“When did you ever?” wondered Jaspin to himself.
“I only come to warn you that the prisoners have escaped.”
“What is that to me?”
“Do not make the mistake of toying with me, King Jackal!” Even in the form of a night mist, the wizard’s eyes flashed lightning. Jaspin could feel the necromancer’s awful power and stiffened in silence.
“That’s better. You and I are partners, my obtuse friend. Never forget that. After all, I share one half your throne. Half of all Mensandor is mine-or soon will be. When I take the trouble to warn you, you may be certain that it tokens your concern. Oh yes, it does indeed.”
“The prisoners, you were saying?” Jaspin tried to look appropriately concerned, which was difficult under the circumstances.
“Have you forgotten so soon? Or did you not even guess?” Nimrood’s quick eyes saw the answer to his question. “You fool, I credit you with more intelligence than you deserve. Did you not know that I had within my dungeon that rebel Theido, and some of his friends: Queen Alinea, and several others; your warder, for one, and a hermit, Durwin by name. Ronsard was to have been among them, although he was presumed drowned.”
Try as he might, Jaspin could not make any connection between these people and any possible threat they might hold for him, though the group certainly seemed most suspicious. He blinked blankly back into Nimrood’s questioning gaze. “I thought they were hiding at Dekra.”
“Bah! I don’t know why I bother with you! They have escaped and are returning here. Guess the rest-if you can. In the meantime, heed my warning to secure your crown. I will hasten to apprehend them. My spies are already abroad seeking their whereabouts. They will not remain free for long.”
“But…” Jaspin blurted. The vapor which had held the depraved wizard’s image was unraveling and seeping away into the night, vanishing on the breeze.
A cold shudder of fear rattled Jaspin’s frame. He turned and hurried away, casting a furtive glance over both shoulders as he ran, lest anyone witness what had just taken place.
“How stupid I have been!” Jaspin cursed himself as he hurried to his chambers. “I did not need that poisonous sorcerer-I could have managed on my own! Now he involves me in his schemes.”
So, they are returning here, he thought. Theido and the Queen; Ronsard, too, and alive after all. But who was this Durwin? Were there others he did not know about? Still, what difference did it make? How could they possibly hamper him now? The coronation was over; he was king. Very well, let them come. He would be ready for anything.
All these things Jaspin mulled in his head as he ran along. But arriving at his conclusion, he stopped and turned back to rejoin his own celebration. Secure in the knowledge that nothing could go wrong, he entered again the great hall of Askelon and was immediately swarmed by doters and well-wishers.
A steady breeze billowed the sails of Selric’s foremost ship, Windrunner. Quentin stood at the starboard rail and watched the moon slide slowly into the sea.
He breathed deeply the tang of the salt air and listened to the gentle churning of the water as it passed beneath the prow of the warship. Then he heard the murmur of voices coming closer and turned to see Theido and Ronsard with King Selric walking toward him across the deck. He turned back to watch the glistening spray of stars rise and fall with the gentle motion of the ship.
The men came to stand a little way off from where Quentin waited. He could hear them talking quite clearly, though they spoke low and confidentially. He did not much like the tone of their conversation.
Presently, he grew weary of listening. A melancholy mood stole over him and he sighed and moved away.
“What is the matter, young sir?” A voice sought him from the shadow of the mast.
Quentin turned and peered into the shadow, but could distinguish nothing. He moved into the darkness himself and found Kellaris sitting on a carefully coiled pile of rope, with his back propped against a keg. “Oh, it’s you,” he said.
“I have been more heartily hailed in my day,” remarked King Selric’s most trusted knight.
“I am sorry,” muttered Quentin, but his apology lacked conviction.
“There is something ailing you, that I can tell. Seasick?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I was listening to the others just now; I overheard them talking,” admitted Quentin.
“Nothing good comes from listening to another’s conversation uninvited.”
“I couldn’t help it. Anyway, what they said about the King-about Eskevar. I mean…” Quentin broke off. He could not find the words to express himself as he wished.
“They think our hope is in vain, that he may be already past help. Is that it?”
Quentin, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the deck, only nodded. He felt as if someone had taken a spoon and hollowed him out. He did not raise his head when he heard footsteps approaching softly across the deck.
“Is this parley for men only, or may a lady join?” It was Alinea. Kellaris jumped to his feet, and Quentin rose slowly to his.
“Please, sit-both of you. I will not stay if you are busy.”
“Not at all. Please join us, your Majesty. I would welcome the counsel of a queen in the matter we have been discussing.”
“You are very kind. I will stop a while, then. Now,” she said, settling herself beside Quentin, her sure arms drawing her knees to her breast, “what is it that requires my counsel?”
“Quentin here fears for his King. That the worst may have too soon befallen him.” Although the knight spoke gently, Quentin jerked his head up and shot a warning glance as if he had given away a deep secret, or trespassed upon a sacred trust.
“That is something greatly to be feared. I fear it as well.”
Quentin raised his eyes from the darkness of the shadows to look upon the beautiful Alinea sitting so calmly beside him. Though she had echoed his concern, her voice lacked the resignation that he felt within himself.
“But, it is Midsummer’s already. Jaspin has been crowned king…” The words failed.
“And still we do not know where Eskevar may be. Is that it?” she asked.
Again Quentin only nodded.
“Take heart, dear friend. The tale is not all told. There is much that may yet be done. If only we could see a little ahead into tomorrow, as Durwin sometimes seems to, we might see a very different prospect than we now contemplate. Though we cannot see what may be, we have hope. Hope has not abandoned us; nor should we abandon it.”
“My Lady speaks well,” agreed Kellaris. “Those are words from a courageous heart.”
Quentin had to agree. Alinea showed remarkable courage, had shown it all along. Suddenly he was glad for the cover of night, for it hid the blush of shame which had risen to his cheeks.
He got slowly to his feet and said, “I thank you for your kind words, my Lady.” That was all he could manage before he moved off again, walking slowly away across the deck.
“That boy carries the weight of the world on his young shoulders,” said Kellaris, watching Quentin’s form meld into the darkness.
“Yes, and he complains not for himself,” murmured Alinea. “There beats a most noble heart, and proof against any evil.”
That night, as Quentin lay upon his mattress in his shared quarters, he offered up his second prayer.
“Most High God, let your servant see but a little ahead. Or, if not, give me the hope that drives out fear.” Then he drifted off to sleep.
FORTY-THREE
QUENTIN awoke to the sound of voices calling and feet pounding upon the deck. From the slanting beams of sunlight pouring into the sleeping quarters he could see that the day was speeding away. He threw off the coverlet and jumped nimbly to his feet, experiencing that momentary weaving sensation he always had when waking at sea.
Making his way out onto the main deck, Quentin noticed that the calls and sounds of activity were becoming more frantic. Something was wrong.
His curiosity alerted, he dashed out onto deck, nearly colliding with Trenn who stood just outside the cabin door.
“Look at that, young master,” said Trenn, squinting up his eyes and jutting his jaw forward. “Aye, an evil sign if I ever saw one.
At first Quentin did not see what he was looking at. Then, as the sight overwhelmed him, he did not see how he had missed it.
Dead ahead and closing in on three sides, loomed a tremendous fog bank scudding swiftly toward them over the water. The sea was calm; the breeze light. The thick, curling fog seemed driven from behind.
The fog was a dirty gray mass: heavy, dark, its churning walls rose high overhead. And even as Quentin watched, the first leading wisps trailed across the sun.
Quentin ran to the rail and leaned over. Behind them Selric’s two sister ships had drawn close, and the crew was trying unsuccessfully to throw lines from one ship to another so that none would be lost in the fog. That was the explanation for the sounds of urgency he had heard. For, though the other ships still sailed in clear weather, a wondrous blue sky arching overhead and the sun spilling down a generous light, Selric’s vessel in the lead was now almost engulfed in the fog.
Quentin watched as the towering billows closed overhead, blotting out the last patch of spotless blue above. The sun became a dull hot spot overhead, then dimmed and was extinguished altogether. This was an evil sign, thought Quentin, as the rolling clouds swallowed the ship and removed the other ships from his sight.
He turned and was astonished to find that he could not see even as far as across the deck. So thick was the fog that he could not say for certain exactly where he was at that moment. If he had not had a fairly good idea of the lay of the ship, he could have been completely lost.
“Trenn,” he called, and was surprised to hear an answer close at hand.
“Here, sir!” The warder had stepped close to the rail when the fog closed in. “I like this little enough. It is a trick of that wicked wizard Nimrood. Mark my words; he is behind this right enough. Even I can feel that.”
Trenn’s voice, though close by, sounded removed and muffled. His face floated in and out of view in the veiling mist: a pale apparition uttering dire pronouncements. Quentin shivered and said, “It is just a fog, Trenn. I am sure we sail through it soon.”
“I am inclined to agree with Trenn,” said a voice behind them. Quentin nearly leaped overboard. The voice had come out of nowhere, with no warning of approaching steps. But the voice was familiar and Quentin could make out the dim outline of Durwin’s round shape standing before them.
“This is not the season for mists upon the sea,” said the hermit. A long pause ensued. “I believe there is magic behind this. Evil magic. There are signs-one can tell. This is no ordinary fog. It is sorcery.”
Durwin did not say more; he did not need to. There was only one who would cause such an enchantment to overtake them. Trenn had spoken his name aloud, though Quentin dared not.
The day wore on and the fog became every hour more foul.
It grew steadily darker and cooler, so by mid-afternoon it appeared as twilight, and the cloying air held a damp chill which seeped into the clothing of any who ventured out into it. Strange blasts of icy wind blew suddenly out of nowhere, striking the surprised victim on the face, first from one direction then from another. Selric’s men, well-trained and seasoned, said nothing, their mouths clamped shut in grim determination. But their eyes revealed a mounting fear.
Quentin sat upon his mattress munching an apple. He did not feel like eating; the apple was merely an exercise against the creeping uneasiness they all felt. Only Toli, who dozed upon his pallet, seemed unconcerned. But the Jher had not spoken all day.
Then the voices began.
Quentin became aware of them as one becomes aware that the wind has risen. All at once it is there, though it must have been present and building in force for a long time unnoticed. That was how the voices started. First a whisper, barely audible. Then a little louder, growing until the long, rattling wails could be heard echoing across the sea.
Quentin and Toli tiptoed out on deck and crept forward to the main mast where they found a tight knot of sailors huddled together, and among them Theido, Ronsard, King Selric and Durwin.
All around them shrieks and moans filled the foul air. Rasping calls and booming shouts echoed overhead. Whispers and cries and whimpering groans surrounded them. The eerie cacophony of voices assailed them on every side-a chorus of all the unhappy spirits that roamed the nether places of the world.
Amidst the bawling and the bellows, the raking screams and screeches, the bone chilling howls and absurd whooping arose a sound which made Quentin’s blood run to water.
A laugh. A chuckle sounding small and far away began to grow. It swelled uncontrollably and insanely, booming louder and louder, a sharp, hacking cackle which shook the rigging and rattled the gear on board the ship. Quentin could feel that madman’s laugh through the soles of his feet as he stood on deck with his hands clamped over his ears.
He couldn’t shut it out; the sound had gotten inside his head. He began to think that if the laughter did not soon stop he would end it by leaping overboard and letting the waves cover him in silence.
“Courage, men!” The shout was strong and true. “Courage!” King Selric, who had been in consultation with Durwin when Quentin had joined them, had climbed up in the rigging of the mast and was rallying his men to the sound of his voice as he would in battle.
“These cries are but the augury of a magician. They are not spirits of the dead; they are illusion, nothing more. Courage!”
King Selric’s strong words seemed to help. Quentin noticed the fear subside in the eyes of those around him. Selric climbed down and resumed his place. Quentin and Toli, who had both stood stiff as stone, now inched forward to join the group.
“How long can this torment persist?” The questioner was Ronsard, though Quentin could barely see him through the filmy fog.
“Endlessly,” replied Durwin closer to hand. “Until its purpose is accomplished. Though what that is I cannot say.”
“To slow us down? Put us off course?” asked Theido.
“Perhaps, though I am more of a mind that there is another reason behind it.”
Quentin felt a shift in the fog and a cold wind stirring the waves.
“Partro!” cried Toli. Quentin interpreted.
“Enchanted voices all around, and he says ‘listen,’” mocked Trenn.
“No! He is right,” shouted Durwin. “Listen! What do you hear?-beyond the voices?”
Quentin listened and heard a thrashing sound, the wash of water upon rocks. The rocks!
“We are heading for the rocks!” cried Theido.
“We’ll crash!” shouted Selric, dashing forward. “Helmsman! Steer away hard to starboard!”
“No, stay!” shouted Durwin. “Selric, tell your helmsman to keep his course. Do not turn aside.”
The king spun towards the hermit, his protest ready. “We will be smashed upon the rocks! There is no time to-”
“It is a trick! Hold your course.”
For an instant King Selric hesitated and then announced, “Helmsman, hold your course.”
The company stood huddled, waiting for the awful sound of their wooden beams splintering upon the treacherous rocks of one of the Mystic Islands they seemed to be drifting so near. They waited for the grinding halt and the rapidly tilting deck as they grazed by, then struck and were pitched into the sea.
But though the sound of waves driven upon unseen rocks encompassed them round about, the anticipated wreck did not occur. The ship held steady, feeling its way through the oppressive vapor with the crash of waves breaking all around.
Several long hours dragged away. The group on deck sat now in a tense circle of worried faces. Periodically, someone would leave and another take his place, but throughout the evening the vigil continued.
As night took hold-adjudging by the darkness c
reeping rapidly through the mists, a general deepening of the darkness already present-King Selric ordered torches to be placed along the rails lest anyone fall overboard. Squatting upon the deck in the quivering light of the sulky torches, the miserable Company waited.
Quentin, dozing fitfully as he slumped upon the damp planks of the deck, was suddenly aware of a great confusion. Nearby, the slap of running feet on the deck, shouts of alarm. And, more distant, the terrible sound of shipwreck.
He jumped to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and followed the others to the stern.
“One of our ships has struck a rock!” cried a sailor. “It is sinking!”
Peering into the fog, as peering into mud, revealed nothing. But the anguished cries of men and the horrible tearing of the ship as it hung on the rock and battered itself to pieces filled the dank air. Quentin could hear the mast crashing to the deck and the screams of the men it crushed beneath its weight-cut short as it fell. He heard men in the water, drowning. A sickening, helpless feeling spread through Quentin’s frame as he stood gripping the aft rail with whitened knuckles. Someone do something-save them!
King Selric called for the ship to turn about, to lower boats to save the crew of the distressed ship and pick up survivors. But Durwin, standing close beside him, a warning hand on his arm, said, “No, withdraw your orders. There is nothing out there. Hold firm to your course.”
The king looked around in the swirling fog, appealing to the others for opinions. Theido said nothing and Ronsard turned away. Selric had his answer; he pounded his fists into the rail and cancelled his order for rescue.
“If you like, have your trumpeter sound a call to the other ships-if they are close they will hear that we proceed unaverted.”
Selric did as Durwin suggested and the trumpeter, aloft in the rigging, blew a long, strong call on his horn. He repeated it as if to say, “Hold steady. All is well. Hold steady.”
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