern . . . Goblin Wars?” repeated the guard on the left doubtfully.
“Founder of the, the, the—”
The guard on the right waved for Edmund to stop. “We were mostly having fun with you. We don’t care who he is. One Lord is the same as another for all I know. Follow this road around to the left, go up to the second level and ask around for the Hall of Magistrates. If you see a bunch of old men who look constipated, you’ve found it.”
Without being told, Blake trotted through the open gates
.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Wait,” Edmund said, yanking on Blake’s reins. “They said left . . . left!”
The huge horse continued plodding along the street to the right, ignoring his rider’s protests. Eventually he came to a long stable, the heads of twenty other warhorses peering through open windows. Blake whinnied. The other horses whinnied back. A large black Percheron trumpeted and shook its braided mane.
A boy about to enter his teen years slid open the stable doors.
“Blake!” he cried.
Then he noted Edmund riding him. Grabbing a bent pitchfork lying up against a wall, he shouted, “Who are you? And where’s Sir Hanley!” He jabbed the pitchfork in Edmund’s direction. “What are you doing on Blake?”
Uh oh! Think quick!
“Let m-m-me . . . let me explain,” Edmund said, clambering down from the saddle.
Act like you belong here.
He set Thorax on the ground. Her right rear leg dragging behind her, she hobbled around, sniffing the various piles of manure left by previously passing horses. She urinated on one of them. Riderless, Blake ambled inside the stable to another chorus of neighing.
Trying to buy time, Edmund raised his hands in a placating motion and stretched his back. It snapped and popped. He started rubbing his aching ass and thighs.
What name did he just say? Sir Hanley?
The boy’s eyes flitted to a building across the street from the stable. Raucous laughter and shouting shook its windows. He jabbed the pitchfork toward Edmund again. It looked as if he was about to run for help.
“Let me ex-ex-explain,” Edmund repeated in response to the boy’s growing alarm. “You see, Sir Hanley lent Blake to me.”
“That’s a lie! He’d never do such a thing.” The boy inched backwards to the stable doors, pitchfork still pointed at Edmund’s chest.
“Listen. Would I steal a knight’s horse and then ride him back to where he belongs?” Edmund asked as he massaged his rear end.
The boy straightened slightly, but the uncertainty didn’t leave his face.
Make this good! Otherwise everything is ruined.
“You see,” Edmund said, praying that his story was believable. “Sir Hanley is hurt.”
More doubt crept into the boy’s face.
“See, he’s . . . he’s badly hurt. There’s been an attack. Bandits, you see. Thirty or forty of them. They attacked and, and Sir Hanley was badly hurt. I’ve . . . I’ve been sent to talk to the King to get reinforcements!”
The boy smirked. “Reinforcements for only thirty or forty bandits?”
This isn’t going well. Convince him you aren’t a thief or you’ll end up in the dungeon or worse!
“Yes, well . . . there were at least that many. Anyway, you’re . . . you’re missing the point. They sent me here to talk to the King. I’m on an urgent mission!”
The boy starting stepping to his right, pitchfork at the ready. Whether he was going to stab him or run for help, Edmund couldn’t tell.
“Why send you? Why not Sir Maxwell or any of the others? Why not one of the squires?”
“I . . . I don’t know anything about a Sir Maxwell,” Edmund said, rightly guessing that the boy just made the name up. “Look, they can’t abandon the town. They need reinforcements or all the townsfolk are g-g-going, going to be slaughtered!”
The pitchfork lowered a tad.
Show him the Star of Iliandor.
“Plus . . . plus they sent me because I found this.”
He produced the Star of Iliandor from his pocket. Its blue gem flashed in the light of the setting sun.
“Holy cow!” the boy cried. “What is it?”
“It’s the Star of Iliandor. If I return it to King Lionel, I’ll become Lord of the Highlands.”
“Wow!” Then something seemed to occur to the boy. “So you’re going to become the new Lord of the Highlands?”
“Yes! Well, if I can get to see King Lionel and everything.” Then Edmund saw what the boy was thinking. “You see . . . that’s why Sir Hanley gave me his horse. I’m going to be his Lord, so he obeyed me even though I’m not his actual Lord yet, if you see what I mean.”
The boy straightened a bit more. “Tell me this. What’s the name of the town they went to? In the Highlands, that is.”
“Rood!”
The boy’s expression eased. “Well, nobody else would have known that.” He set his pitchfork against the wall of the stable. “Still, you must be on some important mission for Sir Hanley to do such a thing. He didn’t even let me shoe Blake, let alone exercise him. Then again, if you’re going to be Lord and all . . . ”
The boy wiped his hands on a grubby cloth hanging from his belt.
“I’m Toby, by the by. I tend to the horses here while I study to be a blacksmith. I’m apprenticing with my cousin, Master Gorin.”
He held out his right hand.
Edmund shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Toby.”
“Blake looks well. So that’s one good for you. Is Sir Hanley and the others all right? I mean, they haven’t been killed or anything, have they?”
Don’t give too many details. You won’t remember them come tomorrow.
“Yes, he’s . . . he’s fine. Or at least he will be, I’m sure. I don’t rightly know. I’m not a healer, you see. At, at least he was fine when I left him a few weeks ago.”
Be more confident. Nobody is going to believe you if you act guilty of something.
The boy seemed to be considering this.
Ask him about the Hall of Magistrates!
“How did you lose your eye?” the boy asked. “Are you a veteran?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. It was burnt out by a goblin.”
“My god, that’s horrible! I’m sorry. My father fought in the Battle of Bloody Rock,” the boy said proudly. “He killed twelve goblins all by himself.”
“That’s w-w-wonderful, Toby. Twelve fewer goblins to worry about. But I can’t chat about such things right now. I n-n-need, need your help.”
“Why do you talk like that? The stuttering, I mean.”
“I was dr-dropped on my head as a child.”
Toby frowned apologetically. “Boy, you’ve had a rough life!”
“Listen, I really need your help. I’ve been told to go to the Hall of Magistrates, b-b-but, but Blake brought me here. Can you tell me where to go? It’s urgent.”
“Sure! But what do you want with the magistrates? Forget to pay your taxes?”
“What? No. Nothing like that. Look, it’s a matter of life and death. So, please . . . can you tell me where it is?”
“Absolutely! It won’t even cost you nothing. Here follow me.” Toby closed the stable doors. “Good night, everybody!” he called into a window. “See you bright and early tomorrow.”
There was much neighing and stomping in reply.
“It’s this way,” Toby said.
Suddenly, the door to the building across from the stable opened. Out collapsed half a dozen burly men, all drunk and laughing. They grappled with each other as they rolled through the horse manure on the ground. One of them was giggling and holding up a woman’s brassiere.
“Oh, don’t mind them,” Toby said, waving for Edmund and Thorax to follow. “They’re just His Majesty’s knights.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Here you go,” Toby said, pointing at an official-looking building made of red bricks with larger-than-life statues poised stoically in front of it.
Two elderly gentlemen dressed in silk shirts, leggings, and waistcoats with bright silver buttons stood in front of the building’s gold-trimmed doors. The gentleman on the left was holding a lantern. The one on the right leaned on an intricately carved cane of ivory. They both had sour expressions, as if they were indeed constipated.
“Perhaps I should stay,” Toby said, “just in case you need anything. Then you can tell me more about your urgent mission and things in the Far North. Any tales are good ones, as the saying
goes.”
Edmund studied the two men, unsure of what to say to them.
“You better hurry,” Toby prodded. “They’re closing.”
Edmund stepped toward the men, a limping Thorax by his side. They stopped speaking, glanced dismissively at Thorax, and then at Edmund.
“If you are a beggar,” the gentlemen with the brass lantern said, “I’ll have the front guards flogged.”
“N-n-no, no sir,” Edmund said. “I’ve been t-t-told to come here. It’s, it’s about an edict of His Majesty.”
The man with the cane threw up a hand in exasperation. “And what silly trinket did you find, pray tell?” he asked.
“Can’t you see we are closing?” the other added. “Come back tomorrow.”
I can’t wait until tomorrow.
Edmund produced the Star of Iliandor from his pocket.
The men looked at it, unimpressed.
“What is it?” the man with the lantern asked.
“This . . . this is the Star of Iliandor!”
“What? Another one?” The man with a cane said to the man with the lantern. “How many of the blasted things were there?”
“A-a-another . . . another one?” Edmund repeated, blinking. It felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his soul.
“Well, if there is more than one, I’m sure that His Royal Highness would know what to do,” the lantern holder said with a great deal of sarcasm. “Perhaps he would have them thumb wrestle or some such feat of skill to decide the matter.” He shook his head. “All right, all right. Come in and we’ll get this cleared up.”
“If you are going to take care of this . . . ” The man jabbed the tip of his cane at Edmund and crinkled his nose. “ . . . this . . . gentleman, then I’ll be off. Unless you would prefer me to stay or call for a guard.”