“What is it?” cried the king, leaping down. “Tell me the truth, Ensign Fréjan! In the name of the Goddess, have I come too late? How fares it with my two champions?”
“My King,” said Fréjan’s, “they are very sick. It goes ill with us all.”
Britt pushed his way through.
“My King, we were not prepared . . .”
The captain-general was haggard, a man beseiged.
“Come,” said the king, “no ceremony, Britt. I will send to the docks. We are going home. The whole miserable business is at an end.”
Captain-General Britt fell to his knees and kissed the king’s hand.
“Goddess be praised!” he said.
The men round about echoed his words; the trumpets sounded as Sharn hurried through the cold, dark hall.
“What has happened?” asked the king. “What brought you to this pass?”
Britt poured out a doleful story. A fight with men of Paldo on the way back from the tourney left several injured, and in the scuffle both Britt and the Quartermaster were robbed of their money belts. Gold was scarce after that, and they expected a stay of two moons in Lindriss, eking out their winnings from the tournament. Britt persuaded the master of the livery stable to take back most of the horses in order to cut down on fodder. The king’s two champions continued very sick, and now a fever had struck at the guard. They lay in their quarters, six or seven men stricken with this low fever.
“Two days past,” said Britt, “I rode out with Count Zerrah, so weak that he could barely sit his horse, and we came to the Tramarn Court. The count asked for help for us all, and it was denied. He was offered lodging for himself alone and would not accept it, though I begged him to do so.”
The king looked grim and pale. Captain Ruako came to the door of the king’s bower, and he had the same look of care turning to relief when he saw the king. In the sunlit room Denzil of Denwick lay in a makeshift bed, wasted and feverish. His mind was wandering; he hardly knew the king. Prickett went about doing the nursing, and at the sight of the king he began to weep, silently, tears trickling down his ill-shaven cheeks.
“The boy, Sire,” he whispered. “If he could come out of this place . . .”
Yuri lay sick in the dressing room. Gerr of Zerrah lay in the king’s own bed, white from the pain of his swollen arm.
“Sire,” he gasped, “I saw you in a dream yesternight and my prayers have been answered. I thought it was all over for myself and poor Denwick.”
The king turned aside to Tazlo and said softly, “You see, Ahrosh? Is honor or ritual worth the very lives of these brave men?”
It was clapped up at once that Tazlo should ride to the docks with an ensign and prepare the Nixie and the pinnace to receive passengers.
“Where’s Nerriot?” asked the king. “Has he been of any service?”
“He comes and goes on his own errands, my King,” said Britt. “We have had the best help from this gentleman and his little ones.”
“Come,” said the king, “let us sit in the hall, my lord fool, and drink beer if there is no wine in the house.”
So they came to the dark hall again, where at last a fire had been lit. The garrison went about packing up, awakened to life by the king’s coming and the news that their misery was at an end.
“Shennazar,” said the fool, “there will be trouble. The princes will see it as a triumph for themselves and a disgrace for you and for the Chameln lands. You have broken off the quest before the appointed time.”
“I should not have come to Eildon,” said the king. “I know that now. I have had a revelation. I know what I must do as a man and as a king. I must take home these men, my champions and my soldiers.”
Farr the Fool made no reply, but his small companions whispered to him anxiously.
“Well, what do you say, my lord fool?” asked Sharn Am Zor. “Is your masquerade over?”
“Sharn Am Zor,” said the fool in an altered voice. “What do you know of us? What do you know of our cruel exile?”
“I know that you are all of the Tulgai,” said Sharn, “and you, Farr, must be of the royal house! Your exile is at an end. You will all come with me. You will return to your forest home.”
Farr bowed his head in silent assent, but the three Tulgai raised their heads and uttered a chorus of piercing bird-calls. Then for pure joy, they all capered about, tumbling in the dark hall and shouting in the old speech.
“My name is Ragnafarr,” said the fool, “and these are my true servants: Theranak, Omberik and Lillfor. I was, I am the uncle of Tagnaran, the Balg of the Tulgai. When we are safely out of this land of Eildon, Dan Sharn, I will tell you our story.”
In less than two hours the baggage wagons were packed, some being used as litters to transport the sick. The officers of the escort mounted the seven remaining horses; the guardsmen were ready to march to the docks. Tazlo returned with good news and bad. The pinnace for the baggage had sailed with the Golden Oak, the king’s flagship, on a trading errand for Captain Dynstane. Captain Straith of the Nixie was ready to sail, but the smaller ship could not carry the whole party.
“I have spoken with the captain of another caravel bound for Balufir,” said Tazlo, “and he will willingly give passage to the King of the Chameln, if the king will sail with him.”
“I would sail with a sea-goblin to get my friends out of this place.” Sharn Am Zor grinned.
The trumpets sounded briefly, and the king led his once-proud guard, still bravely clad in their gold and green, out of the dark tower of the Sennick Fortress. They set out on their last journey across Lindriss.
The weather had turned round. The day was overcast; lightning played around the tops of the towers and thunder followed it. Before they had gone half a mile, the storm broke, directly overhead; they pressed on through the deluge. The ways were hard to follow, and Ragnafarr gave directions from his seat before Captain-General Britt. A man loomed up before them, drenched, waving his arms. It was Aram Nerriot, the lute player.
“Sire!” he howled against the storm, “The quest . . . honor bound . . .”
“The quest be hanged!” shouted the king. “If you will stay in Eildon, Nerriot, you may do so. Get your lutes from the wagon and go where you will!”
Nerriot did not take the king’s offer. He drew his sodden cloak about him and fell in at the end of the small column of soldiers. So they went on, through the dark, wet, winding streets, past the high houses and the rain-lashed towers of the city.
Between one lightning flash and the next, the rain stopped, the clouds rolled back. In a green space the sun shone down upon the men of the Chameln lands. There before them, blocking the way, were three knights of Eildon in all their panoply, and further off men and women in the colors of the princely houses, the courts of Eildon.
“Hold!” cried Sir Mortrice of the Hunters. “King Sharn, Count Ahrosh, how can you show your faces in this noble city before the time is right?”
“Your oath is broken!” cried Sir Pellasur of the Falconers. “Your honor is forfeit! You and all your household have become objects of scorn!”
“King Sharn,” cried Sir Tarn of the Fishers, moderating his tone a little, for he served the house of Pendark, “Have you not understood our customs? You lay yourself open to these words of shame and infamy!”
“So be it!” said Sharn Am Zor firmly. “I will leave Eildon. Let us pass and you will be rid of us.”
The knights held their places, and Sir Pellasur said with a curling lip; “It is some way to the docks, Shennazar. Would you run the gauntlet of our displeasure?”
Then the king rode forward a little by himself into a patch of sunlight. His garments were travel-stained, his horse Blaze was wet and weary, but he still outshone all those assembled: He was indeed the Summer’s King. He spoke with a new fervor and authority.
“I came in peace in Eildon, and I will go in peace. I am unarmed and so are my men. Pellasur, would you strike again at Gerr of Zerrah, still troubled by
that shameful wound you gave him at the Tourney of All Trees? Will you three, as knights and honorable men, strike at us still with magic and trickery? Step aside or let me parley with someone approaching my own rank. Where are the princes?”
“Oath-breaker!” howled Sir Mortrice. “Foul incomer!”
He plucked from his saddle a star-shaped dart, which he hurled at the king. Sharn Am Zor raised an ungloved hand, and no one was sure what happened next. Some said that the dart turned in the air and flew back to strike the horse of Sir Mortrice. Others swore that the dart fell short and a ring on the king’s hand with a large topaz caught the sun and dazzled the horse. In any case it reared up neighing and deposited Mortrice in a mud puddle. There was a gasp and an audible curse. Prince Borss Paldo spurred out from the waiting clutch of nobles and confronted the king, his face very dark.
“Brandhul!” he said, hoarse with anger. “Oath-breaker! Miscreant! You have lost all!”
“I have lost no more than a piece of land containing a silver mine,” said Sharn. “My fair cousin, Princess Moinagh Pendark, was always beyond my reach.”
“Fool!” said Borss, “we might have offered you a compromise . . .”
“What then?”
“The cure for your condition, man. Freedom from this curse of being a brandhul.”
“I will take my chance and trust in the Goddess!”
“You have committed a grave breach of knightly honor!”
“I am not a knight,” said Sharn Am Zor. “I am a king. I have seen my duty at last, and it is to bring my poor wounded champions and my followers out of this treacherous city!”
“Beware!” said Paldo, “beware you kemmling dog, you have not felt the power of Lindriss!”
“You are very jealous of your honor, Prince, and free with insults. Yet you have conspired with my enemies!”
Prince Borss flushed and took on a blustering tone. Sharn knew that his surmise was right.
“What kind of foolish talk is this?” said Borss. “I have not conspired . . . And where are you taking that fool who was lately in the service of the courts of Eildon, with his three dwarfs?”
“To his home in the border forest,” said Sharn. “He is my liegeman of the royal house of the Tulgai. Ragnafarr and his people go with me.”
“So you say!”
The prince raised his hand, but whatever it was that he had in mind, a magic working or an armed attack, it was halted by a wild cry.
“Hold! Hold!”
A young man on a roan horse came galloping through the green park and drew rein between the two princes. It was Beren Pendark.
“Prince Borss!” he cried. “Noble Sharn, I beg you to part in peace. Let the King of the Chameln go to his home, my lord Paldo.”
“You take this man’s part,” growled Paldo, “You take his part, young Pendark, and do yourself much harm in our eyes.”
“I have been honor bound,” said Prince Beren, “and I have kept within the limits of our code. But by my troth, I have seen no honor in what was done to my cousin!”
There was a freshness in his anger, a sudden breaking of the old bonds. King Sharn Am Zor knew at last who it was who wrote the warning letter. He knew that the ways of Eildon had been questioned at last, and he feared for his young cousin. Borss Paldo seemed to sense the recklessness of the young man, and he too drew back.
“Let be,” he said. “Shennazar is an outlander. We are well rid of him. Take your way to the docks, King Sharn.”
The king bowed his head and led off again. Prince Beren fell in beside him.
“I will ride with you!”
“No,” said Sharn. “Noble cousin, do not tempt the wrath of the Eildon courts. I will say farewell and ask a boon of you before I depart.”
“Anything, Sharn.”
“Visit me in Achamar, good Beren!”
“By the Holy Tree, I will cousin!”
So they clasped hands and parted, and the Chameln party came to the docks without further incident. The sun continued to shine, and once more the King of the Chameln was recognized and cheered by groups of citizens.
The king did not see the glances he drew from his own men, from Britt and the other officers and from Tazlo. The way in which he had withstood the threats and insults of the Eildon knights and Prince Borss struck them as subtly different from his usual behaviour. The king was a changed man, there was more reason in him, less anger, less arrogance. Captain-General Britt thought this would pass: it was some effect of the vigil and the quest. The king would soon be his old self again with all that implied in impatience and exercise of the royal will.
The king’s patience was severely tested at once. While the Nixie, under Captain Straith, was made ready to put to sea and carefully laden, the king approached the other caravel bound for Balufir. An officer of the escort, Lieutenant Kogor, a veteran soldier from the campaigns against Mel’Nir, went aboard to inquire for the captain and returned white-faced. He spoke aside to Britt and to Tazlo Am Ahrosh.
The king, together with Ragnafarr and the Tulgai, was attending to Denzil of Denwick, helping to unload the poor man’s litter from a baggage wagon. He wrapped his friend in the magic cloak that he had received from the White Tower and looked about for Tazlo to take his cloak for Gerr of Zerrah, who sat on a clothing bale, still in pain. He noticed the anxious whispering.
“What is it?” he said. “Will this captain have more gold?”
Britt stood forth with a desperate look.
“Sire,” he said, “this captain is known to us. I fear it is a fellow you would avoid at all costs!”
Tazlo burst out; “My King, forgive me! I did not know. I never set eyes on the impudent devil before. I served with the northern tribes! I was never within a hundred miles of the city of Dechar!”
The word tolled like a bell. On the gangplank of the caravel there appeared a tall, loose-limbed young man with golden hair and flowing moustaches. He was richly dressed in the swashbuckling garb of a merchant adventurer. The king recognized him at once, and so did Gerr of Zerrah, who uttered a cry. Sharn stood erect, gazing at the sea captain as if he saw a ghost.
“Captain . . . Raiz?” he said in a small, cold voice.
“Captain Mazura, at your majesty’s service! I see that you need a swift passage over the western sea.”
The pretender, the False Sharn, spoke well and without a shade of irony, but the hearts of those watching failed a little. What hope for a swift passage with this huge, golden caravel, at least as fine as the Golden Oak, when its captain, more than any man alive, had struck at the king’s right, his very kingship? Sharn Am Zor, still very pale, bowed his head.
“Yes,” he said humbly, “I need a passage for these poor wounded men that you see and for myself.”
He looked up again while Gerr, Tazlo, Britt and the others were mastering their astonishment, and astonished them even more. Sharn Am Zor smiled himself, for the irony of the thing, and met the eye of Captain Mazura.
“I am sure you will handle us most royally!” he said.
So the king saw his two wounded champions on board as well as the other sick men of the escort, then boarded himself together with Ragnafarr, Prince of the Tulgai, and his companions. The Caria Rose was spacious, and on consultation with Captain-General Britt, the masters of the two caravels disposed the whole party as best they could. The two ships and the pinnace set sail upon the Laun to catch the evening tide. Hardly three moons had passed since Sharn Am Zor and his followers left Achamar with high hopes and banners streaming. Now they slipped away from the magic kingdom of the west without ceremony. As the Caria Rose sailed out of the river mouth into the western sea, Tazlo Am Ahrosh, standing upon the high bridge with the king, gave a startled exclamation. His cloak had lost its magic, and the king’s cloak, wrapped about Zilly of Denwick, in his cabin, lost its magic at the same moment. All that the king and his esquire had as a reminder of their quest were two purplish brown mantles of wool frieze.
The ocean began to dem
and its toll again; all but a few of the travellers were content to lie very still in their bunks, sipping strange cordials. The ship’s healer was a woman, very beautiful, black-skinned and utterly forbidding. None of the ailing men dared to seize her hand except Yuri, the poor young valet from the cold north. She worked her magic upon him, gave him her cordials and a little silver charm. He believed she was his witch-mother from that hour; he had dreams all his life long of her lovely dark face and strange festivals in the lands below the world.
It was a charmed voyage, outside time, far from the uses of the world. Sharn Am Zor sat down to table with Mazura; Ragnafarr, unaffected by the seas’ motion, bore them company. While the silent, dark-skinned servants plied them with dainties, the honor of the first and strangest tale went to the Prince of the Tulgai.
THE TALE OF RAGNAFARR
“It was eight years past,” he said in his deep, harsh voice, “not long after Princess Aidris, the Heir of the Firn, had visited us on her way into exile. As is our custom, in the spring, I set out with a party of ten to hunt the high and low trails. There is a certain river in the forest that runs for miles underground through huge caverns, and we use it to come to distant hunting grounds.
“This year, as we sailed peacefully down the river, which flows southeast to join the Ringist, there was a great noise of water and a spring torrent filled the caverns. One of our boats was lost at once. My own boat was damaged. I was carried on with four others, clinging to our frail craft. We came to the accursed grounds. I mean those places where the trees have been cut down.
“We came ashore on a strip of underground beach beside a rocky chimney; our plight was desperate. My old arrow-bearer, Forberan, the father of Lillfor, had been dashed against the rocks and his head was broken. We had nothing but the clothes upon our backs.
“I can hardly bring home to you, King Sharn, or to our captain here, what it is to be of the race of the Tulgai. In the history of our tangled relations with the Longshanks, there are many runes that tell of cruelty and betrayal. To be a creature of a lesser size is to be delivered over to the will of others. Now our only hope for our wounded comrade and for ourselves lay in making ourselves known to some of the larger race.
The Summer's King Page 18