The men were experts at this quiet capture, and struggle was futile. Rosha still gave it a try, fighting to get his hands past the rope that bound them within the net and onto the handle of his greatsword. A foulsmelling man kicked the sword and sent it flying well beyond Rosha's reach.
"Fetch it, laddie-buck," he laughed, but his laughter froze in his throat. He had kicked the sword into the meadow. Before it hit the ground, it disappeared. "This meadow is witched!" he whispered urgently. "Let's take our treasure and begone!" Bronwynn screamed and Rosha fought, but the net was too strong and the hands that held them too experienced. Soon they were both bound hand and foot, and were each carried away by a pair of slaves, their bottoms dragging in the fir needles.
Pelman woke from his reverie when the sword came spinning into the clearing and landed with a clatter. "Rosha?" he called. "Bronwynn?" There was no answer, and a memory flashed through his mind- remembrance of the night he and Doriyth had been ambushed in a forest, and their lives irrevocably altered by bondage. "Rosha!" he called, running for the spot where the sword had appeared. He crashed through the wall of cold into darkness.
The wall had effectively silenced his voice. The slavers hadn't heard him, and they continued to whisper among themselves as they wrestled their catch across the forest floor to the spot where their horses waited. Pelman could hear Bronwynn screaming for him, and he pulled himself to his full height, flung his cloak around his shoulders, and began to chant.
Then he stopped, his body shaking. "No!" he groaned violently. "No, please! Not now-" His face twisted into a grimace as he pleaded, but the one whom he entreated wouldn't listen. The Power had possessed him. Pelman the Prophet sprawled trancelike beside the log.
Chapter Seven
By MORNING, Bronwynn had given up hope that Pelman would rescue them. While they remained in the forest she clung tenaciously to the knowledge that it was here that Pelman had gained his ability, and that surely he knew this forest as well as anyone alive. But she soon realized that the slaver, dull-witted as he seemed at first to be, was no fool. They came upon a low outcropping of rocks just as dawn began to turn the treetops from black to green. Tied as she was, belly down across a saddle, Bronwynn could see little, but she did catch a glimpse of an opening at the base of the pile of rocks. When she was finally untied and allowed to stand, wobbly-legged, beside her horse, she understood with dismay that it was the mouth of a cavern. Without a word, a slaver grabbed her and thrust her toward the cave. When she would have turned to run he whacked her across the shoulders with a staff. She stumbled and fell into the dirt, but the man just dragged her up again and booted her forward, saying, "Get in there, lad, or your back'll make unpleasant acquaintance with my stick." As feeling came slowly back into legs that had been fully numb for hours, Bronwynn waddled forward, thanking Pelman for having had the foresight to clothe her as a boy. As long as the slavers didn't know the truth, she would try to keep that knowledge hidden from them. Her shoulder began to ache where the slaver had clouted her, but she bit her lip and put on a brave face as she ducked to enter the cavern.
Rosha was already inside. At the sight of him Bronwynn forgot her own troubles. He was being pushed along in front of her, his hands tied behind him. His head sagged to his chest, so dejected was he, and Bronwynn could see from the shape of his bare back that he had felt that stick already-and much more severely than she. His bare back! They had taken his father's precious mail shirt from him! The narrow cave opened out into a wide cavern, where torches along the wall guttered for lack of oxygen, and breathing became a chore. The floor was littered with fir needles and people. A couple of harsh shoves, and Rosha and Bronwynn had joined them. None of the other captives met their eyes, and Bronwynn was sure one man, at least, was dead.
"Now, lads," the man with the stick began, "two rules to know, that's all. No talking. No getting up." He glanced meaningfully down at his club. "Or I'll whack you again." Then he ducked back outside, and Bronwynn could hear him talking with the other ruffians. There was a sound of farewells being offered, and the stirring of horses.
"I'm beginning to get tired of being kidnapped," she whispered to Rosha, trying to make her tone joking. It didn't really come out that way, and he said nothing. He didn't even look at her. "You could at least grunt so I know you're alive," she whispered again, but again there was no response. She realized then that he wouldn't look at her because he couldn't look at her- that the weight of his shame burdened him as nothing had ever done before. "It wasn't your fault-" "Ho there, someone breaking a rule already?" the man growled as he ducked back into the cavern. "Which one of you, hunh? Hunh?" "I s-s-spoke!" Rosha snarled, jerking his head up to look at the slaver, who brought his staff crashing down across Rosha's shins. Bronwynn yelped at the impact, but the young man's only reaction was a narrowing of the eyes. The slaver stepped back and looked at him, then shook his head.
"You're going to give me trouble all the way to Lamath," he said. "I can tell already." The man ambled over to a bag he had tossed onto the cave floor and opened it up. Then he sat, his back against the rock wall nearest the exit, and pulled out a garment that glistened in the torchlight-Dorlyth's mail shirt. Bronwynn glanced back at Rosha, but he'd dropped his eyes again and gazed listlessly at the dried-up needles. "Nice piece, this," the slaver muttered as be fingered the finely wrought links. "Must come from Chaomonous. I've never seen such fine work in Lamath." He tossed it in the air and caught it. "Light, too. Must have been expensive, hunh, lad? Only a hero would wear a mail shirt this fine." He looked up at Rosha and sneered. "So what hero did you murder to get it?" Bronwynn snorted angrily, and looked at Rosha. The boy was gazing at the man again, but saying nothing. If there was rage behind his quiet look, Bronwynn couldn't detect it. He just lay calmly in the prickly needles, and looked up at the slaver.
"Because you're no hero," the man scoffed, holding the mail shirt up to his chest to see if it would fit him. "No hero would sit in the middle of the Great North Fir after dark and talk like he sat in a castle. Come on, tell me, boy. You stab him in his sleep? Poison him?" Rosha continued to stare at the raider, and it seemed to Bronwynn that he almost smiled. She decided he had more sense than she had given him credit for. At least he knew enough not to get his legs beaten bloody. The man gave up trying to bait him into talking again and settled down against the wall to wait. He pulled a knife from his belt and a chunk of cheese from his bag. He didn't offer to share.
How do we get away? Bronwynn wondered to herself. But no ideas came. Then she recalled Pelman's words of the nature of the Great North Fir. He had said she might have the ability, and he was a powershaper- sometimes. She lay back on the floor of the cave, thankful that her own hands were tied in front of her rather than behind, and began to focus her attention on summoning some aid through the use of the powers.
She strained the muscles of her body, pushing her head out above her as if that were the key to making things happen. She succeeded only in making herself very dizzy, and had to quit. She sighed, and gave in to the feeling of despair and hopelessness that had nagged at her throughout the night. Then she thought of Sharki, and that depressed her even more.
As if cued by her thought, there was a powerful beating of wings; suddenly the cavern seemed filled with the presence of a flying creature. Bats? Bronwynn wondered. A small dragon? "Sharki!" she cried, and tears of joy exploded onto her cheeks. The slaver leapt to his feet, swinging his staff to try to knock the bird from the air, but he was no match for the aroused falcon.
"Ow!" he yelped as the bird darted between his hands and pecked at an eye. The man stumbled backward, and the falcon came at him again. He squealed in pain and clapped his hands over his head. His stick clattered to the ground. Rosha finally got Bronwynn's attention.
"The knife," he said quietly, as the bird continued to swoop around the small cavern, dropping to peck the man again at every pass. Bronwynn saw now that the slaver had dropped his knife in the confusion and she lunged across the r
oom to scoop it up in her bound hands. She was back cutting through Rosha's ropes before the slaver even realized she had it.
"No!" he yelled, batting the falcon away and diving for the knife himself. But Rosha's hands were already free, and the raider's face met the lad's balled-up fist in midair. He dropped to the floor, dazed, as Rosha leapt to his feet, his hands closing tightly around the end of the man's staff. The slaver stood, but only for a moment. Using it as he would a greatsword, Rosha thrust the end of the staff into the man's belly, driving him up against the cave wall and doubling him over. With three quick cracks of the wood on the man's head and shoulders, Rosha reduced him to an unconscious, bleeding pile on the needles and the dust. The other slaves, Bronwynn discovered, were not dead, for they yelled their encouragement and danced in a frenzy of excitement along the opposite wall. Rosha wore that same calm gaze in his eyes-he expressed his rage and vengeance with his arms, not his face. Stroke after stroke rose and fell, and he would have killed the man had not a strange thing taken place. The falcon flew up into his face; using its wings alone, it beat Rosha away from the man. Suddenly the bird dropped to the floor and walked away, and Bronwynn saw that Rosha's face was changed. He gazed about in shock mixed with triumph, and he looked no more at the unconscious slaver, but rather at the ragged band of slaves clustered at the far end of the cavern. He dropped the staff and picked up the knife, then motioned them by him, cutting the bonds of each as he passed. They ducked on out of the cave as soon as they were free, and Bronwynn could hear their whoops of joy coming from outside. Rosha retrieved his mail shirt and started to put the knife in his belt.
"Aren't you forgetting someone?" Bronwynn asked. He turned and looked at her, blushing, and immediately cut her bonds. Then he took some scraps of the rope and went to truss the unconscious slaver. Bronwynn reached for the falcon, but it walked away from her. "I knew I could do it, Sharki," she said as she followed the bird and tried again to pick it up. Once more it walked out of reach. "What's wrong with you? Come here." But the bird was walking out of the cave, and she had to duck to follow him out. "I knew I had the ability, I just didn't know how to focus it," she said, shuffling down the rock corridor. Then she chuckled. "I'm so glad I brought you along! And after Pelman said . . ." "I said what?" asked the magician, who was suddenly standing before her. She was so surprised that she bumped her head on the opening of the cave. Rosha cackled behind her and reached out to rub her head. She blocked the sun out of her eyes and looked around for her falcon. "Where's Sharki?" she asked.
A grin danced across Pelman's face and then was gone. "I sent him home," he said seriously. "He'll be happiest back there with Dorlyth." "No, I want him here!" she cried, shielding her eyes and searching the sky for some sight of beating wings. How had he flown away so fast? It wasn't until she caught the look Pelman and Rosha exchanged behind her back that she realized. The falcon in the cave hadn't been Sharki. It hadn't been a falcon at all.
There was a mammoth stretch of flatland north of Chaomonous. In years long past it had been a parade ground for mighty armies, a staging area for great invasions to the north and south and west. In the time since it had been divided and subdivided, and parcels had been owned by many different landlords. But the ground had proved singularly infertile, and squatters had finally taken it over, erecting squalid little hovels within easy walking distance of the grand avenues of Chaomonous. But now, suddenly, the hovels were gone. The great field had been swept clean of its ramshackle huts, and hordes of displaced refugees now watched in dismay as their homeplace was renewed again to its glorious position as the mustering field of the Golden Kingdom. In place of the crooked rows of narrow streets, there now stood straight lines of stiff new tents. Powerful men rehearsed the arts of war where gangs of happy children had run and played only days before. One thing remained the same. The dust still hung in a thick cloud over the plain, choking everyone who breathed it.
Kherda was proud of his accomplishment, and felt justified in his pride. As a squatter township, the field had been an eyesore. As a parade ground, it was soulstirring. But for the dust, of course. Everywhere he looked, golden pennants fluttered on the small breeze.
The sight filled him with patriotic fervor. He had to remind himself that he was plotting the destruction of this very army. Guilt was his frequent companion these days, and it rejoined him now for another round. "But I'm doing it for Chaomonous," he lied to himself, and his guilt left him again. Kherda was becoming a splendid liar.
"What a sight! What a magnificent sight!" the King gloated from behind him, and Kherda very nearly jumped the railing. It would have been his death if he had, for they stood on the highest level of a reviewing stand, two hundred feet above the ground.
"My Lord, I wasn't expecting you so soon! The platform isn't even completed yet, and the ceremony doesn't begin until noon!" "I couldn't wait," Talith chuckled, striding to the railing to look down. The scaffolding was built like a staircase. The lowest levels extended well out into the field. "Those below us will be able to see me?" "Certainly, my Lord. Please, step away from the edge. It may not be secure yet!" Talith turned to Kherda and grinned widely. "You, Kherda. You are too loyal to be suspect." "Suspect, my Lord?" Kherda gasped.
"Yes, yes. Joss has me believing all manner of strange things. He wants me to think that everyone is out to overthrow me and take my crown. He even suspects you." "Me, my Lord?" Kherda stammered. He managed a weak smile.
"Yes! But if you were out to murder me, what better way than by pushing me off of a faulty scaffold?" Was the King teasing him? Had Talith uncovered the plot? "I ... I don't know, my Lord-" "Of course you don't, Kherda. You don't think in those terms. Joss does-but of course that's why I need him. I cannot be too careful these days. After all, someone did steal my daughter." "Yes, my Lord ..." "That's why I'm not going to lead the army myself." "You're not going to-" Kherda stammered. "No, Joss says it would be too dangerous. So when is this platform to be finished, hunh? The parade is in less than an hour!" "Yes, my Lord, I have all the workmen I could gather busy-" "Very good, I don't need the details. But they will be able to see me, won't they? My people?" "Everyone, my Lord," Kherda said absently, hiding his panic. The King was not going to lead the army! The plan was in shambles! "How do I get down off of this thing?" the King was muttering, and Kherda led him toward the steps. As he escorted his monarch down the bare wooden staircase, he was wondering how to get loose from Talith-he had to get to Ligne with this news. But the King was not about to let him go. "How many warriors have we assembled?" "Ah, thirty-seven thousands, my Lord, with more arriving every hour and many thousands still days away-" "And by the end of the week?" "I expect, ah, seventy-five thousands, my Lord-" "Wonderful! And ships, how many ships?" "Ah, I believe my Lord will remember I said some fifty-two ships will be sailing under the golden flag of-" "Will that be enough?" "If you mean to carry the entire army, no, my-" "I mean to defeat the Lamathian fleet!" Talith yelled.
"Why, yes, my Lord, I believe it should be-" "Good. Now where's that wife of mine?" Talith was craning his head in all directions, seeking Latithia in the midst of the already gathering crowd below.
"Your wife, my Lord?" Kherda asked, trembling within. These sudden changes! "Protocol, Joss says. He checked the records. It seems that it must always be the official Queen who names the King's commander." "I thought that protocol was my domain," Kherda said stiffly. Joss had certainly been busy. Something had to be done about that man! "You've had a lot on your mind, my friend. I don't expect you to remember everything. There, is that her?" It was indeed Latithia who made her way through the crowd. She was given a wide berth by the milling populace, for she was escorted by a troop of the King's guard, and they were notoriously ungentle when moving people aside. The King eyed her progress distastefully. She was certainly beautiful enough, with that blondish hair and proud patrician's chin. But she caused so much trouble! Why did she have to argue with everything he said? "Is this grandstand ready yet?" the King snapped at Kherda
, who sighed in reply.
"It appears it must be, my Lord, since the court seems already to be assembling on it." The exchequer gazed around him. Workmen scrambled up and down the bare beams like monkeys, unwinding golden bunting behind them as they climbed. The nobles of Chaomonous, along with .their families, were already badgering those in charge of seating arrangements. It seemed no one had been placed quite as close to the King as he thought he ought to be. Soon several families took it into their own hands simply to move themselves higher in the grandstand. The arguments grew heated, and new arguments began as more highly ranked families found their seats occupied. Kherda saw the coming chaos and knew that soon he would be called on to begin arbitration. If he were to get away for a private conference with Ligne before the parade, he would need to go now. Ligne had to know of these changes! The King exchanged icy pleasantries with his wife at the foot of the stairs, but the racket soon grew so loud he couldn't hear himself. He glanced up angrily to see what was causing such confusion. "What's happening?" he snarled at Kherda.
"People aren't satisfied with the seating arrangements, my-" "Then satisfy them!" "But, my Lord, you agreed to the arrangement as I-" "Then tell them to get to their proper places! Look at those crowds above us! Don't you realize what could happen if too many people get onto the upper levels of this platform?" "Yes, my Lord, it could fall. That is why are you trying to kill me by letting half my kingdom fall on top of me?" "No, my Lord-" "Then straighten out the problem!" Talith thundered. Kherda bowed slightly, then hustled up the stairway, clutching his robe to his waist to keep from tripping over it. "Now where were we?" Talith said pleasantly to his wife as he took her by the arm and led her up the stairway at a more dignified pace.
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